Derek isn’t angry. He’s beyond that, floating in some zen wasteland of cold, pure rage. “I told you to stay back.”
Stiles has the temerity to roll his eyes. “Yeah, because you were doing just peachy back there.”
He doesn’t pin Stiles into walls anymore, has re-learned humanity enough to grow beyond that. What he does instead is pin Stiles with a glare. It’s just as effective. “Remind me again which of us has healing powers?”
“Remind me again which of us would die from wolfsbane poisoning?” Stiles shoots back, the completely unimpressed set of his mouth belied by the brightness in his eyes, the speeding beat of his heart. “And which would just be like, oh, look at the pretty flowers?”
“A wolfsbane-poisoned arrow,” Derek grates out. “You wouldn’t exactly be smelling the roses.”
Stiles snorts, jerking his chin, and the scent of him rises strong and merciless. Blood and gunpowder, fear and recklessness and sweat. “It’s just a scratch.”
It really is. The arrow caught him just between the neck and the shoulder, leaving a long red line that snags Derek’s gaze. Derek comes close and swipes his tongue over it.
When he leans back again, Stiles looks at him, eyes huge and unblinking. Then he wets his lips with a single swipe of his pink tongue and says, “Do that again.”
His tone is a dare. Derek was never one to back down.
Derek knows that his fangs are out, his claws are unsheathed. He smiles at Stiles with a mouth full of muscle-rending teeth. Stiles just swallows, and Derek tracks the movement of his throat for a long minute until he’s confident Stiles is staying.
Then he catches the neck of Stiles’ t-shirt with a claw, pulls down, smirking at the sound of cloth tearing. Stiles makes stunned little noises, and the smell of arousal comes off him in tantalising waves. “I could hurt you,” Derek says, not sure if he’s warning or offering.
Stiles just shakes his head. Mute for once, but his body speaks volumes: hips hitching in unconscious movement, licking his lips over and over until Derek growls and leans closer. Captures Stiles’ mouth, his roving tongue, taking in Stiles’ taste and the bluntness of his teeth. Stiles is hard against him, moving like he can’t help himself. Derek’s hands find Stiles’ thighs, holding him in place and spreading slightly, his thumbs digging into sensitive inner thighs.
Stiles' shirt yields to gravity and Derek surrenders to instinct, turning them around and shoving Stiles face-down on the bed. Derek peels out of his own clothes lightning-quick. His claws make short work of Stiles’ jeans, his boxer shorts. Stiles kicks his own shoes off, one lone sock hanging on. Derek spreads him open, pushes against him, intentionally letting his dick rub all up against Stiles’ butt.
“I’m going to fuck you.” This time it’s not a warning, or a dare. It’s a statement of simple fact.
It’s still good to hear Stiles hiss, “Fuck yeah.” He squirms under Derek, reaching for his nightstand, tearing inside until he finds a bottle of lotion and throws it at Derek. “Here, use this, I like it.”
Derek licks at the dip of Stiles’ back just over his ass, gets harder thinking about Stiles fingering himself open. It's easy to retract his claws with Stiles like this, warm and willing. “Ever make yourself scream?” He rubs circles over Stiles’ tight little entrance. “I’ll make you scream for me.”
“Big talk,” Stiles pants. “I’ll believe that when I - ah!” Derek’s finger slides in, just a little, and Stiles pushes back on it.
“That’s a start.” Derek intends to sound smug but it comes out hoarse. He can’t tear his eyes away from Stiles’ hole clenching around his finger. Inside Stiles is smooth, hot enough to scald, tight enough to make Derek work for every small fraction of progress.
“Keep going.” Stiles sounds strangled. He gets up on his knees, yelping when it makes Derek’s finger move in him, keeps his head bowed against the pillow. He does something that makes it feel like he’s rippling inside, and all of a sudden Derek’s finger sinks in to the base.
Derek pushes out then in again, experimental, but the movement is easy now. Makes Stiles go, “Oh— oh,” when Derek crooks his finger, and for a moment Derek wants to finish him just like this, fuck him after when he’s sated and open and squirming at the overstimulation.
No. He pushes up on the bed, quickly slicking his cock, guiding it to Stiles’ entrance. “Going in,” he says, low and rough.
“Oh my God, just, yes already.” Stiles tries to move back on him, but Derek’s not letting him, keeping him pinned in place as he fucks inside.
Stiles makes an unbelievable noise as Derek sinks in - slow, because he can’t forget how human Stiles is, that beneath courage and intelligence there are fragile bones and easily-rent skin that won’t mend so quickly.
Derek wraps his clean hand around Stiles’ throat, pulling pain away from the scratch there, letting Stiles’ pulse and his breakability guide him. Stiles sobs under him, head pulled back and mouth open, hot breath on Derek’s cheek. Stiles’ back arches, his skin so soft everywhere Derek touches, maddening. Derek wants to bite, wants to make Stiles unbreakable and safe and his, but all he can do is fuck. Deep, slow, but without reprieve. He angles himself to make Stiles’ cries harsher.
“Can you come from this?” He nuzzles Stiles’ shoulders, the nape of his neck. “You better. I’m just going to keep fucking you until you—”
Too late. Stiles is already clenching around him, shaking and whimpering, the salt scent of his come filling the room. He goes limp. Derek keeps him up, holding him close as he thrusts in one, two, three more times before he’s gone. Filling Stiles up with him.
He doesn’t want to pull out, so he pulls Stiles closer, rolling them on their sides.
Stiles sleepily rubs his cheek against Derek’s arm. “You didn’t make me scream.” He sounds almost plaintive.
Derek kisses his temple. “Next time.”