Stiles doesn't even know how he ended up here, how this became his reality. One minute, he's sitting in his room with Derek, watching Robin Hood, and the next thing he knows, the two of them are submerged nipples-deep in a conversation about respective kinks and turn-ons. Stiles wants to tell Derek that he is every single one of Stiles' kinks and turn-ons, but he isn't feeling bold (or sappy) enough for that. Instead, he just tries not to trip over his words as he tells Derek how much he likes the idea of two people getting each other off through their clothes.
Stiles figures that must have something to do with being a teenager. Something about the desperation, the race to finish before getting caught. Whatever it is, it isn't without a little bit of liquid courage that he was even able to admit it to begin with. It'll take more than two shots of Jäger for Stiles to confess the rest. For him to tell Derek how he fantasizes about Derek finger fucking Stiles while he jerks himself off, coming all over Stiles' still-hard cock and then using his own jizz as lube to fuck himself on Stiles' dick.
That one will definitely have to wait.
Yeah, he and Derek are friends — maybe even more than that, though Stiles is never quite sure how to define that "more" part. Seriously, they don't have sex, so he can't consider them fuck buddies. They've done... stuff. Fun stuff. Perfectly awesome, Stiles-approved stuff. They just haven't got to the actual penetrative part of sex yet, which is okay, he tells himself. More than okay, really. If Derek would rather wait for that, that's fine, as long as the rest of the touching and sucking and mutual orgasms don't have to stop. There's a lot of kissing, though, a lot of touching that Stiles very much enjoys and wants more of, but Derek seems to hold back.
Stiles has spent plenty of nights fantasizing about how to get Derek to let go. How to make him lose control, just a little bit. Just enough to pin Stiles down and fuck him into the next week. (His imagination designates no specific roles for either of them, both fucking and being fucked at regular intervals.)
Okay, so maybe not a little bit. Stiles really wants to see that flash of need in Derek's eyes, that glint of something feral that means Derek is just as far gone as Stiles is. It never happens, though.
They're alone in Stiles' room, ignoring the movie that's playing on his laptop in favor of making out and rubbing each other off through their clothes, and god, as much as Stiles would love to get Derek naked right now, to touch him everywhere without any barriers between them, he really does love this.
Stiles slips his hands down the back of Derek's jeans, grips his ass and rolls his hips up into him. Derek drops his head down in the crook of Stiles' neck, rough stubble scraping against sensitive skin, and groans. He's still for a moment as Stiles continues to grind up against him, and then Derek is reaching back, grabbing Stiles by the wrist and pulling his hands out of his pants. He brings them up one-by-one and pins them to the pillow above Stiles head, pressing him into the bed and Stiles can't help the desperate moan that passes his lips at the feel of that; Derek, heavy and hard against him, sucking kisses into his neck as he thrusts his hips.
He wants this so fucking bad, wants Derek to pin him down and fuck him long and hard so that every time Stiles tries to sit down for the next few days, he'll be pleasantly reminded of the feeling of Derek deep inside him. It doesn't happen that way, though. Much to Stiles' dismay, it never does. Derek releases his hold on Stiles' wrists, licks into his mouth with a deep and filthy kiss that tastes like desire and leaves Stiles aching with need, and then moves down Stiles' body.
He undoes the button of Stiles' pants, slides the zipper down in a slow, teasing manner, and then pulls Stiles' cock free. It's over before they really even get started, Derek swallowing him down and sucking him like his life depends on it, and while it definitely feels fanfuckingtastic, Stiles is getting a little tired of Derek's sleight of hand and distracting magical blowjobs.
Stiles squirms uncomfortably in his seat, trying to maneuver himself just right to work the lacy underwear out of his ass crack. It's only making it worse. He gives up all pretense of manners and shoves his hand down his pants to right them instead. This day can't go by quick enough.
If he were smarter— or maybe just a little less anxious to get to the main event— he would have thought to wait until after school to put them on, right before Derek comes over for the evening.
Scott shoots Stiles a questioning look from his seat across the aisle, but Stiles shrugs him off and goes about finishing his history assignment.
Derek looks nervous when he finally arrives, and Stiles isn't exactly sure why, but he thinks it must be a reflection of how he's feeling himself. Derek can sense it, and no matter how hard Stiles had tried to convince his nerves to chill the fuck out, he's still tense.
They've never tried anything adventurous before— not like this. Stiles isn't even sure Derek will like it. He's waging his guess on the way Derek's face lit up when skimming through Stiles' spankbank on his laptop the other day, the way his attention lingered on the photo of that hard dick being restrained by tight, lace knickers. And, yeah, Stiles does call them that. Because he can. He doesn't even care one little bit that Derek had laughed at him for saying it, because he really likes the little crinkles by Derek's eyes when he smiles, and no one ever gets to see that but him. The teasing didn't last long anyway, Derek's attention drawn back to the computer screen quickly.
God, Stiles loves that photo. He really hopes he isn't reading this wrong.
Derek sits down on the edge of Stiles' bed, fingers laced together in his lap and gazing down at them like he isn't sure where else to look. Stiles clears his throat, draws Derek's attention to himself, and offers a small, reassuring smile.
"You doing okay?" he asks.
"Yeah." Derek nods. "I just... it's been a long day."
"You're telling me." Stiles shifts around a bit, the soft lace of the underwear rubbing against the head of his half-hard dick, and, oh, that's... that's kind of nice.
Derek slides his hand up Stiles' thigh and leans in to kiss him. It isn't like their usual kisses. Derek seems tense, reserved. Stiles loops an arm around his neck and groans against Derek's lips. He hopes his little display of enthusiasm will help to relax Derek a bit, but it doesn't seem to.
Stiles pushes back. "Okay, what is it?" he asks, adjusting the pillow behind him and scooting back. He needs to put a little bit of space between himself and Derek, or his dick is going to start thinking for him. Any other day, that might not be so bad, but clearly, there's something on Derek's mind, and Stiles doesn't want to be that guy, teenage libido be damned. "Did you change your mind about tonight?"
And that, right there, seems to be hitting the nail right on the head. Derek looks up from the threads of the blanket he seemed to be studying so intently, his expression almost pained, and Stiles sighs. He knows what this is about.
"We don't have to do anything if you don't want to," he says. They had talked about it before, plenty of times. Stiles knows Derek won't even touch him if he's been drinking, which is why Stiles wasn't able to do anything to calm his own nerves before Derek showed up. He's okay with that, really. He gets it, and he'd much rather have a perfectly clear head the first time they have sex anyway.
They've discussed their fantasies, their desires, and Derek has held up his promise to bring all of Stiles' to reality so far. Stiles knows Derek's, too. He knows that Derek is a secret romantic, that he likes to maintain a meaningful and intense sort of eye contact during sex. It took Stiles a week to get that out of him and, okay, so Derek didn't exactly put it that way, but still. He knows that Derek likes kissing and touching and being as close as he can get. He's also knows that, as forceful as Derek presents himself in other situations, he isn't a big fan of letting the animal side of himself slip out during sex. Stiles attributes this particular reservation-slash-insecurity (because that's what he views it as) to be the fault of Kate Argent, the harpy slutbag who broke Derek before breaking everyfuckingthing else.
Stiles doesn't know what — or, more specifically, who — Derek did in the time between Kate Batshit-Crazy Argent and Jennifer Face-Fucked-by-a-Werewolf-in-More-Ways-than-One Blake, but obviously, he's had some psychologically damaging sexual experiences in his lifetime.
"I just don't want you doing anything you're not ready for."
Stiles steels his nerves, fists his hand in the front of Derek's shirt and tugs him forward. "Trust me," he says against the curve of Derek's lips, "I'm ready."
It isn't that Stiles thinks he has to seduce Derek to get him into bed. Derek just needs a little reassurance that Stiles wants him, and he does. He really, really does. Stiles just wanted to do something nice for him, too. Which explains the awkward shopping trip he took yesterday to pick out the perfect pair of pink lacies, and the uncomfortable day he's spent trying to keep them out of his ass.
Stiles kisses Derek, slow and gentle at first. There's no rush, his dad is working the graveyard shift and won't be home all night. He kicks it up a notch when he finally feels Derek relaxing into it a bit, parting his lips against Stiles', and Stiles seizes the opportunity to dip his tongue into Derek's mouth.
It's warm and welcoming, with the potent taste of Derek's minty toothpaste overriding his natural flavor, and Stiles smiles into the kiss when he thinks about the probability of Derek having brushed his teeth three times before coming over tonight. (Derek has a touch of obsessive compulsive disorder, and an affinity for the number three.)
Derek shifts into a more comfortable position over him, bracing his arms on the mattress at either side of Stiles as Stiles scoots down the bed so he isn't leaning on the uncomfortable headboard.
It's nice this way, kissing Derek while his hands are free to wander and explore the curves of hard muscle and soft skin. Stiles sighs a little, arching up to deepen the kiss as Derek fits his hips between Stiles' parted thighs.
They'd talked about this last night on the phone, before Stiles drifted off to sleep; the sex thing. Stiles wants it, he makes no secret of that. Hell, even everyone on the lacrosse team knows Stiles has been trying to get laid for over a year now. But it's different with Derek. It isn't the desperate desire to get off just so that Stiles can lose the seventeen-year-old-virgin label. He trusts Derek. He knows Derek will make it good, and that, after six months of building up to it, it won't just be a one-off for either of them.
Derek grinds down against Stiles, licks into his mouth and moans at the combined sensation. Stiles walks his fingers up the back of Derek’s shirt, tugs the fabric taut across Derek's shoulders and groans against his neck.
"Off,” he says. “This needs to be off, right now, all of it.” Clothes bad.
Derek sits up on his knees and strips his shirt off, tossing it to the end of the bed. There’s a look on his face that Stiles can’t quite decode— too thoughtful, maybe— and then Derek is up off the bed and moving away from Stiles.
“God, that’s so not what I meant when I said ‘off’, dude.”
“Relax,” Derek says. “I’m just closing the door.” He turns the lock on the handle, then crosses the room to secure the latch on the window, too.
“That’s probably not necessary. You’re the only one who climbs through my window.”
Derek shrugs, his back still turned to Stiles as looks out into the night. “Wouldn’t want Scott coming by and hearing you scream.”
Okay, Stiles isn’t really sure what to do with that. His whole body is firing a rapid succession of mixed signals that are crossing and tangling together between insane levels of arousal and the notion that Derek’s little promise-slash-threat should probably worry him, at least a little bit.
Because Stiles has little-to-no sense of self-preservation when it comes to Derek, arousal wins.
“I take it that means you aren’t changing your mind then,” Stiles says.
“Take off your clothes, Stiles. We’ll see how it goes.”
Stiles wants to say more, wants to erase that nervousness he can feel emanating from Derek despite the mask of domineering wolfboy confidence, but Stiles isn’t feeling all that confident himself right now, so he just does as he’s told— for the first time in recent memory.
He slips his pants off, feeling more self-conscious than he thinks he ever has in his life. He doesn't know what Derek's reaction will be to the lacy knickers he's wearing. Will he think Stiles has lost his mind? Stiles goes back and forth with the idea of losing them altogether before Derek even has the chance to turn around. He settles for tugging the blanket back over him, then he takes a deep, calming breath, scoots back against the headboard again and waits for Derek to turn. He watches the muscles in Derek's shoulders shift and roll as he removes the rest of his clothes, and then just stands there, with his back to Stiles.
Stiles is rapidly losing what little nerve he’s managed to hang onto tonight, worried that Derek really doesn't want this at all, doesn't want Stiles.
Derek turns to look at him, somber and stone-faced, and Stiles tries to hold the expression of determination on his own face, but, unsurprisingly, he ends up cracking. Derek looks so incredibly intense that Stiles just laughs, which is probably awful for Derek's secretly fragile ego, but he can't help it. This isn't them. They aren't the super serious, deadly straight-faced type. Not when they're alone together anyway. It isn't right, and Stiles would rather not pretend right now. He wants it to be good for both of them, not nervous and awkward and something they'd both rather shove off to the side and forget about later.
Derek's face softens, his mouth relaxing into the tiniest hint of a smile as he crosses the room back over to the bed. He sighs and his shoulders slump, standing there, hovering over Stiles.
Stiles decides pretty quickly that he's going to have to lead this little show if he doesn't want it to be a complete disaster.
“Look, Derek,” Stiles says, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around Derek’s wrist (after a fleeting second of considering wrapping them around his dick). “I wasn’t just saying that earlier; that we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I mean, I almost promise it’ll be awesome, but if you’d rather wait for some other time, I’m cool with that.”
If there’s a polite way for a person to wrap his scary-strong hand around someone’s neck, Stiles is pretty sure Derek has just found it. His thumb drags along the tendons of Stiles’ throat as he slides his hand around the back of his neck. Derek leans down, nudges Stiles’ jaw to tilt his head further. He sucks a small, biting kiss to Stiles’ neck and then moves up to kiss him properly. Before it’s over, when Stiles is completely breathless and glossy-eyed from it, Derek pulls back only enough for Stiles to feel his lips moving against his as he speaks. “It will be fucking awesome, Stiles. No almost about it. And I’ll consider it a huge failure on my part if you’re able to walk tomorrow.”
“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says, unable to really think beyond that. Just, oh fuck.
Derek stands up straight again, naked and hard and looking like he hasn’t got a single fuck to give in the entire world except for the one he’s about to give Stiles. He tugs Stiles’ blanket off of him before Stiles even has a chance to register the motion. Derek’s eyes go wide, his awesome act of confidence tripped up by the sight before him.
And there it is: that feral look in his eyes that Stiles has longed to see directed at him. Derek crawls back onto the bed and drops down between Stiles' parted knees. His breathing is shaky and uneven already, sending a thrill through Stiles.
He drags his hands up Stiles' inner thighs, pressing them apart and slipping his thumbs up under the lace of the underwear.
"Did you do this for me, or is this a regular thing of yours I didn't know about?"
Stiles shrugs one shoulder. "Did it for you. But I can make it a more regular thing, if you like it."
Derek closes his eyes and rocks forward on his knees. When he opens them again, his gaze fixes on Stiles' dick, on the lace underwear, and Stiles has never been more proud of himself in his life. Not even when he was six years old and taught himself how to ride a bike. Nothing compares to that look on Derek's face, and Stiles put it there.
"I like it," Derek says. He shifts back and leans down over Stiles, traces the outline of Stiles' dick through the panties, first with his fingers, and then with his tongue. He nips at the lace with his teeth, and Stiles can actually feel the rumble in Derek's chest as he growls, low and deep.
Derek's breath is hot against the head of Stiles' cock, ghosting through the thin, holey fabric. He presses his tongue to the lace, sucks it between his lips and moans, sending a vibration right down to Stiles' balls.
"Oh, God, Derek," Stiles says, threading his fingers through Derek's hair.
Derek sucks the head of Stiles' cock through the fabric, rubs his lips back and forth against Stiles' shaft, and fuck, Stiles is gonna come before Derek is even inside him.
Derek presses his thumbs down against the lacy fabric on either side of Stiles' dick, blows through the lace and chases the breath with the tip of his tongue. Stiles makes the great mistake of looking down as Derek does this, watching as Derek nuzzles against him.
Derek keeps his thumbs pressed firmly around the head of Stiles' cock, trapping him there as he moves down to mouth at Stiles' balls through the fabric. And, yeah, that's already about all Stiles can handle of this. He shifts his legs, attempts to scoot up and away from Derek, but the look Derek shoots him is almost vicious, barely controlled and a little bit frightening, so Stiles stops, holds still and just watches Derek watching him, eyes alight with the lust of a predator who's just cornered his prey.
Derek squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and when he opens them again, they're back to their human green and Stiles releases a heavy sigh.
"Please," Derek says. "Just like this, just this once."
He sounds completely wrecked, on the edge of begging, and before Stiles can even form a response, Derek's mouth is back on his cock, spit leaking between the tiny holes of lace in the panties and Derek's fingers slipping into them from the top, knuckles pressing into Stiles' skin. He flicks his tongue against Stiles' dick, swirls it around to soak the fabric with spit.
Derek alternates between lips and just the hot moisture of his breath caressing Stiles, and when he presses his thumb to the vee on the underside of Stiles' dick, Stiles twitches with the sensation before the force of his release is crashing through him. He forces his eyelids to stay open, watches as his come spurts through the tiny holes in the lace. The front of the panties are soaked with it, and Derek just stares for a moment before pressing his tongue to the fabric again, licking and sucking Stiles' come through the lace.
Stiles is oversensitive now, and the lacy fabric feels scratchy and rough against his skin, but Derek seems to be enjoying it so much that he doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop.
Derek licks up every last drop of come, sucking it through the lace panties with filthy slurping noises and moaning his appreciation against Stiles' hip and lower belly.
Stiles thinks he should probably be at least a little bit grossed out by that, but the noises Derek is making as he twists his fingers into the thin fabric at Stiles' hips, the edge of a slightly less-than-human groan that crawls up out of his throat, the heat of his breath on the wet head of Stiles' dick are all acting in direct counterpoint to any logic his brain is trying to fire his way. Stiles has never been so turned on before, which is only all the more confusing for him considering he's just come and his dick seems to think he's completely sated.
Stiles glares down at his cock, willing it to cooperate. What he gets instead is an eyeful of Derek's rumpled hair between Stiles' legs, a clear view of his lips and tongue working the front of the pink underwear. And then Derek looks up at Stiles, pupils blown so wide they seem to eclipse the vivid green of his irises, and he growls. He fucking growls. At Stiles. And, yup, that's it. That's all it takes. Stiles is one hundred and ten percent completely and painfully hard again, the tip of his cock poking out over the top of the panties, shiny and slick with come and Derek's spit, and Derek sucks him in again, this time without the barrier of lace between his agile fucking tongue and Stiles' cock.
A shock of pleasure-pain shoots through Stiles and for a second, he actually entertains the idea that Derek is trying to kill him.
Stiles whimpers and swats at the top of Derek's head, but it only serves to encourage him. Derek swirls his tongue around the head of Stiles' dick, sucks at the very tip before finally pulling back and allowing Stiles to catch his breath.
"Jesus fuck, Derek," he chokes out.
Derek just smiles at him wickedly, and then he's scooting up into a more promising position, his knees pressed to the back of Stiles' thighs. Stiles barely has the coherency to wonder if he's going to finger him open before pushing inside. He should probably at least make some attempt to gesture toward the lube on the bedside table, but his limbs feel like jelly and he can't find the energy to muster even the smallest shred of give-a-fuck.
He'd let Derek do pretty much anything he wants to him right now, no questions asked.
Derek drags his thumb over the front of the panties, tracing the outline of Stiles' dick. Stiles lifts his head off the pillow to take in the sight. Derek's looking down at the lacy underwear, stroking Stiles reverently as he jerks himself off.
His dick looks so hard in his fist that Stiles wonders if it actually hurts.
"Don't you dare," Stiles manages to say. "If you want to come all over these knickers, you'll just have to be nice when you take them off so that we'll have them for next time. But you need to be inside me right the fuck now, Derek." That's a lot of words for someone whose ability to brain has been jizzed out. Stiles would pat himself on the back if he could move.
Derek's smile is soft this time, and Stiles really wants to kiss him. He wants to taste all of Derek's smiles — smirking and cocky, tentative and sweet — memorize the way they feel against his lips, know the shape of them forever.
Derek slows the strokes of his hand on his cock. He drags a thumb along the edge of lace, then tugs it off to the side.
"I think I'll leave them on for now, fuck you just like this." Derek spits on his fingers, presses them to Stiles' asshole and starts to rub in tight circles.
The sensation sends a fresh pulse of blood to Stiles' cock and he's somehow suddenly even harder than he was before.
"Don't make me beg," Stiles says, tossing his head back and twisting his fingers into the sheets. He will. He doesn't even care how it makes him sound or what Derek will think of him later. If Derek wants him to beg to be fucked, Stiles will do it.
Derek reaches up Stiles’ body, takes ahold of his hand and draws it up to his mouth, presses a kiss to the heel of it. He sucks on the side of Stiles’ wrist, drags his other hand down Stiles’ forearm and back up again. Stiles’ heart skitters as he watches, as Derek turns his hand, licks at the skin stretched over Stiles' wrist. Stiles has no idea how something so sweet can be so fucking hot, but it is.
“Is this arm working okay?” Derek asks, massaging little circles around Stiles’ elbow.
“Yeah, I think so.” Stiles kind of wants to tell him to keep rubbing it, but that may be pushing it. Besides, he’d much rather Derek rub other things.
“Good.” Derek drops his arm and sits back with his hands on Stiles’ knees. “Grab the lube.” He gestures toward the bedside table.
Stiles reaches for it. It takes a few attempts because he can’t seem to drag his eyes away from Derek’s, but his fingers finally close around the tiny bottle and he tosses it to him.
Derek doesn’t miss a beat, catches it easily and pops the cap in one smooth motion. So smooth, in fact, that Stiles misses most of it, and only realizes it when he feels Dereks fingers pressed to his hole again, slick and warm.
Derek slips one in, slow, easy, stopping at the first knuckle and just watching Stiles. Stiles wriggles his ass, pushes up onto Derek's finger and they both hiss at the sensation.
Derek works him open quick and rough, just the way Stiles had wanted him to, scissoring and corkscrewing his fingers, knuckling against that spot inside him that makes Stiles cock spurt precome through the lacy fabric of the underwear.
When Derek finally replaces his fingers with his dick, buries himself in Stiles in one long, smooth stroke, Stiles cries out with pleasure. It's so much better than he had led himself to hope for, so much better than his own fingers or Derek's, though Derek's are pretty fucking awesome, too.
Stiles unconsciously drags his fingers through the sticky pool of precome, painting his skin with it over the edge of the panties before Derek takes his hand and sucks the fingers into his hot mouth. He slips his tongue between them, licking away every last drop before setting Stiles hand back down again and rubbing the length of Stiles' dick through the fabric.
"You taste so good," he says and Stiles' cock jerks.
Derek hooks an arm under Stiles' knee, hitching his leg up to spread him open further, and Stiles hisses in a sharp breath at the new, deeper angle.
"Holy glittering ballsack of Christ, Derek." Stiles isn't sure why his brain chose that particular exclamation of surprise, but it is what it is.
Derek's hips stutter, a huff of laughter escaping him, but he doesn't ease his grip on Stiles' leg or his dick as he continues to fuck into him.
"I don't even know how you have enough blood in your brain to think right now," Derek says. "Your dick is so fucking hard." He squeezes Stiles' cock, clenches his jaw as he watches it give a little twitch beneath the lace. "Is this not good enough for you? Not hard enough to keep you incoherent?" Derek punctuates every other word with deep thrusts that hit Stiles' prostate over and over.
Derek levers himself up, bracing one hand beside Stiles' head and holding Stiles' leg up on his shoulder as he slams into him, practically folding Stiles in half with the force of each thrust.
Stiles throws his head back, opens his mouth to respond — or maybe just shout, or curse, or moan— but it feels as if every ounce of energy in him is coiling low in his belly, a hot, tight sensation deep within him spiraling out of control.
This time, when he comes, it's with the continued ruthless pounding of Derek's dick against his prostate and a blinding white light behind his eyelids that could very well be death.
Stay away from the light, he tells himself. Though, death by dick-to-prostate? Probably not a terrible way to go.
Derek sits back, stops moving finally, holding still long enough for Stiles' vision to return to normal. He releases his hold on Stiles' leg, dropping it back down to the bed and shifting Stiles around to slide the lacy underwear off of him. Derek tosses them to the floor, resumes his position between Stiles' thighs and pushes back into him in slow, careful rolls that don't go nearly deep enough but still keep Stiles full, stretched, and completely aware of Derek's presence inside him.
Stiles whimpers. He isn't able to muster anything else, but the smirk on Derek's face begs for some sort of response.
"Don't touch," Stiles says, batting Derek's hand away from his dick. "Too much."
Derek chuckles, and the vibration of it goes right through his cock and into Stiles.
"Come on, Stiles," Derek says, his voice gravely and low and the sound of it alone draws the most whoreish moan from Stiles. "Don't tell me you're done with me already, because I'm not finished with you yet."
He pulls almost all the way out, pauses until Stiles blinks his eyes open again and finds Derek's, watching him. When Derek is satisfied that Stiles is still fully with him, he rocks back in slowly.
Stiles tries to speak, tries to tell Derek he just needs a minute, but his breath hitches and what comes out instead is a squeaky whimper as Derek presses down over him, covering Stiles' entire body with his own.
Stiles isn't really surprised that he's still mostly hard— he's a teenager, for God's sake— but he is a little shocked that he's managed to come twice and Derek is still going like the fucking Energizer Bunny. Werewolf stamina, he reasons.
"Say something," Derek says before pressing his lips to Stiles' throat.
"Dick magic," Stiles manages. He isn't sure what he was supposed to say. Probably just anything to let Derek know he's still alive and coherent.
Derek moans and parts his lips against Stiles' neck. His barely-noticeable rocking sends gentle little waves of pleasure through Stiles, and after a minute of that, Stiles' brain is actually able to transmit enough information to his limbs to get them to move. He loops his arms around Derek's rib cage and flattens his hands against the muscles of his back.
Derek's skin is slick with sweat, and hot, and Stiles wants to trace every line of him with his tongue, lick the salt from his fucking gorgeous body.
"What was that about?" Stiles asks.
Derek's mouth is still open against Stiles' throat. He only breaks contact long enough to respond. "Just want to feel you everywhere." He licks Stiles’ throat, kisses the underside of his jaw.
"God, you should come with a warning label," Stiles says, canting his hips up to meet Derek's movements.
Derek groans and sucks a kiss into Stiles' neck. He's keeping his lips there just to feel the vibrations when Stiles speaks, and it only serves to remind Stiles of Derek's softer, sweeter side.
Stiles thinks that, maybe, because Derek's a big, strong werewolf-slash-bodybuilder-slash-underwear model, no one's ever really been gentle with him before. Maybe everyone he's been with had assumed they could take what they wanted because they couldn't hurt him, and if they did, he'd heal. Maybe, just like Stiles, they wanted him to claim them, to take them as rough and wildly as he could. It isn't how Derek always wants it, Stiles knows that. And even in his completely fucked-out state, he's still all for pleasing Derek in any way that he can. Giving Derek anything he wants.
Stiles slides his hands down Derek's back as he leans up to kiss him, sweet and slow. His dick is still too sensitive, and every drag of it against Derek's lower belly sends sparks zinging through his veins, but Stiles does his best to ignore it, to focus his attention on Derek's lips, his tongue, the corners of his mouth.
Derek braces his arms beside Stiles and pushes up, just enough to look Stiles in the eyes as he sinks back into him a little bit deeper, causing a heated flush to rise in Stiles’ cheeks, drawing a long moan from him that’s stretched so thin at the end he can barely hear it himself.
Derek takes his time, slow and gentle and not deep at all, but it's so fucking good, like Derek is filling up all the vacancy inside of him. Stiles touches Derek everywhere he can, dragging the flat of his hand over slick skin and taut muscles, looping his other hand around the back of Derek's neck to pull him down for more of the mind-melting kisses.
Stiles’ whole body hums with the pleasure of being fucked this way, Derek’s movements slow and measured, careful and calculated like he knows how it’s affecting Stiles, like it’s exactly what he’d planned all along.
Understanding dawns on him, and Stiles has to hold back a laugh when he finally gets it. This was Derek's evil-awesome plan all along; to fuck Stiles hard and deep, the way Stiles has been wanting— but only to wear him out so that Derek can take his time, slow and gratifying after he's taken Stiles apart and rendered him completely powerless.
“One more time, Stiles.” Stiles is surprised by the thickness of Derek’s tone, the want streaming through every syllable. “Come for me just once more. I love feeling you from the inside like this, so tight around me.”
Stiles spares a thought for Derek’s questionable good guy-bad guy persona, how he used to be sort of a really creepy and intimidating question mark. Derek is so much more than that now that Stiles knows him, but he still sees a bit of that strange balance peeking through. The way Derek is covering Stiles with soft kisses and tender touches, conveying his affection in the gentle slide of his body, all the while still able to say such filthy things that, even with his cock buried in Stiles’ ass, Stiles spread out and pinned down beneath him, naked and vulnerable, the words still manage to make a blush rise in his cheeks.
Stiles does come then, with Derek’s tongue in his mouth and fingers in Stiles’ hair, with Stiles’ fingers twitching unwittingly against Derek’s flank and his back arched. Derek’s hand isn’t even on Stiles’ cock this time— just the hard plane of his belly and Stiles’, the slick slide of sweat-damp skin, but it feels so fucking good, like his orgasm is being pulled from every direction, twisting and roiling inside him, and it feels like it won’t ever stop. But then it does, and everything is so calm around him, like the ambiance of the fucking room itself is sated, reduced to a low hum of pleasure.
It may be his imagination, or possibly the fact that he’s so incredibly sensitive after coming three times already, that everything is intensified, but Stiles is almost certain he can feel the fat vein on the underside of Derek’s cock swelling as he pulses wet inside him. Derek groans into the curve of Stiles’ neck, presses parted lips to his collarbone and licks the sweat from his skin. He’s still rocking into Stiles, slick and hot and even though Stiles can barely move himself, he almost hopes Derek doesn’t stop.
"I should have known you'd go for three," Stiles says sometime later, after Derek's maneuvered him away from the wet spot and curled around him from behind.
He laces their fingers together on Stiles' chest, presses a kiss to his bare shoulder. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, but Stiles can hear the smile in his words.
He wants to list the numbers off like The Count from Sesame Street— one, two, three, three orgasms, ah-ah-ah— but his brain is too sleepy to cooperate and he's sure he'd come off just making an ass of himself, so he settles for dragging Derek's hand up to his lips and kissing his palm instead.
"Nothing," he says. "Unimportant."
Maybe his over-active imagination is playing tricks on him, or maybe it's a subliminal projection from his dreaming mind, but Stiles is sure he hears Derek as they're drifting off to sleep, whisper I love you into the dip behind Stiles' ear.
"Good," he thinks, or maybe says. "I love you, too."