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Stiles’ lips are parted, pretty and pink and swollen, hot breath panting out into Derek’s mouth, sweet from coke and tootsie rolls. His cheeks are bright red, lovely, his eyes dark and damp. Every shocked inhale hides a desperate attempt at Derek’s name, Derek Derek Derek, while he scratches at Derek’s shoulder blades with useless blunt fingernails. They’re pressed chest to chest, no space between them, Stiles’ prettily flushed dick trapped between their bellies.
Derek hitches him a little higher up against the wall, pressing his cock in deep with every thrust of his hips, all the way in, inside Stiles’ tight little hole where it’s hot and slick for him, where Derek got him all wet and open with his tongue and fingers. Stiles keens, head knocking back against the dirty white plaster, baring his throat.
“Yes,” Derek croons, lapping at his pulse to feel Stiles’ heart beating fast and urgent against his tongue, “That’s right, pet, all for me. Only for me, all mine, give me-”
He lets Stiles feel his canines, a light pressure of them right there against the vulnerable skin covering his artery, revels in the stutter of Stiles’ breath, his involuntary sharp high moan of fear. He can feel it surging through him, the need to take, to claim, a greedy imperative too sweet to ignore; he moves just a little, to the soft curve between Stiles’ neck and shoulder, bites.
Stiles yelps, clenches around Derek’s dick, while Derek soothes him with a soft nip to his earlobe, breathes out, ‘good boy’, drunk on the taste of him, the sounds he makes, the heat of him inside, the soft give of his plump little ass cheeks against his hips. Derek can already feel himself swelling, feels the glowing hot pleasure curl under his skin.
Stiles gasps, ‘It’s too. Fuck. I can’t-’, eyes squeezed shut, sweat drop running down his temple, straining. His thighs are trembling where they’re clasped tight around Derek’s waist, where Derek is holding him up with gripping claws. “I can’t do it, Derek. Pull it out, take it out-”
Derek ignores him, pushing in hard, groaning his release, loves how Stiles’ little ring of muscle stretches for his knot, how Stiles whimpers and pulls hard on his hair. He holds Stiles still against the wall, licking at the trail of blood on his collarbone happily.
Derek spends all of the next day in Stiles’ bedroom, waiting for him. He’s impatient the entire time, pacing the room back and forth, agitated. Not even Stiles’ smell calms him; it merely reminds him of his absence. He wants to go to that fucking high school and drag Stiles here himself, but is expressly forbidden to do so, angering him even further, like he can be commanded like some sniveling mutt.
“Holy shit.” Stiles says when he comes home, clutching at his chest, “dude, we’ve talked about this, quit it with the breaking and entering, you’re gonna give me a heart attack-”
Derek is already moving, nostrils flared, vision red.
“Let me see it. Take that off right now, I have to see it.” he hears himself growling, ripping and tearing at the blue T-shirt hiding it, covering up his mark, he knew it-
“- the hell are you doing? Derek, what–” and then Stiles gasps in startled pain when Derek bites into his skin, reopening the wound. Derek shivers at the taste of it, dark and heavy, licks the angry red cuts with lavishing slides of his tongue.
“Fuck,” Stiles is saying, over and over, “fuck, fuck” and then, “I’m still sore, you can’t–” when Derek picks him up, splays him out on the unmade bed. Derek snarls, tearing at his belt, glaring until Stiles opens his, babbling something about psychotic werewolves that Derek ignores in favor of turning him over on his stomach.
“I think we should try to communicate better.” Stiles says, later, limp and dozing on Derek’s chest.
Derek growls noncommittally, fingering the new set of teeth marks on the back of Stiles’ right shoulder.
He’s on his fifty-third push-up when he feels Stiles coming. He’s still ten minutes away, more than enough time for Derek to finish up his set, but Derek is immediately out of focus. He stares out the window instead, waiting.
The moment the truck’s engine turns off, Derek is ripping open the driver’s side door, pulling him out, Stiles, who half-yelps half-laughs, flailing his arms for balance. Derek kisses him, sucks that pouty bottom lip between his teeth, tasting him.
“Mmmph,” Stiles moans, hands coming up to grip Derek’s biceps, “you’re always shirtless,” he says between kisses, bewildered, amused, laughing. Derek lays him out on the brown leaves of the forest floor, kneels between his legs.
“I’m trying to set an example,” he says hoarsely, ripping Stiles’ non-descript black T-shirt to shreds, to reveal his pale skin, his smooth muscled chest, his red red wounds. Derek nuzzles at them softly, where his scent still lingers, intertwining seamlessly with Stiles’.
“I actually came here to tell you my dad’s gone this weekend.” Stiles puts a hand over his face, giggling, “We have the house all to ourselves.”
Derek puts all of Stiles’ shirts in a garbage bag and hides them on the roof of the house, just in case he gets any ideas.
“Seriously.” Stiles’s reflection in the mirror says, twisting his bare body to try and see the marks Derek left right there low on his back. Or maybe the ones he left on his hip. The ones on his shoulder?
“I got the message.” Stiles says.