Derek followed Stiles into the kitchen silently, so Stiles’ surprised startle when he turned and caught sight of the other man was expected. Unfortunately, so was the forced casual “Hey, dude. What's up?” And the teasing grin around “I forget to get your drink order, man?”
Derek growls, and it makes Stiles shift uncomfortably, confusion twisting his features, eyebrows arching almost comically when Derek spits out an angry “Stop doing that,” between clenched teeth.
“Doing what, man? Being a good host?” Stiles smirks, his scent sour with anxiety.
“Talking to me like we're bros. We aren't friends , Stiles,” his voice is hard and tinged with hurt, Stiles is definitely not afraid of Derek, but this anger being directed at him is new, like the very beginning of their admittedly fucked up relationship, and it makes him tense and nervous.
He forces a laugh, “Well, that's a little harsh, big guy, after everything we've been through…” his voice trails off without his consent as Derek's posture changes, he's all hard lines and fight stance, and then he's stalking forward, forcing Stiles to take a retreating step backwards, Derek's all predatory grace and a hard set jaw. Stiles shivers, realizes he's prey.
“You know damn well that's not what I meant, Stiles. Stop being purposefully obtuse,” he's practically shouting, and Stiles shushes him. Derek growls, and it makes Stiles’ dick twitch, he hopes he schools his features enough that they don't give him away, though he knows Derek can smell it. He realizes distantly that Derek is still stalking forward, and that he's still retreating.
Stiles’ ass hits the counter just as Derek grumbles a sarcastic “Want me to keep my voice down? What's wrong, baby, afraid someone might hear us? Huh,” he's sneering at Stiles, an angry smile that's all teeth. He's right in Stiles’ ear, his hard muscled chest a long line of heat pressed into Stiles’ own, when he continues, voice less than kindly teasing, “You don't seem to mind when I'm loud when you're fucking me into the mattress.”
Derek licks the shell of Stiles’ ear before pulling back to run his nose down the side of his throat. He speaks louder this time, still close enough for it to be considered intimate, his voice is still cruelly distant, but roughened by an edge of desire. “You don't worry about who can hear when you're begging me to let you come; when I'm opening you up with my tongue,” he's palming Stiles’ hip now, and Stiles can feel himself responding, even as he wants to shy away from the harsh tone Derek’s using. “You don’t seem concerned with volume control when you’re screaming around my cock, Stiles. Maybe you just don’t want your friends ,” he says the word like it tastes spoiled and sharp, it makes Stiles wince, “to know how much you like it when I call you baby, how I keen for you. How you whine so pretty when I’m inside you,” his breath is whispering over the sensitive skin of Stiles’ neck, raising the fine hairs there and making Stiles tingle , “Is that the problem, hmm?”
He traces a soft line with his thumb and just a hint of blunt human nail along the strip of skin just above Stiles’ jeans, and Stiles feels his eyelashes flutter as all his attention focuses on those bare inches. A thousand miles away, Stiles dimly registers the soft slam of a door and several sets of footsteps; he doesn’t hear the chorus of “About time,” and “Can’t we stay and watch,” and “Pay up, bitches,” but Derek does, he hides his satisfied smile in a soft nip at Stiles’ earlobe.
“D-Derek? I-” Stiles tries to stutter out a question, desperately tries to get Derek to meet his gaze for more than a fleeting moment; he can’t help but feel like he missed something important, there’s so much more than anger in Derek’s voice and demeanor, something else laced heavily through the man’s actions, but he can’t figure it out. Before he can do more than open his mouth to continue, Derek takes a single claw tipped finger and drags it down the front of Stiles’ shirt, splitting it cleanly in two and revealing his lightly muscled chest, his nipples pebble at the cool air rushing over him; after the heat of Derek’s body pressing against him, it’s a shock. He gasps and Derek makes a pleased sound.
“Do you let all your friends do this,” he asks, indicating the swollen, reddened skin on Stiles’ chest, the trail of purple-red bruises along his collarbones. “You let Danny suck on your nipples until you’re babbling nonsense at him, hmm?” Derek traces around one nipple with featherlight touches, drawing soft pants from Stiles’ lips; without warning, he pinches it, hard, and Stiles whines in the back of his throat, his hips stuttering into Derek’s. As their erections brush against one another, Stiles throws his head back and Derek huffs an unhappy laugh into Stiles’ neck.
“And these,” Derek licks at a particularly dark hickey on Stiles’ shoulder, rolls his hips achingly slowly, dragging his hard, jeans clad length along Stiles’, “Do you let Scott bite and suck and worry your flesh between his lips while you jack your dicks together, Stiles?” He sucks at the bruise wetly, adding a sharp bite to make his point, the slow thrust of his dick against Stiles’ not changing, the maddening pace delicious and torturous. “Does Lydia know that if she leaves a little trail of bruises here,” he swipes a spit slick finger down his sternum, connecting a line of freckles and hickies in an obscene constellation and making Stiles shiver and moan loudly, “That it’ll make you leak and whine so beautifully for days after?”
Derek is practically fucking him against the counter now, hips and thighs moving in agonizingly careful counterpoint, one of his big, warm palms still anchored to Stiles’ hip, strong fingers wrapped around to just brush against the swell of his ass, hot and comforting even through the denim, even through the fog of whatever has Derek so angry, he handles Stiles with perfect care. Stiles has one hand braced against the countertop, the cool surface helping to calm his shattering nerves, the other is desperately holding onto Derek wherever he can find purchase; his shoulder, his neck, tangled in his shirt or in the thick silky strands of his hair.
Derek drags his nose, his stubbled cheek, along the long column of Stiles’ throat, rubbing against a mark there that days later still perfectly mimics the shape of Derek’s teeth. “And this? Does my cousin get the pleasure of setting her teeth against your pulse point? Does she get to feel the rush of your heart against her tongue, the warmth of your blood singing through your veins as you beg for her cock? As you come hot and thick between the two of you? Do all your friends know how fucking beautiful you are when you let go, Stiles?”
Stiles makes a desperate sound, and Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’ hip, tugs on his hair with his other hand, drags his lips over the imprint of his mouth, a low rumble in his chest vibrating pleasantly through Stiles where they're connected. “Or maybe,” Derek whispers conspiratorially, “Maybe we're more than friends , and you fucking know it,” he finishes on a growl, voice angry and sharp as he steps away from Stiles with a shove. And it's the way his voice breaks on the word “friends” that lets Stiles finally identify the other emotion that's been controlling Derek's actions, coloring his words; it's hurt. Derek is hurting , and Stiles doesn't understand why.
Stiles blinks at Derek, standing a few feet away now and practically rebuilding a wall between them as he watches the tension and the pain wash over the man he's not so secretly in love with, the man he's been falling into bed with in a rather stupid friends with benefits arrangement over the last few months, the man who maybe, possibly, wants more? Stiles wonders how he could have missed those signs, and is immediately certain he would have written them off as wishful thinking. He sees Derek bracing himself to turn, to walk away, and a monumentally ridiculous and panicked “I didn't know!” bursts from his mouth before he can think better of it.
It's Derek's turn to blink at him, now. Disbelief obvious on his face, he repeats “You didn't know,” and even if it's not a question, Stiles feels compelled to answer, because Derek deserves an explanation, and also because it's been a very long time since he's spoken, and it's difficult to hold his silence.
Stiles takes a cautious step toward Derek, hands up and splayed in a placating gesture. “I didn't know that we could be more than friends, Der. I didn't know it was on the table, ok. I thought I'd lose what we have if I even thought about us as more,” he takes another small step forward, another, until he's close enough to reach for Derek, to cup his cheek in one wide, warm, slightly unsteady palm. “No matter how much I wanted more, Derek, I didn't know it was an option. So, I need you to be pretty explicit here, babe. If more is what you want, I'm on board,” he pulls Derek close with a hand on his hip, winding his arm behind the man's back and feeling a knot of anxiety unfurl as Derek uncrosses his arms and seeks Stiles’ hand on his face with one of his own, the other settling on Stiles’ chest. “I'm with you as whatever you want us to be, but I need to hear it so I know I'm not making it up, ok?”
His attempt at humor falls flat, but Derek moves a tiny fraction closer, his fingers scrabbling absently at Stiles’ shoulder. He ducks his head, still avoiding eye contact, and speaks on an exhale, voice small, “I thought you- I thought you were-” he takes a long, shuddery breath, and leans his forehead against Stiles’. As he collects himself, the pieces start to fall into place, the things Derek's said, the way he's said them… Oh.
“Oh, Der,” Stiles whispers, wrapping himself securely around the idiot wolf in his arms. He makes sure his voice is gentle when he continues, “You thought I was hiding us, that I was-”
“Ashamed,” Derek finishes for him, and his voice cracks painfully on the word, Stiles heart clenches painfully at the resignation in Derek's voice. Stiles gently nudges Derek's chin, encouraging him to look up, when he does, impossibly beautiful eyes meeting Stiles’ own, he releases a breath he was only half aware he was holding.
“Hey, there you are,” Stiles smiles, a small, private thing that Derek accepts greedily as the comfort it’s meant as. Stiles takes a breath, taking in the smell of Derek, of aborted arousal, of salty, barely shed tears, he holds Derek close, one large palm cradling his artfully stubbled cheek, the hair surprisingly soft, he takes a moment to revel in the feel of warm skin through cotton and the muscled expanse of Derek’s back beneath his splayed fingers. “You need to know that I could never be anything but proud to be with you, Derek, I just- I didn’t know that we were anything more than what we’ve been these last few years. I thought that we were just good friends who occasionally had really incredible sex,” Derek makes a sound that’s a combination of satisfied and incredulous. Stiles kisses him, a quick, chaste thing that ends up a slow, dragging meeting of lips, matching shy smiles following them out of the kiss.
“Derek, if I had known I could claim you as mine, I would have,” Stiles uses the word claim purposely, a pleased flush humming through him as it hits its target with the intended force, Derek’s pupils dilating and nostrils flaring, his fingers tightening against Stiles, fists pulling his shirt; the ruined material slides further off his shoulders, and Derek licks his lips, eyes darting to the once more revealed markings on Stiles’ bared torso.
Stiles lets his leg slide between Derek’s, just a little. Just enough that he can wriggle his hips in the tiniest of circles and push their groins together almost imperceptibly. Derek groans, low in his throat, and it’s almost a growl. “Derek,” Stiles says, voice breathy and suggestive around the word, “Der, tell me you want this, and I’ll take out an ad in the fucking paper. I’ll call everyone we know right now, but you’ve gotta talk to me,” Stiles knows it’s not fair, to tease the growing bulge in Derek’s pants, to speak low into the space between them, to stroke the bare skin of Derek’s hip where his shirt is rucked up, to smell like want like he knows he does. But, he figures any advantage he can press is a good idea, as resistant as Derek is to the idea of communication .
So he presses. Presses his thigh into the v of Derek’s thighs, presses his thumb into the shelf of Derek’s hipbone, presses a kiss into the corner of Derek’s mouth, follows his kiss with a swipe of his tongue. Derek whimpers, and Stiles’ dick twitches.
“Just- Just, please,” Derek pants lightly, leaning into Stiles, pressing back, “Please stop acting like we’re just-” Derek ruts against him, hard, “Fucking,” another filthy roll of hips, a shared gasp, hands grasping at bare skin, “ Friends, ” a deep, rumbling moan. A crash of lips, tongues licking and twining, teeth catching; a startled laugh swallowed down eagerly.
They separate, catching their breath in labored pants, foreheads resting together. Stiles laughs, the sound broken by necessary gulps of air, “Baby, I think we are the definition of fucking friends , but if you want to be my boyfriend, I can live with that.”
Derek groans at the awful pun, but he’s smiling fondly at Stiles when he says, “You’re lucky I love you, because you’re not very funny,” he deadpans, and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat.
“Yeah, yeah I’m lucky,” he says. “Buddy.”
“I take it back,” Derek grumbles into Stiles’ neck.
Stiles takes a step back, trailing his hands down Derek’s arms until he can join their hands. “C’mon, boyfriend, let’s go upstairs,” he aims for seductive, but his voice comes out soft and affectionate, but it makes Derek’s whole face light up, so he figures it came out just right.
They make their way up to Stiles’ bedroom, it takes considerably longer than it should, both stopping to push the other against the wall, exchanging deep, searching kisses. Derek strokes up Stiles’ chest, skims his torn shirt off his shoulders to puddle on the staircase, his fingertips bump reverently along the curve of Stiles’ spine, his lips dragging wetly along the column of Stiles’ throat as the other man moans and threads his fingers in Derek’s hair.
Stiles pulls Derek to him for a kiss, he opens his mouth on a gasp, and Derek licks into him. Stiles takes control of the kiss with a swirl of his tongue around Derek’s, sucking the slick muscle into his mouth, hands tangled in Derek’s hair, hips rolling and rutting together.
When they finally stumble into Stiles’ bedroom, their pants are halfway open and they each have a hand in the others underwear, Stiles’ teasing the base of Derek’s cock with his fingers, palm flat against Derek’s groin, Derek’s hand kneading Stiles’ ass, the edge of his thumb pushing into the cleft just above his hole. They’re both achingly hard, moving eagerly against each other, swallowing each other’s increasingly urgent moans.
Stiles breaks away from the kiss with a broken noise, holding Derek’s face in his hands and nipping at his lower lip, he smiles, thumb catching on Derek’s lip and pulling it down. He kisses a trail down Derek’s chest, stopping to worship each nipple with a firm suck, a brief bite followed by a soothing swipe of his tongue. He places light kisses and nips along Derek’s hips as he pulls his jeans and boxer briefs down, fingers tracing an uneven line down Derek's strongly muscled, hair dusted legs. Stiles groans into the crease of his groin when Derek rests his hand on top of his head, pulls Stiles’ hair lightly. Stiles licks a long, slow stripe up Derek’s shaft with the flat of his tongue, twirls it around the flared head of Derek’s tip, gathers the salty slick precome gathered there before sinking down slowly, until his nose is buried in the crinkly hair at the base of Derek’s dick, eyes locked on Derek’s the whole time.
Derek makes a small, surprised sound, lets his head fall back as his eyes drift shut, focuses on the pleasure that Stiles is giving, on the hot wet suction, the caress of Stiles’ soft palate on his sensitive flesh, the squeeze of Stiles’ throat. He feels Stiles’ head bobbing, feels the rumble of Stiles’ moan vibrate along his erection, feels his long, sure fingers kneading his balls, skimming along his perineum, one soft fingertip pressing at his hole. His hips are stuttering, fucking his cock into Stiles’ throat in short thrusts as the other man moans and drools around him. Stiles pulls off with an exaggerated pop , and grins up at Derek, his balls still cradled in one warm palm.
Derek reaches for him, pulls Stiles to his feet and dives into a kiss, seeking a trace of his own flavor on Stiles’ tongue, the way their tastes mingle is intoxicating. He thinks he might never get enough.
Stepping out of his pants, he walks backwards toward the bed, guiding Stiles with him, lips still eagerly pressing and pulling and sucking at Stiles’ mouth, fingers digging into Stiles back, into the firm swell of his ass. Derek pulls Stiles to him with both hands firmly gripping his butt, forcing his hands to pool at his feet; he kneads and squeezes Stiles’ ass, using his grip to pull the other man against him, their leaking lengths dragging and grinding against one another.
Derek hoists Stiles up, encouraging the man to wrap his legs around his waist, and Stiles whimpers at the display of strength. Derek bites along Stiles’ jaw, his chin, he finds the place where Stiles’ neck still wears his mark and laves at it reverently, tongue hot and slow as it traces the imprint of his own teeth. He sucks a deep, red bruise around the bite.
Between them, they're both dripping, small pools of precome gathering and dotting Derek's stomach, catching in his chest hair. Stiles unwinds one arm from around Derek's shoulders to scratch and pull at the dark, springy hairs that cover Derek's chest, they both groan at the sensation. After a moment, Stiles wraps a hand around them both, pressing their shafts together and dragging his hand slowly up and down, he pauses to lick his hand, watching Derek watch him with lust blown pupils. Once he's satisfied with the slickness of his palm, he returns it too it's previous position, adding to the existing slick pleasantly. Derek teases Stiles’ hole with one blunt finger, and remains his mouth in a bruising kiss, licking into Stiles’ mouth like he's seeking answers.
Just as they both begin to thrust into the hot clench of Stiles’ hand, Derek breaks away from the kiss, stills Stiles’ hand with his own and moves it back to test behind his neck. Derek returns his lips to Stiles’, a gentle, slow exploration, he slides one hand from where he's holding the other man aloft to settle it between his shoulder blades, uses the embrace to pull Stiles closer and then to lower him, soft as can be, onto the bed.
Derek blankets Stiles with his weight, presses his body into Stiles’ smaller one, takes a moment to appreciate the contrast of Stiles’ paler skin and general lack of body hair (except for one delicious and enticing trail from his navel) against his own hirsute, olive toned flesh. Stiles is all lean strength and smooth lines, marred after all the years of fighting by the occasional scar, but no less beautiful. He kisses Stiles with deliberate gentleness, more soft brushes of lips and slow, deep sweeps of tongue than anything, a long, dragging scrape of teeth as Derek captures Stiles’ bottom lip. They kiss like that until they're both trembling, holding each other close with just their fingertips, bodies rocking against one another with achingly careful movements.
When they break the kiss, they stare at each other, breathing heavily into the small space between their bodies, for an indefinitely long moment, the intimacy shocking in its completeness, and Stiles cups Derek's face with a shaking hand, an action Derek mirrors with equal care.
“So much more,” Stiles says quietly and full of wonder, it's barely a whisper but Derek hears it like a proclamation. He hears all the endings to that sentence, all the things he's ached to hear and to say. He hears so much more than friends, so much more than I ever dared to hope for, so much more I want to do, so much more time to be together, so much more love I want to give you , and Stiles means every single one.
Without discussion, they move further up the bed, Stiles sliding slowly up, Derek crawling after him, his body caging Stiles’. Their skin is not quiet touching, but the heat between them is like a ghostly caress, a tingling sensation, a buzz and thrum in their veins. They've always had this awareness of one another, but it's never felt so alive between them, like electricity and magic at once.
When they reach the headboard, Derek settles between Stiles’ splayed legs and they kiss, this time a simple press of lips that lingers sweetly. Stiles presses a small bottle into Derek's hand, and it takes him a moment to realize what it is, and before he can start to wonder how he missed Stiles procuring the lube, Stiles is raking his fingertips up Derek's sides and whimpering “Please,” as he rolls his hips into Derek's.
Derek has never been able to deny Stiles, and he doesn't want to start now. He takes a generous amount of lube and warms it with his fingers before he draws a tight circle around Stiles’ hole, pushing steadily but not hurriedly at the tight furl of flesh and muscle. Derek wants to use his tongue, wants to taste Stiles and feel him clench around it, but he wants to go slow, to watch the pressure wash over Stiles’ face, so as he presses two thick fingers into Stiles, he doesn't look away from his cinnamon and whiskey gaze, and Stiles expression does not disappoint. His jaw goes slack and his pupils dilate, leaving just a narrow ring of their beloved color; his eyelashes flutter and his forehead creases. Derek is enamored with the way Stiles looks in moments of passion, open and radiant and honest.
Stiles moans as Derek pushes both fingers into him with one long, slow glide, curling to brush his prostate before retreating and pushing forward once again, slowly and expertly fucking into him and opening him up. By the time Derek has three fingers moving in and out of him, Stiles is babbling and clutching Derek's shoulder, tangling his hand on Derek's hair, and they're both moaning and cursing and saying each other's names like sacred mantras.
When Derek pulls his fingers back, they both make a sound of protest, but it's quickly replaced with a satisfied sigh as he pushes into Stiles in one slow, even thrust. The clenching heat is overwhelming, and Derek has to close his eyes, has to block out the look of rapture on Stiles’ face to keep from coming before he can even move. After regaining his composure somewhat, he looks back at Stiles, finds him with his head thrown back, neck bared and flushed and beautiful . The weight of Derek's gaze brings Stiles’ to meet it, and they smile at each other as they begin to move in perfect counterpoint, Stiles’ hips rising to meet every downward thrust of Derek's. Their rhythm steady but deliberate, careful even as they drive each other closer and closer to orgasm, even as they kiss like starving men and hold each other impossibly close.
They thread their fingers together, rest their joined hands above Stiles’ head as Derek's other hand grips Stiles’ thigh, pushing it higher on his own hip so the heel of Stiles’ foot rests at the small of Derek's back. They look at one another even as their movements become erratic and their hips stutter, as their kiss becomes an uncoordinated press and drag of lips and tongue. Even as Stiles tightens impossibly around Derek's cock as he comes between them, untouched dick spasming and shooting hotstickywhite all over his own stomach and chest and Derek's chest hair, the milky fluid almost obscene against the dark curls.
They look at each other fondly even as Derek is overcome by the squeezing heat of Stiles’ orgasm and tumbles into his own, filling Stiles with his own hot rush of come. They look at each other and stroke passion heated skin with come-clumsy fingers and matching awed expressions, even as Derek licks at a small puddle of Stiles’ come that landed on Stiles’ nipple.
They hold each other for a long time, as their bodies cool, Stiles will lift his head briefly from Derek's chest to pull the blanket up from the foot of the bed. As they drift off to sleep, Derek will kiss the top of Stiles’ head. When he is almost asleep, Stiles will whisper “I love you,” and kiss Derek's neck. Derek will run a thumb along where he knows his bite marks Stiles’ neck and whisper back a deadpan “Me, too. Pal,” and they will both laugh after Stiles ineffectually slaps his shoulder and makes an offended squawk.
They both sleep better than either has in years, plans for a mutually desired future playing behind their closed eyelids.