The rain falls languorously to the dark, wet asphalt of the streets in lazy mists, cloaking the whole place in soft, hushed sounds beyond the window. The street lights twinkle despite their dulled metal casings, the yellowing light refracting against the wetness of the ground.
The sky is gradually darkening underneath the toiling velvet clouds whilst the sun strains to beam its iridescent light upon the suburbs in its last few moments of daylight.
Derek’s lying on his back in his bedroom, legs wrapped around Stiles, cool sheets beneath his sweat-soaked skin, hands grappling at Stiles’ hips as Stiles fucks into him over and over and over again.
He has to fight to keep his eyes open, to keep his eyes on where Stiles is huddled above him, vivid red blush splotching over his cheeks, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Derek moves his hands over the globes of Stiles’ ass, to feel the way that he rolls himself into Derek – long, graceful slides of motion that make Derek shiver and hum, he digs his fingers into the skin, feeling Stiles stutter against him.
Stiles swirls his hips, just brushing past Derek’s prostate, making Derek’s spine curve, he swears breathlessly, chanting Stiles’ name like it’s the only thing he remembers.
“Fuck. Fuck,” Derek pants, eyes squeezing shut. “To the left, move to the left.”
Stiles, of course, moves to the right.
“My left, you idiot,” Derek snaps, opening his eyes just in time to catch the annoyed glare that Stiles sends him, though he shifts his aim, with a hard thrust and a throaty gasp, to where Derek wants it nevertheless.
Stiles doesn’t say anything though, Derek has found that Stiles is surprisingly quiet when he’s fucking (it’s a whole different ballgame when he’s the one getting fucked, however) communicating mostly in stolen gazes and heated breaths.
Stiles fucks Derek harder in retaliation, hips driving into Derek, again and again, until Derek’s nothing more than a pile of loose limbs and looser inhibitions.
Sweat drips over the knobs of Stiles’ spine, his hips circling as he pushes that much closer to Derek – driving in deeply before he slows.
Stiles drags his cock out of Derek, breathing heavily, carefully pulling out of Derek so he can move him into a different position.
He leans down to kiss Derek - firm, hard, and idle - smiling lazily as he pants, “Y’re so fucking bossy, man.”
Stiles hooks Derek’s legs over his shoulders, pushing forward so that Derek’s spread wide and their foreheads are touching, mouths hovering just above each other. He reaches back to guide his dick back into Derek, and the way he fucks him then, is nothing short of mesmerizing. It makes Derek’s eyes roll back in his head - short, decadent thrusts that power into him, forcing breath from his lungs with hard, unrelenting grunts, rendering him incapable of speaking, of anything other than the sheer feeling of Stiles’ movements.
Stiles himself has that smirk on his face, when he knows precisely how much he’s affecting Derek, making him tremble and shiver beneath him. Derek rolls his eyes, or tries to at least, but Stiles is rocking up into him, panting heavy and hard over him.
Derek’s hand creeps over to where his own cock lays heavy and full on his belly, the head flushing a deep pink from where it peaks beneath the foreskin, wetted with the droplets of pre-come Stiles has fucked out of him. Derek is tinkering on the edge, just hovering over that sharp, crystalline precipice and he wants it. God, he wants it so badly.
He wraps his fingers over his cock, jacking it fast and steady, the friction is a little too dry for Derek, but all he can concentrate on now is the look on Stiles’ face, the dark, hazy look in his eyes, his spit-slicked lips, the force of his breaths.
Derek can feel his entire body tightening, the muscles in his stomach contracting, his balls pulling up, and all it takes is one long stride of Stiles’ hips, the head of his cock just catching on the rim of Derek’s ass, and he’s coming.
It hits him like a tidal wave - the feeling flooding over him like a buzz, and Derek’s vibrating within his own skin. Stiles’ eyes are steadily on him, perspiration beading over his top lip and the line of his brow, his eyes remaining steadfast on Derek beneath him.
He fucks Derek through his orgasm, until Derek gathers his wits about him and clamps a hand around Stiles’ neck, pulling him closer.
“C’mon, Stiles, give it to me,” Derek pants, voice hitching over his words with each powerful force of Stiles’ thrusts as he speeds up. “Give it to me,” he repeats. “Fill me up.”
It takes a stroke, two, three; and Stiles is stilling above him, his mouth drops open in breathless gasp as he buries himself inside of Derek, filling up the condom, before moaning deep and long in the back of his throat, curving over Derek’s body.
“You sound like a dying whale,” Derek comments breathlessly, trying for a tone of dry idleness but missing it by a long shot, straining not to move his hips too much into Stiles’ oversensitive cock.
Stiles laughs - loud and guttural - panting even as his thighs twitch and push him back into Derek’s tender heat.
“Pot, kettle; sunshine,” Stiles wheezes, absently patting Derek’s chest.
“One of those things,” Derek sighs, “is not like the others.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, but he presses a quick kiss to Derek’s mouth before he’s carefully pulling out, shuffling slowly over to the other side of Derek’s bed on his knees, tying up the condom and lethargically throwing it in the trashcan on the floor.
Stiles throws himself on his back, huffing dramatically and slogging an arm over his eyes. Whereas Derek busies himself with grabbing the hand-towel he’d placed on the bedside table, cleaning himself up before grabbing another one and reaching over to swipe it over Stiles’ groin.
“La petit mort,” Stiles sighs later, as Derek wipes over the crease of his thigh. His voice is distant, like he’s reciting or remembering something long forgotten.
Derek throws the hand towels over to the hamper on the other side of the room.
“I don’t know what you want me to say to that,” he says, though he’s used to Stiles’ random non-sequiturs by now.
“You said I sounded like a dying whale.”
“You did,” Derek agrees.
“And,” Stiles continues forcefully, taking his arm away from his face and pointedly ignoring Derek’s words. “I was having one of those – a little death.”
He looks over at Derek, a slow smile touching his face, and Derek’s smiling back before he even realizes it.
Stiles holds his hand up for a high five, “Good job, buddy.”
Derek rolls his eyes, but he high fives his stupid boyfriend anyway, holding on to his hand after so that he can pull Stiles forward to settle over him. Stiles goes easily, draping a leg in between Derek’s, swinging an arm over his waist and placing his head on the pillow next to Derek.
Derek is stroking his fingers through Stiles’ hair, when Stiles hums thoughtfully.
“You know,” he says after a while. “All of our friends think we’re fucking.”
Derek pauses, side-eyeing Stiles, “We are fucking.”
“Well, yeah, I know that,” Stiles gripes, lifting up on his elbow to gaze down at Derek. “But at best, they think we’re fucking just to fuck, not that we’re in a relationship or whatever.”
“In a relationship or whatever,” Derek parrots dryly.
Stiles ignores him, and he drags the pad of his thumb over the fullness of Derek’s mouth.
“Danny came up to me the other day,” Stiles says, the tip of his thumb dipping just slightly between Derek’s parted lips. “He told me to sort it the fuck out, because the unresolved sexual tension between us was driving him crazy.”
Stiles slides his thumb further into Derek’s mouth, laying it on the flat of his tongue, when Derek starts to gently suck at it, he pulls it back just as slowly, dragging the moisture over to wet Derek’s lips.
“Unresolved, huh?” Derek asks.
"Yeah," Stiles’ eyes flicker over to his, a smile spreading over his mouth. “But you see, they don’t know about how you like to look at me when we fuck.”
“And how’s that?”
“With feelings,” Stiles tells him with an affected grin. “With lots of mushy, warm feelings that you wish you could contain when you look at me.”
“All of the feelings,” Derek agrees gravely. “All of them, Stiles. Hatred, annoyance, dislike, confusion-,” he breaks off with a laugh, muffled amongst the pillow that Stiles smacks against his head before he slinks out of bed.
“Do you want to tell them?” Derek asks, watching the rise and fall of Stiles’ ass as he walks away.
“Hell no,” Stiles retorts, pausing in the threshold of the bathroom to throw a look over his shoulder. “I want to see how long it’ll take them to figure it out.”
It’s a good reason as any, Derek thinks wearily before he turns on his stomach, buries himself under the covers and promptly tries to fall asleep.
He feels like he’s only closed his eyes for all of a scant five seconds when the covers are being tossed off of him, leaving him cold and (lazily) irritated. But then there’s a hard, stinging slap to his bare left asscheek that makes him want to throw Stiles headfirst out of the window.
“C’mon, fangs,” Stiles cajoles. For the love of god, Derek thinks desperately, if Stiles insists on calling him that, there’s no telling what he’ll do.
Derek settles for glaring at Stiles, where his boyfriend is buttoning up his shirt, returning Derek’s look with a grin. “We’re late.”
They are indeed late; though none of their friends seem all that surprised that their arrival seem to spontaneously coincide.
Though, the group aren’t really paying attention. It seems that Stiles and Derek haven’t really missed anything much.
The group, all seven of them, are gathered around Kira and Scott’s shitty little coffee table, staring at the box of doughnuts amongst the containers of food they had had delivered.
There are twelve doughnuts in total, in three neat rows of four, more than enough for every single one of them.
The glaze spread over the doughnuts is thick and almost translucent, oozing over the side of the box.
Yet, not one soul moves forward to pick one out.
Derek frowns, “What’s going on?”
“Um,” Erica says, mouth puckered in a perfect ‘o’; she looks to Boyd helplessly.
“That,” he says, pointing to the doughnuts on the table. “that does not look like-”
“That’s jizz,” Allison interrupts shrilly. “That looks like jizz.”
There are loud mutterings of reluctant, concerned agreement all around.
“Ah,” Stiles says sagely, nodding at Boyd and Erica on the other couch. “I can see why it’d be a little hard to swallow.”
Derek rolls his eyes, fits himself at the edge of the couch. Everybody on his side seamlessly shuffles over; and they shuffle over once more when Stiles decides to squeeze in beside Derek.
“It’s not semen,” Derek refutes, ignoring Stiles’ everything.
“You’d know,” Stiles comments idly.
Derek levels him with a hard look. Stiles smiles sweetly.
Lydia grimaces, “Could you honestly be more disgusting?”
Stiles tears his gaze from Derek, “Oh, yeah.”
“Back to the point,” Boyd says sharply. “I’m not touching the delivery boy’s jizz with a ten foot pole.”
“You should call that delivery boy back here and have some words,” Stiles demands, brows furrowing faux-seriously. “Give him a right mouthful.”
“It’s not semen,” Derek reiterates.
“How’d you know,” Stiles asks, bony elbows digging into Derek’s side. “Did you take a good sniff? A good ‘ole deep sniff of that dirty mess.”
“That’s disgusting,” Erica tells him. “You’re disgusting.”
Derek, unfortunately, agrees with her. Beside him, Stiles presses his hand to his heart.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Erica tries so hard to eviscerate Stiles with a single look; looks like she's getting there, too.
"Stiles?" Derek asks quietly.
Derek manfully tries to ignore the fluttering of happiness in his chest and the pretty colour of Stiles' eyes.
Stiles, however, decides to ignore both Derek's warning and Erica’s death ray glare and he sits up a little, catching Scott’s eye across the room.
“I double-dare you to eat one,” he challenges, whipping out his phone. At Scott’s reluctance, he cajoles, “C’mon, buddy,” he whines. “Do it for the vine. ”
Scott doesn’t do it for the vine.
But they do move on to topics that are far more interesting, mainly, Stiles and Derek’s relationship.
Which Derek is stupidly, foolishly proud of and he wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulder with relish.
Smirking smugly at the look of stupefied surprise on their friend’s faces when Stiles pats Derek's thigh and admits that no, he isn’t, “hittin' and quittin' it” and that yes, he does fully intend to “put a ring on it.”
Stiles’ smug gaze also sweeps around the room, cataloguing their friends’ reactions gluttonously, before it settles on Scott. Scott who is systematically deconstructing his burger, looking all calm, collected and completely uninterested in the entire situation.
Stiles’ face falls hilariously fast.
“Scott?” he exclaims, voice a little strained.
Scott hums in question, though it takes him another second to take the attention from his food and direct it towards Stiles instead.
Next to Derek, Stiles raises his eyebrows and his arms jerk in front of him, gesticulating wildly in, what Derek translates to mean: the fuck, brah?
Scott still looks blank-faced, holding a limp piece of lettuce by his fingertips; he glances down quickly, looking like he really wants to get back to his food.
“I’m dating Derek,” Stiles near yells, and it’s pathetic how those words still make Derek’s stomach swoop with giddy excitement.
Scott lifts an eyebrow, shaking his head like he got lost halfway into the conversation. “Yeah?”
“Derek,” Stiles stresses, waving a hand in front of Derek’s face. “Your arch-nemesis, Derek?”
Kira raises her brows, leans towards Allison to muse quietly, “Do people even have those anymore?”
“It’s Beacon Hills,” Danny reminds her, sitting on her opposite side. “Obviously.”
“We’re not enemies anymore,” Scott tells Stiles, looking severely concerned, or as concerned as he can look when he’s this tipsy.
“But it's Derek," Stiles further exclaims, driving his finger into Derek's shoulder. "Your big-brother wannabe jerky-jerk.”
Derek elbows him in the stomach.
“Oh,” Scott says, frowning hard. “Was I meant to act surprised?”
On the other side of the table, Lydia pinches the bridge of her nose, sighs deeply.
“Wow, you guys,” Scott starts saying, voice purposefully tight and wooden, eyes too big and earnest. “I’m so surprised, you really kept that one under the radar? I’m your best friend and I didn’t know at all.” Stiltedly, Scott continues, even as Stiles goes beet red. “I never even knew what the moon eyes you were making at each other even meant - the texts messages? The smell of the two of you all over each other? I mean, wow.” He blows out a breath, cheeks puffing up, “You’re so stealthy. The stealthiest. The most stealthy of all time. I-”
“Shut up,” Stiles hisses, cheeks pinking up in consternation. “Just shut the fuck up, Scott. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“You can’t get a Porsche,” Boyd is telling Allison. “Porches are for douchebags with virility problems.”
“Like Jackson,” Stiles chirps eagerly. Preening at the collective snort of laughter from the group.
“Wait,” Kira says, eyebrows crinkling in confusion. “Who’s Jackson?”
There’s a pause as everyone carefully ingests this. There’s an even longer pause, as everyone trades stunned looks.
Kira looks from person to person, growing more and more anxious as the silence pervades. Carefully, she hazards, “Guys?”
Stiles’ mouth drops open, and he catches the look of utter astonishment on Scott’s face, because it’s been three years and they completely forgot to fucking mention Jackson to Kira – or at least, discussed him at length with her.
Stiles is sure that they’ve talked about Jackson in Kira’s presence, but somehow the universe hadn’t thought to include her in amongst the passionate declarations of all of the bullshit they barely survived.
Eventually, the spell of silence is broken by Derek’s long and woeful sigh.
“Jackson Whittemore,” he says, rubbing his thumb and his index finger into the corner of his eyes. “What can be said about Jackson Whittemore?”
Stiles’ gaze snaps to Lydia, who’s watching him with unabashed glee; but Erica beats them to it.
“Jackson Whittemore is a great big bag of dicks.”
Lydia smirks at her, “I hear his hair is insured for ten thousand dollars.”
“I hear,” Allison says next. “That he’s doing car commercials. In London.”
They all turn to Derek, eyebrows raised in expectation. He rolls his eyes, adjusting the way he’s sitting, wrapping his arm more securely around Stiles’ shoulders.
“This one time,” Derek says, voice pitched high, lifting his eyebrows loftily. “I turned him into a homicidal walking snake.”
Boyd chokes on his drink.
Scott and Stiles burst into loud guffaws of laughter. It's childish, immature and so damn delightful that Derek can't help but be swayed by their fit of giggles. Both of them are hunched over, wheezing jagged puffs of air, faces reddening with each passing second.
“Huh?” Kira balks, her eyes are huge and round as she regards Derek.
“He turned into a giant, murderous lizard,” Scott clarifies, wiping stray tears from beneath his eye.
Danny shrugs, “I told him he was pretty.”
Stiles takes a deep, calming breath and rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, hiding his laugh in the material of Derek’s shirt. “Another time I hit him with my car," he says. He then turns to grin at Scott, and singsongs, “It was awesome.”