It starts with chopsticks.
The Pack has descended on the newly-renovated Hale house, armed to the teeth with bad takeout and worse movies and they've somehow turned the entire living room into a swamp of blankets, pillows and flailing limbs. As Jackson leans over and snatches the last egg roll out of Stiles' hand to loud protest, Derek can't help but wonder why the hell he'd actually missed them all this semester.
"Good to know college hasn't mellowed your epic douche-baggery, dude," Stiles says with a sigh.
"I called dibs," Jackson says, before swallowing three quarters of the roll in one bite. Derek would be impressed but he's seen Stiles down two of the things at once.
Derek watches as Stiles rolls his eyes before snapping the flimsy wooden chopsticks apart with a flourish that shouldn't work as well as it does. Leaning over, Derek grabs up the lemon chicken before Erica can steal it all and is just spooning a generous helping onto his plate when the tapping starts.
Stiles is drumming away at the coffee table, chopsticks loose and comfortably tucked between his long fingers. The rhythm is sure, obviously practiced and Derek's going to get right on being annoyed by it just as soon as he can focus on anything beyond the way Stiles' right index finger is curled over the fucking stick.
"Oh hey," Scott says around a mouthful of cashew chicken. "How's the band thing going?"
Stiles grins and nods, and Jesus, even that's in rhythm. "Yeah, really good," he says. "I've got good time apparently - I just have to work on my technique."
"How is that working on technique?" Jackson says, tapping his own chopstick on the table as Stiles switches rhythm. "You aren't even speeding up."
Stiles shrugs and Derek only notices because his wrists twist slightly with it, middle finger slipping down one of the chopsticks and fuck. Derek feels his face heat up when he realises he can't stop staring. "You need to keep it smooth and controlled," Stiles explains, and Derek swallows. Hard. "Speed comes from good technique, not the other way round."
Derek's brain very helpfully asks what other things might come from Stiles' technique and he almost drops the takeaway container in his hand.
"Oh hey, lemon chicken!" Stiles says, ceasing his impromptu practice session to snag the food out of Derek's grip.
Derek's so thrown that he lets him.
Stiles starts bringing drumsticks to Pack gatherings, sitting himself on the edge of the group to tap out maddening rhythms on his knees as the werewolves train. The first time he'd pulled them out, spinning one stick in a showy twirl between his fingers, Derek had actually staggered a little, missed a basic move, and ended up on his back blinking up at fucking Jackson, of all people.
It'd taken three hours and a lot of bruises to beat that little victory out of the asshole.
When the drumsticks aren't rubbing frustratingly between Stiles' fingers, they're shoved into the back pocket of his jeans. Something Derek's developed a love/hate relationship with because they tend to catch Stiles' shirt as he's walking, hiking the material up over his belt in a way that's both hilarious and really, really distracting. Seriously, Derek could have lived his whole fucking life without knowing Stiles has three moles dotted across his goddamn hip.
He also could have lived his whole goddamn life without Stiles ever, ever figuring out Derek's little fixation.
They're watching a movie. Which is to say, Scott and Lydia are watching a movie; Jackson, Boyd, Isaac and Erica are engaging in a vicious looking game of go-fish; and Stiles is... driving Derek to goddamn distraction.
He's tapping away at his knees again because Jackson had thrown a pretzel at him when he'd attacked the coffee table earlier. Derek doesn't know what's worse, the way his legs are propped open slightly so that creases in his fucking jeans are now on Derek's hate list, or the way the muscles in his forearms bunch and shift as he drums.
Derek couldn't even tell you what movie's on the screen, because for every one second he glances un-seeing at it, he spends another two watching Stiles out of the corner of his eye. It's probably a miracle that Stiles takes as long as he does to notice.
It happens during one of those mind-melting little flourishes Stiles likes to pepper through his practice routines. Stiles double-taps with one stick before twirling the fucking thing like a baton, which is a lot less band-camp and a lot more sex-act according to Derek's traitorous libido. Derek shifts slightly, wetting his lips, and Stiles- Stiles drops the stick.
Derek's eyes snap up and he feels himself freeze, because Stiles is looking back – mouth a shocked O as he glances between Derek's lips and his eyes. It's like a train wreck. As one, they both look down at the drumstick on the floor and Derek sees the exact moment Stiles gets it. Because of course he does. Stiles rarely misses anything, which Derek used to think was a good thing because it's saved all their lives more than once. Screw it so hard now.
Derek wrenches his eyes back to the tv and slouches violently his seat. It's a fucking sad state of affairs when he realises they're watching Lady and the Tramp and it's the second worst thing to happen to his day.
Derek thought it'd been bad before.
"The trick is to stay as relaxed as possible," Stiles is saying to Scott while Derek tries and fails to concentrate on Erica and Boyd stick fighting in front of him.
He glances to the side to find Stiles' eyes on him—like they always fucking are these days—as he taps away at the Hale house porch.
"The instinct is to tense up," Stiles says, gaze never leaving Derek as Scott nods, watching Stiles' demonstration. Derek wants to bite something. "But you need to stay as relaxed as possible before you push it."
A crack echoes around the yard and Derek looks down in surprise to find the quarterstaff in his own hands has split clean down the middle.
Stiles' delighted laugh is bad enough, but when Derek catches Scott glancing between them both with a contemplative frown, he barely keeps the snarl out of his voice when he tells everyone to go home.
Stiles, of course, doesn't listen. Because when does he ever.
"Fuck off, Stiles," Derek says, snapping the totalled staff over his knee so he can at least fit it in the trash.
"Ooo, violence," Stiles says. "Do it again. Slower this time."
Oh my god, Derek does not deserve this. "Fuck off or it'll be you I snap in half," he growls.
He turns to find Stiles smirking behind him, hands—blessedly—shoved into his jeans pockets, rocking back on his heels. "Promise?"
Un-fucking-deserving. Derek snarls and brushes past Stiles towards the stairs. Or tries to, it's pretty hard when Stiles has a fist full of his shirt and is yanking him around to-
"Oh my god, you cannot be this dense," Stiles says. Derek's shocked enough at the sudden lack of bravado in his tone, it takes him a second to look from the hand Stiles has tangled in his collar to Stiles' face. Stiles' face that's just- huh.
"Could you please just jump me?" Stiles says, and Derek can tell he hadn't meant for that little thread of desperation to ring as clear as it does. Stiles' eyes slide sideways and his grip loosens. "I mean, unless I've read this all wrong because that might have been a thing that I did and, I mean-"
Derek pries Stiles' slackening fingers away from his shirt and he sees the split second of—holy shit—disappointment flash across Stiles features, before he steels himself—because Jesus, is he seriously doing this?—and pulls Stiles' hand up to his mouth.
Stiles sucks in a sharp breath when Derek presses an open-mouthed kiss to his palm. It's nothing to the whole-body shudder that rips through him when Derek sucks two fingers into his mouth, though. Derek can only half appreciate the groan that accompanies it because Stiles' fingers are long and elegant and on his tongue and fuck-
"Oh f- okay, ah..." Stiles stammers.
Derek hums, shifting his grip so that his thumb is pressing up under Stiles' pulse—the pulse that's just flying—as he scrapes teeth lightly over knuckles he's been goddamn obsessing over for the last three weeks.
Stiles tastes like the Doritos he'd been hogging that morning and Derek has to resist the urge to chase the tang, because if he keeps going he's not going to be able to stop.
"Oh god," Stiles groans when Derek sucks off his fingers. The pop as they slide out is obscene, even to him. "Fuck," Stiles says, and then he's just there – hands pulling Derek in until everything's wet heat and desperation as Stiles licks into his mouth. It's messy, and a little uncoordinated until Derek cants his head, deepening the kiss until he's groaning into it because fuck, Stiles' mouth.
He is in so much trouble.
"In-" Stiles pants, pushing at Derek only to follow when he stumbles back. "Oh god- inside," he says, yanking Derek back into a brutal kiss before snagging his shirt again and pulling him towards the porch. "I need you like, one-thousand percent more naked and all over me."
It's entirely Stiles' fault that Derek almost trips up the fucking stairs, because Derek's pretty sure brains aren't supposed to deal with visuals like that.
How they make it to Derek's room, he'll never know. He does know all the walls leading up to it have been properly load-tested on their way there. Particularly the one just outside his room where he'd given up all pretense and just hiked Stiles bodily up it until he'd taken the hint and hooked his legs around Derek's hips.
"You are such an asshole," Stiles says as Derek cages him down against the mattress. "Man-handling should not be this hot."
"Werewolf," Derek says, leaning in to mouth at the stretch of Stiles' throat.
Stiles threads his fingers into Derek's hair, nails scraping mind-meltingly across his scalp as he arches. "Nah," he says. "Think it's just you."
Derek feels his heart do something fucking un-called for and distracts himself by biting down on the stretch of muscle where Stiles' neck meets his shoulder. It half works in that Stiles moans like he's auditioning for porn, but then one of his hands is finding Derek's, threading their fingers together, and the easy intimacy of it is kicking Derek in the stomach anew.
"Clothes," Stiles says, like he's not tearing strips off Derek by holding his fucking hand. "Less clothes."
Derek rips his shirt and Stiles' belt buckle proves itself a creation from hell itself but they get there in the end, Derek falling back with Stiles over him this time and fuck- skin.
"Oh my god, I refuse to come like a teenager," Stiles groans into his neck, and Derek would tease but he's rutting, sharp and involuntary up against Stiles' hip himself.
"You are a teenager," Derek grits, grabbing Stiles' ass and pulling until he's falling between Derek's legs and they're both moaning.
"Fuck-" Stiles swears. "Not in another two weeks I'm not." Stiles leans up on his hands, eyes ticking down the spread of Derek as he groans. "Jesus, do you know what you look like?"
Derek opens his mouth to answer but it turns into a stuttered breath when Stiles drags one hand down over his abs. Derek's been out in the sun more than usual, putting final touches on the house and the contrast of white on tan affects him more than it probably should. But even worse than that is the sight of Stiles' hands—the hands Derek's been picturing every time he's come for the past three weeks—now actually on him.
Stiles doesn't hesitate when he gets low enough, just wraps his grip loose and sure around Derek's length. Derek bucks so hard Stiles slips, fingers dropping down and behind and Derek freezes because fuck- oh fuck-
"Sorry! I-" Stiles stops, and Derek opens his eyes to find Stiles' eyes wide and on his, the same goddamn expression on his face as when he'd caught Derek watching him spin the fucking drumsticks. Derek only has a second to brace before Stiles is pressing, this time deliberately – fingers hot and blunt against him and Derek arches into it so instinctively he has to bite his lip against his pathetic sound of fucking surprise.
"Oh holy shit," Stiles breathes, trailing one finger in a maddening little circle and Derek full-body shudders through a moan. It's too much and not enough all at once. He has to fight the urge to buck downwards and then Stiles' fingertip catches on his rim and he thinks, why fight?
"Fuck, okay-" Stiles says, sounding like the words are being punched out of him. "I didn't think- I mean, you're gonna let me-"
Derek hooks one hand around Stiles' neck and pulls him into a bruising kiss. He's not good with words. He's good at this though. They're good at this.
Stiles makes a wounded noise against his mouth. "God, okay – lube- I need-"
"Top drawer," Derek says. He concentrates on the hand Stiles braces on his chest as he leans over to fumble the drawer open; concentrates on the constellation of moles dotting up Stiles' side in front of him. It's easy to lean forward, to trace a trail with his tongue from hip to ribs. The wrecked breath Stiles lets out when he does is a bonus.
"Shit," Stiles swears and Derek hears the sharp pop of the lube snapping open; the slick noise of Stiles coating his fingers.
Stiles slips back through Derek's hands, humming against him until he's licking back into Derek's mouth. Derek sinks back into the pillows and hesitates a second before he lets himself touch, trailing hands up and over shoulders that are a lot broader than they were four years ago. The sound Stiles makes against him when he digs blunt, human nails into his back is broken and sort of perfect. "Okay-" Stiles says, breaking the kiss to look down at him. "You sure it's okay-"
Derek fists one hand in Stiles' hair. "If you don't put your fingers in me, I'm going to rip them off."
Stiles grins, even as he trails his hand down to where Derek needs it. "With your teeth?" he says, and Derek would retort but Stiles is pressing one finger in, smooth and perfect and—fucking hell—he's not going to survive this-
Derek grits his teeth, arching back until he's got a hold on the headboard. It's solid, hard oak and barely creaks even when Derek sinks his claws into it.
"Fucking hell," Stiles says, twisting his finger in deeper. "Do you even know what you look like right now."
"Stiles, just- ah!" Derek hears wood protest but can't think beyond, fuck and yes to care all that much. Jesus Christ, is this what it's always like? He'd ask but he's rapidly losing the ability to words.
When Stiles presses a second finger in, Derek can't do much beyond let his eyes flutter shut and pant. It's disconcerting, the feeling of someone else inside; the burn and stretch of it. But then it's also Stiles – Stiles is inside him, fingers just as deft and elegant as they always are, pressing in and up and-
Derek makes a noise that sounds wrecked even to him, spine bowing as he arches into the sensation because oh holy fuck.
"There we go," Stiles breathes, pressing up again and Derek only vaguely realises through the sharp spike of bliss, that Stiles is tripping into a fucking rhythm.
Holy shit, he's going to die.
Stiles groans, like he's the one flying apart, leaning down to catch Derek's mouth again as he presses a third finger in beside the others and it's a stretch, Jesus fuck it's a stretch but Derek—fucking hell—Derek's already goddamn obsessed with it.
Stiles swears when Derek whines—there's really no other word for it, screw his life—and fucks down onto Stiles' fingers. It's enough though, it gets Stiles moving; gets him shifting and bracing and yes, oh god.
Derek breaks the kiss, because Stiles has found whatever rhythm he was going for, fucking Derek hard and fast on three fingers and Derek's having trouble remembering his own goddamn name let alone how to kiss with any kind of finesse. "Fuck, oh fuck-"
Derek curls in on himself, grip finding the back of Stiles' neck because if he doesn't hold on to something he's going to lose it completely and he can't-
"Oh my god," Stiles says, mouth open and panting against Derek's. "How are you real?"
Something in Stiles' tone hooks and twists and Derek doesn't even realise he's coming until he's arching up into it, Stiles' fingers pressing even deeper with the new angle and Jesus fuck. Derek breaks. Can feel it in the way he pulls Stiles blindly against him; the way he needs Stiles' mouth, his hands, fuck- his everything and Stiles- Stiles just gives it up – licks sure and sweet into Derek's mouth as he pets one hand down over Derek's heaving chest, working him through his orgasm until Derek feels wrung out and decimated with it.
It's all Derek can do to keep breathing; shuddering long, desperate aftershocks against Stiles as he tries to come down with some semblance of brain function intact, because Jesus Christ.
"You okay?" Stiles says, and Derek blinks his eyes open – focusing with effort on Stiles who looks- wow, just wrecked.
Stiles' eyes are blown and his mouth is red and swollen where Derek's been biting at it. It's a good look on him. Fuck, if Derek had his way, it'd be the only look on him.
Stiles swallows harshly. "Because holy fucking hell, dude – I think you blacked out a little and I'm trying really hard not to die with how hot that was."
Derek doesn't answer, mostly because he doesn't trust his voice yet. What he does do is pull Stiles down so that he can swipe his tongue across Stiles' bottom lip—across the indents where Stiles has been biting it—while he gets his hand down and around Stiles' dick. Stiles is hot and wet—Jesus, so wet—in Derek's hand and Derek feels his moan against his lips.
"Holy fuuuuck," Stiles says, pulling back just enough to bury his face in Derek's neck as he thrusts sharp and unsteady into Derek's hand. "N-next time- ah!"
Derek twists his grip, threading the fingers of his other hand into Stiles' hair as he tries to get his heart back under control. Because, next time.
God, he's so screwed, because he wants that like nothing he's ever wanted before.
Derek growls, feels it low in his chest as he leans in to lick a hot stripe up to Stiles' ear, relishing Stiles' low whine as he does. "Next time, you can have my mouth," Derek says.
Stiles comes with a broken sob, spilling hot and sticky across Derek's hip and it should be disgusting, but it's Stiles. God, Derek's so gone, because he'd lick it up if he could.
"Oh my god," Stiles says, small and broken and perfect against his neck. "Life isn't fair. Why haven't we been doing this forever?"
Derek snorts, running one hand up Stiles spine and trying not to fall in love with the short, jagged little shivers it elicits. "Because you hated me?"
"M'never hated you," Stiles slurs, boneless and heavy limbed with his comedown. It's a contrast to how he usually is—all perpetual movement and jitter—and Derek finds himself pulling Stiles against him before he can think better of it.
Stiles goes with it, sighing into him, pliant and beautiful as he slips down to rest his head over Derek's heart. "You're an asshole, but I never hated you," he says.
"I-" Derek stops; tries to breathe. "I never hated you too."
Stiles just hums against him, even though he must hear Derek's heart almost thumping out of his chest, and reaches over to tangle his fingers through Derek's.
The silence that stretches is easy. Easy and warm and Derek's terrified with how much he wants to keep this forever.
"Rest up, Beethoven," Stiles says. "We're gonna work on your tempo next."
"I-" Derek stops. "Was that a dog joke?"
Stiles buries his face in Derek's chest and laughs until Derek rolls them over and kisses him.