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It’s not exactly a new development, but it definitely didn’t exist before that kelpie dragged Stiles into the murky lake of Beacon Valley, kissing him and spilling swamp sludge all into his mouth. It had taken two solid days of puking for the black goo to be completely out of his system.
So now, Stiles needs to kiss someone before a hunt. He’s not sure why exactly that’s the solution to avoiding a shape-shifting horse from ever slipping its slimy tongue past his tonsils again, but he sticks by it and doesn’t look back.
He’s now kissed almost everyone in Scott’s pack, and no one’s happy about it. Allison was the first to indulge him, placing a light peck on his mouth, dimples blinding him momentarily. Scott was pretty pissed, until they managed to save Beacon Hills Hospital from being overrun by a coven of vampires without so much as a single hitch.
Isaac was next. He wiped his mouth obsessively afterwards which Stiles thought was kind of overkill, but they destroyed the Nemeton that night without anyone dying, so.
Everyone else, except Derek, who always looked on with his thinly veiled annoyance, eventually indulged him: Erica, Lydia, Jackson, even Scott and Boyd. It was Stiles’ thing now, the one action that kept him from feeling absolutely powerless against the forces of the universe; A simple, platonic kiss.
But tonight is different. Everyone’s exhausted from planning, and Stiles has been asking for the past fifteen minutes, which is holding things up.
“Jesus Christ, someone just do it,” Peter mumbles from his perch on the stairs. Erica looks like she’s enjoying this way too much, jokingly trying to get Boyd to come forward and take one for the team, again.
"I swear to god if somebody doesn't kiss me for good luck right now I'm gonna—"
There were a lot of things that Stiles expected. Mostly continued silence, a peck on the cheek from Erica or maybe even a sloppy kiss from Scott, who looked like he was about to cave. What he does not, absolutely does not expect, is Derek Hale to uncross his arms, walk right up to Stiles, and kiss him. On his face. With his mouth.
But that's what happens. Derek just strides over with that same I’m in a bad mood and you’re annoying scowl, presses both hands to Stiles' cheeks, and plants a single, warm kiss to his lips.
He's stunned silent, obviously, eyes fluttering closed and staying that way long after Derek breaks the contact and backs away from him. He's ashamed to say he even tries to follow his mouth for a second.
Stiles has wanted to kiss Derek since the first second he saw him and almost crapped himself. Since his leather jacket and hairless—well, never really hairless, but less hairy—face came into his life.
"I can't believe I'm gonna have sex with him," Stiles tells Scott after Derek's menacing and hot body disappears back into the woods.
"Dude, you don't have to do that? Literally no one said you have to do that.”
"Nah, I'm gonna. I mean, Scott, just look at him. Shit," Stiles breathes. "Mark my words. By the time we graduate. Four years. I’m gonna have sex with Derek Hale."
And now they've graduated. Stiles has been possessed, unpossessed, kidnapped, bitten, almost drowned, made it through most of a semester at freaking Berkeley, and he's still been completely unsexed by Derek.
Everyone in the room is eerily quiet, people looking between Derek and Stiles like one of them just stabbed the other.
"What," Derek grunts, crossing his arms again, "he's been asking non-stop for fifteen minutes and no one else seemed to want to shut him up. Now can we get this whole fairy hunt thing started so we can all get on with our lives?" Derek glances at Stiles briefly before walking back over to his favorite brooding corner by the big window.
Scott clears his throat, and Stiles can hear Isaac failing at suppressing his laughter. Erica mumbles the word "finally," and Stiles just...well.
He feels a little embarrassed, actually, that he hasn't regained his power of speech. He's standing in the middle of Derek's gothic-ass fucking loft and staring at him like he's a mirage. It has been about three months since they've seen each other, so getting kissed by him on his first day back for Thanksgiving break is a bit shocking, given that their relationship is mostly bickering or fighting, so the staring is warranted.
"Yeah, let's head out," Boyd chuckles, breaking the tension and throwing a knapsack over his back before leading the charge. One by one, they all file out of Derek's apartment. Stiles follows behind Scott in a complete haze, feeling like he's been drugged. His mouth is buzzing from Derek's stubble.
"Okay. Scott, Erica, Isaac and Lydia, you're taking Boyd's car," Peter says, following Derek out of the apartment complex.
"Derek, you and Stiles take the Camaro. Try not to kill each other," he throws Stiles a pointed smile before putting his helmet on and walking over to his douche-y motorcycle.
Stiles catches the tail end of Derek rolling his eyes, and doesn't miss the way literally everyone else is giggling as they file into Boyd's car.
"I have to tell Allison," Scott laughs brightly, probably already texting her.
"She's not gonna answer, Scott, she's got classes tomorrow and she's two time zones away," is Lydia's reply. Usually Lydia doesn't show anything on her face, but even she has a small, satisfied smirk pulling at her mouth.
"Great," he mutters, happy to find out that he can still speak. Derek clenches his jaw, knuckles going white from their grip on his keys. They both slide into the car and slam the door, loud engine groaning to life.
"You know, I'm not happy about this, either, but you could at least try to, I don't know, not look like you want to throttle me? I figured three months away would be plenty of time for you to not actively hate me anymore," Stiles says, rubbing an exasperated hand over his face to shake off the ghost of Derek's stubble.
"That's not what I—" Derek says, arms flailing for a moment, more animated than Stiles has ever seen him. His mouth moves, looking like he's trying to find the right words, before his features pull back down into that familiar look of anger and constipation. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Before," he pulls onto the main road, the shadow of the moon darkening his jaw where he clenches it.
Stiles just stares for a second. "Dude. It's fine. I'm just superstitious and like, you gave me exactly what I asked for, so, you're not gonna hear me complain about it," he says, because it's the truth and because, what? Derek Hale? Apologizing to him? For kissing him?
Stiles just shakes his head and sighs loudly before sliding his body down in the passenger's seat and putting a restless leg up on the dashboard, which earns him a death glare from Derek.
"That's my guy," he smiles, forcing easiness back into the tense atmosphere of the car.
"Feet. Off the dash," Derek demands, one eyebrow quirking up until Stiles finally concedes. Back to normal, just like that.
The rest of the drive to the reservation is silent. Stiles can't stop tapping his knees, the anxiety of this stupid fairy hunt finally starting to get to him.
"I hate fairies, man," he whines, sitting up straight to run his hands through his hair, which, wow, he needs a haircut immediately.
"They're not so bad," Derek replies without taking his eyes off the road.
"Have you ever dealt with them in this quantity before? Shit, they probably have boobie traps all over the damn forest just waiting for us. Possessed squirrels, poisoned leaves, itching sap, and, oh god, sex pollen," Stiles moans, sliding back down the seat. Derek looks at him sharply, something like curiosity in the glint of his eyes.
"Sex pollen."
It's not even a question. Stiles snorts, because he knows that's all he's gonna get. No 'Stiles, please kindly explain to me what this sex pollen is,' just a statement.
"Well, it's kinda what it sounds like, Derek," Stiles starts, "fairies are tricksters and they like to fuck with people. They sprinkle this magical, highly contagious pollen on flowers and leaves, and anyone in the vicinity is susceptible to it if they breathe it in."
Derek grunts, still looking curious, "And?"
"Aaaaand," Stiles says, suddenly turning red, "anyone affected gets this, like, unbearable need to have sex. It's pretty much like a fever that you just have to ride out. Can last hours if you fight it, or if you, you know, don't have anyone to, well, you know," and Stiles is full on thrashing at this point, puppet arms and hands moving like an invisible, asshole person is pulling his strings and making him embarrass himself.
"That's ridiculous," Derek says, like he's already decided that it isn't possible.
"Oh, you'll see," Stiles teases darkly. "Dibs on Peter, if the pollen gets anywhere near me."
Derek scoffs, corner of his dark mouth pulling up in the closest thing to a smile he's seen on Derek in a long time.
They reach the outskirts of the reservation, pulling up and parking right behind Boyd's truck. Peter pulls up only a few minutes later.
"So, let's go over the game plan again," Scott says, lugging out the two huge duffel bags that they'd spent days filling with the necessary gear. "We're dealing with dark fae who have claimed the reservation for themselves. We need to take back some of the territory and make sure they can't hurt anybody who stumbles across them again."
Everyone shudders. The two women had come out of the woods dehydrated, bleeding and starving, small little claw marks all over their faces and backs.
Scott reaches into the bag and pulls out a box of iron nails. "Everyone grab one and keep it on you at all times. The fairies can't drag you away or even touch you if you have iron on your person." Each person grabs a nail. Derek slips his in the worn pocket on the front of his leather jacket, intense gaze focused solely on Scott.
Stiles isn't jealous. Nope.
"There are gonna be traps everywhere, so avoid running into trees or shrubbery, and especially don't step on any weird bumps on the ground. Even if it's just a rock, step OVER it, okay? We'll all meet at the central hill in the middle of the open pasture. That's where most of them will be hiding," Scott reaches into the bag and hands everyone a huge jar of mountain ash. "Fairies react to mountain ash the same way we do, and they'll be confined to the circle that we create. Make sure you don't touch the ash. And don't wait when you get there, just start pouring it in a thin line around the outskirts of the pasture. DO NOT speak to the fairies or even look at them, if you can help it. You'll be protected from their touch but not any of their words or music."
Everyone is nodding furiously, having heard this at least 45 times since yesterday.
"Last but not least, put on these masks," Scott reaches into the second bag, now, pulling out doctor's masks and handing them to everyone.
"Sex pollen," Derek mutters, and Stiles gulps.
And then they're off. Erica and Boyd enter through the clearing to the left, followed by the rest of them. Stiles' adrenaline is already through the roof, and his heart rate is scary fast, even for him. Scott, Isaac, Peter and Lydia are a few feet ahead, hopping over a patch of very suspicious stones.
"Watch out for those," Scott calls, voice muddled through the mask. Derek's right behind him, sounds of his feet hitting the ground just after Stiles'.
They run for what feels like hours when it can't be more than twenty minutes, until they’re in the thick of the vast California wilderness. Erica and Boyd set off a boobie trap early in, their bodies covered in vicious hives before they're even anywhere near the clearing. Scott tells them to go back, but they refuse, holding onto each other while they continue to run.
An eerie giggle comes from an oak tree about 5 feet away from where Stiles has stopped to catch his breath after avoiding a minefield of bumps and shrubs. Derek is right there, so close he can feel his body heat.
"Don't listen to it," he says, barely even winded. Stiles rips off his mask for a second, looks up at him from where he's crouched with his hands on his knees, mouth falling open at how fucking beautiful Derek looks in the moonlight, his chest moving up and down a little faster than normal, the only sign that he's been running.
"Dude," Stiles whines, earning a quirked eyebrow, "Just...how," he gestures at all of Derek, who looks completely baffled. "God, you're like a goddamn Olympic athlete," he pushes out between breaths.
"Shut up, Stiles," Derek rolls his eyes, looking maybe a little smug before something catches his attention. He straightens up suddenly, eyes focused on something just over Stiles' head.
"What?”
"Stiles, put your mask on," he says, gravely, body stone still. Stiles follows Derek's stare to the oak tree a few feet away, eyes zeroing in on a now glowing patch of wildflowers that are growing at the base of the tree. There are small white flecks of iridescent dust floating all around the purple buds, bathing them in an unnatural glow.
Fuck.
"Stiles. Mask," Derek orders again, and he honestly does try to put it back on, but he moves too fast, throwing off his equilibrium. He lurches forward, flailing for the briefest of seconds before landing less than a foot away from the flowers. Derek's beside him in an instant, lifting him up and pulling the mask on for him.
"God dammit, Stiles, are you trying to get yourself hurt?" He practically roars through his mask.
Before he can respond, he hears Lydia calling for them to keep moving.
The clearing is about a three minute run from where they were stopped. Scott, Isaac, Erica and Boyd are all frantically spilling mountain ash around the edges of the pasture. Hordes of small, furious fairies blacken the entire sky and they're screeching, purple and black bodies glowing angry like evil stars.
"Hurry," Isaac yells to them, and Derek is already unscrewing the lid, pouring the ash across the green grass, wincing at being so close to the powder. Stiles goes to take the lid off when he's struck with a flash of heat that makes him instantly sweat through his shirt. It's disorienting, but doesn't seem to get worse, and it goes away for a few seconds before coming back, pulsing almost like a bruise.
He manages to pour a few feet of mountain ash, fairies whizzing by his face, trying to claw and scratch and bite at him.
"Got you," he hears a small, buzzing voice say. One fairy is floating right in his line of vision, her black eyes looking at the sweat on his face knowingly.
"Stiles," Derek yells from somewhere beside him, "don't listen to them!"
The heat stops pulsing and just stays, starting at his temples before slowly moving down his body, lighting up his neck, his chest, his lower abs with flames. It's not unbearable until it reaches his crotch, the heat settling there, making his knees buckle immediately.
He hits the ground hard, the impact shaking his whole frame.
"Derek," he says weakly, trying to claw through the agonizing ache long enough to ask for help.
"Stiles," Derek's crouching in front of him now, warm hands pressing into his face. He tries to warn him, to tell him not to touch, but the pollen is hitting him hard, lighting up everywhere that Derek is touching.
"The pollen," he chokes out, whimpering when Derek's hand grabs his jaw to move his head from side to side. Inspecting. Looking for a wound, most likely. "The pollen," he says again, weaker, and Derek freezes, hands falling to his sides.
"I can't...I need, I need something, Derek, need—need you or, fuck, need—" and just like that, the fever has him, pushing through his fingertips and controlling him like a second skeleton laced over his own. He barely registers Derek yelling over to Scott, Lydia yelling for Derek to get him out of there, then he’s being lifted from the ground and carried.
His vision is blurry with tears, hands trying to reach for his crotch and alleviate the incessant heat in between his legs that just won’t go away or let up. His head is resting in the warm leather of Derek's jacket, and god, Derek smells so good, sharp and strong like Stiles always remembered.
"Sh, sh," Derek is cooing, although it doesn't sound right, sounds a bit mangled, like it's being pushed out from behind clenched teeth.
"God I've wanted you for so long, Derek, you don't even know how long, and I just...I need it Derek I need you, I need you, want you," he starts babbling again, completely unable to hold himself together anymore. Derek is running at full speed through the forest, mouth pressed so tight that Stiles wonders how he's breathing.
They finally reach the cars, and Stiles can barely stand when Derek puts him down to fling the doors of the Camaro open.
"In," Derek orders, nostrils flared. Stiles can't even imagine what he must smell like right now, but he can’t bring himself to care or even feel embarrassed about it.
Derek leads him into the car, pushing him gently into the seat and closing the door before sliding in on his side and starting the car, peeling out without another word. Stiles' hands immediately rub over his crotch. He presses up into it, a high-pitched whine pushing out of him, unashamed and loud.
"Stiles, fuck," Derek grits out, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"Can't...help it...need it," he pants out, reaching his hand under his jeans and the waistband of his underwear to tug at his aching dick. Thea blur of black trees pass by in his peripheral vision, and he's trying so hard to think of something, anything, other than what's happening to his body, but he feels like he's on fire, burning up so fast that he can hardly speak through it.
The car jerks violently to the left, and Derek growls beside him as he pulls over onto the side of the road. "Stiles, what happens if you don't get fucked," he grits out, voice so low it makes Stiles gasp and lick his lips.
"Lasts...hours...have to jerk off constantly until it wears off," he manages to get out.
"You won't get hurt?" Derek asks, breathing heavier now than he was when he was running. His claws are out, digging into the meat of his hands where they're pressed on the steering wheel, and his eyes glow a bright blue for a split second before returning to normal.
"God, just fuck me Derek, just fuck me please just touch me, want you to so bad," he begs.
"FUCK," Derek yells, punching the ceiling of the car before running both hands over his face. "Not like this," he says after a few moments, and there's a note of finality to it that Stiles can recognize even now. He starts crying immediately, angry, hopeless tears running down his face, and he's so frustrated, in so much pain that he thinks he's going to fucking die from it.
He jerks himself off in the passenger's seat while Derek drives like a madman. He's cursing so much, not even saying any real words, and blood from his palms is dripping into his lap from where his claws are still digging into skin.
"Why are you trying so hard...not to touch me, when you know you can, know you always could," he whispers, sound of his hand on his dick obscene over the roar of the engine, "Could've had me years ago. Wished you would've just...fucked me against my bedroom door, on the floor, I didn't care. Just—ung—wanted you, always wanted you," he's saying, pace of his hand picking up speed. Derek looks like a stone statue, carved from marble and so impossibly still, save for the little jerks of movement on the steering wheel. He doesn't answer, and Stiles shouts his name when he comes, the warm, tacky liquid filling the inside of his jeans.
For a few seconds, Stiles feels better, feels clear-headed and sane. He takes those moments to look at Derek, seeing with absolute clarity how much he wants him, how every single muscle in his body is taut with the effort it's taking to not reach over and touch Stiles.
Then the wave hits him again, and he lets out a long sob. Derek pulls the car into the lot behind his apartment building, ripping the keys out before slamming the door and coming around to lift Stiles out of the car and carry him again.
He tries with every ounce of strength he has to keep quiet on the way inside, lasts a good sixty seconds before the filth and desperation starts pouring out of his mouth again, louder and more intense than before. Derek's claws dig into the meat of his ribs and thighs where he's holding him, not breaking skin, but creating a pressure that has Stiles place a wet, sloppy kiss to his neck.
Then Derek drops him like a hot plate, sending Stiles crashing to the floor in a heap of limbs.
"Fuck, Stiles, I'm sorry, I couldn't, I didn't—" Derek's breathing so hard he looks like he's on the verge of a panic attack. Stiles sits back on his legs, mouth watering when he sees the unmistakable imprint of Derek's hard dick through his pants. Without even thinking, he lurches forward, hot mouth ghosting along the bulge. It lasts only a second before Derek is hauling him up and throwing him over his shoulder. His hand is shaking when he presses his key in the lock, then he's pushing the door to his loft open.
He carries Stiles up the spiral staircase and into his bedroom, where he drops him onto the mattress then takes a good five steps back to put some distance between them.
"Please, Derek, please, it’ll go away so much faster if you just," Stiles sobs, laying on his stomach and rubbing off on the bed.
"I can't, Stiles, I, just please try to go to bed, try to sleep it off. Please," Derek begs, backing up so that he's pressed against the wall besides the stairs. Stiles can't even pretend to try to relax. He rubs against the bed, humping at it frantically until he comes again, body filling with momentary bliss.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he says, trying to let Derek know that he's coherent. Derek let's out a long, shaky breath before disappearing downstairs.
It takes about two minutes for the heat to come back, this time. Derek returns with two bottles of water and a small, clear bottle of another liquid. He places the water bottles on the nightstand beside Stiles, then carefully places the smaller bottle on the bed.
"Don't hurt yourself. Just...do what you have to do and use a lot of the lube. Just..." Derek trails off, his hand briefly running down Stiles' spine like it just can't help itself.
And then he's gone, leaving Stiles alone in his bedroom to sweat the rest of the pollen out.
Stiles jerks off seven more times, comes with four heavily lubed fingers in his ass before the fever breaks, leaving his body sore and shaking on the bed. Derek left him hours ago, and no matter how loud Stiles begged for him, he didn't come upstairs. Not even once. Somewhere through that hurt, that overwhelming feeling of rejection, Stiles almost admires his restraint.
He's never going to be able to see or speak to Derek again. Not after this. The bed is a complete mess. There's lube and cum streaking the black cotton comforter, and a sweat imprint that outlines every part of Stiles' body completes the obscene picture. It’s going to take weeks for the smell to leave the sheets, even after they get washed.
Tears come again, this time soft, quiet sobs that rack through his entire body, shaking him and pulling at his eyes. He's lost Derek forever, now, the realization of that almost crippling.
Exhaustion washes over him before he can think anything else, and he falls asleep curled into a ball on the bed that isn’t his; could never be his.
A hand on his back wakes him up. It’s a soft, cautious hand, rubbing soothing circles from Stiles’ spine to his tailbone, and it stops when Stiles moves.
“Derek,” he croaks, feeling like he’s been hit by an eighteen wheeler and left on the side of the road. Derek just makes a soft noise before taking his hand completely from his back, passing Stiles one of the waters from the table, which he downs gratefully.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” Derek looks breathtaking. There are dark circles under his eyes, purple in the corners like he hasn’t slept, either.
“I feel horrible,” Stiles moans, disarming a little when Derek gives him a small smile.
They just sit in silence for a few minutes, breathing and trying to figure out something to say. Stiles even considers leaving, considers just getting up, grabbing his stuff, and walking out. But Derek isn’t kicking him out, doesn’t even look angry, actually, so he’s determined to stay.
“I’m really sorry, about last night. Guess Peter wasn’t around to—“ Stiles is cut off by Derek’s angry growl and a possessive hand pressing against his chest.
This is…new.
“Sorry, sorry,” Derek starts, shaking his head furiously, “Just a wolf thing,” he dismisses, looking away from Stiles.
They’re silent again.
“Look, if you need me to leave right now, if you need like, a break from me, I can take these sheets and wash them at my place, get out of your ha—“
“I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to wash the sheets,” Derek says, moving closer so that he’s pressed all along Stiles’ side.
“I just thought that after last night you, well, would want some space.”
“Do you? Want space?” Derek’s hand is hovering over Stiles’ body, waiting for something.
He really thinks about it. His body is exhausted, and the humiliation from last night is as sharp as ever in his chest, threatening every breath that he takes, but Derek is such a warm weight beside him.
“No, not really,” he finally breathes, to which Derek makes a sharp noise, then dives down and kisses Stiles.
It’s nothing like the kiss from last night. It’s filthy, all the restraint completely gone from Derek’s body, replaced with a frantic, animal energy that makes Stiles hot all over again.
“You have no idea what I had to do to keep myself from touching you,” Derek pulls back after biting Stiles’ bottom lip.
“Could’ve, could’ve touched me,” Stiles breathes, surging up to pull Derek back on top of him, moaning when his body melts over him, strong chest pressing against his own. Their faces are inches apart, and fucking yes, this is what Stiles wants, forever and ever. Derek on top of him, looking at him like he’d rather die than get pulled away.
“Didn’t want to do it when you weren’t in control,” Derek moans, grinding down into Stiles, the hard line of his cock a warm pressure on his own.
“’ ‘ve wanted you to fuck me since—fuck—freshman year,” Derek bites down hard on Stiles’ neck, snarling like he’s an inch away from shifting.
“Was trying to be good, to wait, wait for you to come to me,” Derek says, and Stiles is done talking about the time they wasted; done talking at all, really.
He lets go of the embarrassment from the night before, lets his body come back to life under Derek, light up with a completely different kind of fever.
Grabbing hold of Derek’s face, he kisses him hard, tongue pushing right past Derek’s lips to trace the outline of his sharp canines, to marvel at the pointed teeth. Derek reaches between get his hands on his dick.
“Fucking…jerking off in my car, almost…killed me,” his breath is hot in Stiles’ mouth, slipping down his throat like smoke. He just lets Derek touch him however he wants, moaning when a blunt finger pushes gently into him where he’s still so open, so sore.
“God, Derek,”
“Still open for me,” Derek pushes his finger all the way in, thumb rubbing at the space between his balls and he’s going fucking crazy, body all keyed up like the night before, except he’s never been more clear-headed. Fucking back on his finger, Derek adds another, tongue darting out to suck a bruise into the crease of Stiles’ thigh before he starts pumping in and out.
“Fuck me, Derek, fucking pull your pants down and fuck me already,” he almost yells, so over-stimulated. He’s a second away from coming completely untouched, and he doesn’t want to do that until Derek fucking Hale actually fucks him.
Derek sits up for a moment, removing his clothes in a blinding flash, and then he’s completely naked. Stiles’ mouth goes dry as he looks up, hands running up and down the smooth expanse of his stomach and chest, then travelling down to his hip bones. He’s seen Derek shirtless before, sure. He likes to answer the door like that and pretend like he didn’t have time to cover up. It’s nothing new, technically, but somehow completely different now that he knows that he can touch.
“So beautiful,” Stiles mutters, reaching down to stroke at Derek’s cock, whimpering at the hot, silken heat of it, the weight of it in his palm.
Derek falls forward, arms holding him up on either side of Stiles’ head, and he pushes into his hand, making noises just as loudly as Stiles is.
“Derek, fuck me, now,” he takes his hand off of him, not even having to wait another second before Derek is guiding himself inside, pushing so slow that Stiles smacks his arm, silently demanding that he go faster. He bottoms out, a loud, long groan escaping him before he snaps his hips in.
Stiles honest to God screams, absolutely stunned that Derek could find the exact spot to hit so quickly and so perfectly. He digs his fingers into Derek’s shoulders, wrapping his legs around his lower back to let him push in deeper.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Derek says with each hard thrust, each one bringing Stiles closer and closer to losing it completely.
“Gonna come, Derek,” he whispers, nails digging into the meat of Derek’s shoulders just hard enough to break the skin.
“Tell me, tell me again,” Derek growls, sucking another bright bruise into his neck, hips wild and frantic.
“I’m gonna come, make me come,” Stiles says, louder, pressing the heels of his feet into Derek’s back to push him in harder.
Derek drives into him once, twice more, and then Stiles is coming, spilling all over his stomach, momentarily blinded while Derek keeps pounding into him, hips stuttering and jerking until he comes, too, yelling Stiles name and collapsing on top of him.
“Wow,” Stiles breathes, chest heaving so hard that Derek rises and falls with it. “I think you broke me,” he laughs, wincing when Derek pulls out. He just grunts in response, flopping down besides Stiles and manhandling him until he’s pressed up against Stiles’ backside.
“Sleep now. Talk later,” he murmurs, stubble scratching along Stiles’ neck and the sensitive skin behind his ear.
It’s only moments later when Derek is fast asleep, hot breath from his nose dancing down his neck. Stiles follows right after, pushing back into Derek just to remember that he has this.
Stiles guesses it’s late afternoon by the time they both stir. The sky outside is grey with rain, and the sun is glowing a burnt, just-before-sunset-orange.
Derek is still plastered all along Stiles’ back, hand roaming gently up and down his ribs.
“Morning,” Stiles whispers, grabbing Derek’s hand and twisting until they’re face to face. He’s not sore anymore, body feeling oddly sated. Every limb feels cracked and stretched, bathing in the afterglow of amazing sex and Derek’s warm body.
“S’not morning,” Derek mumbles, lacing his fingers through Stiles’, a soft sleepy smile on his face that Stiles wants to look at for the rest of his life.
He kisses him, instead. It’s a slow, sweet kiss, not completely devoid of the heat from yesterday, but purposefully more tame. Derek’s mouth is soft and pliant against his, and he pushes in closer to nuzzle at Stiles’ neck.
“Can’t believe this is really happening.”
“Me neither,” Derek places a wet kiss to Stiles’ collarbone, then moves back to rest his head on his hand, fixing Stiles with a curious look. “Since freshman year of high school? Really,” he asks, smirking a little bit.
“Since you found me and Scott creeping in the woods looking for his inhaler,” Stiles blushes, licking his lips like he always does when he’s nervous.
“Guess we wasted a lot of time, hm?” Derek finally says, eyes soaking in every inch of Stiles’ face. The action is so intimate, almost like a physical touch.
“I’ve kind of been in love with you this whole time,” he laughs, looking away so that he can’t see the look on Derek’s face.
“You love me?”
“I mean, yeah? Yes. As much as you can love someone you never got to be with,” Stiles stammers, hand making vague movements in the air between them.
“I can’t believe it took sex pollen for us to finally talk about this” Derek mumbles, shaking his head and sitting up in the bed to rub at his face. He looks a little nervous, like he isn’t sure what they do now, which, Stiles doesn’t know either. He sits up and faces his body towards Derek, resting his hands in his lap.
“So…what do we do now that we’ve, now that we’re...I mean, do you want to do this again?”
Derek looks at Stiles for a moment, eyes dragging down to his mouth, to the bruise on his neck, on his left collarbone, and warmth grows in Stiles’ belly again, like it never left but just sort of fell asleep when they did.
“Yes.”
“Okay, me too. Like, all the time,” Stiles smiles, grabbing the second water bottle and taking a gigantic gulp.
“Want to get dinner?” Derek looks bashful when he asks, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a cautious smile, like he isn’t sure that was the right thing to ask.
“Yes.”
So they get dinner.