Derek is leaning up against the driver's side door of the Camaro when Stiles comes striding out of the bus station, backpack slung over one shoulder, suitcase rolling along in his wake. He pushes off of the car when he sees him and Stiles stops a few steps outside the doors to look around the parking lot. When their eyes meet, he smiles and starts walking again, a bit faster this time.
“How was the trip?” Derek asks when they get close.
Stiles just groans and takes the last few steps to drop his head on Derek's shoulder.
“That good, huh?” Derek asks, lifting an arm to put around Stiles' shoulders. He nuzzles his head into his hair – longer than the last time he saw Stiles – and takes a deep breath. He smells tired and like he's been too close to too many other people for too long but underneath that is the familiar aroma of Stiles. Derek feels tension he didn't even know he was carrying ease out of his shoulders.
“I hate planes,” Stiles moans. “And buses.”
“I know,” Derek replies and kisses the side of his head. Stiles gives a content little hum and raises an arm to wrap around Derek's back. They stay like that for awhile and part of Derek doesn't want to let go – cheesy as he knows that is. He hasn't seen Stiles in four months, though. He figures he's allowed to be a little cheesy.
Two years ago, when Stiles had been accepted to NYU, Derek had known it would suck. Stiles had forced him to get Skype and they called and texted regularly, but it wasn't the same and Derek had known it wouldn't be the same. He hadn't realized it would be this bad, though. He hadn't realized he would miss Stiles this much.
He hadn't even realized he was capable of missing Stiles this much.
“C'mon,” Derek says, finally pulling away. He reaches for the suitcase – Stiles rolls his eyes but lets him – and walks around to the trunk of the car as Stiles throws his backpack in the backseat and gets in the front.
There's only one bus station in Beacon County and it's not in Beacon Hills. When Derek gets behind the wheel to see Stiles fiddling with his iPod and the stereo, he resigns himself to a half hour drive of whatever shitty indie music Stiles is into these days. Usually the sheriff would be the one picking his son up, but he'd had a late shift tonight that he couldn't get out of so the task had fallen to Derek. Not that he minded.
“How were your exams?” Derek asks, turning out of the parking lot.
Stiles groans. “I've been thinking about nothing but exams for the past month. Let's not talk about exams. Let's talk about anything but exams.”
Derek rolls his eyes, but he knows he's smiling fondly. “Alright.”
“Were you doing your creepy wolf sniffing thing back there?” Stiles asks. Derek doesn't say anything, just glances at him from the corner of his eyes, sees him roll his. “I probably smell all wrong, huh?”
Stiles is turned sideways in his seat, his back leaning against the door. He's not wearing a seatbelt but he never does when Derek's driving. He claims there's not point because Derek's superhuman reflexes mean they'll never get in an accident.
Derek shrugs. “We can fix that.”
“Oh yeah?” Stiles smirks. “How we gonna do that?”
“I've got a few ideas,” Derek replies.
The road they're on is unlit and deserted with forest on both sides. It's the only road that connects Beacon Hills to the next town over and Stiles has often commented that – if his life were just a little bit more like a bad horror movie – it could potentially spell all of their doom. Derek just rolls his eyes whenever he brings it up and says that they could still hike their way out.
Stiles says that that's what the monsters want.
Speaking of Stiles, he's suddenly sliding across the front seat. He puts a hand on Derek's thigh and leans into his ear.
“And what might those be?” he whispers and nips at Derek's earlobe.
Derek swallows hard when the heady scent of Stiles' arousal hits him. His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, and it takes everything in him to say, “Stiles, I'm driving.”
Stiles huffs a sigh and sits back against the door again. “You're no fun.”
“You're impatient,” Derek counters even though it's a bit hypocritical. He wants to pin Stiles down just has much has Stiles seems to want to jump him.
“Hell yeah, I am,” Stiles replies. “You knew what you were getting into.”
Derek rolls his eyes again.
Everything is quiet for a few minutes but then Derek hears the sound of fabric shuffling and a zipper being undone and looks over to see Stiles pushing his jeans down his hips.
“Stiles, wh--?” he cuts himself off when Stiles pulls his dick out of his boxers – hard already – and Derek is hit with the overwhelming scent of Stiles and sex. He gets dizzy for a second and has to blink his eyes a few times to refocus and keep from driving into a ditch.
“You said it,” Stiles says as he begins stroking himself. “I'm impatient.”
Derek's knuckles are white on the steering wheel again and he's driving too fast. He's having a really hard time paying attention to the road, though, because Stiles has dropped his head back against the window and is watching him through half-lidded eyes, small breathy noises escaping his throat every few seconds.
When a sign comes into view for a turn off – a parking lot for a nature trail – Derek veers off into it without hesitation. He doesn't really care where it goes, to be honest. He just needs to park somewhere where they won't get caught or hit. He's barely had time to put the car in park before Stiles is lunging across the seat at him.
Derek moans when Stiles licks into his mouth and braces a hand on his thigh again. Somehow, using his free hand and a whole lot of flailing, Stiles manages to get his pants and boxers all the way off. Derek's hands reach down to grasp at his hips and try to pull him into his lap, but suddenly the hand on his thigh is gone and Stiles is reaching down between the seat and the door. Derek hears the slide of a lever being pulled and his seat lurches backwards so he's lying flat.
Stiles takes the new opportunity to throw a leg over Derek's lap and straddle him, burying both hands in his hair now and kissing him harder. Derek's hands snake up Stiles' shirt, sliding over heated skin. Stiles groans as he grinds his hips down, his cock pressing against Derek's stomach.
Derek lets out a breathy moan when Stiles' mouth moves to nip and kiss along his jaw, working his way down to suck a bruise on his neck. He pulls away after a moment and brings a hand down to press against the mark that Derek is intentionally not healing.
“I love it when you do that,” he says, a smile ghosting over his lips.
Derek doesn't say it, but he loves it, too. He loves being marked by Stiles just as much as he loves marking him in return. He just wishes the hickeys would last longer.
Stiles must see something in Derek's face, though, because he stares down at him with something like affection in his eyes before leaning back in and kissing him again. It's slower this time, though, more intimate.
The moment doesn't last long and soon the kiss is becoming desperate again and Stiles' hands are slipping down Derek's chest. He rubs at Derek through his jeans and Derek cants his hips up into his palm. Stiles laughs against his lips.
“Eager,” he whispers.
“You're one to talk,” Derek replies. Stiles laughs again and starts working open his fly.
Derek hisses through his teeth when Stiles gets his dick out and gives it a few strokes. Stiles' face is hovering a few inches above Derek's and he's smiling down at him wickedly.
“Jesus, Stiles,” he moans when the hand on his dick starts moving faster.
“What d'you want, Derek?” Stiles asks.
“Fuck,” Derek says. Stiles never shuts up during sex and, God, Derek had missed it. “You.”
“What about me?” Stiles questions, his voice mischievous, and he twists his wrist in a way that has Derek seeing stars.
“Just you,” Derek answers. “Wanna fuck you.”
Stiles grins. “I think that can be arranged.”
Suddenly, Stiles' hands are off of Derek and he's leaning to the side, digging around in the centre console. He's back leaning over Derek a second later, the bottle of lube they keep in the Camaro for just such occasions in his hand.
Derek takes it from him and coats his fingers, wrapping his arm around Stiles and pushing a single digit into him. Stiles lets out a whine and Derek's cock twitches.
This is his favourite part. Usually he'd take his time, working Stiles open with his fingers, maybe his tongue. He'd take Stiles apart, piece by piece, until he's keening and begging.
Right now, though, it's been four months since he last saw Stiles – since he last felt him – and he's desperate.
He slips another finger in, scissoring them, and Stiles cries out, his nails digging into Derek's shoulders.
“Fuck, Derek,” he groans. “C'mon!”
“Not yet,” Derek replies. “It's been too long. I'll hurt you.”
“No, you won't,” Stiles pants. “I do this to myself all the time.”
Derek's head drops back against the headrest at that and he moans at the visual is conjures. Stiles, splayed out on his bed, one hand on his cock the other between his legs, fingering himself. He imagines the way Stiles would suck his bottom lip into his mouth, holding it between his teeth, and the flush that would start in his cheeks and creep down over his chest. He imagines the noises Stiles would make: pants and moans and maybe even Derek's name.
His eyes are closed but he hears the click of the lube being opened again and a second later Stiles is stroking him again, covering his dick in it. Derek opens his eyes and looks up at Stiles, staring down at him with lust-blown eyes. Derek pulls his fingers out and grabs Stiles' hips, moving him forward slightly. Stiles situates himself over Derek's cock and slowly lowers himself down.
Derek's fingers dig into Stiles' hips, hard enough to bruise, but he has to do something to keep himself from thrusting upwards. Stiles lets out a shuddering breath once he's flush with Derek's hips. They both still and for a moment the only sound in the car is their ragged breathing.
Stiles lifts a hand from where it's resting against Derek's chest and touches his jaw. Derek nuzzles into it without thinking. When he looks back up it's to see Stiles staring at him, open and affectionate. Derek feels his heart stutter, the way it always does when he remembers just how far in over his head he is. It still makes him nervous sometimes, just how gone he is on Stiles – how much he cares about him; how much he trusts him.
Stiles looks like he's about to say something and Derek doesn't think he can handle that right now so he gives a gentle roll of his hips. Stiles eyes flutter shut and he gasps. Derek smiles.
“Alright, alright,” Stiles says. “Now who's impatient?”
Derek just rolls his hips again and Stiles smiles, shakes his head, and starts moving. He's got his hands on Derek's chest again and he sets a steady rhythm. Steady, but slow. Almost torturously slow.
“C'mon, Stiles,” Derek groans and uses the hands on his hips to try and force Stiles to move faster.
Stiles laughs at him but complies. He starts moving his hips faster, slamming them down harder. He braces a hand against the ceiling to keep his head from hitting it.
Derek's head drops back against the headrest and he closes his eyes, getting lost in it all – Stiles' scent, in the sound of his heartbeat, in the feel of him – until Stiles speaks again.
“Jesus fuck, Derek,” he says. Derek grins up at him and moves a hand from Stiles' hip to wrap around his straining cock. When Derek started moving his hand in time with their thrusts, Stiles lets out a broken little whimper. “God, Derek. Missed you so much.”
Derek's breath catches in his throat at that and he wants to say it back because, God, did he miss Stiles but he doesn't get the chance. Suddenly Stiles is crying out and coming over Derek's chest, staining his shirt. The aftershocks that rock through Stiles' body, making him tense and clench around Derek, are enough to send him over the edge, too.
Stiles collapses onto Derek's chest and they breath in tandem for a few long moments, their heartbeats gradually slowing down.
“So,” Stiles sighs in his ear. “Do I smell right now?”
Derek takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of them, and smiles. “You'll do for now.”