Early in the morning, the air outside crisp and cold. Stiles’ feet stick out from under the comforter, vulnerable. Derek tugs it down, covers him up, and Stiles rolls over to smile at him in the half-light.
“Come back to bed,” he mumbles, hand reaching out. “It’s cold.”
Derek shakes his head. It would be so easy to slip under the covers with him, slot themselves together, but it’s been a busy week and there’s more to do today. He leans in to kiss him, soft and sweet.
“I’ll be back in a while,” he says against Stiles’ mouth; “Go back to sleep.”
“It’s Saturday,” Stiles grumbles. His heartbeat is soft and sleepy. “Stay in bed.”
“I’m meeting Chris,” Derek reminds him. “We have to finishing dealing with the witches.”
Stiles’ face scrunches up in a frown. “No more witches. Not today. Stay here.”
When Derek shakes his head again, Stiles groans and stretches, and the blanket slides down his chest. Derek can’t help how his eyes are drawn to all that skin: in this light, Stiles is nothing short of ethereal. He can smell the scent of him, sharp and sweet like burnt sugar, enticing.
Stiles catches him looking, wriggles a little because he knows what is does to him. “C’mon, Chris can wait.”
“He won’t be happy,” Derek says but he’s already stripping, sliding back under the covers.
Stiles grins, so pleased with himself. He squirms when Derek presses cold hands to his body, but he lets Derek wrap him up, bury his face in his hair and just breathe him in.
Everything smells better in here: their scents combined, in the sheets and on Stiles’ skin. It reminds him of last night, coming home to find Stiles already in his bed. He missed this while Stiles was away at college; Los Angeles is only a few hours away but it feels like forever.
Stiles sighs when Derek presses his lips to the soft skin behind his ear. “Oh, yeah, keep doing that.”
He’s still half asleep, soft and warm, and Derek chases the taste of him: from his neck to his shoulder, rolling him to get at his collarbones, the hollow of his throat. His heartbeat is picking up, body coming alive under Derek’s touch, and it’s not long before he’s arching up into Derek’s hands.
“Keep going,” he says, “Come on,” even as he lies still and calm for once, pliant beneath Derek’s touch.
It’s heady, having Stiles like this. Derek feels so greedy for it, hungry like a wild animal, desperate for everything and anything Stiles will give him. He mouths at the scars on Stiles’ skin: a hunter’s knife on his chest, an omega’s claws on his side: the story of his life etched into his body, and Derek adds to it. He sets his teeth against flesh, bites and sucks until the pale skin is mottled with the imprint of his mouth.
“Derek,” Stiles says eventually, when he’s writhing desperately, smelling sweet with arousal, his body jumping at every touch of tongue and teeth. “Can you – come here, please, can you –”
Derek obliges, and is greeted by the sight of Stiles, flushed and sweating, mouth open and wet. It’s so easy to duck down and kiss him, bite at his lips to hear him moan.
They move against each other in the half light, slow and unhurried, until Derek hitches Stiles’ legs around his hips and ruts against him, cock sliding between Stiles’ cheeks, catching on his hole. It makes Stiles whine, heart stuttering, and he throws his head back, bares his neck. The wolf whines happily under Derek’s skin.
Stiles digs his nails into the back of Derek’s neck, sharp pinpricks of pain. “Close,” he rasps against Derek’s cheek.
All Derek has to do is fit a hand around Stiles’ dick and sink his teeth into the soft flesh of his shoulder, and just like that he loses it, shooting all over Derek’s hand and stomach. He wants to give him a second but he can feel the pleasure curling through him, electric, driven higher by the feel of Stiles’ skin, the smell of his come, and he sits up to jerk off on Stiles’ chest.
It doesn’t take long, not when Stiles swipes his fingers through the mess on Derek’s skin and brings them to his mouth, sucks on them with a slick mouth and half lidded eyes until Derek comes in long streaks over his chest.
What a sight he is: he looks completely debauched, absolutely wrecked, and Derek still wants more.
He pushes his fingers into his come and rubs it slowly into Stiles’ skin. Stiles watches with something that could be confused with disgust, if it wasn’t for the glint in his eye. He knows what Derek’s doing: marking him, claiming him, for all to see – and he likes it.
“Better?” he asks when Derek’s finished and is licking his fingers clean.
Derek stares at him: the sharp lines of his cheekbones, his curved lips, the constellations of moles and freckles. He looks so delicate, fragile, but Derek knows better. Stiles is a wild thing, as vicious as any wolf, as dangerous. He makes Derek feel like prey: caught in the brightness of Stiles’ eyes, trapped by the scent of his skin, his heart beating like a terrified animal.
It’s good to be terrified, his mother used to tell him. Being terrified means you’re alive. And he’s alive, oh so alive at the sight of his boy, his beautiful boy, grinning at him, reaching up to pull him back down to earth.
“You’re going to be late,” Stiles say, even as he sprawls across Derek’s chest. “Chris is going to be pissed.” He snorts. “At least he won’t be able to smell you. Scott’s going to kill me if I show up like this.”
Derek laughs, leans in to kiss Stiles’ smile. It’s cold outside but in here it’s warm, welcoming. It’s home. The day can wait.