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Derek is approximately two decibels away from breaking down the wall that separates his dorm room from the obnoxious occupant of the room next to his. It’s been an hour, nearly an hour and a half, and the blaring music that’s been seeping through the drywall and into his room is still as consistent as it was when it first began.

He ignored it at first -- like he would any other noise that occurs in the resident hall at these hours -- in hopes that it would have quieted shortly after it began. But this was Stiles, and with Stiles, well, he can’t expect much out of him and he can’t say that he ever has, so why Derek felt like this specific time Stiles would maybe actually keep his music down, he doesn't know. What he does know is that he should've never given the loud-mouthed, spastic, doe-eyed clumsy know-it-all (better known as Stiles Stilinski) the benefit of the doubt. His expectations were so, so low.

And yet, Stiles still didn't meet them.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. In fact, there’s been multiple occurrences where Stiles has played his music or his video games or his obnoxious television shows way too loudly. At this point Derek’s 99% sure that he can recite every episode of Rick and Morty there is, and he’s never even laid eyes on the show.

The noise only ever bothered Derek, too (go figure), since Derek’s room was the only one connected to Stiles’. The bastard had an end room, with Derek on one side and a staircase on the other, thus, it was only ever him who got the severity of Stiles’ inability to hear.

He’s talked to their RA about it. Multiple times. Many times. A plethora of occasions. Nothing's ever happened, and Derek didn’t figure out until halfway through the first semester that Stiles and their RA were best fucking friends -- practically womb-mates -- and that Scott didn't have the heart to kick Stiles out or write him up for the frequent noise. If anything, Stiles was given a stern talking to and big ole puppy eyes that didn't even phase him anymore, and it was left at that.

Derek would report the both of them, since that was pretty much the only thing left to do at that point, but it was halfway through the year already and honestly? Derek wasn’t an asshole. He wouldn’t want to be that dick who got a fellow student kicked out of their dorms (and left struggling to find a place to stay off-campus) over a noise complaint. He wasn't that petty.

But tonight -- tonight was unbearable. It was nearing midnight, on a Friday (of course, he couldn’t even file a noise complaint if he wanted since quiet time wasn’t until after 1am on the weekends) and although he doesn’t have classes tomorrow or Sunday, he still isn’t planning on falling asleep to the sound of Ariana Grande muffled through his walls. It's nearing finals, and Derek needs his sleep now more than ever.

He wants to find whatever device Stiles is playing it on and smash it against his desk; throw it in the drawer, pray that it doesn’t fit, and then try to make it fit anyways with a few good shoves.

So that’s how it started the string of events that got Derek from point A (laying on his back in the dark, pillow over his head and noise still leaking through) to point B (outside of Stiles’ door with his fist raised, hovering over the wooden door that has Stiles’ name messily written on the outside white board, a tongue emoji next to it with hockey sticks and the Skyrim symbol badly drawn in the top left corner). Technically speaking, it was Tove Lo that started it. Then Selena Gomez. Then The Weeknd. Then a few more artists he doesn’t recognize: something foreign and something similar to what Derek thinks a rebelling ex-boyband member would sing.

It’s when the music changes from Ariana Grande to Rihanna (which, like, fucking really?) that Derek decides that Stiles doesn’t deserve his respect of knocking and instead grips the door handle and pushes it open. He doesn’t have a thought about boundaries or the fact that he’s totally invading Stiles’ privacy by just barging in like he is, but you know what? Stiles clearly doesn't have any respect for him, so why should he?

It’s not like Stiles notices he’s there, anyways. With the door wide open Derek stands beneath the framework and is fully succumbed by the sound of Rude Boy blaring through the little speaker (one of those extremely small but extremely loud bluetooth ones) on the nightstand next to Stiles’ bed. On said bed lays Stiles himself, comfy on his stomach with his head towards the front of the bed so that he can’t see Derek’s presence.

That in itself was not Derek’s concern -- Derek’s concern was the fact that Stiles is laying on his bed in tight, white underwear and tube socks and is swaying his hips (which really just looks like he’s rubbing his dick into the mattress) in time to the highly suggestive lyrics. Other than that he’s bare and all skin, the muscles on his back to the paleness of his legs all visible.

On a normal day Derek wouldn’t give an absolute shit -- shit, with anyone else he wouldn’t. But in said previous rants, Derek may have forgotten to mention that another reason he didn’t report him was because Stiles was too damn attractive. He hated himself for this stupid crush he’d developed on the one person that managed to irritate his soul like no other, but honestly -- if he got kicked out, who else would Derek secretly gush over every time he caught him in the stairwell or passed by him in the hallways? Nobody else, that’s who. Although Stiles is incredibly loud and seemingly self-absorbent with his inability to care about the impact his loud ass may have on Derek’s concentration and sanity, he is also one of the most attractive people Derek has ever seen, with his stupid black hair and dumb freckles and impossibly nice cheekbones.

The sight of Stiles in his underwear is slightly alarming, but nothing Derek can say he gets his knickers in a twist over (he may have a crush but he’s twenty years old, god damn it. He knows how to keep his composure, even around cute guys with a pretty upturned nose and soft looking hair on the backs of his thighs), so he’s confident when he coughs through the music and pounds his fist on the open door.

“HEY,” he shouts, loud and clear over the sound of take it take it and love me love me, and Stiles barely moves like he’s startled. Derek stares stupidly, brows furrowed in an attempt to be as angry as he’d been before he saw the clothes (or lack thereof) Stiles chose to leisure in, as the other male looks over his shoulder, sliding a knee up to twist his torso and sit up more as he stares behind himself and looks directly at Derek in his doorway. The new position of his legs has the white fabric on his bottom stretching tight over the globes of his ass. Derek is confident to say he only stares for a second at the dimples in his back that have formed.

Stiles finally turns down the music, resting on his elbow with his phone in hand.

“Hey, man?” Stiles says hesitantly with uncertainty, brows cross, like he couldn’t possibly have a clue as to why Derek’s suddenly at his door. “What’s up?”

“Your music,” Derek answers when he’s finally done staring at Stiles’ mouth. There’s a distinct moment when he looks from Stiles’ lips to his eyes and he knows that Stiles saw it clearly. He makes no move to mention it, and Derek continues speaking smoothly. He’s angry, remember? “Seriously, Stiles, how many more times do I have to ask you to turn your music down before you get the hint? It’s getting old at this point.”

“It’s Friday,” Stiles says pointedly with a half attempt at a one-armed shrug. “It’s the weekend. I know you don’t have any classes tomorrow, what’s the big deal?”

“What’s the- Maybe I wanna sleep?” Derek argues, squinting at Stiles because honestly? The fucking nerve. He seriously doesn’t give a flying fuck who he bothers with his… slut music.

Stiles checks his phone. “It’s 12:03, it’s barely past midnight. It’s not even quiet hours yet.”

“Okay?” Derek mocks. “And the opposite of quiet hours isn’t fucking ‘blare your music so loud Derek can’t even masturbate in peace if he wanted to’ hours.”

"Oh," Stiles says, giving Derek a look, and Derek wishes for the hundredth time in his life that he wasn't so bad at registering emotions. He can't tell if Stiles is playing at something or genuinely looking concerned or confused or what, the slight turn of his head and twitch of a smile doing nothing for him. "Did I interrupt something?"

‘My sanity’ Derek wants to say. He opts with an angry "What?" instead, pressed on the fact that Stiles is only focused on Derek getting himself off and not the fact that he's a loud ass motherfucker.

"I was just asking if I'd interrupted you,” Stiles explains, turning all the way over to his back, leaning on both elbows. One leg sticks out and the other bends so that his foot is beside his knee, sprawled out to the side and exposing a lot of real-estate space -- mountains galore. Derek feels his mouth go dry, though his face remains vacant of all emotions. If he’s giving off any expression he hopes it’s only irritation -- if that was even an expression, Derek doesn’t have a clue at the moment.

"I was just trying to sleep," Derek tells him more calmly now, a tone that's seconds away from faltering at the sight of Stiles' hand moving to his stomach, right on the lower part of his tummy where the band of his underwear stretches around his hips and masks the tussle of hair leading south. It's then that he really notices the prominent bulge that's slightly tenting Stiles’ underwear, a sleek curve nesting beside the clear outline of his balls, which brings Derek to a clear conclusion: Stiles wasn’t a show-er, he was hard as fuck.

Even still, Derek ignores it and presses on. Grown man. Twenty years old. Remember? "I'm just asking you to please keep the music down, okay? I know Scott isn't going to do anything but it's really getting out of hand. It's loud, Stiles. I should honestly report you."

"Really, Derek?" Stiles questions. His brows lift comically, the hand on his abdomen slowly inching downwards. "Is that what you should be doing now?" Fingers dance between his legs, tracing the visible outline of his dick. "Reporting me?"

Not a sound peeps out of Derek's mouth, his gaze too fixated on Stiles' hand cupping himself shamelessly. He's half in awe at the guts of this kid, half stunned that the cute guy he's been ogling since the beginning of the school year was currently touching himself in front of him, not a care in the world. Suddenly, Derek forgets why he even came there in the first place (right, yeah, the loud music, yeah, but… did that really matter anymore? There were more pressing issues at hand, thanks).

"Are you sure there isn't any way I can convince you otherwise?" Stiles asks, voice sickly sweet as he glances from his dick to Derek. "No way at all?"

"Like how?” Derek swallows, throat suddenly tight and palms clammy. He's not nervous, only unsure, and he makes a face that he's pretty sure is coming off as neutral or confused, even, like he’s genuinely feeling. This was a complete turn of events.

But then Stiles stops all movement and takes his hand away, and Derek realizes that he might be glaring at Stiles instead. He’s never learned to read emotions just as he’s never learned how to properly express them. He could be the happiest bastard on the planet and still have a sour look on his face. So really, the fact that he was scowling shouldn’t have been a surprise.

Stiles sits up and runs an awkward hand through his hair. “I- Listen, if I'm reading this wrong just let me know so I can stop weirding you out. I’ll keep the music down I just thought-”

"Not wrong," Derek tells him, taking a brave step into the room. To make certain of his words, he gives Stiles a clear view of him locking the door, staring pointedly so that Stiles knows that he means it. “Not weirding me out.”

Oh,” Stiles repeats, more wonder in his voice than before as Derek makes his way over to the bed and climbs over the loud-ass, not an ounce of hesitance nor doubt as he crashes his lips against Stiles’. He feels the sharp intake of breath Stiles takes beneath him, and the mere of thought of that (that he’s kissing Stiles) has Derek’s head reeling, his thoughts twisting and somersaulting around in his mind. He has to take a second to retreat and stare at the boy beneath him, an awkward few seconds he sacrifices just to assure himself that this is real and he’s not acting irrationally.

(He is, but Stiles is too, so Derek decides that they cancel each other out and it just doesn’t matter, alright?).

“How’d you know?” Derek asks, nosing along Stiles’ jaw, void of stubble but the hint of a shadow peaking through. He shaved recently; Derek can still smell the hint of aftershave. His skin feels smooth on Derek’s tongue as he marks the spot he plans to sink blunt teeth into, one hand on Stiles’ waist, the other pressed into the mattress beside his head.

Stiles brings a hand to the back of Derek’s neck and holds him there, secure, humming with his head tilted back. “I saw you staring,” he says. “A lot, like a fucking weirdo.” Derek squeezes his hip. “In the stairwell, on my way to class, that one time at Starbucks- fuck.”

Teeth dig into a tendon at the curve of Stiles’ throat and he hisses, dragging blunt nails over Derek’s scalp and tugging on his hair. He yanks Derek’s head back and stares at the spit already sloppy on his lips from working his mark into Stiles’ throat; it’s like something he’d imagined so many times from his dreams, and Stiles is bent on not waking up.

Determined to continue, to keep this going before either of them come to their senses and back out, Stiles closes the sliver of a gap between them and brings a second hand to Derek’s neck, caressing his face like it was something fragile and not currently using the mouth attached to tattoo teeth marks into his bottom lip.

The hand Derek had on his side slides down his thigh, brushing through the light forest of hair and hooking behind his knee. Derek hitches his leg up and Stiles allows it willingly, locking his leg over Derek’s and pressing, pushing him down so their hips could meet and the sweet shock of touch could run through them. He feels Derek moan into his mouth; hears it too, and he rolls his body upwards like he’d been doing before when dancing to the music in a daze.

Said music keeps playing softly in the background, barely noticeable through the rushing in Derek’s ears and the steady pulse humming alongside it. He grinds his pajama-clad crotch down against Stiles’, feeling himself already beginning to harden.

With a shudder he nudges Stiles’ face to the side, kissing down his neck and over his sternum, between the center of his ribcage and dipping his tongue into the swell of his navel. Stiles watches the entire way down, and the entire way back up, Derek’s tongue dragging a straight line up the middle of his stomach and over to swirl around Stiles’ nipple. He squeaks when Derek’s teeth gently bite down on the nub, legs falling wider on instinct, his cock leaking through his underwear.

“You have no idea how hot you are,” Derek tells him, tweaking his other nipple with his hand and dropping the other to his crotch, quick in getting it under the cloth and around Stiles’ dick. He hasn’t even seen it yet but he knows, he just knows it’s probably the prettiest cock he’s ever seen. It feels like it, if that’s all he has to go by, a good length and weight to it like it was made for Derek to wrap his fingers around and tease, a thumb at the slick tip that makes his mouth water. He’s so fucking ready for this.

“Could say the same about you,” Stiles says, dreamlike, his head tossed back and every inch of him exposed. It’s a stark contrast between the two boys: Stiles’ bare body compared to Derek’s fully clothed one, still in his baggy PJ bottoms and off-white t-shirt.

Derek notices this, quickly, and, almost like he’s trying to prove Stiles’ point to him, he takes the hand on Stiles’ chest away to reach for his collar at the nape of his neck. Stiles opens his eyes and watches how easily he manages to pull to fabric over his head and off his torso with one hand, his hair tousled in the aftermath. The gesture shouldn’t really impress Stiles, but the hand still on his dick tells him otherwise as Derek tosses the shirt to the floor and locks his gaze on Stiles once more.

“How far are we taking this?” He asks, softening his grip between Stiles’ legs and tentatively pulling his hand out to lean on the mattress. Like a child not getting what he wants, Stiles makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat at the loss of everything. He sits up, eye-level to Derek and all sorts of up in his business (that beard stubble was practically 4K Ultra HD this close). Shameless, he crawls over Derek and sits in his lap, and Derek takes note of the way Stiles is looking at him: like he’s in awe, like he’s a painting come to life; it makes his heart pound and his palms sweat.

Guiding him, Stiles urges Derek to place his hands on his waist, tiny and nearly delicate in Derek’s hold. His hands are big, sturdy, smoothing the skin up and down his sides before yanking Stiles closer, their chests flush.

“How far?” Derek asks again, looking Stiles up and down like he already knows the answer. Stiles’ arms come to his shoulders, elbows resting on them and a smirk on his face.

“You decide,” Stiles says, dancing his fingers through Derek’s hair. “I’m down for anything.”

“Don’t give me that option,” Derek laughs, dropping his head to Stiles’ chest and kissing his collarbone. He adds, quietly, “I’d ruin you.”

“Anything.”

With that, Derek manages to somehow get Stiles’ legs wrapped around his torso while simultaneously pushing Stiles to his back, hovering over him with one hand steady on the mattress, the other pushing at his own pants messily. Stiles helps, shuffling the fabric down over his thighs. Derek reluctantly backs away to remove them completely; he doesn’t want to be an inch further from Stiles, but he knows if they’re going to do this he needs to be free from his clothes. He wishes he could just snap a finger and they’d be gone, but this isn’t Hogwarts and he’s not a god damn wizard, so while he’s sitting back and tossing his pants to the floor he grabs at Stiles’ underwear and rids him of them too.

He does it so quickly that he’s not even thinking of the fact that he’s just practically torn Stiles from the only confinement he’s got, and now he’s laying underneath him with a blushed chest and fully hard cock curved between his legs. He drags his own underwear off and makes them even, chucking his briefs across the room without a second thought and getting right to business as Stiles scrambles backwards on the bed, heading towards his array of pillows. Big hands push Stiles’ thighs up and wide as Stiles reaches a clumsy arm to his bedside table, fingers tightening around a bottle of lube just as Derek’s tongue fits itself into Stiles’ ass.

He moans, (shocked) and swears, (loudly) and Derek doesn’t complain; he’s not next door, and there’s no one else to hear the noises that come from this room for once. So he encourages these sounds from Stiles, coaxing them out of him the best he can, diving his tongue in and out and around and all over, fucking him in a way Stiles has never felt before. Seriously -- none of his boyfriends before this had been into this, and none of his hookups felt the need for this “foreplay bullshit” one had so generously called it, so the feeling of actually being eaten out for the first time in his life had his stomach in a knot and his balls close to home, tight against his skin already.

He nearly wants to tell Derek to stop; they’re barely a minute in and he’s already feeling like he’s gonna nut any second, but he wills himself through it and just relaxes and enjoys it without worry, head thrown back, mouth open, legs spread, dick leaking. Derek gets a clear view of the muscles flexing in Stiles’ throat from his position down yonder and he suppresses a whine, ready to lean back and ask if he’s ready for a finger yet (rather than just surprise him with that too) when Stiles grabs at his hair with both hands and tightens, keeping him in place.

He takes the hint and runs with it, staying put for a few more minutes and deciding it was finally time when Stiles’ hips started undulating upwards into nothing. He retreats with a breath of air and leans to the side, resting on his elbow and slipping his arm underneath Stiles’ thigh to hook over his leg and keep him steady as he presses his middle finger to Stiles’ hole. It slides in easily, beautifully, with absolutely no resistance. Even still Stiles gasps, staring down between his legs and laughing.

“That’s a first,” he says, already breathless.

“What is?” Derek barely mumbles, watching Stiles take his ring finger too, a soft moan trickling out.

“Everything,” Stiles answers, surprised he’s even comprehendible. “The tongue fucking. And the- the finger. The easiness. The-“

“This?” Derek slides his fingers in and out, repetitively, keeping eye contact and watching Stiles bite his bottom lip with his brows cross, nodding quickly. He keeps at it then, quick movements until Stiles is crooning and grabbing at his shoulders, haphazardly yanking him to eye-level.

“You’re gonna fuck me, right?” Stiles asks, gaze darting and mouth ajar, inviting.

“If you want me to, yeah,” Derek breathes, hot air washing over Stiles’ lips, his free hand around Stiles’ thigh and holding it to his side. Stiles answers with a desperate roll of his hips, nodding.

“Oh, one-hundred precent yeah,” he says eagerly, nearly bashing Derek’s head with the inside of his thigh when he flops to his side and reaches around his bed to under the mattress. Derek sits up and watches him pull a condom from the sheets, smiling at the soft curve of his hips and the tiny mole sitting near a back dimple.

When Stiles hands him the wrapper he takes it with a stupid smile on his face, and when they make eye-contact again both boys blush -- until Derek rips the plastic open and shoves Stiles’ back to the mattress, a soft huff of air escaping him. He bites his lip and lets Derek fall between his legs again, almost too easily.

With the condom on and Stiles’ feet planted firmly on the mattress, Derek lines himself up and waits for the little nod Stiles gives, pretty pink lips parting into a subtle-

“Oh, fuck.” His fingers dig between Derek’s shoulder-blades as he sinks in, grip tightening the further he goes, Stiles’ head tipping back. It’s such a pornographic sight and it hits Derek like a ton of bricks. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to litter his throat with marks and bruises; leave hickeys and love bites trailing over the muscles fluttering with every inhale.

“‘s’it okay?” Derek breathes against Stiles’ chin, nipping and kissing where his breath is condensing on the skin. Stiles nudges down to meet him, capturing his lips in a kiss and moaning into his mouth as he drags out again, slowly.

“Mhm,” he answers, short and sweet, poking his heels into Derek’s bum to press him in again. There wasn’t much pain, if any, which Stiles was surprised by; normally he at least felt some sort of discomfort or tension, but with Derek there was none. Just the fullness of it all and the buzzing in his ears. “You can go harder.”

“Okay, just... here, gimme-” Derek doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence, cut off instead by the pressure on his lips and the hands fisting in his hair. Stiles’ knees follow shortly after, bracketing against Derek’s sides like he’d read his mind and knew exactly what Derek was keening for.

Blind, Derek reaches for the back of Stiles’ knee and pushes his leg up, stretching him further until the pocket of his leg lays heavy on Derek’s shoulder.

Jesus-” Stiles startles, breaking away and giving Derek a clear view of his bottom lip trembling, teeth caught on the bright pink flesh. They lock eyes and Derek has to physically hold in the growl he feels in his chest, leaning his head into the hand that Stiles pets along the side of his face, scalp to neck two or three times, frantic, like he can’t decide what to do with himself. He catches Stiles’ thumb in his mouth momentarily on the last go. “That’s fucking good.”

Derek chooses to not say anything, responding with a roll of his hips again. It’s easier this way, with Stiles spread open beneath him; easier to drive into him and leave irreverent noises in their wake.

He’s imagined this before -- not a hundred times, and not in a way where he was madly in love with Stiles and crooning over him like a blushing bride -- but he’s thought about this more than once. All those times then, late night in his dorm (on the rare occasions Derek wasn’t utterly annoyed by the blaring music simply because it was one of the few times that Stiles actually hadn’t been blasting any) with his hand down his pants and sweat on his brow didn’t compare to this. Not in a million years.

He doesn’t think anything, in fact, would ever compare to what fucking Stiles feels like now -- what it looks like, what it sounds like to have Stiles laid out before him, pliant and willing and letting out breathy moans with every thrust.

And with every thrust he falls into a steady rhythm, slowly picking up speed until Stiles’ mouth hangs open permanently, wet and obscene. With his arm wrapped around the leg on his shoulder and the other hand on Stiles’ other thigh, Derek leaves crushing bruises inked into Stiles’ skin, using sheer body mass to keep him in place, his strength to pull Stiles back when his body slinks away from the force. The headboard of the bed they’re on gently knocks against the wall, shadowed by the thump of the music and the creaking of springs.

Stiles’ voice adds to the mix not long after, gasping and clinging to Derek’s upper arms in a sudden movement. Derek sees the desperation in his eyes, how they’ve clouded over and how his lids have gone heavy. Determination sinks in and Derek surges forward, accepting the hands cupping his cheeks when they crash together once again, separating and resting their foreheads on the other.

“There?” Derek asks, rocking his hips upwards again, like he had just seconds before when Stiles’ senses blurred.

“Yes.” Stiles moans into Derek’s mouth, hot and whimpering at the way Derek’s not moving, just idling his hips in tiny circles and rubbing against that spot inside of him. His legs start to tremble from the feeling, eyelids fluttering and the urgency sinking in, holding his breath. “Oh my god, Derek, fuck -- please.”

“You wanna come?”

Please Derek, yes.”

“You gonna keep your music down then?” Derek teases, unsure where this is even coming from, but fuck it, he thinks. He’s got him right where he wants him. Besides -- the look on Stiles’ face is worth it.

“What?” Stiles asks, screwing his brows down and pushing his face against Derek’s more when Derek presses in harder. He bites Derek’s ear and breathes down his neck, shaking on his elbows holding up his weight.

“I think you heard.” He starts moving again, slowly, kissing the side of Stiles’ face and neck again, up and down his jaw playfully. “The music. Promise me you’ll keep it down from now on -- unless I’m in here, like this.”

He rears back, chasing Stiles’ expression, smug at the look he gives; resistant and full of annoyance, but compliant nonetheless with the desperate nod he gives.

“Yeah,” he agrees, rolling his hips in a silent pleading notion. “Anything for this again. You got it. It’s Silent Library in here from now on-”

“Can I finish you off now?” Derek brings a hand between them, slowly trailing towards Stiles cock between them, leaking against his stomach and an angry shade of red. Really he just needs Stiles to stop talking. Just for the moment. It’s too much and he can’t think, not when he’s this close. “Or do I have to fuck it out of you?”

“Can we do both?” Stiles hums, spitting into his palm and stroking himself once before Derek even has a chance, replacing his hand with Derek’s and planting his own spit-stained hand to the back of Derek’s neck. “‘Cause I’d really love for you to do both.”

“Quiet,” is all Derek says before licking into Stiles’ mouth and flicking his wrist, snapping his hips until Stiles can barely move under his weight; until his lips still and his stomach tightens.

Derek doesn’t need a warning, the subtle stuttered breaths melting into his enough to let him know that Stiles was coming, hot and heavy into Derek’s hand. The moment itself sets Derek off seconds later, soft encouraging words drowning into his ear through the ringing that follows.

What succeeds after Derek pulls out is silence between the both of them, only the sound of gentle breathing as the two come down from their high and the gentle thrum of ‘I-I-I-I just wanna watch you when you take it off’ and that seems to be what breaks the silence -- more specifically, it’s Derek’s loud snort that cuts through the air around them.

Hovering over Stiles he reaches over to the nightstand and grabs at the small speaker, looking it over to find the power button and switching it off.

“I can’t believe I just had sex to whatever the hell music you were listening to.”

And that -- that is what Stiles looks offended by. And it’s cute; the look on his face, like he’s trying his hardest to convey to Derek that he’s fucking mad.

‘Whatever the hell’-” Stiles mocks, scoffing, shoving a hand around his sheets to find wherever his phone had been shoved to and unlocking the screen, using his thumb to scroll through what Derek can only assume is his Spotify account. “It’s my thot playlist.”

“I’m- your what?” Derek asks, unsure he’s hearing the words coming out of Stiles’ mouth correctly. For a moment he wonders if maybe he’s still buzzing from coming but no, this kid is 100% serious. “Did you just-”

“You heard me right, my thot playlist. The Weeknd, Rihanna, Tove Lo, Chase Atlantic -- that’s a good one.”

With a shake of his head Derek climbs off of him, pulling the condom off and disposing it in the process. He sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed and feels awkward for a moment. He knows that they’re both clearly okay with what happened, but the afterglow was never really a glow for him; more like a weird cloud that hovered over him uninvited.

It’s short-lived, thank fuck, and Derek only has Stiles and the way he sits up next to Derek to thank for that. He realizes that most of his hook-up’s end in awkward silence because he doesn’t have much to say and, well, the guys he gets with never really want to talk in the first place.

But Stiles is a chatterbox, and all too observant, and when he leans into Derek’s side he’s only surprised for a second.

“You’re not gonna run out on me, are you?” Stiles asks, and Derek turns to look at him, the want in his eyes. The need.

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

He shakes his head. “You can stay -- and not because I have massive feelings for you, alright? I just feel like we need to get you cultured on the beauty of my music taste.”

“I’m well-versed in it I think,” Derek replies, allowing himself to be laid back with Stiles onto his pillows, the two laying side by side with Stiles’ phone between them for Derek to see. “You don’t really have a music taste outside of that one fucking Ansel Elgort song.”

Thief,” Stiles corrects him. “And it’s a good song. Also surprised you even knew who sang that. You really are gay, huh?”

“My dick in your ass didn’t give it away?”

“It’s 2018, Derek, we don’t conform to linear sexualities and their expectations.”

Derek rubs a hand over his face, jokingly wondering to himself if this was going to be a mistake.

“Anyways-” he begins, immediately cut off by Stiles putting another song on the bluetooth and cranking the volume up again. He climbs over Derek’s hips and sits himself on his thighs.

Anyways,” he mocks, talking over the song, dancing his fingertips along Derek’s torso. “Took you long enough.”

Derek cocks his head, bringing his touch to the thickness of Stiles’ thighs and silently hoping he can contain himself with a very naked Stiles atop him. “For what?”

“To take the fucking hint,” Stiles says like whatever the hell he’s talking about should have been obvious all along. “It shouldn’t have taken this long for you to walk in on me in my underwear, dry humping my sheets to all the annoying shit I listen to.”

“So what, you’re saying you-”

“Planned it? Kind of sort of set you up? Purposefully tried to annoy you with music because I think you’re hot and like the way your face looks when you’re irritated? No, never.”

The grin that comes over him is absolutely insane, and Derek irrationally loves every inch of it, the grip on Stiles’ thighs tightening. His head lulls back slightly when Stiles shifts his hips to the music, slowly, and when Derek looks down to where they’re touching he sees Stiles’ slowly stiffening again. Stiles notices, licking his lips pointedly when Derek looks back up again.

“You wanna... Round two?”

“No,” Derek says, sitting up and grabbing Stiles’ ass in a fitted handful, drinking in the gasp with a smile. “Never.”