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The drive back to Berkley is just long enough that Stiles falls asleep on the way, face pressed against the glass of the passenger side window.

Derek is always a little quiet after seeing his family, like he used up all his social credits and needs to re-charge before he’s much good for conversation again, but Stiles doesn’t mind. He’s full and happy, warm inside from having both their families together for the holidays and from all the food he ate. (Mr. Hale is a great cook, okay?)

He wakes up slowly, drowsy in the dim autumn afternoon light, as Derek pulls up to the house and kills the engine. “Hey,” he says lowly. “We’re home.”

Home. For a year and a half he’s been sharing space with Derek, watching him slowly build them actual furniture and fill the space up with pieces of the two of them. It actually feels like a home now, like their home.

“Yeah,” he agrees belatedly, and fumbles to undo his seat-belt. “I’ll grab the food if you grab our bags?”

Derek nods in agreement, smiles nice and easy.

Stiles stuffs the fridge full of leftovers, waking up a little more the longer he’s upright; already mentally planning their menu for the rest of the week. They can have apple and brie stuffed french toast for breakfast in the morning, bubble and squeak for lunch, maybe some bulgogi for dinner - all warm, filling things to fend off the chill in the air.

He can hear Derek coming down the stairs, padding into the kitchen, leans back a little on his heels just in time for Derek to wrap his arms around him and pull him back against his chest in a hug, nose tucked into the side of Stiles’ neck.

“Want to snuggle on the window seat in the library?” Stiles asks. He can feel Derek make a face at the word snuggle, but it’s all a front, really. If there were pro snuggling competitions, Derek would take gold.

“Want to go upstairs with you,” he rumbles into the hinge of Stiles’ jaw. Stiles’ breath hitches a little, still so greedy for it even after dating this long, living together. “Missed you this weekend,” Derek adds, working his way back up to bite sharply at Stiles’ earlobe before soothing it with a kiss.

He turns, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and pulling him down for a real kiss. “I was with you the whole time,” he replies, but he gets it. They hadn’t been alone together for days, and he just wanted to get his hands all over Derek, stake his claim all over again.

Derek knows it, too; is familiar with the way Stiles teases him. “Upstairs,” he says again between kisses. “Bed,” he rumbles, as extra incentive.

“Mm, okay.” What can he say? He’s easy. “Bed.”

Stiles isn’t weak, or small. He’s of a height with Derek, he’s just not built the same way. Their shoulders are the same breadth, but where Stiles is lithe, Derek is thick with muscle.

So he lets Derek heft him up; wraps his legs around Derek’s waist and lets him carry him halfway there - up the stairs, stumbling and laughing into Stiles’ mouth, pressing him against the wall. Stiles drops his legs, arches up into Derek with a filthy grind of his hips that nets him a groan and some fresh stubble burn.

“Come on,” Stiles whines as Derek slides one thigh between his legs, teasing. He swallows hard, wets his mouth and just rides Derek’s thigh for a long minute, shameless. It doesn’t take much from Derek to get him riled up, and Derek is dedicated to finding new ways to help Stiles fall apart.

Derek bites at his collarbones, at his jaw, his lower lip. “What if I want to take my time?” He rumbles, tugging the collar of Stiles’ shirt aside so he can get to more skin, drag his mouth across it, hot and wet. He shifts his thigh up more, gives Stiles more to press against.

“I’m, haaa, okay with that,” Stiles agrees, nodding frantically. He could rub one out easily right now, just like this - against the wall, bouncing on Derek’s thigh, feeling the rasp of his stubble against his throat, the huff of his breath, the bite of his fingers on his hips.

Of course, Derek steps back leaves Stiles bereft and cold, alone against the wall. “Better move this to the bedroom then,” he says pretending to be unaffected. Stiles can see that his pupils are blown wide though, his mouth red and wet. He gives Stiles a lingering once-over before turning and heading into their bedroom. “Coming?” he tosses over his shoulder.

And if Stiles has anything to say about it, yeah, yes. Any time.

When Stiles stumbles after him, Derek is already stripping off his shirt, back to the door and stark black tattoo on display. The first time they had fallen into bed together he’d been fascinated by it, by something so unexpected hiding under Derek’s old man sweaters and dark henleys. He still is. He drags his palm down Derek’s spine and back up to press his palm to the centre of the spiral. Derek drops his arms to his sides and looks back at Stiles over his shoulder.

“Can I…?” Stiles starts but trails off, drops his hand. Circles around to drop to his knees in front of Derek and hook his fingers into the waistband of Derek’s jeans. He swallows a little, licks his lips and slips the button free, tugs the zipper down. Derek’s been steadily growing harder, pressed fervent against his dark boxer briefs. He’s damp at the head as Stiles tugs his jeans down just far enough to be out of his way.

He can’t help himself, sucks an open-mouthed kiss against him through his underwear as Derek drops a hand to his hair and gives it a sharp tug. “Please,” he says, hoarse, the tables turned. Stiles grins up at him.

“How do you want me?” he asks, coyly, tracing the outline of Derek through the fabric and looking up at him through his eyelashes. Derek groans, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair before letting go and tracing down the side of his face; slips his thumb between his wet lips. Stiles gives his thumb a little suck, drags his tongue along the pad of it.

Eyes shuttering briefly, Derek bites his own lip before meeting his eyes again. “Just like this,” he says, and pulls his thumb back, tugs himself free of his underwear. “Open up for me?”

As it happens, Stiles loves sucking cock - Derek’s cock, specifically. Loves letting Derek feed himself between Stiles’ lips and thrust shallowly, loves welcoming him with his tongue, loves the weight and taste of him, the way he never pushes too far or too hard.

Even better is when Derek threads his fingers through Stiles’ short hair and holds him in place, moves his head on Derek’s cock as he sees fit. “So good,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles would grin if his mouth wasn’t full. “I love that you love this,” he continues, “Love that you’re so hard for it, I can see it.” And Stiles is, he’s hard and leaking in his jeans, just this side of uncomfortable but it’s so worth it. “But I said I wanted to take my time with you,” Derek adds, and pulls back all the way leaving Stiles bereft. His jaw is sore but his mouth aches for something more. “Come here.”

Stiles pushes himself to his feet and reels Derek in for a kiss, long and wet; bites at his lips and soothes them after with his tongue; arches his spine into the warm drag of Derek’s hands as he rucks up Stiles’ shirt. “Get this off,” he says, breaking the kiss. “I want to touch you.” As if Stiles would argue with that.

“You, too, come on,” he whines a little, jutting his chin at Derek’s undone pants even as he strips. “Get’em off.” He practically trips out of his clothes in his haste.

Here, Derek usually skips pyjamas all together and sleeps naked. He runs too hot for anything else, and while Stiles runs cold, he’s learned that sharing a bed with Derek means waking up sweltering in the middle of the night if he doesn’t do the same. But in a house filled with Derek’s very large, very nosy family? It’s been days and days of pyjamas and very little skin on skin contact and Stiles is hungry for it.

He missed Derek’s weird belly button and his impossible action star body and he wants that all over him yesterday.

With the head start, Derek’s done before Stiles and is immediately back in his space, gripping his hips in his broad hands, sweeping his thumbs along his pelvic bones as Stiles tries to kick his pants out of the way. “You gonna pet me all night or are we gonna make out?” he asks, cocky and Derek grins, presses a fleeting kiss against his mouth before pushing him down onto the bed.

“I can do both,” he says with a faux-casual shrug, and brackets Stiles with his limbs, ducks down to kiss him again and again, slow and wet, then brief and teasing. Noses his jaw up for better access to suck a hickey just above his collarbone. Stiles shifts his hips up, tries for some friction, but Derek pins his hips in place with one hand. “Nope,” Derek says, pulling back. “None of that.”

Stiles isn’t afraid to pout, not that it gets him anywhere.

“Do you trust me?” Derek asks and Stiles huffs.

“You know I do.”

“Then let me drive a little longer tonight.” It’s a statement, but there’s something in his face that makes it a question, and Derek waits, visibly patient, for Stiles to answer.

He nods slowly. “Okay,” takes a deep breath, “Okay. You’re in charge, big guy.I’m all yours.” It takes effort to relax back against the mattress and not just pull Derek down to where he wants him. They don’t do this often, but when they do it’s something else - sometimes overwhelmingly good.

Derek takes a moment, looks like he’s cataloguing Stiles with his eyes, taking stock of every inch of him. Stiles stifles the urge to squirm.

After a long moment, Derek drags his hands slowly up Stiles’ sides, traces along the pale skin and tugs his arms up so his hands rest on either side of his head.

“Keep these here for me?” Derek asks, squeezing at Stiles’ wrists. His fingers twitch involuntarily but when Derek releases him he leaves his hands where they are, and Derek looks bashfully pleased. “Good,” he murmurs, and shifts down along the long stretch of Stiles’ body to the end of the bed and firmly grasps one calf in his hands. “You’re all wound up,” he says, almost to himself it’s so quiet. Stiles isn’t even sure he was supposed to hear it, so he stays silent.

It pays off, though not in the way Stiles might have hoped. Derek digs his fingers into the muscles there, tight from hiking through half the Beacon Hills preserve and playing flag football with the Hales all weekend. “Ah,” Stiles gasps, leg twinging as Derek works loose a knot of muscle.

“Better?” Derek asks, stroking his thumbs down to press firm strokes across the soles of Stiles’ foot, working the tension steadily down and out.

“Yeah,” Stiles croaks. “Thanks.”

Derek hums a little and moves to the other leg, giving it the same treatment. When Derek works up his thighs, Stiles can’t help but display a rousing interest, but Derek skips right over his dick like it’s not even there; gives his sides some attention and dips his head to suck wetly at each nipple briefly before shifting his massage to Stiles’ arms and shoulders as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t left both Stiles’ nipples cold and wet and standing at attention.

“Derek,” Stiles groans, “Please.” But Derek just gives him a soft kiss before rolling him over on his front so he can start all over again, from the back of his calves on up.

When Derek skips over Stiles’ ass, Stiles shifts against the duvet, presses his hips once, twice against the give of it, seeking relief before Derek smacks him lightly on one cheek. “Not yet,” he scolds, and Stiles keens a little before letting his limbs go limp. All he wants to do is rub off against the soft bedding. All he wants to do is whatever Derek tells him. “Just be good a little longer,” Derek adds, as he kisses his way up Stiles’ spine, smoothing his hands on either side of it.

It’s a strange tension, wanting Derek to give him more already, antsy for it, but also growing steadily more loose and relaxed as Derek eases his muscles one by one, strokes his thumbs up along Stiles’ neck and into his hair until Stiles is practically melting under him.

Just when he’s resigned to the world’s longest, sexiest massage with no chance of getting off, Derek pulls his hands off Stiles and pulls away, leaving Stiles cold and bereft. “Derek?” he asks without lifting his head from his forearms; a little embarrassed at how needy he sounds.

“I’ve got you,” Derek says and that’s all the warning he gets before he can feel Derek pulling his cheeks apart and licking a broad stroke right over his hole.

Stiles practically leaps off the bed, or he would, if Derek weren’t holding him firmly in place with both hands heavy against his upper thighs. Undeterred, Derek hums a little, sending a shock right through Stiles before lapping greedily at him, getting him wet and slick. Stiles can feel his own blood rushing south, tries fruitlessly to press back against Derek’s mouth.

“Just relax,” Derek says, as if he rims Stiles all the time, as if Stiles could ever be used to this. When he lowers his mouth back against Stiles again he presses his tongue right inside and Stiles fairly howls. It’s too much and not enough, not nearly enough, and he can’t even shift to try and get more.

“Derek, Derek,” Stiles sobs, clutching at the duvet, “Please.” Derek’s response is to thrust his tongue as deep into Stiles as he can, kneading at one cheek and then the other sporadically. “Please,” he begs again, “Derek, I want-- I want--”

The audible snap of Derek opening the lube is a relief and a tease. He wants Derek in him yesterday, he wants him to never stop rimming him, he wants his fingers, he wants to come but he wants to never come if it means this continues indefinitely.

“You want this?” Derek asks, just gently pressing the tip of one lubed finger against his hole, pressing just ever so slightly at the slick give of him before pulling back, leaving Stiles with only the barest pressure.

Yes,” Stiles hisses, held fast by Derek’s free hand. “Yes, more, please, Derek.”

If he could turn and look over his shoulder, he’s sure he’d see Derek’s satisfied smile, but all he can do is press his forehead against his arms and pant damply against the covers.

“Hm, I’ll see what I can do,” Derek agrees, and proceeds to finger Stiles as slowly as humanly possible. With barely any pressure at all he circles Stiles’ hole steadily for what feels like forever before deigning to dip inside only to pull back again for more lube.

When he presses back again he works steadily, shallowly, at Stiles; barely one knuckle deep for long minutes before finally working a single finger all the way in and crooking it gently. He doesn’t quite hit Stiles’ prostate, but Stiles hiccoughs out a sob anyway, feels himself leaking precome steadily all over the duvet. It doesn’t matter that he can’t shift his hips, he might come just like this without a hand on him he’s so sensitive.

“Do you like this?” Derek asks, coming back with a second finger.

Stiles is beyond coherent sounds. All he can manage is a wet mewl, toes curling.

“It certainly looks like you like it,” Derek continues as if this is a totally normal conversation. “Like maybe you could come right now from just some kissing and barely two fingers. What do you think?”

As if Stiles is capable of thought like this. All he knows is he doesn’t want Derek to stop.

Derek pauses, waiting for a response, but all Stiles has for him is the sound of him breathing heavily, drooling a little, incapable of forming words.

“Yeah, you’d probably be more relaxed if we took the edge off,” Derek says as if Stiles could reply. “Okay.” And thrusts both fingers in deep and curls them firmly against Stiles’ prostate, bites at his cheek as Stiles howls and comes messily between his belly and the sheets.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, even as Stiles heaves for breath. Instead, Derek continues to steadily work Stiles loose and easy even as he shudders, sensitive and overwhelmed. “That’s it,” he soothes, coming back with three fingers as Stiles struggles to recover. “You feel better now?”

Stiles nods weakly as best he can, hopes Derek will understand. Tries to spread his legs a little wider for him. It feels like he’s barely done coming when he starts getting worked up again, or maybe he never stopped getting worked up. Derek’s fingers are broad and long, deft and familiar with Stiles.

He strokes his free hand up and down Stiles’ flank, gives him something to focus on other than the slick press of his fingers.

Of course, just as Stiles feels like he’s regrouped, Derek pulls his hand free and rolls Stiles over onto his back. He feels bare, exposed, even though they’ve done this a lot. Though it wasn’t this exactly. Maybe he feels this way because his stomach is already covered in come. He’s half-hard again, and his mouth and eyes both are both damp.

Derek looks him over slowly and grins a little, almost bashful and pleased with himself at the same time. “Look at you,” he murmurs, pleased and a little bit smug. “Spread out for me.”

Stiles whines a little. His limbs feel heavy and weak, but he still wants whatever Derek will give him. And Derek seems to be on the same page. He crawls up Stiles, bends his head and bites sharply at one nipple and then sucking even as Stiles cries out. When Derek pulls back he doesn’t stop to admire his handy-work, just shifts immediately to give the other nipple the same treatment, swapping back and forth until they’re both red and peaked, pebbled up hard as if straining for more.

There’s no respite. He shifts back down Stiles’ chest, grips his cock in his clean hand and pumps it twice before sucking at the head there briefly only to let it go. The sound Stiles lets out at that is embarrassing, but no more embarrassing than any of the other sounds he’s made since they got home.

“I’ve got you,” Derek says, and grabs a spare pillow, lifts Stiles’ hips up to fit it under him. Stiles watches greedily as Derek slicks up his cock, which has to be almost painful by now. He’s been red and hard this whole time and hasn’t gotten off yet. But Derek seems entirely zen about it. He hooks Stiles’ right leg over his shoulder and presses a kiss to the inside of his knee. “Almost there.”

Stiles swallows back another sound and just watches Derek bite his lower lip as he slowly, painstakingly pushes inside. He wants to press against Derek, push and shove to get him in faster, but Derek’s grip is firm and steady. Derek takes his time and surely this is the slowest he’s ever gotten inside Stiles, especially considering how thoroughly he’s been stretched.

When Derek finally bottoms out, pressed deep, he rubs his cheek against Stiles’ knee, deceptively sweet. Deceptively, because he pulls back just as slowly, works his way in again like it’s Stiles’ first time. Each thrust is a languorous drag sparking up inside him, and Stiles is overwhelmed with it.

His throat catches on a sound that was supposed to be Derek’s name, or a plea, or both. He’s panting, open-mouthed, head lolling against the bed, his arms back where Derek had first pressed them down. Derek watches him with lidded eyes as he works himself out of Stiles and deliciously, torturously back in.

“You’re perfect,” Derek says on another slow stroke. “Can you take a little more?”

He isn’t sure, but that doesn’t stop Stiles from swallowing back another sound and just nodding, keeping his eyes locked on Derek’s. If Derek wants him to take more, he’ll do it.

“Good, you’re so good, Stiles,” Derek whispers, and tugs Stiles’ other leg up over his free shoulder. “Want to be as close to you as I can be,” he says, and leans forward, practically folding Stiles in half with his next thrust.

Stiles keens. Somehow the angle is just that much better, just that much deeper. “Can you keep your legs like this?” Derek asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He shifts his hands to re-adjust Stiles to his liking, slides one hand up along the outside of his thigh to his hip. “Just like this.”

The next thrust is shorter, harder, but still painstakingly slow. Stiles can feel the slick pool of his own pre-come forming on his stomach, his eyes shuttering against too much input.

“Eyes on me,” Derek grumbles, punctuates it with a faster thrust that has Stiles groaning helplessly even as he obeys. “Are you close again?” he asks. “Want to feel you.”

It’s almost too much for Stiles, but he needs just a little more; tries to get the words out but can’t seem to form the right sounds.

Derek hums as if he understands though and begins to speed up his thrusts. He’s just a little rougher, and each thrust brings Stiles closer to the edge. “I’ve got you,” Derek says just before gripping Stiles’ cock and giving him one, two, three rough tugs before Stiles comes with a hoarse cry.

He shudders and aches with it; overwhelmed and undone. He can feel Derek thrusting hard a few more times before coming deep inside him, panting against Stiles’ leg for long minutes. When he finally pulls out, he gently lowers Stiles’ legs to the bed and rubs at the sore muscles of his thighs.

Stiles loses some time then, drifting. He’s vaguely aware of water running in the bathroom for a few minutes before Derek returns with a warm, damp cloth to tenderly clean Stiles up. He tugs the sheets down and manages to wrangle Stiles so he’s under them at least; curls up behind him and tugs him close.

“I love you,” Stiles manages, eventually. He can feel Derek’s lips curve up into a smile against his neck.

“Love you, too,” Derek rumbles against his skin. “Next time, let’s get a hotel room.”

Stiles can picture it - holidays back in Beacon Hills where they can wake up pressed together, skin to skin, maybe make out lazily without fear of someone barging in to ask if they’re ready for pancakes.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, belatedly. It doesn’t take much to intertwine his fingers with Derek’s and press it to his heart. In return, Derek rubs his stubble-covered cheek along Stiles’ shoulder, noses up behind his ear and finally seems to really settle. After all, they’re finally home again.