This isn’t hate sex, because if it were about hate, that would mean he cared. It’s apathy sex. Stiles is engaging in no holds barred, rough, pained, uninterested sexing.
So it’s kind of weird that he’s so fascinated by the hollow of Derek’s throat. He can’t seem to stop himself from licking there, feeling the rapid beat of a pulse against his tongue. It’s salty-sweet and smooth like a warm knife through butter and it’s kind of short-circuiting his brain.
Right. Apathy sex. Now he remembers. Derek’s got one hand against the back of his head, blunt fingernails scratching along his scalp, the other is awkwardly tucked between them, undoing the buttons of his checkered shirt. It’s quick and it’s slow by turns, the world narrowing to this moment, this place. Stiles could get used to the taste of Derek, the feel of all the solid muscle beneath him, the sounds he’s obviously trying to swallow. Stiles grunts as Derek digs his nails in hard near his neck.
“Move,” Derek says, voice deeper and grittier than usual --- more how he should sound than reality typically dictates.
Stiles moves. He shifts forward, straddles Derek’s hips as opposed to crouching over him like before, doesn’t protest as Derek finishes unbuttoning his shirt and yanks at it to pull it off his shoulders. Derek’s eyes are intent, and the intention behind them is a cross between ‘I will devour you whole’ and ‘I want you to devour me.’ Stiles grasps hold of the hem of his t-shirt before Derek can get his claws on it and lifts it up and away. And he is way too into this to feel self-conscious, but the second he gives to recognizing Derek’s expression, he doesn’t think he needs to be. He pushes at Derek’s shirt within another second and helps him throw it to the other side of his room.
They kiss. It’s more like a crash of lips, teeth and tongue, but it’s the closest thing Stiles has had to kissing, so; they kiss. Derek settles his hands on Stiles’ waist and pulls him down, tight, just as he grinds up. That provokes a shudder --- something whole-bodied and uncontrollable. There’s, like, four different pieces of material between them --- hell, maybe even only three, Derek doesn’t seem socially adept enough for the niceties of underwear --- but the heat that’s soaking between them feels like it’s being applied directly to his skin. In the best way. Stiles rolls his hips forward and is rewarded with a nip to the corner of his mouth. Derek’s teeth don’t break his skin, but not for lack of trying. Stiles mirrors the action and Derek thrusts up again while sucking on his lower lip. Stiles is frankly impressed that Derek can thrust so seemingly easily, he’s got his whole weight on him, but, then, Derek’s muscles have muscles and he’s also got superpowers. Maybe it’s not so impressive. That doesn’t stop it from being hot.
It’s inevitable, really, that Derek should flip them. He should have seen that one coming. It isn’t done gently or with any kind of care. Stiles’ shoulder cracks into the wall with a painful thump and he’s about to complain, but Derek’s tugging on his jeans zipper and any and all words die on the tip of his tongue. All that’s left is something that strongly resembles a whimper.
Derek looks up, eyebrows drawn, lips curled up in something that isn’t really a snarl.
“Should I stop?” he asks, fingers moving away, far away, Stiles cranes up to attempt to get them back.
“What? No! I would very much like you to continue.”
Derek’s eyes darken and the not-snarl turns into a definite smirk. “Very much,” he echoes, easing Stiles’ waistband off his hipbones. The night air is cool against his exposed skin, against the precome slick crowning the head of his cock.
“Just so you know, this doesn’t change the fact I think you’re wrong,” Stiles says, wanting to grab back some semblance of superiority. “I’m not angry, but your opinions are bad and you should feel bad.”
“And why aren’t you angry, Stiles?” Derek asks, tracing his fingers over Stiles’ rapidly hardening cock.
Stiles shrugs the best he can, given he’s balancing his weight on his elbows. “You’re not worth my anger.”
The playfulness that had been in Derek’s expression shuts down and he’s swift in how he pulls at Stiles’ jeans and boxers until he’s stripped bare. Stiles watches as Derek takes his own pants off, and yeah, he was right about him going commando, Stiles would ace Derek Hale 101. There’s no hesitation between Derek getting them naked and lunging in to lick at the crease where Stiles’ leg meets the trunk of his body. Literally, not a second’s pause. It’s such a weirdly specific and unexpected place of attack that Stiles cants his hips, placing his feet flat on the bed sheets. He’s had all kinds of fantasies, he’ll even admit to a couple about Derek, but they don’t compare to the reality of the slight rasp of Derek’s tongue against oversensitive skin.
Derek licks over his balls, but not his cock. Stiles moans at that, too incoherent to form a valid argument about how that makes Derek the worst person he’s ever met. It’s just --- wet, and methodical, and a little bit like way too much sensation concentrated on one area. He’s never really paid much attention to this when getting himself off. He’s more of a quick flick and jerk kinda guy. So suddenly having his whole world tipped upside-down by Derek opening him up to new experiences is --- he’s not going to think mindblowing, because if his mind was blown he couldn’t think that. But it’s a mindscrew.
His nerve endings are shot. There are muscles he barely uses clenching. His fingers are scrabbling in his sheets.
“You know what, Derek, this is good, this is great, you’re really doing an awesome job, but do you think you could maybe focus all that attention somewhere else now?”
Derek glares up at him again. “You think I care about gaining your approval?”
“No,” Stiles manages, breathing thickly. “And it’s one of your greatest failings.”
Derek hooks his arms under Stiles’ knees and lifts him higher, and okay, new experiences, he has not yet reached the pinnacle of them. Derek licks at his hole and Stiles trembles. He tips his head back against his headboard and stifles a yell. There is pretty much no way he could have prepared himself for this. If he thought Derek was wrong before, then what is this? It can’t be right that Derek’s licking insistent, wide strokes up, stubble on his cheek grazing Stiles’ left inner thigh. Stiles scrunches his eyes shut because he’s too tempted to stare at the sight of Derek between his legs, dark hair now falling against his forehead.
Derek starts to point his tongue more, licking around and in his hole and Stiles’ chest tightens. He isn’t used to this and like anything unfamiliar it’s scaring him. It’s scaring him how much he fucking loves it. When Derek’s tongue goes deeper than he thought it could, he gives a wet sob. Apathetic rimming is officially the best thing he’ll ever get to have.
And just when he has that thought, Derek adds a slicked up finger and Stiles has to adjust his personal definition of best. Derek’s finger is thicker within him than his own and angled differently and therefore feels nine hundred times better than his own hasty fumblings ever have.
“Lube?” Derek demands, and Stiles might tell him off for being rude, but instead he reaches for it, tosses it over.
He smacks his lips together in barely contained anticipation as Derek opens the cap and drizzles it over his fingers.
“You want this, don’t you?” Derek asks, tone neutral. He looks straight into Stiles’ eyes and for once there isn’t a hint of danger there. “Actually want it.”
Will it invalidate the apathy aspect of the sex if he says yes, he really, really does? He thinks he’s beyond caring.
“Yeah,” he says. “I want it.”
And maybe there’s more to be said, there, about how he hasn’t wanted anything more and never expected that Derek could make him feel this way, could make him feel. That he’s been trying so hard to kid himself that he’s not constantly infuriated by Derek’s lack of trust in him and his judgment. That he thinks if they were kinder to one another they might actually work. But then Derek’s pressing two fingers up into him and he’s incapable of any kind of logical thought process, let alone reasoning.
He clenches instinctively and Derek doesn’t move, lets him adjust. Derek’s jaw is tense and he’s gazing at where he’s pushing into him, wholly absorbed by the way Stiles opens for him. It doesn’t hurt so much as it feels strange, especially under such a close interrogation, and Stiles’ legs seem to fall further apart against his volition. When Derek starts to really finger-fuck him, he bites down on any number of curses and rides the sensation.
It’s when Derek adds more slick and another finger that Stiles stops biting his lip and says what’s on his mind. What’s on his mind is a litany of, “oh my God,” and “fuck, Derek, fuck.” He’s super eloquent. Derek makes this weird, cut-off snorting sound in response and drives his fingers into him harder, mouthing at his abdomen. And Stiles knows that if he could tilt his hips just right he could rub his cock along the planes of his chest and come like he desperately needs to. When he tries, though, all he gets is Derek’s free hand planting firmly on his hip, holding him down.
“I’m ready,” Stiles says, on one particularly brutal shove. It hurts in the most incredible ways. “I’m beyond ready.”
“You’re ready when I say you are,” Derek returns, and then he slips his fingers free and raises his body above Stiles’, holding himself up effortlessly.
He nuzzles into Stiles’ neck --- slow, measured, sweet. It’s totally meant as torture, Stiles knows it. Derek is punishing him by being gentle. He can tell just how frantic Stiles is for his cock and wants to stretch this out longer, until Stiles is a sweaty, writhing mess for him. Stiles drags his right hand through Derek’s hair and grasps hold, rocking up into him again. It’s no good, he can’t make Derek move and it’s so unfair because he feels so empty.
“Are you seriously going to leave me like this? You’re hard too, Derek, I can feel you. Don’t tell me you don’t want this.”
“Don’t tell me you’re not angry,” Derek counters. He changes position until he’s looking into Stiles’ eyes again.
Stiles stares at him and decides he finally knows what flummoxed feels like.
“Fine,” he says. “I’m pissed with you. You never listen and it drives me crazy. Every day I long to be indifferent to the many stupidities of Derek Hale, and every day you manage to reach new heights of idiocy. So, yes, I’m angry. You’re more than worthy of my ire. Happy now?”
Derek’s satisfaction is obvious in the way he ducks down and bites into Stiles’ shoulder. He lifts off Stiles and reaches for the floor and Stiles is perplexed until he sees Derek kneeling up on his bed, rolling a condom on.
That’s kind of when the enormity of everything hits home. He’s actually doing this. This is going to be done.
Derek skates his hands down his sides and pulls Stiles’ legs up. Stiles moans and shifts how Derek demands.
Derek’s slow fucking into him. It must be a game now, to be played at Derek’s leisure. It stings, a little, though it’s mostly an easy slide. Derek moves so incrementally, Stiles doesn’t think it could be difficult. It’s startling how good it is, how it’s what Stiles has been wanting for seemingly ages. He feels full, perfectly full, and when Derek begins to thrust in and out, Stiles closes his eyes tight and shakes all over.
Derek’s control is to be both lauded and lamented. No matter how hard Stiles rocks down onto him, he keeps up the same, constant, punishing rhythm. He hits Stiles’ prostate with every thrust and that would be okay if he’d also let Stiles wrap a hand around himself and finish himself off, but he doesn’t. He slaps Stiles’ hand away.
“You’re gonna come from just my cock,” he states, not even sounding like he’s finding it hard to breathe.
“I haven’t done this before, I don’t think that’s possible,” Stiles retorts.
“That wasn’t a demand, Stiles, it was a certainty.”
It’s hate sex, now, definitely hate sex, because Stiles loathes how fucking sexy that douchey remark made Derek sound. He digs his nails into Derek’s back and pushes down onto his cock with more force, and wonder of wonders, Derek finally speeds up. And that? That is all kinds of wonderful. Stiles almost laughs from how great that sensation is, the rapid burst of his breath grating out of him. He’s inching up the bed from the power of Derek’s thrusts, is thankful for the pillow wedged now between him and the headboard. He doesn’t seem to be able to hold onto Derek the way he wants to with his legs, sweat making them slip against each other. He can’t gain any kind of purchase except for his hand on Derek’s back and there won’t be an actual mark there tomorrow, but Stiles will always remember how he clawed into him in his own way.
At first all Stiles can hear is the wet slapping of their bodies, his own labored breathing and the furious rushing of his blood, but then Derek begins to make these quick, curt sounds that are half-grunt, half-exhalation, and hah! Victory. Stiles totally has him worked up.
Derek’s thrusts edge toward becoming erratic, a beat off here and there, and Stiles knows neither of them will last much longer, is surprised they’ve been able to go this long. Derek’s right, he’s going to come just from Derek within him and the slip-slide of his cock between their bodies. Stiles isn’t even ashamed. His heart thumps treacherously loudly and his spine starts to feel molten, and Stiles doesn’t count the thrusts before he comes, hard, shouting out incomprehensibly.
As he clenches around him, Derek stiffens, then slumps down onto him, tracing his collarbone with his tongue. It crushes half the air out of him, but Stiles sort of likes it. Likes that he’s reduced Derek to this --- boneless and nonsensical and cuddly.
Now comes the awkward part where they go back to glaring at each other and Derek pays him back for calling him idiotic. This is the bit where Stiles remembers precisely why he wishes he were apathetic to this man who brings him to the end of his tether and then yanks on it. They’re going to have to clean themselves up and pretend they didn’t just share a moment.
“If it’s any consolation, you anger me too,” Derek says, softly. Stiles is not imagining the laughter in his voice, he knows he’s not.
“Fuck you, Derek,” Stiles replies, but there’s no heat. There’s more affection. Derek opens his mouth to speak again and something about his expression has Stiles shaking his head. “Don’t you dare say that. If you even give the suggestion of the words ‘already’ and ‘did’, I will strangle you where you lie.”
Yeah, that’s a smile. Derek is both cuddly and smiley after not-actually-apathy sex. Who’d have thought?
But then, maybe they’re more alike than Stiles would ever want to admit, because he’s feeling fairly smiley and cuddly himself.