Derek keeps his hand at the small of Stiles's back all the way across the lobby for appearances' sake. The second the elevator doors close, however, Stiles moves out of his reach, and Derek doesn't try to stop him. He feels sick, unmoored; everything feels nauseatingly hyper-real, from the lingering warmth of Stiles's mouth against his to the sharp, unpleasant note that his scent has developed. Derek finds himself desperately trying to wake up, hoping that this has only been a nightmare, that if he just tries hard enough he'll open his eyes and find Stiles still curled warm and trusting against him, early-morning sun filtering through the curtains.
That's never going to happen again, though. There's not an ounce of ambiguity in the set of Stiles's shoulders or the tight line of his jaw, and Derek honestly doesn't know if Stiles can possibly be any more furious or disgusted with him than he is with himself. They had one groundrule for physical contact, one, and Derek's just trampled straight past it when Stiles was in no position to stop him.
Stiles tries three times to get the door unlocked before fisting his hands in his hair in frustration; Derek moves forward cautiously and Stiles lets him, backing away to let Derek carefully slide the keycard in until the light flashes green and the handle gives way. A sort of terrible calm has settled over him, the kind of empty detachment he thought he'd left behind years ago; he watches quietly as Stiles storms into the room and tosses his jacket towards the table with Derek's book still sitting on its surface, watches him pace and shove his hands through his hair again until its stylish disorder is wrecked all to hell. Finally Stiles turns to him, face flushed, and lifts his arms only to drop them in a helpless gesture.
“You wanna tell me what the actual hell, man?”
“I'm sorry.” He's aware, distantly, that there's still shame and panic clawing at his gut, but his voice is steady even as his jaw tightens. “I shouldn't have done that.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says on a disbelieving little laugh, “no shit.”
Despite everything, despite knowing its truth perfectly well, it's still a surprise just how much the confirmation hurts. It's easy to fall back into bad habits, to let his arms cross and his face crease into a glower before he takes a deep breath and swallows down the urge to be combative, defensive. He has no right to act like the injured party here, not when all Stiles has done is tell him the truth.
“We can leave in the morning.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Hell, we can leave right now, be back in Beacon Hills by morning.”
“Are you out of your freaking mind?” Stiles half-yells. “We're not leaving, not when we're on the verge of actually securing some allies here. Which, in case you've forgotten, is the whole reason we came to this thing in the first place. For 'the good of the pack' and all that bullshit, right?”
“Since when is any of that bullshit?” Derek demands.
“I don't know, maybe since you decided that your fucking embarrassment is more important than any of the connections we've been making all weekend! Look, you fucked up, and that . . . it sucks, okay, believe me I get it. But you can't go crawling off with your tail between your legs just because—”
“Well, so much for that truce, I guess.”
“What are you even—shit. Sorry, I didn't mean . . .” Stiles sighs, deflating. “You're kind of an asshole,” he says flatly, before giving a smooth, rolling shrug of his shoulders. “But I don't really have a lot of room to talk there, and you know, 'mutual jackasses' has always sort of worked for us, so. I know you wish you hadn't . . . done what you did, so let's just agree to put it behind us and try to, like, just move on. Like the adults we supposedly are. There's still that breakfast tomorrow, and it's gonna look shifty as hell if we take off now.”
Derek nods, crossing his arms again without caring how it looks this time. “You're right. I'll just.” He nods towards the table. “I can sleep in the chair.”
“What?” The incredulous look is back on Stile's face. “Come on, seriously? You don't think that's taking things a little bit far?”
“I know I'm an asshole,” Derek glares, “but I'm not going to insist on you sharing a bed with me after that.”
“Oh my god, is it possible for that martyr's cross to be jammed any farther up your ass?”
“Everything about this trip was a terrible idea.” It's Derek's turn to pace now, though he hardly makes it more than three steps before Stiles rolls his entire head and reaches out to snag his arm.
“I'm not some delicate freaking flower, okay?” he says, pulling Derek around to face him again, his eyes bright and intensely determined, and for a moment Derek hates everything in the entire world. “I'm not going to freak out on you—any more than I have already, I mean, though I think that's understandable given the extenuating circumstances. Anyway, the point is, I can handle sleeping next to your majestic and terrible beauty without having some sort of existential crisis about it.” He looks down at his hand, still gripping Derek's arm, and abruptly lets go to cross his arms defensively. “I've been fine about it so far, haven't I?”
Derek flushes, remembering again the feeling of Stiles pressed against him from hip to shoulder. “That was before I—” He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. He can be mature about this; has to be mature about it. He owes Stiles that much. “I don't want you to be uncomfortable.”
“Dude.” Stiles's smile is a little brittle around the edges, but he swings an arm out to clap Derek on the shoulder. “I'm like, the long-reigning world champion at dealing with rejection. I'm good.”
“Rejection.” It feels like the world has just tilted slightly to the left, and although Derek's heart is trying to pound its way straight through his rib cage, things are falling unexpectedly into place. “Stiles, what exactly are you pissed about?”
“Why—you're kidding, right?” He's getting angry again, warning clear in his eyes as he stares Derek down. “You kissed me.”
“At the risk of sounding juvenile, you kissed me first.”
“Not like that!” Stiles bursts out, flinging his arms in the air and nearly catching Derek in the chest. “And don't even try to tell me that you aren't fully aware that you crossed a line, because you came up here looking like you'd just accidentally run over your puppy, okay? Just—don't.”
“So you're not angry that I kissed you.” Derek edges closer, eyes darting down to the pulse hammering in Stiles's throat. “You're angry that I kissed you like I meant it.”
“You are not going to pretend you don't—I've made it humiliatingly clear that I was interested, and you shut me down every single time.”
“You made it clear that you were interested in sex,” Derek says sharply, watching Stiles with careful attention. “I wasn't willing to settle for that, not with . . . I'm still not.”
“Derek.” Stiles sounds wrecked with just that one word, his eyes gone huge and uncertain. “Don't fuck with me here, I swear to god I—”
“What if I did mean it? What if I . . .” Derek takes a fortifying breath. “What if I did?”
“You are such an idiot,” Stiles says, wide-eyed and breathless, and then his hands are cupping Derek's jaw as he kisses him, lips on his between one breath and the next. It's warm and relieved, the soft curve of a smile briefly breaking the contact before he crowds into Derek's space, nearly rocking him back and briefly off-balance before he steadies himself. His own hands come up, tentative in a way that Stiles's touch most certainly isn't, as they slide over Stiles's sides to rest lightly against his lower back.
“I'm an idiot?” he says, breathing the words against Stiles's mouth, unwilling to pull away.
“Yeah.” Stiles presses another kiss to his lips, softer this time as his hands slide around to the back of Derek's neck, fingers toying with the short strands of hair at his nape. “But I am, too, so really, we're pretty well-matched.”
Derek tries to laugh, but it comes out as little more than a puff of air before he's pulling Stiles in again, his hands fisting in the back of his vest. The sense of being caught in a dream hasn't faded, but now he doesn't want to wake, and he's holding onto Stiles like an anchor; like his anchor, as he has been since long before Derek could even admit it to himself. He wants to lose himself in Stiles, in the feel of long-fingered hands clutching at the back of his neck and deep, eager kisses, to drown in the taste of his tongue and the hammering of his heartbeat.
“So, okay, I don't want to seem like I'm pushing you or anything,” Stiles eventually pants out, his voice breaking on a moan when Derek angles his head to mouth along the line of Stiles's jaw. “I know you maybe haven't had as much time to process this as I have, and I don't—Derek, would you just . . . oh. Oh, fuck, you're really good at that,” he breathes, tugging Derek's head closer and canting his head to one side in blatant fucking invitation.
“I want you.” Derek lets his mouth angle down, just barely skimming over the top of Stiles's neck. “I'm trying to think of anything you could suggest that I wouldn't say yes to.”
“Yeah?” Stiles runs blunt nails over Derek's scalp until his hips jerk forward helplessly at the sensation, grinding against Stiles's and making them both groan. “How's that working out for you?”
“Coming up a little short.”
“Thank god, because that whole 'not having an existential crisis over how hot you are' thing? Total smokescreen.”
“Stiles.” He has to pause, struggling to breathe, to keep himself under control when all he wants is to take everything Stiles has, to give everything he is back in return. “I'm not going to be able to be casual about this.”
“Dude, I agreed to spend the entire weekend snuggled up in simulated wolfy marital bliss.” Stiles leans in, rubbing his nose against Derek's temple. “I think it's fair to say I'm not really looking for casual.”
Derek's fingers dig hard into the small of Stiles's back. “Do you even know what you're doing right now?” he asks, hating how wrecked he sounds from nothing more than a couple of kisses, and absolutely helpless to do anything about it.
“My best friend's a werewolf. Hell, let's be real, about ninety percent of the people I know are werewolves.” He nudges his nose against Derek's temple again, and the soft drag of it against his skin nearly takes his legs out from under him. “Yeah. I know what I'm doing.”
It's more than he can take, and Derek finally gives in, burying his face in Stiles's neck and pulling in great, greedy lungfuls of his scent. Stiles laughs, stumbling back a little in surprise; it's Derek's turn to follow this time, nosing along the line of his throat as he lets his lips, parted and wet, drag across the faintly stubbled skin there. There are hands carding through his hair, soft and encouraging, and Stiles's head drops back even farther. Derek lets out a helpless groan, closing his teeth lightly, carefully, over the cords of muscle above his collar.
“Do you have any idea how much easier my life would be if you didn't smell so fucking good?”
“I don't know, like . . . thirty-five, forty percent easier?” His hands slide down, dipping beneath Derek's jacket to start pushing it off of his shoulders. “Am I in the ballpark?”
“You're actually horrible.” Derek reaches up to slide his fingers into the knot of Stiles's tie, tugging it loose enough to nudge his collar aside and feel the hammer of his pulse against his tongue. “I don't even know why I—” He moves his mouth up to Stiles's ear as he swallows back whatever he was about to say. “What do you want? Just tell me.”
“Fuck, dude, that is an extremely long list.”
“So start at the top,” Derek says, taking Stiles's earlobe gently between his teeth, “and work your way do—”
“I want you to fuck me.” It makes them both freeze, Stiles's hands fisted in his collar and his breath a series of unsteady gasps against his ear. “Wow. That was . . . well, that was a little bit blunter, maybe, than I'd planned.”
“I wasn't exactly expecting this.” He almost can't get the words out; he's already so hard it aches, and the thought alone is almost enough to snap his control completely. “I don't have anything.”
“I do.” Derek slides his hand into Stiles's hair, tugging him back until he can see his face. His face is flushed, his lips red and swollen, but there's no hint of insincerity in his eyes. “I keep some supplies in my toiletry bag,” Stiles says defensively. “Just in case.”
“Yes, supplies! Okay? If it makes you feel any better I also packed a flashlight, a bowie knife, a package of wolfsbane bullets, and a bag of mountain ash. What?” he demands when Derek simply stares at him. “I like to be prepared, is that a crime?” He sighs, stroking a hand down the side of Derek's neck. “Look, if that was just an excuse, it's fine. We don't have to do that, obviously; it's just that the last couple of people I've been with, you know, it wasn't really their thing, so I just—”
“Shut up,” Derek finally manages to say, wrapping the end of Stiles's tie around his hand. “God, just shut up and take your clothes off.”
He hauls him in, licking and biting at his lips until Stiles opens for him on an eager moan. Derek finally lets himself sink, abandoning everything but the warmth of Stiles's mouth and the clever twisting of his tongue, his hands darting indecisively between tugging at Derek's clothing and his own. He can hardly keep his own hands on task, sliding them beneath the soft silk of Stiles's vest as soon as he gets it open, distracted by the shift of muscles in his back as he yanks at Derek's belt.
“Stop being so freaking delicate.” Stiles sinks his teeth into Derek's bottom lip like he's trying to demonstrate, and Derek couldn't stop his broken, helpless groan if he tried. “We've been taking this slow for almost eight years, I think it's time we took off the brakes.”
“I don't want to ruin your suit.”
Stiles leans back to stare at him, disbelieving. “Don't tell me you're actually afraid of Lydia. Seriously, I'm pretty sure you could take her if it came down to it.” He hesitates. “Probably.”
“I wouldn't bet on it, but this isn't about her.” Derek slides his palms over Stiles's ass, pulling him in until his hands are trapped between them, knuckles dragging against Derek's erection. “I want you to wear it later when it's your turn to fuck me.”
“You—” Stiles drops his head against Derek's shoulder. “You are a freaking menace,” he says, words muffled against his shirt. “Okay.” He leans back again and pulls away, his face but determined. “New plan. You, take care of . . .” Stiles waves a hand at Derek's clothes. “I'll get the—stuff. Okay?”
Derek finds himself smiling, wide and genuine, despite his body's protests at the distance. “Okay.”
He gets distracted one or twice—five times, if anyone were keeping count—watching Stiles quickly strip, hanging the pieces of his suit carefully over the back of a chair before pausing to dig through his bag. Down to nothing but a pair of—
“Wonder Woman briefs?” Derek's face feels like it's about to split in two as he shucks off his own underwear and climbs onto the bed. “Really?”
“Lydia is not the boss of my underpants,” Stiles says, turning with lube and condoms in hand. “Don't tell her that, though, I don't want to—oh.”
He stares, open-mouthed, ridiculous underwear doing absolutely nothing to conceal the interested twitch that his dick gives at the sight of Derek stretched out on the bed. Derek smirks and Stiles makes a strangled noise, tosses the tube and box on the bed, and flings himself on top of Derek hard enough to knock the breath out of both of them.
“Sorry,” he says, nuzzling along Derek's collarbone. “Sorry, I just . . . do you have any idea—fuck, I just have to . . .” His mouth is streaking down before Derek can even respond, trailing down over his chest and stomach, murmuring, “—take my time with you later, I swear—” before settling between Derek's legs and dragging his tongue up Derek's dick in a long, slow lick.
“Oh, fuck,” Derek groans, and falls back against the pillow.
Stiles says something, but since he's already pulling Derek into his mouth it comes out as nothing more than slurred sounds and vibrations that make Derek's toes curl in helpless reaction. As he starts to move, Derek levers himself up on his elbows to watch. He reaches out, thumb skimming over the curve of Stiles's lip, the stretch of his mouth as he sinks back down. Stiles hums low in his throat, and Derek does it again. He can't tear his eyes away from the flutter of Stiles's eyelashes as he moves, the furrow of concentration between his brows, the splay of his hand low over Derek's stomach.
It's every ruthlessly repressed fantasy come to sudden, Technicolor life; every thought he'd ever refused to entertain after a long night of research with Stiles's scent still lingering in his apartment. Stiles in his bed, rubbing himself against Derek's leg as he moans around the dick in his mouth like it's one of his own wet dreams come true. After years of trying not to imagine this every time he caught himself staring a little bit too long at Stiles's mouth, it's almost too much. Derek can feel familiar tension begin to build at the base of his spine and he slides his hand into Stiles's hair.
“Stiles.” The only response is Stiles reaching up, pressing Derek's hand harder against his scalp as he dips even farther down, taking Derek in almost to the back of his throat. “Shit, St—god. Stiles,” he tries again, tugging lightly at Stiles's hair this time, and Stiles moans, grinding hard against Derek's leg. “Fuck, Stiles, if you keep going I'm not going to be able to—”
Stiles whimpers but pulls off, panting against the crease of Derek's thigh. “Okay. Right, sorry.”
“Do you still want—”
“Yes.” Stiles's lifts his head so quickly that Derek gets dizzy just watching, and he crawls up the bed until he can slant his mouth down over his. “Yes, yes, absolutely yes.”
Derek slips his hands inside Stiles's briefs, giving his ass a quick squeeze before snapping the waistband against his hip. “You should get these off, then.”
“Mmm. You don't think they add a certain something?”
“I think they're gonna get in the way in a minute here.”
“Yeah, you know, you make a pretty compelling argument,” Stiles says, clambering up to peel them off. Derek sits up, moving back until his back is braced against the headboard, and Stiles is grinning when he climbs back onto the bed. “Like this, huh?”
“Just like this.” Derek warms the lube between his hands, wetting his fingers as Stiles positions himself on his lap, knees bracketing Derek's hips. “I want to be able to do this,” he adds, and leans in to press an open-mouthed kiss to the base of Stiles's throat.
“Works for me.” Stiles tilts his head back and Derek grins against his skin before he scrapes his teeth against the hammer-point of his pulse, reaching around to slide one slick finger against Stiles's hole. “Definitely . . . definitely works. Fuck.” He hooks his arms over Derek's shoulders and buries his hands in his hair again, tugging lightly at the strands between his fingers. “You're smiling.”
“Mmm.” Derek pushes his finger slowly inside, drinking in the catch of Stiles's breath, savoring the feeling of his moan echoing against his tongue. “Am I not supposed to?”
“No, it's—good, it's good,” Stiles says, his words strained, as Derek begins to pump his finger in and out. “Really good. I like your smile, you should smile all the time. It's just that you usually don't; you know, I'm pretty sure you—yes, fuck, give me another, I'm good, I—oh god, I love your hands.”
“Pretty sure I what, Stiles?” It's hard to concentrate with Stiles starting to rock back onto the stretch of two fingers now, his dick hard and leaking and dragging against Derek's stomach with every shift of his hips. Watching him try to haul his mind back on track is worth it, though. “What were you saying?”
“That you're a jackass.” He doesn't seem to mind, though, pressing their foreheads together so that every hard breath sends a warm puff of air against Derek's mouth. “Who doesn't smile as much as he should. Pretty sure you've done more of that in the last half hour than I've seen in a year.”
“I cannot hide what I am,” Derek says against his lips. “I must be sad when I have cause and laugh when I am merry.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, jerking back and inadvertently shoving his hips hard down onto Derek's fingers, a strangled moan ripping its way out of his throat as he stares in disbelief. “Oh my god,” he says again, “you did not just bastardize Shakespeare while fucking fingering me.”
“You realize what a terrible pun that was, don't you, considering the character I was quoting?”
“How the fuck are you even real?” Stiles mutters before diving down to kiss Derek hard, deep and filthy.
Derek gets lost for a while, swept up in the feeling of Stiles on top of him, surrounding him, the way he swears elaborately when Derek pushes in with three fingers, the insistent shake of his head and the rise and fall of his chest as he adjusts. It's not long before he's moving again, riding Derek's fingers like he can't keep himself still. He makes a high, desperate noise when Derek closes his other hand around his dick, and shakes his head frantically; when Derek releases him and reaches down to cup his balls, however, it triggers a volley of filthy, eager encouragement, trailing off to broken sounds when Derek skims his fingers over the soft skin behind them. Derek thinks he could probably get off on nothing more than this, on the sounds that Stiles is making and the taunting, teasing brushes of his groin against Derek's, and it's relief and disappointment both when Stiles finally grips his shoulders tight, dragging them both to a stop.
“I'm good, I'm ready, let's do this.” He leans over, reaching for the condoms. His body twists around Derek's fingers still inside of him, and Stiles has just snagged the box when he stiffens, clamping down so hard that Derek loses his breath for a moment. “Shit,” Stiles pants, one trembling arm braced against the mattress. “God, don't pull out yet, just let me . . . just a second, let me . . .”
He manages to get a condom out and open, and for a moment he just stares down at the little circle of rubber. Derek is about to say something, some crack about the instruction sheet that comes in the box, probably, when Stiles looks up again. His eyes are wide and uncertain, but whatever he's thinking makes his cock jump against Derek's stomach.
“So, it's totally okay to say no. Obviously.”
Derek raises an eyebrow. “I'm not going to say no to fucking you, Stiles, if you're worried.”
“No.” He laughs a little bit nervously, but he's smirking when he tightens around Derek's fingers just to make him groan. “I got that memo, thanks. I've just always sort of . . . wondered . . .”
Derek follows his eyes when they dart down to the condom in his hand again, and his heart gives a hard, heavy thump. “Oh.”
“I mean, I never have before, I'm always really careful, it's just. I don't want to take any stupid risks, but I've thought about—” He looks up again, flushed from the top of his head all the way down to his chest. “Too much, right? I mean, it's not a deal breaker or anything, I probably shouldn't even have mentioned it—”
“I'm clean,” Derek blurts out, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek against the effect that the suggestion is having on him, against the urge to pull Stiles onto his dick right then. Stiles grins, blindingly bright.
“Dude, you're biggest, most self-sacrificing martyr I've ever met in my life. There's no way you'd be down for getting all pelvic with anyone if you weren't sure it was safe for them.”
“Pelvic, Stiles? Seriously? And you can't know for sure—”
“I trust you,” Stiles says seriously, and Derek forgets, for just a moment, how to breathe.
“Okay.” He leans in, taking Stiles's lips in a quick, soft kiss.
“Get up here.” Derek pulls his fingers out slowly as Stiles tosses the condom aside, stroking his hip through the shudders that follow the sudden sense of emptiness. He kisses him again, deeper this time. “Lube,” he says when they break away, and Stiles doesn't need any more encouragement than that.
“Me too.” Stiles is spreading the slippery liquid over Derek's dick in long, perfect strokes, his fist just shy of too tight. “I don't have documentation on me,” he says, teasing, “but I got checked at my last physical, and—”
“I trust you, too.” The words aren't as hard as he'd thought they'd be; they're almost easy. And when Stiles smiles, kissing him as he moves up to position his hips over Derek's, it feels like he's said something else altogether.
He's never done this before either, skin to skin with nothing in between, and he hadn't been prepared. Stiles is warm and soft around him, a little tight still and perfectly slick as he sinks down. Derek's world narrows down to that one point of connection, only vaguely aware of his hands bracing Stiles's hips, of their chests scraping slowly against each other and Stiles's fingers flexing on his shoulders. Then Stiles lets out a low, guttural sound that Derek has never heard from him before and he realizes that his mouth is fixed on the pale, smooth column of Stiles's neck, sucking and biting a massive purple bruise into the stretch of skin bracketed by a pair of dark moles. He's stared at that exact spot on more than one occasion, imagined his mark there, but—
“Sorry,” he gasps. He's buried as deeply as possible in Stiles's body now, and he runs his hands over his back in trembling apology. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”
“I swear to god,” Stiles grits out, “do not try to apologize. Unless the next word out of your mouth was going to be 'stop'. That,” he says, lifting up and dropping back down quickly enough to have Derek's hips snapping up in reaction, “is definitely something you can be sorry for.”
“You don't mind?” he asks, grasping the swell of Stiles's ass to help him move.
“Told you.” Stiles leans down, fixing his mouth over Derek's throat, and bites down hard. “I've got a list.”
The last of Derek's control shreds, and he starts moving Stiles in earnest, guiding the roll of his hips and surging up to meet them. He chases the sweat from his skin, filling his lungs with the scent of sex, of the two of them together. His teeth find Stiles's neck again, his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. The bruises that he leaves behind pulse in time with the beat of Stiles's heart and Stiles reaches up to grip the headboard for leverage, leaving himself open and vulnerable to Derek's mouth.
“I need,” he finally pants, grinding down with a frustrated groan. “Harder.”
Derek doesn't answer; he isn't sure that he could. Words seem to have deserted him, lost in the slide scrape pull of Stiles moving against him. Instead he grabs Stiles's wrists, winding them around the back of Derek's neck, and flips them over so that Stiles's back lands against the mattress in an abortive bounce. Reaching down, he wraps a hand around the back of Stiles's thigh and hitches it up before he thrusts in again. Stiles shouts, loud and wordlessly triumphant.
“Good?” Derek manages. Stiles's answer is a garbled mess of sounds as he gives another hard, sharp thrust, and Derek's smile edges towards vicious. “Good.”
He wants to shout, as well; wants to howl, to mark Stiles inside and out, to leave no doubt as to exactly whose mate he is. Something coiled tight inside of him is starting to unfurl, spreading through his veins in a haze of heated possession. Derek grinds his hips against Stiles's ass and feels himself thickening, feels a tightness building in his groin, and the shock of it has him stuttering to a halt despite the nails digging into his ass, urging him on.
“Wait. Wait.” Derek stops completely, though all he wants to do is keep moving, keep thrusting, keep burying himself inside of Stiles again and again. He drops his head to Stiles's shoulder and struggles to steady his breathing. “I'm going to . . .”
“Come?” Stiles wriggles his hips, whining in high-pitched protest. “Isn't that the point?”
“Not . . . not exactly. Damn it, Stiles.” Derek bears down, pinning Stiles's hips to the mattress. “I just need to—just give me a minute.”
“Dude, I'm not gonna think any less of you if you come first.”
“Are you gonna think less of me if my dick gets stuck in your ass?” Derek snaps, and immediately wants to die.
“Oh.” Stiles loosens his grip, cautiously sliding his hands up Derek's back instead. “I, uh.”
“Sorry,” Derek grits out. “I didn't think I'd—”
“No, it's not—I just didn't realize that you, you know.” He clears his throat. “Some of the women at the panel yesterday were talking about it. In really, really graphic detail, actually, because it turns out that middle-aged women put high school boys' locker rooms to fucking shame. But I didn't think it happened, you know. Every time.”
“It doesn't.” Derek can't lift his head; can possibly never look Stiles in the eyes again. The only positive part of this hideous conversation is that it's killed the urge that nearly took him over a minute ago, though apparently even humiliation isn't enough to completely distract his dick from the fact that it's still buried balls-deep in Stiles's body. “It's just instinct,” he says eventually. “You were talking about adoption, downstairs, before I—it must have triggered . . . something.”
“Are you serious?” Stiles sounds gleeful, and Derek discovers that he's fully capable of looking at him after all. “Oh, no,” Stiles gloats when Derek lifts his head to glare at him, “no, you're the one whose mating instinct or whatever got all hot and bothered thinking about the pitter-patter of little werewolf paws, I am totally allowed to think that's adorable as shit. It, uh.” He clears his throat, shifting his leg into a more comfortable position and making them both choke off a groan. “I mean, you can't actually mate me though, right? You're not gonna impregnate me with magical werewolf sperm or anything?”
Derek squeezes his eyes shut. “I can't believe I'm in bed with someone who just used the phrase 'magical werewolf sperm'.”
“That's not a no.”
“No, Stiles. You're thinking of bad sci-fi, not reality.”
Stiles snorts. “Says the werewolf.”
“Just—” Derek sighs, trying to pretend that he isn't arching into the slow, soothing strokes of Stiles's hands up and down his spine. “I just need to take a minute.”
“Sure. Hey, it's fine. But.” His deep breath brushes his chest against Derek's. “What if you didn't?”
Derek freezes. “What?”
“I mean, if it means jumping straight into wolf cub adoption and joint bank accounts we probably shouldn't skip the fifty or so steps in between, but.” He presses himself further into the mattress, leaning back as best he can to catch Derek's gaze. “But I don't think it does.”
“It means something,” Derek says slowly. “But if you're asking if I can marry us with my cock, the answer is no.”
Stiles snickers, burying the sound of it in Derek's shoulder. “Good to know, big guy.”
Derek takes a deep, careful breath, closing his eyes as he tries to pretend that the words he's about to say are easy. When he opens them again Stiles is staring back at him, all warm-honey eyes and swollen, curving red lips, and the pressure in Derek's chest begins to ease.
“I want this,” he says, and Stiles beams.
“Good thing we lost the condom, then.” He surges up, kissing Derek breathless. “I don't think it'd be up to the challenge.”
Derek eases off of him, letting Stiles stretch a little before settling him on his side, left knee curled up towards his chest as Derek curves his body around him and presses in again. With one arm curved around Stiles's ribs he can hold him close, back to chest with just enough room to accommodate the slow roll of his hips. Stiles sighs when Derek's mouth brushes over the nape of his neck, down to the juncture between his neck and shoulder to suck lightly at the mark he's already made. And Derek can watch Stiles reach down, wrapping his hand around his dick and stroking himself back to full hardness. He wants to tell him how good he looks, how good he feels, how a part of him still can't believe he gets to have this, but his words have deserted him. All he can do is try to speak through the way he traces a scattering of moles with his mouth, the press of his hands and the ragged rush of his breath against sweat-damp skin.
Slow and careful only lasts so long. Hunger is building again, needy and insistent, urging him to take, to claim, to mate, and Derek moves his hand from the intoxicating thrum of Stiles's heart beneath his palm to splay low over his stomach, holding him in place as Derek's thrusts grow harder, faster. Stiles reaches back, threads a hand through Derek's hair and bares his neck, moaning in shameless encouragement at the growl that Derek can't quite suppress. He wants to stay there forever, safe in the nest of sweat-soaked sheets and air that's thick with the scent of Stiles and sex. When he feels himself start to tighten this time he doesn't fight it; he pulls Stiles tighter against him and with a handful of short, helpless snaps of his hips, lets the base of his dick swell as he empties himself deep inside of him.
“Oh god,” Stiles whimpers between ragged, panting breaths. There's an edge of pain to his voice, but when Derek moves his hand down it's to find him still hard, arm moving frantically as he tugs and pulls at his dick. Derek adds his hand to Stiles's, slippery with sweat and lube and the precome that's leaking steadily out of the tip. It takes less than a dozen slick, sticky strokes before Stiles tightens around him, making them both cry out as he comes in messy ropes over their joined fingers.
“Fucking . . . hell,” Stiles slurs eventually, and it's not until he leans more firmly back against Derek's chest that Derek is aware of his own trembling, of the way he's rubbing the filthy mess of his hand over Stiles's stomach and clutching helplessly at him. “'re you okay?”
Derek's voice doesn't much want to work, but he nods as he buries his face in Stiles's neck and tries to breathe.
“Okay,” is all Stiles says for a while. He leans his head back, resting against Derek's shoulder, and slides his fingers lazily over Derek's forearm. “Not that I'm complaining,” he adds after he's gotten his breath back and Derek feels slightly less ready to shake apart at any moment, “but how long does this usually last?”
“I don't know.”
That has Stiles craning his neck, shifting just enough that they both feel it where they're still joined together. Stiles curses softly and Derek stills him, stroking the soft line of hair leading down from his navel. That earns him a distracted sigh, and Stiles settles again.
“What do you mean, you don't know?”
“I know what you know: anywhere from fifteen minutes to half an hour, I think. But I've never . . .”
“You've never done this before?”
“It's not a casual thing.”
“Dude, nothing about you is casual.” Stiles goes back to petting Derek's arm. It's strangely soothing. “I'm glad,” he says quietly.
Derek noses at the nape of Stiles's neck again, breathing deep. “There are things we should talk about.”
“Yeah.” Stiles lets out a heavy breath. “I might fall asleep, though.”
“We've got time.”
“Mmm.” Stiles's body starts to sag back against him. “You're in charge of cleanup, whenever this is finished.”
“And be ready to roll over.” Derek can hear his heartbeat slowing, his breathing deepen. “'Cause I'mma spoon the fuck out'f you.”
Derek feels light just thinking about it—Stiles's arms around him, his body surrounding him. In Derek's bed, in his life, because that's where he wants to be.
“If you insist,” he says, and buries his smile in Stiles's hair.