“It’s okay,” Stiles says softly. “I--I want you to.”
Derek exhales a harsh, steadying breath from his nose. That little tilt of Stiles's neck, the way he willingly, willfully lays that skin bare to Derek is almost too much--fuck, it is too much. And Stiles is Stiles, so Derek won’t even dare pretend to think, to even suggest, that Stiles doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. That he doesn’t know exactly what it means to bare his throat like that to a wolf. Maybe that’s why he does it. Some part of him must know there isn’t a chance in hell of Derek saying no, not when neither one of them seems incapable of ignoring the brand that still burns fresh on his arm.
Or Derek of ignoring how his blood practically sings for the boy anytime he gets close. It’s only gotten worse the more time they spend together.
Considering how quickly he’s been losing control lately, it doesn’t seem like a good idea. But then again, Derek’s never claimed to be the smart one here. Derek clenches his teeth to keep his fangs in check, but there’s not much else he does to restrain himself when he crowds Stiles up against the hood of his truck, arms braced on either side of the boy, and just lets himself give in.
Derek’s surprised by his own gentleness, honestly, when he pulls at the neck of Stiles’s t-shirt, already too big, so it reveals that pale stretch of skin that gleams like a blank canvas. With a low, rumbling growl, he ducks his head, skims a trail with his lips up the slope of the boy’s shoulder to his throat, slow, meticulously breathing in his scent.
There’s a hitch in Stiles’s own breathing that Derek can feel under his mouth, but Stiles doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even speak. Just somehow tilts his head back even farther, letting his eyes fall shut with that same dreamy sort of look on his face he'd had when they'd kissed.
It feels far too much like a victory when Derek allows himself to nuzzle against the skin under Stiles’s jaw, pressing the scratch of his stubble there until he's satisfied with the way their scents have mixed. "You know, a few years ago you would have really made fun of me for this,” he murmurs, letting the blunt points of his teeth scrape dangerously close to Stiles’s collarbone.
“Oh, I’m fully intending on doing that,” Stiles says softly, slightly breathless, a little bit choked, which should not please that beast in Derek’s chest so much, but it does.
Still, there’s something in Stiles’s voice, an uneasiness Derek doesn’t like. “Mind reading is not one of my superpowers, Stiles,” Derek mutters, pulling back, brow furrowed, his eyes searching Stiles's face for what, he's not exactly sure.
“Oh, um,” Stiles says, wincing slightly at the admission, “it’s just that you wouldn’t have been doing this a couple of years ago, so --”
That’s true. Back then, Derek had flinched away from every touch, every attempt to connect, too fixated on trying to get revenge for him and his to even entertain the thought of trusting anyone that way. Anger, rage, brute force, those had been the anchors he'd clung to. Not that any of them had ended up working in his favor.
Derek might not be the smart one here, but even he can see how Stiles’s eyes are fixed on Derek’s shirtsleeve, can hazard a guess what he’s looking at, what he thinks it means. “You think I only want you now because of this, don’t you?” Derek asks, nodding toward his arm.
“Well,” Stiles says, shrugging, gnawing anxiously on his bottom lip in a way that only makes it even harder for Derek not to stare at him hungrily, “I mean, don’t you?”
“Bonds don’t work like that.”
Stiles huffs. “Okay, Sourwolf, how exactly do they work, then?” Stiles is clearly skeptical, and Derek can’t really blame him.
It makes sense that he’d think that. Stiles is human, so why would he even know what a bond like this meant? It’s not like Derek’s some kind of expert, either. There are some obvious, glaring holes in his werewolf knowledge, as Stiles (and everybody else) had loved to point out on numerous occasions in the past. But he knows enough to know that’s not how this works
“It’s not like being under a spell or something. It’s not something you forced on me, Stiles." Derek thinks Stiles must have just jump-started the whole process with the whole making him an alpha thing. Blown that link that even Derek can admit has always been there between them, an unspoken connection, wide open. “There’s a reason I didn’t pack up and sell the loft before I left,” Derek says.
Stiles frowns, obviously still confused. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Derek says, sighing and doing his absolute best not to sound frustrated at his own stilted communication skills, because he's pretty sure he's, without a doubt, sucking at explaining this, “that some part of me always knew I’d be back here.
“But you didn’t even like me,” Stiles says insistently, “actually, I’m pretty sure you hated me.”
“I didn’t hate you.”
“So all the threatening of bodily harm was what,” Stiles asks, arching an eyebrow, “werewolf flirting?”
“I wasn’t exactly a shining paragon of mental health back then, Stiles,” Derek says, feeling his face grow hot, “and you were a distraction I didn’t need or want at the time.”
Stiles snorts, crossing his arms. “That makes me feel loads better, thanks.”
How can he explain that Stiles had always been a distraction? Right from the start, when he'd wandered onto Derek's property in that stupid hoodie, with his milky white skin, that mouth of his, those wide, golden-brown eyes. The way he never shut up, the way he moved, too much frazzled, frenetic energy for someone that slight. And god, the way he'd smelled (like a walking porno movie) anytime Derek even so much as glanced in his direction. A distraction the wolf part of him had admittedly craved, even back then, when the idiotic, slightly-more-human part of him had desperately tried to ignore it. “You were sixteen, Stiles. And too tempting.”
Stiles actually seems genuinely surprised by this. “Me? Tempting? That’s a good one, Sourwolf. ”
Of course he wouldn’t believe him. Which is stupid and makes no sense, because it’s not like Derek’s ever lied to him before. Why the hell would he start now? “Listen -- I’m not, I’m not good at this, okay?” Derek growls again in frustration, because god, why does he suck so badly? He takes a breath to steady himself before admitting, somewhat bashfully, “You were pretty. And you smelled good."
Especially to the wolf that always lingered just under Derek’s skin.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says suddenly. “Did you throw me up against all those walls just so you could smell me ?”
“Wh--no, I mean maybe. That, maybe might have been one of the reasons,” Derek says, dodging Stiles’s gaze because this is becoming more than a little bit mortifying for him at this point. “Besides you being incredibly irritating,” he adds, glaring, though it’s hard to be irritated now that he sees Stiles is smiling again.
“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles says.
Derek opens his mouth to refute this, but his brain sort of ceases to function altogether, because Stiles digs his fingers into Derek’s shirt and lunges forward, crushing their mouths together.
This whole thing is ridiculous. Stiles knows that for a fact, because he’s not sure how it’s possible that in the span of a couple of days he could have gone from feeling so alone, empty, forgotten, to suddenly having all of this. Having Derek. Derek, who Stiles had taken one look at that night years ago in those woods and instantly had several important realizations, the first of which being, wow, he was definitely not straight.
And the second being, Stiles wanted him . Of course, he wasn’t delusional. For one thing, at the time, Derek had been sort of terrifying (in a sexy way, he thinks, but still). And Derek had been Derek, all broody and mysterious and most definitely clearly unattainable. Once he’d left, Stiles had resigned himself to locking those feelings in a metaphorical box and sinking it to the metaphorical bottom of the ocean. Never to be seen again.
But somehow, now, he was kissing Derek . And more importantly, Derek was kissing him back.
And god, he was good at it, too (because of course he was). Stiles has been kissed before, sure, but not like this. It’s not any more gentle than the one from this morning, but it’s somehow different because it feels like neither one of them is holding back. Derek growls, and then the next thing he knows, Stiles is on the hood of the truck, wrapping his legs instinctively around the wolf’s waist like he’s worried if he doesn’t, Derek might try to get away or something.
Derek’s tongue licks into his mouth, urgent, searching, and Stiles feels like he can’t do anything but hang on, because the wolf’s hands are vice-grip tight on Stiles’s hips, holding him so hard Stiles can already imagine the bruising imprint of his hands that’ll be left behind. He groans at the thought, feels so warm that he almost can’t remember what it was like to be so cold before.
Stiles doesn’t have Derek’s super senses, sure, but from Derek’s ragged breathing, the way Stiles can feel his heart thundering under his palm where he’s got it anchored on Derek’s chest, the wolf’s feeling as wrecked as Stiles is. Finally, tragically, he has to pull back to breathe (it might be the hardest thing Stiles has ever done), and Derek huffs like Stiles’s need for air offends him.
“I guess,” Stiles mumbles, hiding his blushed face in Derek’s shoulder, “--I guess we’ve got that part down.” When his heart starts to race a little bit less, and the hazy fog that had settled in his brain the minute Derek had stuck his tongue in his mouth has thinned a little, Stiles feels like he can finally look at him. He’s not expecting that wrinkle in Derek’s brow, the slight frown on his lips. “Oh, I mean -- was I that bad?”
“No,” Derek says immediately. “No, no. I just --” and he trails off, leaning down to nuzzle Stiles’s forehead, which sends another shiver down his spine. “Just sorry for keeping you waiting so long is all."
Something about the way he says it, all soft and sad and sincere, it makes Stiles’s heart feel like breaking and bursting all at once. This is all he’s ever wanted. How it’s happening, he really can’t fathom. “So don’t,” Stiles whispers.
This time it’s Derek pulling back with this weirdly adorable confused expression on his face that makes him look about twelve years old.
“Don’t keep me waiting anymore,” Stiles says, reaching up and pressing his soft grin into Derek’s neck. There's something intensely satisfying about the tremble he feels under his mouth when he lays a kiss there and murmurs, “ -- let’s go home.”
“You want me to take you back to your house?”
“No, dummy,” Stiles says. Derek sounds so obviously disappointed by the thought that it makes Stiles laugh, and Derek lets out another one of those irritated growls that doesn’t help. “I want you to take me home.”
The ride back to the loft is excruciating. Too long, and strangely quiet. Stiles keeps his hands to himself because he’s kind of scared of what might happen if he doesn’t. Not in a scared of Derek kind of way, but from how tightly the wolf’s been gripping the steering wheel, cracking his knuckles incessantly, to ward off the shift, Stiles guesses, testing the limits of Derek’s control in a moving vehicle seems unwise.
There’s a small part of Stiles, that needling voice of doubt in the back of his mind he’s not sure will ever go away, if it’s even possible at all, that this will all be a dream. That he'll fall asleep, blink too long, open his eyes and find out none of it was real.
But Derek is real.
He feels real.
Especially now when Derek’s got him up against the wall of the service elevator, and it’s funny because the position isn’t technically unfamiliar. Context, he guesses, really does matter. Kissing Derek, getting kissed by Derek, it feels a lot like what Stiles would imagine trying to wrestle a hurricane would. The way the wolf's hands and his mouth seem to somehow be everywhere, all at once. The way his skin burns so hot through his clothes that even Stiles can feel it, despite the many layers between them.
Derek’s fingers are holding his chin so tightly. Not cupping his cheek, not tracing along his jawline in some tender, sweet gesture. No, it's not that at all. Derek’s holding him in place, and there’s something thrilling about that. The weight of him, solid muscle, big and broad, pinning him to the wall with enough force that struggling wouldn’t matter. There wouldn’t even be a point to try.
Every scrape of Derek’s teeth, blunt, but still dug into the sensitive skin of Stiles’s throat as he marks every bit of it he can reach, burns. In a good way. Just makes Stiles cling to him even harder, like something bad just might happen if he lets go. His fingers actually ache now as one hand curls into the wolf’s bicep, the other tangled in Derek’s surprisingly soft dark hair.
Derek finally manages to pull himself away from his thorough detailing of Stiles’s neck and throat to catch his mouth again in a heated tangle of tongue. When the wolf pulls back, Stiles is the one chasing him now, but Derek bites down hard on his clavicle. That flash of pain shoots through him before settling, molten hot, in Stiles’s belly. God, it’s not like Stiles has any idea what he’s doing. The only thing he’s sure of is that he wants, wants so much, wants more, all of Derek, and if something doesn’t happen soon he’s going to explode into a thousand pieces.
“Derek,” he manages to gasp, yanking on Derek’s hair, making him growl, “we shouldn’t be doing this here. Other people live here, don’t they?”
Derek just makes some vague, humming sound of agreement as he licks determinedly up the side of Stiles’s throat, a sloppy, wet path to a spot behind Stiles’s ear he seems especially enamored with. “I own the building,” Derek murmurs, scraping his teeth over Stiles’s earlobe, which okay, Stiles was not expecting that to be such an erogenous zone (although everywhere Derek touches him seems to be one). “I’ll allow it.”
Stiles laughs, but it’s cut off by Derek kissing him fiercely again. “Don’t want my first time to be in an elevator, Sourwolf.”
Derek goes still and pulls away, which is like the opposite of what Stiles wanted to happen.
The way he can’t seem to keep his hands to himself, it feels a lot like a dam breaking, because now that he’s tasted Stiles, touched him, Derek can’t seem to be able to stop. But even through his admittedly lust-induced haze, his lizard brain recognizes first time, which brings him all but crashing back to reality.
“No, no, no,” Stiles whines into Derek’s t-shirt. “I didn’t mean stop. I meant change locations.”
“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, “I wasn’t going to --I don’t want to h--”
Stiles lets out a surprisingly wolf-like growl and fists Derek’s t-shirt in his hands and shakes him (well, attempts to, anyway). “You’re not going to break me, okay. You’re not.”
Again, at least one of them believes it. Derek can tell because Stiles’s heartbeat might be racing, but there’s no skips, no falters. All the boy smells like is want, lust, need, and something so sweet that Derek almost can't bring himself to distill it into a word because he’s pretty sure it’s love. “We don’t have to. We don’t have to do anything you don’t w--”
“Sourwolf, I swear to god if you're not inside me in some way in the next forty-five minutes, I may actually cry,” Stiles says, with this desperately fierce look in his eyes.
Derek groans, feels his eyes flickering again, and shuts them for a minute, trying to steel himself so he doesn’t completely lose it. “You’re giving me a deadline?” he finally croaks, managing to crack a weak smile, swiping a thankfully claw-free thumb over Stiles’s mouth.
“Not a deadline. Parameters,” Stiles mutters, and then he’s flicking that devilish tongue of his over his fingertip before taking the digit into his mouth and sucking in a way that really can only be described as filthy. “I’m open to negotiation.”
The wolf in Derek howls, wants, and it takes every bit of restraint he has not to just pin Stiles to the wall again and do just that--take what he wants. “Good,” Derek says hoarsely, “because what I have planned for you is going to take a hell of a lot longer than forty-five minutes.”
At some point, Derek remembers them leaving the elevator, but the actual journey to the door is kind of a blur. Just skin, teeth, Stiles’s hands sliding under his shirt, dragging his nails down Derek’s back. Fuck, he doesn’t even bother looking for his keys, just holds Stiles’s squirming form still long enough to reach behind him and break the lock.
“Was that really necessa--” Stiles starts to say, but Derek doesn’t bother letting him finish, the words breaking off into a gasp he happily swallows when Derek catches his bottom lip between his teeth and sucks.
“Shut up,” Derek grumbles.
“That’s familiar,” Stiles says, laughing as he peppers these sweet, soft little kisses against every part of Derek’s face he can reach, stroking his beard with these gentle strokes of his hands. It makes Derek go a little cross-eyed with need, leaning into the touches with a soft, rumbling sound (it's a purr, okay. He can admit that). And he'd never thought he'd be like this, chasing after another person's touch like he can't breathe without it. Derek had always thought that urge had been burned out of him. Gone dormant the same way those inactive volcanoes did.
Not anymore. Not when even just the barest, quickest press of Stiles's mouth against his rips a groan out of his throat that's practically pornographic.
Somehow he manages to get the door shut with absolutely no help from Stiles, who has seemed to take it like a personal challenge to literally climb Derek like a tree. When it shuts with a resolute slam, the sound is loud enough to startle them both into stopping long enough to breathe, actually look at each other.
Stiles’s eyes are darker than Derek’s ever seen them, but they’re bright and clear, and coupled with his bruised mouth, fuck, he looks so good it feels like all the air Derek’s finally gotten into his lungs gets promptly knocked out of them. All of that, plus the pinkish-purple bruises peeking out from the collar of Stiles’s shirt (that make the wolf in Derek especially pleased) is too much. Way too much.
And somehow, like before, not enough.
Derek stares long enough that Stiles starts to squirm again, ducking his head and blushing. “See something you like, Sourwolf?”
“Yes,” he breathes. “All of it.”
Stiles goes beet red again. “Less talking, more kissing. Bed, please, Derek. Take me to bed.”
Like Derek is ever going to refuse him anything ever again.
“You’re so good, Stiles,” Derek murmurs, “So good for me. Perfect. Mine.” The words spill out like a prayer as he whispers them against Stiles’s throat while he carries him across the hallway to the bedroom where Derek lays the boy down reverently in the nest of unmade blankets.
"Thought I said less talking, Sourwolf," Stiles says, swatting at him playfully.
If Derek has to spend the rest of his life worshipping at an altar, he thinks Stiles would be the perfect one. He could be rough now like before. The wolf in him would revel in it. But Derek, the man, needs to prove that it’s more. More than the heat and blood and the sharp edges of his claws. He wants to try at least. For Stiles, he wants to try.
He sits back on his heels between the boy’s legs, just tracing circles like a question across Stiles’s hip bones. Derek would kill for him, but he would have back then, long before. But now, now Derek thinks he would bring the world to its knees for the boy, just with a word. “Are you--”
Stiles props himself up on his elbows, fixing Derek with a glare. “If the next words out of your mouth are some version of asking me if I’m sure, I’m going to tear your throat out with my teeth.”
Derek smirks, presses the curve of his mouth against that bared strip of skin above the waistband of Stiles’s sweats. “Fair enough.”
“Good,” Stiles breathes out, “that’s settled. So do something. Want to feel you. Just, just want you.”
The words coming out of the boy’s mouth are too much, dizzying, distracting. Derek’s torn—torn between the urge in him that screams take, because Stiles is begging for it, literally, but also to run, retreat because how is possible for Stiles to trust him so much?
Stiles is the bravest person he’s ever met, Derek thinks, because even though the boy knows he’s prey, it’s like he revels in it, bares his throat to the wolf with no fear. But to be fair, he’s always been like that, used to being underestimated by others who couldn’t see past his gangly limbs and nervous, buzzing energy. Derek will be the first to admit that he was one of them, used to use his brute strength and his sharp teeth to try to intimidate the boy. It had been a similar thrill to hunting, tracking—seeing the flashes of uncertainty in Stiles’s gaze, the defiant jut of his chin whenever Derek got too close.
“Fuck, you can’t just say things like that to me,” Derek says, shocked at how absolutely wrecked his voice already sounds. But the words are hollow, it’s not like he’s going to deny the boy anything (as if he could), and with a snarl he’s pushing Stiles back into the mattress, kissing him hungrily like he’s trying to devour him. He’s not shy about pressing more of his bulk against him now, knows and trusts that he can take it. “I want to see you,” Derek rumbles, “I want to look at you. Let me --”
Stiles just whimpers weakly, nods against his mouth, and then they’re both scrambling upright long enough for Derek to yank Stiles’s clothes off until he’s fully bare, laid out in front of him. Stiles is trembling now, and Derek sees his fingertips twitching at his sides nervously. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not --”
Derek doesn’t even want to hear him say it, that any part of him isn’t good enough. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs. And fuck, he means it, god, does he mean it. As if he needs to prove it, he tracks his mouth over every bit of skin he can reach, scraping his beard roughly over Stiles’s chest, his nipples, and the curve of his belly. He lets his claws come out, drags them down over the boy’s flanks to rest at his hip bones, the sharp tips pressing just hard enough to leave marks, tiny pinpricks of blood that he chases with wet presses of his tongue.
Stiles is hard, and Derek wants nothing more than to take him into his mouth. Get Stiles off at least once, because selfishly, he wants to see it, but also because it’ll be easier that way. Relax him through the more uncomfortable parts of what’s to come. “Can I taste you?”
Stiles has strangely never felt more powerful than he does right now, knowing that it’s his words, his body, that are making Derek lose control like this. The roughness, it's so good, because it's just Derek, how he’s always been, and there’s something immensely comforting to Stiles about that. Especially now, when Derek doesn’t seem to be holding back as much as before.
He’s enjoying it all too much, the way Derek’s scratching his skin with the rough hairs of his beard, the claws that he’s always found so strangely arousing. The idea that they could shred Stiles’s thin skin to ribbons, it somehow makes it hotter. Which definitely means Stiles is a little fucked up, but then again, they both are. So maybe that’s okay.
Admittedly, his brain is a little fuzzy under the onslaught of all of this, that he almost doesn’t hear Derek’s question at first.
Can I taste you?
At that, Stiles can’t help but let out a sound that he recognizes, mortifyingly, as a squeak. “Like, with your mouth?”
Derek laughs, the vibrations rumbling against Stiles’s stomach, making him jerk. Derek doesn’t even flinch though. “No,” he says, grinning into the flesh there, “with my eyeballs, obviously.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, but his stomach also flips nervously. Still, he means it wholeheartedly when he speaks next. “Anything," he says, a little bit breathless, "anything you want.”
This appears to be all the permission Derek needs. Because then he’s kissing his way down Stiles’s legs. The anticipation is enough to already get him trembling. Derek hasn’t even touched him yet. Instead, he seems more than happy to take his time, nosing his way around Stiles’s groin, digging his fingers into Stiles’s thigh like he's trying to keep him there.
When he starts nipping with his teeth, Stiles whines. “Do you need me to draw you a map or something?”
“Knew you’d be mouthy in bed,” Derek says, but he doesn’t sound the least bit mad about that discovery. In fact, there’s another one of those stupidly beautiful smiles on his face that Stiles wishes he could see all the time. Can’t believe he had to go so many years without seeing it in the first place.
Derek must take pity on him though, because he doesn’t make him wait any longer, surging forward and licking a heated stripe over Stiles’s achingly hard cock before swallowing him down completely.
“Jesus, fuck, Derek.” The words spill out, a fractured cry, followed by several more nonsense words, garbled from the gasping breaths he’s struggling to take. Derek’s mouth, all that warm, wet heat, it crowds out every other thought in his head other than yes, Derek, please, and more. His fingers fly off the bed, burying in Derek’s hair, pulling hard enough to make Derek growl, which only sends torturous vibrations that practically get him coming right then and there. Not like he’s going to last much longer anyway. He’s eighteen, for fucks sake, and Derek is Derek.
Stiles has kept his eyes squeezed shut for most of it, not trusting himself to open them. But he wants to watch, wants to see Derek’s face. When he finally manages to prop himself up on his elbows again, meet Derek’s gaze, the sight makes him let out an embarrassingly whorish moan, because he literally watches the red bleed into Derek’s eyes as the wolf bobs and sucks and works Stiles’s cock like it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever tasted.
It’s too much. Stiles can’t hold off anymore, and who could blame him. He tries to speak, warn Derek, but his mouth is too dry, his tongue useless.
Stiles comes with a cry, and Derek doesn’t even stop, just takes it all. Stiles’s toes are still curling, his whole body still shuddering with aftershock when Derek finally pulls off.
“Oh my god.”
Stiles's orgasm hits fast and unrelentingly as a bullet, and Derek hadn't been expecting it, but it doesn't surprise him. Endurance isn't something that most teenagers were known for, after all---and he doesn't think the boy's had any reason for it to be. So when Stiles goes rigid beaneath him, throws his head back like he’s looking to the sky, Derek takes what he can, letting the rest spill over his hands and the smooth planes of Stiles's thighs, and it’s gorgeous, fucking gorgeous, and Derek doesn’t even hesitate, lapping at it with his tongue, sucking it off his fingers.
He looks up, sees the furtive blush on Stiles's cheeks and he is struck by an urgent need to chase it away with gentle, soothing licks into the boy's mouth.
"Don't be embarrassed. You were perfect. You are perfect," he murmurs, nosing happily against Stiles's ears.
“Just don’t stop - I don’t want to stop, I want you to --” Stiles babbles, his fingers still threaded in Derek’s hair and tugging insistently.
“Oh, baby, don’t worry,” Derek whispers, “I’m not done with you yet.”
Stiles lets out this pleased little noise, and then he’s yanking on Derek’s shirt, begging again, “I need to see you, too. Please, please…”
Derek lets Stiles pull his shirt off, lets the boy clumsily crawl into his lap. He’s not used to this, hasn’t been touched by someone like this in so long, it rattles him a little, how intimate it feels, how good it feels, when Stiles sucks marks that won’t stay against Derek’s chest, laves kittenish licks up to Derek’s throat, pausing to rub a thumb over his racing pulse. Derek stiffens, he can’t help it, because it’s instinct -- the way he shudders, fighting back the shift, eyes flashing, unable to quell the rumble in his chest.
“It’s okay,” Stiles says, and then he’s got a hand on either side of Derek’s face, pulling him close until they’re kissing again. Then Stiles lets his hand glide down Derek’s still-shaking shoulders to curl around the brand that had started this whole thing, fitting it over the scarred flesh there.
Like before, it feels like a gunshot going off in Derek’s veins, how quickly it shoots liquid fire through his whole damn body. “Stiles, I need to --” What he needs is to be in Stiles like yesterday. Christ. Derek doesn't think he’s ever been so hungry for another person like this before. Feels like the weight of it might crush him, like he may actually starve to death from the hunger.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Stiles nods frantically, sliding off Derek’s lap. And then Derek can only watch, slack-jawed, as Stiles gets on his hands and knees, his spine bent into that perfect arch, all smooth, gleaming white, and begging for Derek to touch and taste.
“Do you have --” are the only words Derek manages to speak, and that’s not before he spends far too much time appreciating the sight of the boy all but presenting to him, the wolf in his chest pacing restlessly. Wanting.
“In the nightstand,” Stiles whispers.
Derek moves so fast it’s only a second before he’s already back, tiny bottle in hand, arranging himself behind Stiles, running a soothing palm up and down the slope of his back, pressing his lips to the little divots of flesh above Stiles’s ass, following the path with his hands. “Did you touch yourself in my bed while I was gone?” Derek asks quietly, awed. He must have, he thinks. Why else would he have lube in Derek’s bedroom, of all places?
The beat of silence, the way Stiles’s heart starts to pound, it’s an answer in itself. Although Stiles’s quiet little whisper -- “Yes” -- nearly breaks him. Fuck, he’s hard, and Stiles looks so damn good like this, all sprawled out, ass up, begging for it. Like a fantasy come to life, only it’s not a fantasy at all. It’s real.
And the image of Stiles lying in Derek’s bed, fisting his own cock, drenched in his scent, saying his name...
That. That is what nearly really does break him. “Jesus, Stiles, you’re so --”
“I missed you,” Stiles murmurs, voice cracking. “I missed you so much.”
“I’m here now,” Derek says softly, soothingly, “I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. Gonna make it so good for you, baby. I promise.” And he means it. Wants it. Has never meant anything more in his whole life.
Stiles only whimpers, needy, arching back into the touch when Derek finally spreads him, teases his rim with a dry thumb before pulling away to slick up his fingers. “Please, just touch me, please -- “
Derek shushes him, places a sweet kiss to the dimples in his back before pushing a finger inside. It’s probably not comfortable, Derek knows that, so he just focuses on gentle, easy, working into him, a slow glide. “God, you’re so tight --”
“Want more, I can take more, you can go faster -- “ Stiles pleads, trying to rock his hips back. Trying to urge Derek on.
“I really, really can’t,” Derek rasps. There it is, that gravelly voice of the wolf bubbling up in his throat and it feels like he can’t stop it, couldn’t if he tried. If he gets too rough, if he lets himself go too far and too fast, he’s going to lose it. In the razor-sharp claws and teeth showing up uninvited kind of way.
Stiles whines again, so Derek adds a second finger, stretching and scissoring them lazily until he brushes that bundle of nerves that turns Stiles’s pouting into a shriek that makes Derek’s cock twitch and throb because the sound is so fucking intoxicating that he only wants to hear it again, and again, and again.
“Now, now, now,” Stiles is practically chanting it, his fingers twisting in the sheets above his head. “Do it, please, I need you, please.”
Derek huffs, but slides his fingers out anyway, replacing them with the blunt head of his slicked up cock, just teasing, rubbing at Stiles’s hole, bracing himself, trying to calm down long enough to actually do this. Derek’s not sure he’s ever shook so hard in his life, feels like he might shatter to pieces already. Finally, finally, he feels okay enough to breach him, push into him, so achingly slow that Stiles is practically seizing underneath him, mumbling these desperate little pleas for more and faster that really aren’t helping him with his control in the slightest. “Please, please stop fucking talking, Stiles,” Derek growls, tightening his grip on Stiles’s hips to the point that he swears he hears Stiles’s bones creaking. Fuck.
It’s a slow process, one that doesn’t start out all that comfortable. But with every inch of Derek’s cock that enters him, the pain, the discomfort, it starts to melt away until all that’s left is fullness, heat, little sparks of pleasure that light up the backs of Stiles’s eyelids from the slow drag of flesh inside him. When Derek finally bottoms out, Stiles snaps his hips back automatically, letting out a punched out cry that tears a snarl out of Derek’s throat that sends gooseflesh rippling across the back of Stiles’s neck.
Derek is being so gentle with him, and Stiles understands why, he really does. At least his rational brain does. His weeping dick, his body that’s been thrumming for Derek since he first got a hand on him doesn’t care much beyond needing him in a way Stiles has never needed anything before in his life. Like he might die if Derek doesn’t fuck him. Which sounds so stupid when he thinks about it, but it’s true. “Oh my god, Derek,” Stiles moans, recognizes the sound for exactly what it is, “you feel -- it’s so good -- you’re so big -- I can’t.”
He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, because the sensations are all too overwhelming that his brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. Frying like an egg in his head. And Derek’s done this to him, Derek, who’s draped over his back, kissing and licking what must be every freckle, mole, and scar he has. “Such a brat,” the wolf grunts, hot and rough, in the shell of his ear before sucking on it. “You never listen.”
That’s true, Stiles thinks, hazily, shuddering when Derek bites at his shoulder blades, rocking into him. “Make me,” he whispers, the words trailing off into nothing more than, “oh, oh, oh,” when Derek starts to thrust into him hard, fast, as wild as the wolf Stiles knows lurks just under the older man’s skin.
Derek inside him, filling him, hitting that spot that makes stars burst inside his head, his gut, it’s pushing Stiles to a place he’s never gone before. Nothing has ever felt like this before. He’s heard people say sex, fucking, it was like filling a need, an emptiness.
But it doesn’t feel like that with Derek. It feels less like a piece sliding into place, and more like a key turning a lock, opening a door inside him he didn’t know existed. Full of things he never thought he’d ever get to feel.
“Stiles.” Derek sounds as destroyed as he feels. His thrusts becoming more erratic, his breathing coming in gasps he presses against the knobs of Stiles’s spine. “Are you --”
Yes, Stiles thinks. He’s so close, he just needs -- with a hiss, he’s sliding a hand down to take his own cock in hand, but Derek growls, bats his hand away. Stiles keens, and Derek sinks his teeth into the back of Stiles’s neck, and suddenly everything blurs because Derek starts pounding him with relentless fury.
“Come on,” Derek snarls, “come.”
How can Stiles disobey when Derek’s voice is so low and commanding and alpha. He wails, shudders, as his cock twitches, jerks, and he comes, spilling into Derek’s hands, streaks of it painting his stomach and the mattress. He’s only vaguely aware of a popping sound, and suddenly the bedroom’s swathed in darkness because both lights they’d had on have apparently burnt out. At this point, Stiles hardly cares.
Derek’s mouth is open, and he’s breathing these choked out groans when Stiles finally feels Derek’s hip’s faltering. The wolf groans, curses, and then Stiles feels him spurting inside him, filling him up, which is admittedly a strange sensation, but one that Derek must appreciate, because he’s rubbing one of those big hands of his over Stiles’s stomach, massaging his cum into the skin there. Which should be gross, but really just makes Stiles’s cock twitch pathetically, despite the fact he just had the most intense orgasm of his entire life.
He’s boneless and limp, thankful that Derek’s holding him up because he’s pretty sure he’d be collapsing into the bed if he wasn’t. Derek’s placing these soft kisses up and down his back, tracing soothing circles over Stiles’s tired muscles, and it’s nice. God, it’s so nice.
Derek’s murmuring these sweet little praises in his ear, and all Stiles can think is love, love, love, even though he’s not going to say it now. Can’t bring himself to be a part of that cliche. He’ll wait until Derek’s not literally inside him to share that sentiment.
Stiles can feel his own thundering heartbeat start to slow, Derek’s too. They both groan in unison when Derek finally softens, slides out of him. When he speaks clearly enough for Stiles to actually understand what he’s saying, it’s coupled with a breathless laugh, “I told you it’d be way more than forty-five minutes.”
“You’re a doof,” Stiles mumbles, sticking out his tongue when Derek licks the side of his face.
“You broke the bedside lamp, you know,” Derek hums, nuzzling that spot behind Stiles’s ear he likes. “And the light in the ceiling. I’m pretty sure I heard the kitchen lights short out, too.”
Stiles goes still, eyes widening in shock. “That was me?”
Derek snorts. “Well, it definitely wasn’t me.”
Huh, Stiles thinks. Well, that whole spark thing was sure going to make things interesting. “I’m sorry,” he adds sheepishly.
“You should be,” Derek says solemnly, although Stiles can tell he’s kidding from the smirk he feels Derek trying to hide in his collarbones, “I’m going to have to keep so many extra light bulbs around here.”
“Well, I apologize for being such a burden,” Stiles jokes, despite still feeling slightly mortified that it had happened at all. “Think it’s worth it?”
Derek’s face breaks into the biggest, most genuine grin he thinks he’s ever seen. “Definitely.”
Yeah, Stiles thinks, letting Derek muscle him into what is apparently his preferred position, holding Stiles tightly against his chest. Definitely worth it.