“Just stay still.” Derek says, almost snarling, teeth elongated into pointy fangs. “I can control it.”
Stiles shudders as Derek rests his face on his chest, clawed hands coming up to grip his sides; he can hear Derek's agitated breathing, can feel the way he's pressing Stiles harder, harder, against the wall.
“Sure, big guy,” he breathes out, tapping the fingers of his left hand on his own leg nervously, biting at his lip until the sensitive skin there feels sore, and the cold air coming through the open window makes his lips tingle, wet and abused.
They stay like that for a few moments, and finally Stiles shifts a little when he feels one of his legs starting to get numb, and suddenly it's like Stiles turned a switch, because Derek starts pawing at him, big hands clumsily grabbing at his shirt and tearing it with his claws as he presses against Stiles until he can feel the hard outline of his dick even through the rough denim against his hip.
“Okay, buddy,” he stutters out, hands coming up and hovering over Derek as he takes in lungfuls of air against Stiles' neck, nose buried against his skin, snuffling noisily, “you wanna get some eau de Stiles, big guy? Knock yourself out. Just, y'know, go easy on the goods.”
“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek grunts, voice muffled against Stiles' skin, lips tickling him.
“We are back to basics, huh?”
“I swear,” Derek's hands climb up his shirt, claws trailing upwards and giving Stiles' goosebumps, making all the blood that hadn't been pooling there already go straight to his hardening dick, “I swear I am gonna kill you.”
Stiles, who is way past the point of being afraid of Derek, smirks. His heart is beating wildly inside his chest anyway, ribcage barely containing the thump thump thumps; he isn't afraid of Derek, but he is afraid for him; afraid of where this could be leading, and what it would mean for him.
Derek whines, ruts at him like he's feverish, in heat, like the stuttering of his hips is something he can't control.
And it's likely that he can't.
Stiles' hands land on Derek's shoulders, and he feels it against the skin of his throat when Derek lets out a wet and open mouthed sob.
“I can't,” he whispers, and Stiles' heart breaks at the vulnerability in those two words.
“That's--” he pats Derek's shoulder awkwardly, and Derek's body seems to thrive in the touch, to seek it once it's gone, and everything is so fucked up, witches are fucked up, Beacon Hills is fucked up, their lives are fucked up. “That's okay, big guy, we'll get through this one together. Just like treading water for two hours and crawling through shards of glass, huh? It's what we do.”
Derek's clawed fingers trail upwards, raking, letting the skin of Stiles' stomach exposed to the cold air, making him shiver, and Derek moves even closer, hips rubbing against him at an offbeat pace, and he bites at his bottom lip, inhaling loudly when Derek's claws reach his nipples and fixate on them, trace delicate, sharp circles around them.
“I'm sorry,” Derek mutters, and then he laps at Stiles' throat with the flat of his tongue, drags it up and up and up until Stiles is scrabbling at his shoulders and tilting his own hips because God, God, Derek is tasting him, is going at it like he's deriving the meaning of life from it, like it's something other than compulsion and Stiles hasn't gotten laid in forever, and he's touched himself harshly, fingers thrusting deep and punishing inside him, countless times, he's imagined Derek giving in to some primal urge hundreds of times.
And this is-- so, so fucked up.
“I'm sorry, too, for all that matters,” he chokes out, and he yanks at Derek's hair (and Derek growls, a deep rumbling animal sound that will haunt Stiles' fantasies forever), “but right now? Right now we have to get to the bed, because there's no way you're fucking me for the first time propped against a wall, as hot as that sounds.”
Derek moans and shakes Stiles' hand off (like a dog, he thinks and hates himself a little), but he looks at him with incandescent blue eyes, grabbing at his hand and tugging him in the direction of the bed, turning him around to give him a biting kiss (fangs dragging on his bottom lip until he gasps) as he backs him up until he stumbles down onto the softness of his duvet.
“I'm going to knot you,” Derek grunts out once they are down and he's straddling him, eyes glowing, blown and fixed on him, and Stiles groans.
“Okay, yes, yes, let's do that,” he agrees breathlessly, picturing himself split open on Derek's thick dick, tied to him, and nods as Derek dives back in, lips chasing Stiles', kissing him as he's seeking to devour Stiles, to eat him whole, to get inside his skin and gnaw at what's lying there, intimate and hidden.
When they part he's gasping and his dick's leaking in his pants, straining against the unforgiving fabric, hard enough to hurt.
Derek cups his hand over where he's aching right between his legs, and his claws feel dangerous there, like a warning, present, tiny sharp points that Stiles can barely feel but can tell are there, reminding him of Derek's current state.
“I'll rip them off,” Derek says, and his voice is a pained sigh on his shoulder as the hand that's not cupping Stiles' dick through his clothe trails down the length of his arm. “I'll rip all of your clothes if you don't take them off right now.”
Stiles swallows, wishing that didn't turn him on even more, that he wasn't so relentlessly attracted to danger and fucked up things; he nods and Derek's hair tickles his nose.
“I'm-- I, if you get off a little? Then maybe I can get them off, buddy,” he works out, lips feeling tingly and swollen, useless.
The hand Derek had been using to absently trail Stiles' arm goes to his side so he can lean on it to raise his head and look at Stiles with furrowed eyebrows, with cheeks flushed and eyes blown to hell, but he still looks like he's mad at Stiles for even daring to suggest that he move, that he stop touching Stiles for even a second.
“I know, I know, I don't want to stop-- but I like these clothes.” He pushes softly at Derek, and Derek surprises him by following his lead, reacting to Stiles' hand as if it were the most powerful force in the universe, going with it until he's sitting up again, straddling Stiles' hips and looking down at him with a hunger that makes Stiles feel all of sixteen again.
“I can't--,” Derek starts and stops, takes several breaths as Stiles gets rid of his shirts, “I can't control this. I can't-- I look at you and I want, I touch and it's like going crazy, like I've been starving forever and you are--” he stops, and frowns at Stiles' suddenly bare chest, and he whispers, “I feel powerless,” just before he's putting both of his big, clumsy and soft hands back on Stiles, chasing away at moles and tiny scars (that time he fell off a swing, that time he lost a silly dare with Scott about riding his bike without hands, that time he--), thumbs caressing and claws raking, leaving little white lines that turn pink on his sensitive pale skin.
Stiles nods at him, biting his lip and feeling like shit.
“I know,” he groans, and lifts his hand up to Derek's face, to cup his cheek, and he watches as Derek leans into the touch, lips going to mouth greedily at Stiles' palm, fangs grazing it carefully, “I know, big guy. I'm sorry.”
“Pants,” Derek gasps out and ruts against him before getting off of Stiles, “off. Now.”
Stiles shimmies out of his jeans, wiggling and lifting his hips, and Derek's eyes stay glued to him, fists curling and uncurling until Stiles can see a drop of blood or two drip down.
“Don't hurt yourself,” he mutters as he takes his underwear off, “and don't bleed all over me.”
Derek opens his hands and Stiles grimaces at him as he wipes the drops of blood on his palms on his jeans, as the pinpricks there heal, neatly.
Stiles starts feeling exposed under Derek's heavy gaze and he shudders as the cold from the still open window gets at him. He does a nervous wiggling motion that makes his dick bob and slap against his lower abdomen which in turn makes Derek gasp.
“Okay,” Stiles says, voice raw, “okay, you get naked too. That needs to happen now.”
Derek nods at him as if in a trance, without taking his eyes off him, and he rips his own shirt. Honest to God grabs at it and shreds it as easily as that.
Derek's hands go up to his jeans, sharper and more brusque than they'd been on Stiles' skin and he realizes Derek's jeans will suffer the same fate as his shirt, which--
“Stop! Stop. Stop right there, buddy.” He sits up and puts his hands on Derek's hips over the rough denim, fingers brushing against Derek's, “as hot as this is, I don't have anything that will fit you and you can't go back to your place sans pants. As hot as you are, someone is bound to complain.”
Derek's looking down at him, fangs dropped against his bottom lip, mouth open like he's unable to do anything other than mouth breathe, and Stiles would blow his load right about now if he wasn't so jittery and keyed up.
He rubs his palms over Derek's clothed hips and grabs at his hands softly for a little while, careful of the claws, and then goes to unbutton him, fixes his eyes on Derek's bulge, breathes through his mouth too, so he won't inhale Derek's musky scent and feel the need to mouth at the denim and jerk himself off like that, licking and mouthing at Derek's clothed dick like he can't do any better, like he can't bring himself to higher function than that. So that this won't be any more embarrassing and fucked up than it already is.
Derek groans, above him, and Stiles lets out a loud gust of air in response, body already in tune with him; he unzips Derek slowly, trying to avoid hurting him, and then he's pushing the jeans down, down over Derek's hips, and over his strong thighs, over his muscled and hairy legs, putting his hands above the elastic of Derek's underwear as he pushes the jeans the rest of the way down, past his calves, with his feet, breath stuttering at the sight of Derek's underwear wet and stained over the tip of his dick, sticking there all damp and Stiles just--
He just has to lean in and taste, suck through the damp material as he grabs at Derek's hips and at his ass and Derek hisses, putting his hands on Stiles' shoulders, sinking his claws there until Stiles feels a dull pain.
Stiles gasps, and grazes his teeth against Derek's clothed dick.
“Stiles,” Derek groans, and the hold on him gets stronger, tight enough that Stiles knows there'll be bruises there in the morning, finger shaped bruises and little matching scabs that he'll have to hide from his dad as long as he's staying here and that will hurt like a bitch.
“Stiles,” Derek repeats, and he gets more desperate, bucks his hips in Stiles' direction, pushing him onto Stiles' open lips, and Stiles drools a little, gets spit down his chin as his hands cling to Derek's ass. “Stiles.”
He lowers Derek's underwear then, overly eager, sucking on his lips as he chases the taste of Derek on them, and once he's faced with Derek's dick, fat and throbbing, he gets it in his mouth and moans shamelessly around it as Derek hisses.
“Your mouth,” he blurts out, and the words sound pained, as if they were being punched out of him, and distorted around his fangs, “your mouth. I can't-- I want to be-- but I have to--”
Stiles looks up at Derek through his eyelashes and lets Derek's dick slip from his lips with an obscene pop, grabs at it with his left hand and pumps it a couple times.
He feels hazy, dizzy with lust, and he wonders whether whatever's up with Derek is affecting him too.
“What do you need?” He asks, and licks a stripe up the length of Derek's dick, follows a vein up to the crown. “Tell me what you need, big guy, tell me what to do.”
Derek thrusts at him, and the head of his dick slips against Stiles' lips.
“I need to-- I have to--” He sounds conflicted, and his eyes are going back and forth between their normal green-hazel color and electric blue and his hands are splaying over Stiles' shoulders, reaching up to cup his face, claws sharp on his jaw, nipping a little.
“Say it,” Stiles prompts again, licks at his lips, the taste of Derek heavy on them and on his tongue, and his scent all around him, “I need to hear you say it.”
“I need to fuck your mouth.”
“That--” he inhales sharply and swallows, “that can happen. We can do that right now, buddy. I'm 100% on that train. Let's.”
He backs up, kicking at the bed and accidentally at one of Derek's legs, but he doesn't react, he just follows Stiles, crawls up to him like they're conducting some strange ritual, dancing some weird choreography.
When Stiles head is on one of his pillows, Derek stops, looks down at him, and he seems so lost as one of his hands cups Stiles' cheek that Stiles' heart misses a beat, and he leans onto the touch, not paying attention to the prickling of the claws, to the stab of pain.
Derek melts onto him, drops down onto his chest and whines.
“It's okay,” Stiles reassures him in a thread of a voice, “we're doing okay. You're doing okay.”
“I'm not a dog, Stiles,” he says, and it almost sounds normal, almost sounds like their daily banter.
Stiles drags his fingers through Derek's hair and Derek slumps further into him.
“Seriously, it's okay. I'm okay with this. You're not--” forcing me. He bites his lips, bites them until the words slip back inside, deep inside his chest, deep down inside him where they won't be tugged up accidentally and spit up and make things worse.
Derek looks up at him with hair disheveled and eyes piercing blue and Stiles can see the muscles on his jaw ticking, can feel his legs twitching, his hips trembling; it's obvious in every fiber of his being that he's holding back against whatever this is, is trying to resist, fighting a losing battle. And it's hurting him. It's obvious on the crease of his brow, on the way his shoulders are shaking, on the noises he's swallowing down, on his eyes.
Stiles drags Derek down into a kiss, makes him blanket him with his entire warm body, kisses him slow and deep, nicking his lip and tasting a bit of copper, but not giving up, even when Derek tenses up above him.
When they part Stiles licks at the tiny cut on his lower lip, tastes the drop of blood pooling there and smirks up at Derek's stern face.
“Hey, do you think vampires are a thing?”
Derek groans at him, but it's less needy and pained and more why do you have to be such a fucking idiot, so it's fine. Stiles is used to that, that's good. Annoyance is good, mutual annoyance is what they do, it's their thing, it's familiar ground. This is them reclaiming some control over the situation, this is good.
Derek looks back at him and his eyes are green-hazel, back to their astounding natural color, and there's depth there that's not all delirious want and Stiles could sigh in relief for that alone.
“If they are, I'm giving you over to them.” His eyes crinkle for all of a second and Stiles feels the tiny cut on his lip burn as he smiles unintentionally.
Derek's eyes flash then and Stiles' smile dims a little, but he drags Derek down into a kiss again.
“Let's do this on our terms, big guy,” he says against his lips, “let's not give that fucking witch the satisfaction to turn us into--”
“Into animals,” Derek finishes for him, and closes his eyes as a spam runs through his body and Stiles feels Derek's dick leaking down on him, warm and sticky.
“You're not an animal,” he says, final, and the words threaten to get clogged in his throat with how much he does mean them; with how much he wants to drill them into Derek's head, make them resonate even through the fog.
Derek's eyes soften, get warmer and half lidded as they study his face.
“I wanted to,” Derek's fangs nick one of his lips and Stiles is fixated on the way the dollop of blood pooling there gets sucked back in as the wound heals, “I wanted to have choice-- when we-- I wanted to choose you.”
Stiles pushes back the fondness that blooms inside his chest, shoves it underneath a metaphorical rug in his mind under the which he hides all his other Derek related feelings, thinks about dealing with that later because they don't have time for this, he doesn't have time for this.
He wets his lips and Derek's body twitches again, his eyes flare, his mouth drops open.
“We all want to choose,” he replies, and takes hold of one of Derek's hands, “and right now? I'm choosing that we do this on our own terms.”
Derek looks down at their hands, lets out a long, audible and trembling breath.
Derek looks at him and nods.
Stiles gives him a tiny smile back and cups his hands on Derek's ass, drags him forward.
“Now come and fuck my mouth.”
“You're the height of romance,” Derek tells him, tone as dry as he can manage while his dick leaks all over Stiles, leaving a wet, dirty path on his skin as he goes to straddle Stiles' chest, hands going to the wall to seek support.
“Shut up, you love me,” Stiles retorts, sex stupid as Derek's dick gets right up on his face, the tip grazing his lips.
Derek doesn't respond, but he bucks his hips, and Stiles parts his lips in tandem, lets the head of Derek's dick slip inside, lets it stretch his mouth, runs his tongue around it, and as Derek's hips stutter and pull back from him, over his slit, dipping the tongue there, and then lapping, the tangy taste of his pre-come heavy and enough to make his dick twitch.
Derek makes a few shallow, uncoordinated thrusts, but when Stiles' fingers dig into the muscles of his ass he sets a fast, punishing rhythm, like an elastic band that has snapped; his thighs quiver where they are resting on Stiles, and he can feel the sweat on him, and the needy sounds he lets out as Stiles opens up his plush lips, inviting, for his dick, are feral, broken.
Stiles chokes on him, spit dribbling down his chin, cheeks going numb, lips raw, tongue chasing after Derek, lapping at him, rubbing at the underside of his cock, tracing his veins, going for the crown, dipping and tensing up.
When Derek draws back, Stiles' fingers dig into his skin with enough strength to leave crescent moon indents, Stiles feels them on Derek's trembling, sweaty skin as they heal back to smoothness; he lets his mouth hang open, shameless, and Derek's dick twitches, leaks on his chest, and Derek's hands tense above him, go half curled on the wall, the noise his claws make against it jarring Stiles into some sort of coherence.
“You'll be the one explaining to my dad where all the scratches and the grooves came from,” he lets out, voice wacky, cracked and abused, rough, telling.
“Stiles,” Derek lets out, and one of his hands drops to make a loose circle around Stiles' neck, making him gasp, “Stiles.”
“Yeah?” He asks, and kneads Derek's ass cheeks, digs his fingers deep.
“I need to--,” Derek lets out, mangled through his fangs “I'm going to--,” Stiles waits for him, hands still cupping Derek's ass, heavy on them, grabbing onto them like lifelines, “knot you. I'm going to knot you. I need to--”
“Hey, hey,” he soothes, “I get it. I'm, how? How do we do this? How do you wanna--?”
Derek slumps onto him then, makes Stiles let out this oomph noise as Derek trails claws over his sides, puts his mouth on Stiles' neck again, slobbers it, all curled in on himself.
“On your belly,” Derek says, against the abused skin of Stiles' throat.
“Okay, big guy,” he wheezes out, pushing at Derek's hulking frame, “but you're gonna need to get off of me for a little while okay? I won't go anywhere, I just need to--”
Derek lifts him, legit lifts him, leans back and puts his hands on Stiles' legs and lifts him until Stiles has to wrap them around his waist and his arms over Derek's shoulders, gasping at the feeling of Derek's claws sinking into his skin, piercing a little bit, itching, moving up to his hips to cling there.
Stiles is so turned on, so ridiculously into all of this that he doesn't even feel pain. He knows he'll feel all this in the morning, he'll feel it when he wakes up and moves around and the pain on his hips flares up, when he gets up and his legs tremble a little.
Mostly, he knows he'll feel it when he wakes up and Derek is gone.
Derek starts rubbing his beard over Stiles' face, making these needy noises that bring Stiles back to the present situation. He bites at Derek's shoulder, hard enough that it would've left indentation marks on a human, hard enough that Derek's fangs graze Stiles' cheek as he lets out a whine.
“You'll have to let me down now, big guy. I have to get--,” Derek presses clumsy kisses at the side of Stiles' jaw and Stiles has to let go of him to pull at his hair softly to get his attention, Derek looks up at him with electric blue, half-lidded eyes, “lube,” he says, putting special emphasis on the word and attempting a half-hearted eyebrow wiggle, “we're gonna need it, buddy.”
Derek lets him go, puts him down, eyes still trained on him, hands resting on Stiles' legs. He's breathing heavily, dick so hard it bounces with every breath intake, leaking copiously over his abs.
Stiles licks his lips, feels his hands wanting to shake as he takes in on Derek, clearly losing control over himself with every passing moment.
He puts his hand over Derek's, holds it tight, tries to convey we're gonna get through this, and we're gonna make it out in one piece in a single, minute gesture, not knowing how to form the words, how to let them out and make Derek understand them, believe them.
Derek looks at their hands, turns his palm up, so he can softly, so so carefully, entwine their fingers together.
Stiles squeezes Derek's hand, lets them rest there for a little while. Then he carefully disentangles himself and bends himself to get to his nightstand, so he can open his drawer and rummage through it until he finds a half empty tube of lube.
“Okay,” he says, and it sounds croaky as he moves back onto the bed, knees spread and hands holding onto the tube so they won't start shaking, his dick heavy between his legs, hard enough to hurt a little.
Derek looks at him with an intensity that makes Stiles take a deep breath, hold the air in for a few seconds before letting it out in a trembling fashion, he reaches for Stiles, but when his hands land again on Stiles' legs, curling onto his thighs, he looks at them and furrows his brow before taking them back and looking at Stiles with lost eyes that make Stiles' flesh and insides feel tender.
The claws, he realizes, Derek can't-- he can't open Stiles up, he can't even reach for Stiles' dick, he can't touch him where he obviously wants to.
Stiles leans forward and kisses Derek, licks into his mouth, is careful enough to not nick his tongue on Derek's fangs, but thorough enough that when he leans back, Derek follows him back, leans forward with his eyes closed.
“Here's what we're gonna do, buddy,” he rasps out, and puts his hand on the side of Derek's face, gives him something to lean into, to rub over, “I'm gonna open myself up this time, okay? I'm gonna do it real quick and next time, when you're less, uh, less claw-y, you can do it yourself? Sounds good?”
One of Derek's hands covers the one Stiles has on his face as he nuzzles into it, kisses it open mouthed and eager.
Stiles takes that as a yes and nods at Derek, brushes his thumb over Derek's beard.
“Let's do this,” he says, and uncaps the lube one handed before extricating his other hand from Derek's hold and spreading the lube over his fingers, letting it drip there, thick and copious, as Derek looks at his hands, seemingly absorbed in the motions of Stiles' fingers, hands clawing at Stiles' sheets and then going to his own thighs, one of them creeping upwards until his fingers are lightly grazing his dick and he hisses at the feeling of his own claws there.
“Careful there,” Stiles tells him as he moves around to find a comfortable position to finger himself open, quickly and perfunctory.
Derek drops his hands back to the sheets, and crawls closer to him, nostrils flaring as Stiles' leans forward, supporting himself on one hand as the index and middle fingers of his other hand prod around his opening, spreading the lube there, as he circles it until he feels relaxed enough to sink the tip of one finger in.
Derek makes pained noises at him, leans into him, mouths at his shoulders, paws at them, rubs his face over Stiles' throat, and Stiles lets out a gasp as he spreads his legs further apart and his finger goes in deeper, the muscles accommodating around the intrusion.
Derek bites at the base of his throat, fangs digging into Stiles' skin until Stiles is hissing under his breath and sinking his middle finger in alongside the index one, pumping them in and out slowly a few times, but aching to get this over as fast as possible; he's really into fingering, okay? He can come on his own fingers alone if the time is right, he can ride his own hand until he's cramping and there are tears clamping his eyelashes together, but right now? Right now he just needs Derek inside him. Needs to feel him along his back, sweaty and scorching hot, and to be so so full of him.
He wants it so bad he feels he might pass out from it, from the sheer want.
Derek looks up at him then, touches their foreheads together and just looks at Stiles, breathing hardly, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing as Stiles stretches himself on his two fingers as quick as he can; as he pushes in, in, in and closes his eyes, and lets out a tiny gasp, tries to think unsexy thoughts to avoid coming all over himself like he's still a sixteen year old virgin; jabs his fingers in particularly hard as one of Derek's hands goes up to the one that Stiles is breaching himself open on, rests it there as Stiles' fingers stutter inside him, as he thinks of coming on Derek's dick, on his knot.
“I'm ready,” he lets out, voice rough, “I'm so ready.”
Derek doesn't show any sign of recognition at the words, just looks at his lips as they move with the words, hand still on Stiles' even as he takes his fingers out, feels the emptiness and winces at it, bites at his bottom lip as he moves around a bit.
“I'm gonna get on my hands and knees now, okay?” He says, looking at Derek in the eyes, “and then we're gonna get you inside me.”
That seems to get Derek's attention, and at least a flicker of recognition from him in the form of his eyes going hazel for a little while as he nods jerkily, makes a sound between a gasp and a hiss, puts his hands on Stiles' hips as Stiles turns around.
“Okay,” he starts, low and soothing, ready to guide Derek through the motions, not because he thinks Derek's gonna need it, but because he needs to occupy his brain on something other than sensation, on something other than the fact that Derek will put his dick in him, but when he's opening his mouth to start guiding Derek, he gets cut off on the first word, stumbles through it and then he stutters fuckfuckfuck because Derek is just--
He's just parting Stiles cheeks and licking at him with the flat of his tongue, he can't get very deep because of the fangs, and he's going at it so, so cautiously, tip first and then lapping a little, and kneading Stiles' cheeks as much as he can gently, making these helpless noises deep in his throat.
It's, Jesus fuck, it's the hottest thing that anyone's ever done to him, and he just-- he just collapses onto his elbows, feeling shaky and hot all over, and like he's one lazy stroke away from coming all over himself.
One of Derek's hands leaves his ass to go up Stiles' back, rake his claws upwards until Stiles is a quivering mess from all the sensation and Derek's clawed hand is between his shoulder blades, just resting there as Derek keeps trying to eat him out in the sloppiest way, all tongue and spit getting him even messier and wetter than he was from the lube.
He bites his lip hard enough to draw some blood to the surface, and licks it off it as Derek makes an awkward, clumsy patting motion with his hand on Stiles' back, like he wants to soothe Stiles while he's still tongue deep in him, shamelessly attempting to fuck Stiles with his mouth.
“You need to fuck me now,” he says, rushed and gasping, “right now. You need to-- you need to put your dick in me. I want to come on your dick.”
Derek takes his tongue out of Stiles then, and pushes him down, just uses his hands to get Stiles how he wants him, and Stiles goes, pliant and ready to start crying from how turned on he is, until he's resting his head on his arms, ass up like he's putting on a show.
Derek lets out a wrecked Stiles, and Stiles want to say it's good to have you back,big guy, wants to acknowledge that glimpse of control, but Derek is parting his cheeks, digging his claws in enough that Stiles will have marks for the foreseeable future, and rubbing his dick against where Stiles is open and sloppy, and he's past the point of coherence.
When the head of Derek's dick prods against his opening, slipping against the rim, Stiles sobs, he's so sensitive, so stretched already.
When the tip slips in, Derek's hand is gently guiding himself, and Stiles can tell he's barely even touching himself, so careful, can picture his hand in a loose circle as he closes his eyes and feels, and it's good, the feeling of Derek's dick sinking into him, finally filling him up is good, great, superb even, just a billion words that Stiles can't think of while biting at the flesh of his arm until it's red and over sensitive and he's drooling all over it and his bed; but it's also good to register that Derek isn't hurting himself, that he's got enough control to take care of them both in this way, to be soft.
Derek even pauses to give him time to adjust, and Stiles can feel the tremors running through his legs where they are meeting with his, he can hear his loud breathing, can feel how the hand that's on hip is shaking, can tell this is taking so much out of him, demanding him so much effort.
“Go ahead,” he says, lips feeling numb against his own skin, “you're not gonna hurt me, big guy, let go.”
Derek bends in on himself then, down until his forehead is touching Stiles' back, and then he buries himself inside Stiles in one long, deep thrust that makes Stiles gasp, claw at his sheets, stutter out a broken oh God at the sudden fullness.
Derek mouths at his back, puts his fangs on Stiles' skin, lets them trail over it as his hips meet Stiles' ass, flush against him, sweaty and warm and quivering.
“Move,” he groans, “Derek, move.”
Derek grunts at him, this tiny animalistic sound that makes Stiles smile, because it sounds like don't tell me what to do, haughty and completely Derek, even though it's low and rough, barely audible muffled against his skin.
He moves, though. He grabs Stiles' hips, manhandles him until his belly is flush on the bed, dick leaking all over his sheets at the friction and hurting between his parted legs, puts him right where he wants, covers him up like a blanket and then he thrusts.
And at first it's shallow thrusts that leave Stiles trying to push back, to get more, but then Derek parts his legs even more, and goes deeper, harder, puts his strength into it until Stiles is convinced that the bed is rocking along with them.
Derek sets a punishing rhythm and he whines onto Stiles' ear, bites his lobe lightly, rubs his face over what skin he can reach, and keeps thrusting.
Stiles tries to get one of his arms under himself, get it on his dick so he can come, because he needs to, just needs to, but Derek stops him, holds his hand over his head and makes a forbidding sound.
Stiles is seconds away from begging, just flat out begging at Derek to let him come already, when Derek thrusts deep enough to make him let out a broken moan. He slams his hips against him, and suddenly Stiles can feel himself getting fuller, can feel himself stretching to accommodate Derek, to accommodate--
“Oh God, your knot,” Stiles gasps out, and Derek rocks against him, changes the angle enough that he's rubbing at Stiles' golden spot, dragging over it with every rocking motion.
It's too much. It's sensory overload, Derek's knot getting bigger and tighter inside him, locking them together, and the tiny shocks from Derek's thrusts, his own hips stutter and he can feel himself coming untouched, explosive and sudden, all over his belly and his bed, and he shudders as he feels it everywhere: on his legs and on the back of his neck, on his back, on all the inches of skin that are touching Derek's, deep inside him where Derek is filling him up with his knot, making him feel fuller than he's ever felt before.
Derek bites him, then. Sinks his teeth, his fangs, on Stiles' shoulders hard enough to make Stiles flinch and hiss, and his hips stutter against Stiles until he goes limp over him, heavy and still a little shaky, but spent.
Stiles swears he can feel Derek's dick twitching inside of him, pumping him full of come, but it's probably his imagination filling the blanks as Derek's hands let go of him and run down his sides with the utmost tenderness, as he rubs his nose over Stiles' bite before licking at it in what feels like a silent apology.
“'S okay,” he says, feeling drowsy, all fucked out and malleable, as if made of plasticine, just a puddle of something liquid, “I'm okay, you didn't hurt me.”
He loses track of time for a little while there, he thinks, because the next thing he knows, he's on his side with Derek behind him, still inside him, snug and-- and wet, God, so wet, Stiles is dripping down there, he can feel Derek's come dribbling out of his ass and down his legs, it's just so much, but the hand that's holding one of Stiles' is completely human, with blunt, short, slightly uneven nails.
“Are you back to your usual self, buddy?” he asks, and he's probably blacked out for a while there, because his throat feels sand-papery, sore like he's coming down from his sex high.
He feels Derek nod against him, and despite the hand that's casually holding Stiles', it feels tense, jerky.
“Can we do this later?”
“Do what?” Derek asks, quiet enough that the faints sounds from around them (Stiles' macbook, the noises coming from the open window, the steady tick-tock from Stiles' clock) threaten to swallow the words.
“The guilt thing. The thing where we try not to crack, but sort of crumble inside in the process. That thing. The thing you're already doing, because you're the best at guilt trips. Because I'm not ready. I'm not ready to start right now, okay? I won't let this wreck us, Derek. We've gone through too much for that. Been through too much. But I need to not do this now or I'll go out of my mind. So can we please just do this at some other time?”
Derek squeezes his hand, leans in and kisses Stiles' shoulder, right over the place where Derek's bite is starting to throb a little.
“Yeah,” Derek says, “yes. We can do this later.”
“Good,” Stiles breathes out, and squeezes Derek's hand back, “good.”
They don't talk much after that, just breath together in some sort of synchrony, let the silence enfold them, and Stiles falls asleep with Derek scenting him, kissing him where he's sore, where he can tell there'll be bruises in the morning.
When he wakes up the next morning, there isn't an inch of his body that doesn't hurt and he's depressingly alone, but he's wiped clean (and as kind of creepy as the picture of Derek wiping him clean while he sleeps is, the alternative of waking up stuck to his sheets, all gross and crusty, is worse), there's Tylenol and a glass of water on his bedside table.
There's also a scrap of paper with Call me when you wake up. I don't want to let this wreck us, either. Scrawled on it.
Stiles crumples the note in his hand, but he keeps it there, inside a loose fist as he turns around to grab a few more hours of sleep.
Fuck that witch, they are doing this on their terms.