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Hot Mess

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Stiles is surprising in the best kind of ways. Derek is at a loss to explain the phenomenon. He knows Stiles, likes to think that he knows him better than anyone else, but there are instances where suddenly Stiles will throw him a curve ball and Derek is left gasping for air.

Like at this moment. His fingers are tracing the stiff leather pressing against Stiles’ neck, eyes locked on the pink impression they had left on pale skin. “I know we didn’t talk about this but…” The lazy drawl in which Stiles is speaking curls around the fog in his head, waves it away before coaxing the heat in his chest to expand. Coupled with the heated look in his whiskey gold eyes, Derek’s sole option is so succumb. “You seemed pretty hot about this idea a few weeks ago.”

Derek’s eyes return to the pink skin, wondering how long Stiles has been wearing the collar. All day? Or maybe he put it on just before coming over for the pack meeting? His fingers tap against the tag, stroking over the text declaring Stiles as his. His. Like a flower blossoming under the sun, heat unfurls in him and spreads all the way down to his fingertips. 

Leisurely stroking the collar imprints into Stiles’ skin, Derek asks, “How long have you had this on?” His eyes drink in the sight of his boyfriend, lover, friend, something more, something beyond words, sprawled in his bed with a sly grin spreading on his face. 

Stiles stretches, lazy and unhurried like a cat, arms rising up to wrap around Derek’s shoulders. “Since before I came here.” His grin shifts into amusement. “You didn’t think it was really my keys that kept jingling did you?” No, no he hadn’t. But he didn’t want to say that because that would imply that Derek knew what Stiles’ key jingling sounded like. Then Stiles would no doubt tease him for being a ‘creeper wolf’, which he wasn’t! He was simply observant, God dammit!

Humming, Derek slips his hands under Stiles’ t-shirt. He watches Stiles and the way his pupils expand as his hands slide up, rucking the soft cotton up. He pushes the material up, up and over Stiles’ head before sliding one finger along the collar. Every so often, his finger slides against Stiles’ skin and makes him shiver.

There’s just enough room to slip his finger under the material. Derek crooks his finger, hooks it into the collar and uses it to tug Stiles closer. The younger man raises himself up immediately, arms shaking at the awkward angle, face open and wanting as Derek leans in. Their lips brush against each other when he murmurs, “What do you want Stiles?”

"You." The quiet admission is said in a breathless tone. So trusting, so open, so gentle that it makes Derek want to snarl. It makes him want to take hold of Stiles’ hair and tug his head back, sink his teeth into his neck and rake his claws up his thighs. “I want you.” Stiles’ voice goes low, darker as he cants his hips up against Derek’s thigh. “Want you to fuck me.”

Stiles’ hands are busy, taking advantage of Derek’s inactivity to yank his shirt up and unbutton his jeans. Derek shudders when long fingers slide under denim and cotton to squeeze his ass - once, twice, slow slide down to tease. In retaliation, Derek pushes his thigh harder against Stiles’ crotch.

When Stiles throws his head back into the pillow, groaning loudly, Derek leans down to lick up the strained muscles before reaching down to tug on Stiles’ jeans. “Maybe I should make you come in your jeans.” Derek muses against the collar, licking the edges and tasting salt and leather. The way Stiles squirms under him makes Derek dig his fingers into Stiles’ hips, feeling the sharp edges against his palm. “You’d like wouldn’t you?” 

Stiles’ fingers rake up his back before sinking into his shoulder blades with a hissed, “Yes. Please Derek!” More than happy to oblige, Derek slides his hands down to grasp Stiles’ ass, heaving his hips up so that he can wrap his legs around Derek’s waist. His mouth and lips work on sucking new marks around the collar - red and purple embellishment to accentuate the black leather. “Fuuuuuck!” Stiles groans, rolling his hips shamelessly against Derek’s. “Bite me, please Derek please bite me!”

How can he resist when Stiles asks him so nicely? Derek presses his teeth against the skin being offered to him, shuddering and moving back against Stiles when his body jerks up. It agony to rub against him with their jeans still on, almost and not enough at the same time. Stiles’ hands sink into his hair, tugging and pulling Derek closer.

He whimpers against Derek’s tongue, letting him swallow the sound down like the sweetest piece of candy. The way Stiles keeps whispering and chanting his name in between his groans makes Derek press down harder, pull Stiles closer, want to sink under his skin and stay there.

"Almost there almost there almost fuck fuck!" Stiles moans, moving more desperately against him. At some point during their grinding, their jeans have been pushed down enough that Derek can grind right up against Stiles cotton covered erection.

It feels too soft, hard enough, sticky wet at the right grinds that they repeat over and over again until finally Stiles’ body jerks. His hands tighten, making pinpricks of pain and pleasure shoot down Derek’s spine. He continues to move against Stiles, groaning as he desperately works himself towards his own release.

Stiles is pliant in his arms, loose and relaxed as he pets Derek’s hair and back. Derek closes his eyes, wanting to focus on the dirty, slick slide of their erections rubbing each other. He misses out on the blissed out look on Stiles face and the hand that comes down to cup his cheek.

The gentle touch makes him open his eyes, stare down at Stiles. Stare lust-drunk and love-stupid at that hand move down to fiddle with the tag while it’s twin reach down to grab at his ass again. “Yours.” Stiles murmurs, smug and happy. 

He’s not sure what sets him off - Stiles’ words, the way he so happily says them or the fact that he’s fingering the thrice damned collar - but Derek comes so hard that he’s certain Stiles will be sporting an impressive set of bruises on his hips for the next few days. 

Stiles grunts but allows Derek to fall over him, lips and nose rubbing against the leather. “Mine.” He murmurs into the material, curling his arms around Stiles’ sweaty body.