“Sometimes I want to skin you,” Derek murmurs one day against the flushed expanse of Stiles’ back. They are lying on Derek’s bed, tangled together in an intricacy of warm limbs and slow breaths, and Derek is nosing at the crack of Stiles’ ass, lazily licking away the copious dribbles of come trickling out from Stiles’ red, relaxed hole.
Stiles blinks. “Okay,” he says, pulling himself up on his elbows and turning towards Derek. “Just so you know, that’s a pretty murderous thing to say.” Not to mention creepy as hell, but Stiles is the one who suggested Allison put an arrow in Derek’s head not less than a few weeks ago, so who is him to judge?
In reply, Derek’s fingers slide over the sweaty curve of his lower back, short nails lightly scraping over Stiles’ tailbone, sending little waves of pleasure running up his spine. He gives a last, long lick to Stiles’ hole, loud and wet and shameless- “You are like an enigma,” he murmurs, head tilted to one side as he studies the sweet, perfect way his fingertips sink into the soft flesh covering Stiles’ hips.
Stiles swallows, not sure of where the conversation is going anymore. “I don’t understand,” he breaths out, shuddering when Derek’s hot lips skid against the hollow at the base of his spine, pressing a kiss there before moving up.
The afternoon light is filtering between the curtains, making the sheets look impossibly white, and Stiles picks a rebellious feather pocking out from the pillow, closes his eyes as Derek ascends his body, slowly, one inch at a time.
“Neither do I,” Derek says against his cheek, broad, solid chest pressed against Stiles’ back. His hands lightly caress Stiles’ arms, palms running from shoulders to wrists, fingers interlacing with his. “Neither do I,” he repeats, but his kiss tastes like a promise.