The sweet metallic tang of blood in his nose and at the back of his throat is making Stiles gag.
If the smell and taste is this strong to him, dealing only with the suffocating clog of a bloody nose, he can’t imagine what it’s like for Derek, who has to filter in not only the blood that’s dripped all down the front of Stiles’s t-shirt from his face, but the stain from the claw marks on his shoulder as well.
“I must reek,” says Stiles unsteadily. He sits down hard on the edge of the bathtub, his legs wobbly. “I must smell so bad.”
Derek doesn’t say anything, following him into the bathroom and going straight for the bathroom mirror where Stiles keeps the first aid supplies. Stiles can’t tell if he’s angry or worried or hungry or what, but he’s honestly too tired and sore to really care if he’s going to get lectured on the relative virtues of staying in the car when they’re finished patching him back together into workable condition.
Stiles reaches for the tissues and unceremoniously blows a glob of coagulated blood out of one nostril and then the other.
“That is disgusting on all levels of sensory input,” says Derek mildly.
“I try,” says Stiles, dropping the tissue into the toilet after taking a moment to admire the blood splatter. “And now I can breathe, so the bonus of increased oxygen supply trumps the possibility of offending your delicate werewolf sensibilities. Can you help me get my shirt off?”
Derek sets down the kit on the counter, turning back towards Stiles. It’s unfair that his wounds have already closed up; there are four claw marks raked over the length of his chest, but the skin beneath the bloodied tears in his shirt is pink and whole again, whereas Stiles, well... the jagged tears in his shoulder are still bleeding sluggishly and his chest feels like one huge bruise, throbbing cheerfully to the beat of his pulse.
“Hold still,” says Derek. Because he was, quite literally, raised by wolves, Derek grabs Stiles’s shirt, pulls it away from his belly, jams a claw into it, and slices it open from hem to collar.
“You are lucky that shirt was already beyond ruined, my friend,” mutters Stiles, narrowing his eyes. “We would’ve been having words otherwise.”
“Then is this what us not having words is like?” Derek’s hands, when he slips them into Stiles’s sleeves to push the remains of his shirt off, are surprisingly gentle. “Because it’s not what I would classify as an absence of verbal communication.”
“Hilarious,” says Stiles, trying not to embarrass himself by pre-emptively pulling away when Derek shuffles closer with antiseptic in hand.
It’s a wash, really; he still flinches, but Derek generously pretends not to notice. Then Derek calmly douses the shallow gashes on his shoulder with hydrogen peroxide and Stiles manages to manfully smother a pained scream and release it internally on an endless warbling loop of agony. “You should really... consider stand up comedy as a career. You...you could go far,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “You’re pretty enough that people won’t even be listening to your terrible jokes.”
“The fact that you can keep talking through this kind of pain is indicative of some degree of masochism,” mutters Derek uncharitably, frowning as he carefully removes blood and dirt with sterile wipes.
“I hang around with you, don’t I?” Stiles asks. Derek face is close enough to touch, so Stiles gives into impulse and does, reaching up to thumb at a smudge of soot on his cheekbone.
Derek freezes under his touch. “Stiles,” he says raggedly, nostrils flaring on the crest of a deep breath. Stiles watches in fascination as his pupils dilate, eclipsing the pale green of his irises. He steps closer, right between Stiles’s thighs, his skin radiating heat like a blast furnace. Stiles automatically settles both hands on his hips.
Closing his eyes, Stiles waits for Derek to finish bandaging his shoulder, the pain dulling to a manageable burn.
For a moment, Derek’s hands linger, tracing the curve of his throat, the dip and hollow of his collarbone, and then he shifts to envelop Stiles with his body, wholly unfamiliar with the notion of maintaining personal space; Derek is happiest when he’s the focal point of Stiles’s senses, single-mindedly driving out all other distractions. Something brushes the top of his head, ruffling his hair, like Derek is—like he’s breathing in and out—
“Are you sniffing me?” demands Stiles, opening his eyes. He’s treated to the ever-welcome sight of Derek’s chest. Derek smells like copper and motor oil.
“No,” says Derek, his hand curling around the back of Stiles’s head, cupping his skull protectively as he drops down to his knees and draws Stiles’s face with him, tipping him right down into a biting kiss.
“Liar,” Stiles grunts, startled; Derek tastes like blood and ash and there’s a sharp tang of sweat on his upper lip. “I should shower,” he mumbles against Derek’s slick mouth. “I smell, I probably taste like ass—”
“No,” says Derek, emphatic. “You smell good. You smell alive. I want you like this, I want you wrung out and damaged and still alive, your heart pounding like a drumbeat against my fingers, rich with all that hot, sweet blood. I’m going to lay you out and mark you, rub my come into your skin until you smell like me, too, until you’re so desperate and needy that I could warm myself on the heat of your flushed skin.”
Stiles sucks in a shaky breath, his head swimming, and tangles his fingers in Derek’s matted hair, pressing closer, until Derek’s hips are snug between Stiles’s spread legs. Derek seals their mouths together, licking in like he’s tasting Stiles’s heart and lungs and soul.
For several charged, breathless seconds, there’s no space between them, the heat almost unbearable, Stiles drowning in hard flesh and harder muscle and the rich, heady scent of salt and exertion.
“We’re going to bed,” mutters Derek thickly, wrapping one arm around Stiles’s back and the other around his shoulders. “Legs around my waist.”
“I just washed the sheets!” protests Stiles, but he obeys, locks his ankles as Derek gets to his feet effortlessly, his spine tingling. “Jesus. You’re a caveman, Derek. This is what cavemen do.”
Derek doesn’t say anything as he carries him out of the bathroom, stopping at the foot of the bed and bending to lay Stiles out on his back. His eyes are blazing, fixed on Stiles like he wants to consume him as he climbs onto the bed and straddles Stiles’s hips.
“My,” whispers Stiles, trapped in the tidal pull of Derek’s gaze. “What big eyes you have?”
“Never say that again,” rasps Derek. “That’s banned. That goes on the list of things never to be repeated in any context.” His hands sweep up Stiles’s sides, fingers brushing soothingly over sensitive, purpled skin. The pad of his thumb catches on one nipple and Stiles hisses, hips bucking up instinctively. Then, because he’s an asshole, Derek does it again, chasing the stroke of his fingers with his teeth.
“Oh, god,” whimpers Stiles, his body bowing up to meet Derek’s. The weight of him is like a balm, hard, heavy pressure that pins Stiles down securely to the bed, cages him in and surrounds him. Derek’s thigh insinuates itself between Stiles’s legs and he gives in to the flood of arousal that suffuses his aching limbs and ruts shamelessly into him.
Derek buries his face in the crook of Stiles’s uninjured shoulder, nose pressed to the unbroken skin of his throat, snuffling hotly.
“You are definitely smelling me now,” says Stiles, arms coming up around Derek’s shoulders, scratching lightly into the bare skin. “You are obsessed with that, dude.”
“I want to fuck you,” growls Derek, sucking his earlobe between his lips and worrying at it with his teeth. The wet heat of Derek’s mouth sends a shiver down Stiles’s spine, pooling tightly in his belly, and his dick is suddenly extremely interested in this situation despite the weighty ache in his bones and muscles.
“You just want to add your own bruises,” accuses Stiles.
“I want to feel you.” Derek’s teeth dig bluntly into the meat of his shoulder, making Stiles squirm and pant. “I want you to feel me.”
And Stiles gets it, okay. He doesn’t need to be an emotion-tasting werewolf with no concept of individual privacy to feel how Derek is simmering in fiery licks of hurt and worry and fretful protectiveness. It’s in the spread of his hand over Stiles’s chest, palming his heartbeat, and the tickle of his nose as he scents Stiles’s pulse, tucked into the safe hollow of his throat. Derek is overloaded with the frantic buzz of his own senses, tuned into the only frequency that matters right now, which is Stiles.
Derek’s tongue glides up Stiles’s sternum. He doesn’t seem inclined to stop the agitated dance of his fingers.
“You get lost?” demands Stiles, shoving up with his hips, grinding into the V of Derek’s legs.
Derek grunts in surprise at the rough friction, a soft, choked sound that Stiles rears up to swallow. He thinks he might need to roll them over and get the ball rolling in terms of achieving full nudity, but Derek flattens him to the bed with a forearm across the chest before he can attempt to move them.
“You’re going to stay there,” Derek says evenly. “And you’re going to let me do this.”
Then he hits Stiles with that expression he thinks is intimidating and in actual fact just makes Stiles react like a petulant child, but then Derek slides right off the bed to kneel between Stiles’s dangling legs and Stiles has about ten seconds to formulate a response before his jeans gets stripped off his body.
He manages half a syllable, which Derek rudely interrupts by nosing at the damp curls of hair at the base of his dick, so Stiles gives up on defiance altogether.
What the hell is the point?
Clearly Derek is fully engaged in the admirable effort to short Stiles’s brain out with the judicious application of primal sex appeal and furious concentration and won’t be swayed any time soon.
“You’re supposed to use your mouth,” says Stiles urgently, swinging his legs up to hook them around Derek’s neck, burying a hand in his dark hair and giving it a sharp, pointed tug. “Not your nose.”
Derek huffs a near-soundless laugh, but Stiles knows it’s a laugh because he feels it, a puff of air hitting his erection and making him flush hot all the way down to his toes. He twitches, bucking forward hopefully, but Derek just untangles himself from the knobby web of Stiles’s legs and goes to drawer next to Stiles’s bed where he keeps his lube buried beneath a mismatched clusterfuck of socks.
Whining in helpless frustration, Stiles stays where Derek put him, sprawled halfway onto his bed. The limits of Derek’s patience reach much further than Stiles’s. He’s pretty sure Derek could nuzzle at him all damn day with a hard-on bobbing between his legs while Stiles simultaneously dies a slow death by blue balls.
When Derek comes back to him, he pauses to shuck off his clothes before climbing back onto the bed, where he performs a thorough exploration of the bruises littering Stiles’s torso, tracing the lines with his tongue until Stiles is trembling and the tip of his cock is flushed a shiny pink. Then he hooks an arm around Stiles waist and rearranges him further up the mattress, spreading his legs and settling between them.
“Hey,” croaks Stiles, looking at Derek through his lashes. He’s framed in twilight, a smooth, unbroken expanse of tanned skin and hard planes of muscle. His hair is mussed, eyebrows knitted attentively, and the line of his mouth is soft.
“Hey,” says Derek, curling a fist around Stiles’s thigh, thumb rubbing at the tender skin where his leg meets his torso. “I’m going to finger you open until you’re sobbing. Then I’m going to fuck you so slowly you’ll be begging me to let you come, to make you come, because you won’t be able to get there on your own.”
Stiles makes an involuntary noise, something deeply pathetic that’s caught between a whine and a gasp. His lungs are tight and he’s frozen here, laid out like a feast, while Derek gazes at him so calmly he could have just matter-of-factly read out a weather report.
And in the evening, a chance of scattered orgasms, with a high possibility of complete and utter debauchery...
“You do realise you just said that out loud, right?” says Derek, and for the first time all night, there’s a hint of a smile playing around his mouth.
“You would be a terrible weather man,” Stiles blusters, trying to cover his embarrassment. “People would probably weep and then throw their underwear at you as a sacrifice.” Derek’s hand has moved from thigh to perineum and he’s rubbing gently in tiny circular motions that make Stiles want to cry with how hard he is. He is ready for some dick, man. He is ready to have this entire mess of a night fucked right out of him.
Now, if only Derek would get with the program instead of sitting there devouring Stiles with his eyes.
“I know I saw you get the lube,” says Stiles, breath hitching in his lungs when Derek slips a finger just a little farther back, catching on his rim and rubbing there, dry and teasing. Stiles’s hips roll a little, totally without any permission at all from his brain, and Derek full-on chuckles before popping the cap on the lube and finally slicking up his fingers.
Derek is kind of a master at fingering. He’s a finger-fucking boss. He can make Stiles come on just his hand without even breaking a sweat. It’s ridiculously hot.
And only when Derek sinks two slick fingers into Stiles right up to the third knuckle, crooking them for the right angle and pressing against his prostate, does Stiles finally relax, letting out a deep sigh and drawing his legs up.
It’s a leisurely rhythm, designed to drive Stiles right to the edge and keep him there, squirming and begging and twisting his hips for leverage he won’t get; like he said, Derek is a patient motherfucker. Screw nuzzling, Derek would probably just finger Stiles open all day, given the opportunity. In fact, it kind of feels like he does, because eventually he’s on four fingers, the sound of his hand thrusting in and out of Stiles a repeated obscene squelch of lube as Stiles shudders and tosses his head and exposes the line of his neck for Derek to suck hickeys all over.
Stiles is close, sweat-soaked and shuddering, having come to terms a while ago with the sounds he makes when this kind of thing is happening. This is just another thing that he does, now, loses all knowledge of how to arrange syllables into intelligible words and reduced to long, drawn out vowels and the occasional hard scrape of a consonant.
“I am going to die,” he groans, the effort of assembling a sentence almost too much to bear. Life is hard. “I am g-going to—oh, mmmguh, p-please, Derek—”
Derek just smiles into his skin, his mouth currently attached by some impressive suction to Stiles’s clavicle, and then he speeds up the jackhammer press of his fingers until Stiles is keening wordlessly, arching up into nothing while his dick pulses and he comes so hard it’s a long time before the world returns to Technicolor.
When it does, Derek is on top of him, a heavy, comforting weight, slotted into that perfect space between Stiles’s legs like the missing piece of a puzzle. He’s waiting for Stiles to come back to him, hands cupping his face, thumbs brushing his lips, cheeks, the curve of his brow.
He’s also murmuring to him, but Stiles can’t even with ability to translate sounds into words right now.
Instead, Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s hips, nudging the head of Derek’s cock snug against the sloppy-slick stretch of his hole.
Derek makes a soft, needy noise and buries his face in Stiles’s shoulder, fucking into him with short little stabs of his hips, like he can’t fully control the desire to nail Stiles right into the mattress. Stiles digs his fingernails into the ridges of Derek’s spine, whispering, “That’s it, that’s right, do it, fuck me, I want to feel you inside me, I want to know that this is mine, that I can have this, I want—I want—”
“Stiles,” chokes Derek, his voice muffled. “You can have it.”
They’re both filthy to the point of genuinely revolting and Stiles is going to have to burn these sheets when they’re through, but each hard roll of Derek’s hips jars Stiles right down to the core, his bruises pulsing with the jackrabbit stagger of his heartbeat, and it’s perfect.
When Derek comes inside him with a low, wounded moan, tension releasing from the broad slope of his back, Stiles sighs in his arms.
He is going to be so fucking sore in the morning.