"You know you're grounded, right, son?" The sheriff says when he opens the front door, moving out of the way as Scott helps Stiles limp inside the house.
"At least two weeks, I hope." Stiles doesn't want to leave his room. He doesn't want to leave his bed. He just wants to shower—he had washed off some of the blood back at Deaton's (and there had been a lot), but his clothes are still covered with the stuff—and get in his bed, and sleep for a very long time. A very long time.
"I'm thinking three." The sheriff grabs hold of his other arm. "You stole my patrol car, Stiles. And you look like you were jumped by a gang."
"Ugh, don't remind me." Stiles maybe leans into his dad's hold a little more than he needs to. "Or, remind me all you want, just after I sleep for two days." They come to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, and Stiles is just about to lift up his leg to the first step with Scott picks him up.
"Deaton said you weren't concussed," Scott grunts. "So that's fine. The sleeping. Just make sure to keep your bandages dry this time. And, Mr. Stilinski, I have some, uh, medication in the car that Deaton told me to—"
"Just tell me what to do, Scott." The sheriff holds open the bathroom door as Scott maneuvers Stiles so his head doesn't hit the frame, then sets him down to lean against the sink. "I'll be home all tomorrow, so—"
"Oh man, are we going to have a talk?" Stiles whines, already trying to get out of his shirt. He's going to burn these clothes. Or tear them up. Or something equally dramatic.
"Yes. After you shower and sleep." The sheriff eyes him, then goes to lift his shirt over his head. "Christ, Stiles. You look like—"
"—I got jumped by a gang, got it." Stiles shrugs the shirt off, looks at Scott and his dad. "I can, uh, do this alone, if you two would—"
"You can't get your hands wet. Or your ankle. Or your knee. " Scott points at his hands, newly wrapped. "Deaton gave me some plastic wrap to wrap around them for you, so I'll get them from the-"
"Yes, great. Go." Stiles shoos him out, looks at his dad. "You really don't need to be in here for this. It's just going to be lots of screaming and sobbing."
"Hilarious, Stiles, really." The sheriff eyes him. "I already got your bed ready for you—"
"Aww, you're so awesome."
"Shut up. You're staying home Monday and Tuesday—you're back to school on Wednesday, and curfew is now set at nine."
"I really don't have a problem with that." Stiles really doesn't. He's not going to be much use to anyone for at least a month, anyway—his body is sore and sprained and bruised. Plus he's so tired.
"Yeah, well…" The sheriff sighs, then, and seems to give up. "I'll be downstairs, Stiles."
"You're hovering, Scott," Stiles drawls, a little less than an hour later, lying on his bed, laptop on his stomach. He's clean, if a little emotionally scarred from having Scott stay with him in the bathroom while he showered, and exhausted. And Scott is hovering. Sitting at his desk, looking at him with raised eyebrows.
"I'm allowed to hover. My best friend almost got killed by a fricken' unicorn, dude." He smiles. "You remember back when we were still dealing with the kanima crap? You told me you couldn't do the things I do?"
"Oh god, are we being nostalgic?" Stiles groans, starts perusing the new releases on Netflix. At least his pointer finger isn't broken. It's the little things, really. He needs, like, a comedy or an indie or something. Nothing depressing. Nothing with explosions or blood or running. "I don't think I have the energy, Scott."
"Hey, I'm being serious here." Scott chucks a paperclip at him, aims a little bit too high, and they both watch it bounce off the opposite wall. At least Scott looks sheepish. "You don't need to be a werewolf, Stiles, you're kind of badass enough already. I mean, shit, you saved Derek and killed the thing. Alone. That… that's more than I could do as a human."
"You're making me tear up here, Scott." Stiles is pretty sure they've had this conversation before. Doesn't mean he's going to complain about the ego boost it gives him.
"Yeah, well, go to sleep, dipshit."
"I'm so tired I can't sleep." Stiles gestures at his laptop. "Pick one: Wilfred marathon or White Collar marathon?"
"Wilfred, all the way, dude. Why would you watch White Collar? It's boring."
Stiles shrugs. "Neal's hot."
"… aren't you a thing with Derek, now?"
"I don't know. Plus, if I am, doesn't mean Neal's not hot." Stiles eyes him. "Are we talking relationships now? I thought we weren't talking relationships."
"I'm just making an observation, asshead."
"As am I, wolf-boy."
"How come you have a boyfriend and I don't?" Scott whines.
"I thought you weren't in to dudes. If you ask Isaac I'm pretty sure—" Stiles grins when Scott throws another paperclip at him—it doesn't miss this time.
"I mean—" He sighs. "You know what I mean, Stiles."
Of course Stiles know what Scott means. He's only ever thought of Allison. The dude is nothing if not optimistic. Or just crazy in love. Emphasis on the crazy part. But it's a good crazy. A hero kind of crazy.
"It…it's been, what, a year?" Apparently they're discussing relationships now. Damn it.
"Yeah." Scott looks down at the floor. "I thought it would be easy, ya know? Give her space, wait a couple of months… talk it out. But, it just…"
"Hasn't happened?" Stiles nods, clicks on the first episode of Wilfred, puts subtitles on and mutes it.
"Maybe you should just go talk to her. You guys have English together, right?" He looks up to see Scott staring, shrugs. "When I talked to her… she seemed lonely, man. Maybe it would be nice to hang out again." He pauses. "She also has some amazing bestiaries. Like. Top of the line. I want—"
"I'm leaving. And you're not thinking about anything supernatural for at least a week. Derek's orders." Scott stands, makes a face. "I can't believe I'm playing messenger for Derek, of all people."
"Aww, you like him, Scott. You're just jealous because he's better at the whole regally depressed hero thing."
"… sometimes I think you live in a different reality, Stiles."
"I do. It's better than yours. Now leave."
Stiles doesn't get out of bed for a day— it's awesome. He spends Monday and Tuesday watching B-rated movies on Netflix and catching up on homework. On Wednesday, he only leaves the house because his dad practically shoves him in his car and drives him to school.
He makes sure to mutter the entire way there, and maybe limps dramatically when he gets out of the car and walks over to where Scott and the others are waiting for him standing around Jackson's car.
"Derek's pissed at you," Erica greets. Jackson looks positively fucking gleeful, the douche.
"Good to see you too, Erica." Stiles limps—less dramatically, now that his dad is pulling out of the parking lot—over to lean on the bicycle rack next to Scott. "Isn't Derek always pissed at me when I save his furry ass?"
"… true." Isaac shifts to stand farther away from Jackson, who isn't paying attention, because he's too busy smelling Lydia's hair. Blurgh.
"No, he's different pissed," Boyd says. "More… mopey than usual."
"… I don't understand." Stiles scrunches his nose up. "How does Derek get more mopey?"
"If anyone could do it, he could." Danny comes up from behind them, leaning against Jackson's car.
"You should probably talk to him," Scott says. "He's coming to pick up—"
"No." Lydia looks up from where she's been texting…someone. Stiles never really knows. Maybe she's on twitter or something. "Don't go. Not today."
"Finally realized you're too good for liza—" He grins, all teeth, when Jackson snarls at him.
"No. Don't go over until you're not covered in bruises and bandages." They all stare at her until she shrugs. "Having sex around bandages is awkward."
Someone starts choking—it's either Danny or Scott. Or Isaac. Nope, all three. Erica looks interested. Boyd… does not. Then again, he has a natural poker face. Jackson has gone back to smelling Lydia's hair, so no reaction there. Stiles… well, Stiles remembers why he had a crush on Lydia for ten years. Because she's smart.
"Good point," Stiles says, just to get the others to start choking again. He's not disappointed.
"I know," Lydia says, then the bell rings, and he lets Boyd and Isaac escort him to anatomy because their classroom is right next to his.
School is exhausting, as usual. Or, well, more than usual. He doesn't see anyone at lunch because he's stuck making up his AP calculus quiz. And when the day is finally over, his dad picks him up and drops him off at home with threats of violence if he even thinks about leaving the house.
He takes three ibuprofen, does his homework, and collapses in bed before eight.
The entire week pretty much goes like that. He hangs out with Scott and Isaac on Saturday, watches some weird ass indie flick when Erica and Boyd and Danny come over on Sunday, and doesn't even contemplate texting Derek.
Okay, he does. He even contemplates driving to Derek's apartment when he gets his jeep back on Monday, but he doesn't. Because he has discipline. And Derek is being an asshead.
Seriously, who gets pissed at someone for saving their life?
Derek, that's who.
It's Tuesday—during English, because Mrs. Lee is more monotone than usual, and Stiles needs something to keep himself from jumping out the window—when he decides that he's had enough of the silent treatment. Also, his injuries are all pretty much healed.
Or, well, at least the bandages are gone.
So when school ends, he hops in his jeep, drives to Derek's apartment, grabs the last guest parking space, and jogs to the elevator before he loses his nerve. It's a good thing Derek had given them all access fobs a couple of months ago, because he's pretty sure that if he had to call up to be let in, Derek would just ignore him. As it is, he's probably going to ignore him anyway, but at least he can annoy him with his presence.
Stiles is pretty sure his addiction to annoying Derek is what got him all hot and bothered for the dude in the first place. Well, that and Derek's predilection with not wearing a shirt.
Anyway, Derek isn't home when he opens the door, which is actually good thing, he guesses, so he stations himself at the living room coffee table, sends a text to tell the others where he is, and then gets out his laptop and starts his homework.
What? Stiles is nothing if not efficient.
Well, when he wants to be.
He's in the middle of wondering why he registered for AP calculus in the first place when Derek opens the door and walks in. No, he slams the door open and stalks in. Of course he does. It's Derek. Pissed off Derek. Although, the bags of groceries in his hands take away from the image a little bit.
"Stiles," he greets, "get out."
"No." Stiles grins, turns back to pretend to do his homework, even though he knows he won't be able to concentrate. Derek can probably hear how fast his heartbeat is, but that's never stopped Stiles from acting like he's not nervous before.
"Why are you—nevermind," Derek growls, slams the door shut, and stomps over to the kitchen, where he starts putting away the groceries. Angrily. It's kind of hilarious.
Usually, Stiles would start talking. He would annoy and bug until Derek was forced to either talk back or go insane. But right now, he's pretty sure that would get his fob confiscated. And Stiles likes having access to Derek's apartment. If he didn't he wouldn't be able to do stuff like this. So, instead, Stiles goes back to his homework. Or, well, he goes back to trying to remember why he signed up for AP calculus when he's never going to use it anyway.
Mostly he just ends up doodling all over his notes.
"Why are you here, Stiles?" Derek finally asks, maybe ten minutes later. He leans against the arm of one of the living room chairs, glaring down at him.
"Homework." Stiles looks up at him, leans back against the sofa. "It needed doing."
"And I came to apologize." Stiles grins when Derek blinks at him, slow and surprised, but then the dark, brooding eyebrows and the red, glinting eyes are back.
"You don't get to—"
"I wasn't thinking, and I was angry at you for leaving me alone, so I just acted on impulse. I should've stayed with you when the unicorn started ya know, sparkling, but I just…" Stiles shrugs. "I didn't think. And I'm sorry."
Derek stares at him for a long while. It—the stare—reminds him of the first time they had met, back in the woods after Scott had first been bitten. It's wary and angry and a little bit of something else. Confusion, maybe. Stiles stares back.
"You could've been killed," Derek says, a little later. Okay, a while later. Shit, the man could win the Olympic gold for intense staring. Stiles blinks, nods, picks at the frayed cuff of his jeans.
"I didn't die, though," he points out, remembering blood and fear and the sound of the unicorn's last, wheezing breath.
"But you could have, Stiles," Derek growls at him. "You can't—I don't… I can't handle another—"
Stiles gets it then, and he winces. Of course Derek is mad at him. "I'm sorry," he says again. He can't promise he won't be in danger again, and he can't promise he won't be impulsive again. So… an apology will have to do. "I did take care of myself, though, Derek. I mean—"
"And, in the scheme of things, you were the one that got injured more than I did. Maybe I should be angry at you—"
"—I'm a werewolf, Stiles. We heal. You don't."
Stiles shows off his un-bandaged hands. "Uh, yeah I do. Just slower than you. Plus, that doesn't mean you get to act like it's nothing when you're crushed. I was covered in your blood, Derek. A lot of it. More than usual."
"Yeah, you did. But -" Stiles sighs, scratches the back of his head. "- that doesn't mean—and shit I swear we've had this conversation before, dude—that you have to get injured all the fucking time."
"It's not like I try to get injured all the time, Stiles," Derek says. "Unlike you."
"I don't try to get injured, either!" Stiles shrugs. "It just happens. I'm human. Our injuries last longer."
"So you should listen when someone tells you to stay put."
"Ha!" Stiles smirks. "Hell no, dude. You should know better. Telling me to stay out of something pretty much guarantees the opposite."
"You're ridiculous." Derek shakes his head at him, walks back over to the kitchen.
"You're ridiculous." Stiles crawls up to sit on the couch, watches as Derek opens the fridge. "Get me a drink."
"Get yourself a drink." Derek grabs a bottle of water, makes a point of slamming the fridge closed.
"Are we good, though?" Stiles gets up, walks over to the fridge and gets himself a coke. "Because I kind of like hanging out with you." He takes a swig, eyes Derek over the can for a moment. "Also, are we gonna make out again, or is that over?"
He doesn't laugh when Derek spits out the water he had been attempting to swallow, but he wants to. Instead, he walks back over to sit at the coffee table, and starts his homework…again. Or, tries to. Fuck, he needs a study session with Lydia or something.
"I—" Derek sounds like he's choking.
"It's, uh, okay if you don't want to." Stiles keeps his eyes on his notes in front of him, and maybe his pen is pressing a little too hard into the paper. "I mean, if that's why you were avoiding me, and not because you were angry…"
"That's not it." Derek comes over, falls back on one of the chairs facing Stiles. He sighs when Stiles doesn't talk, looks around the room for a bit, then sighs again. "I was angry."
Stiles nods, ducks his head so Derek doesn't see his cheeks turning red.
"Cool." He clears his throat. "So, are you still angry?"
Stiles closes his notes and leans his elbows back to rest on the sofa cushions. "Like how angry? Angry enough that you're going to avoid me for another two weeks? Or just angry enough for makeup sex?"
Derek gives him his wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look, and Stiles watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. Fuck, that's a turn on. And it's not even a weird turn on. Now he's imagining how Derek had looked, back…what, had it been a week ago? He's imagining what he had looked like a week ago, tongue laving at his chest and his stomach. He's imagining what Derek's mouth would look like around his dick.
"That's cheating." Derek's nostrils are flared, and his eyes are glowing red. Stiles shrugs.
"Doesn't mean you have to do anything about it if you don't want to." He gets up, starts shoving his homework in his bag—just in case it turns out Derek doesn't want him and he has to leave quick.
"I want to," Derek says, just as he's zipping up his bag. Stiles freezes, and places his bag, carefully, slowly, on the couch.
"Oh," is all he manages to say. He actually never thought that Derek would…well, crap. Talk about situations escalating quickly.
"Or," Derek says. Stiles glances up from where his eyes have been glued to the coffee table. "If you were just joki—"
"No!" Stiles shakes his head a little too hard. "I wasn't joking."
"Yeah." Stiles is pretty sure they're at a standstill. Because of course they would be. It's not like Stiles could ever, you know, not be awkward.
They stare at each for a while, and then Stiles realizes nothing is going to happen if he doesn't start it. He's pretty sure the constipated expression Derek has on his face is nerves, not anger. It's kind of heady, actually, that he makes Derek nervous.
Heady, and hot.
Stiles gets up and walks over to sit on the coffee table in front of Derek's chair. He starts fidgeting, then, because he doesn't really know what to say or do that's going to make this situation any less awkward. Derek is still just…staring at him. That's not new. The intensity is newish, though, and it's making him re-think himself. Re-think if he's up for… this.
"Stiles," Derek says, and Stiles feels goose bumps break out on his arms.
"Yup," he croaks out, meeting Derek's eyes and finding them half-mast and glowing red. He's pretty sure this is going to devolve into them just staring silently at each other for hours until Isaac bursts in or something. Unless one of them does something. As it is, Derek kind of looks frozen.
So, it has to be him. Because, shit, he wants this. Last week hadn't been enough. Last week had been the tip of the fucking iceberg, and Stiles wants the whole fuckin' thing. Wants the whole fuckin' thing in multiple positions, in various rooms, and really, anything Derek will say yes to.
He's pretty sure some of that desperation is because he's a seventeen year old virgin, but most is because this is Derek.
He gets up, standing just long enough to think it's strange looking down on Derek from so close, and then he leans down, takes a breath to steady himself, and presses his lips to Derek's.
Someone moans—he's pretty sure it's both of them, actually—and suddenly he's being pulled to straddle Derek's lap, and Derek's tongue is in his mouth, and his hands are under his shirt and kneading into the skin of his back.
"Finally," he mutters, smoothing his hands over Derek's shoulders and into his hair. Derek snorts and dips his head to nip at Stiles' neck.
They kiss. Or make out. Or whatever. There's a lot of petting and enthusiastic grinding of pelvises and tongues against tongues and various sounds of approval and arousal. Stiles doesn't really concentrate on the specifics, mostly because he's unable to. Derek is frying his brain. Frying his brain in the best way possible, and, yup, he's pretty sure he's addicted.
He's addicted to the way Derek's hands are soft and firm, and how they press hard against his skin and linger over his muscles. He's addicted to how the kisses change from demanding to teasing to filthy and open-mouthed and hot and then back again. He's addicted to the way Derek's hips cant up, probably involuntarily, every time Stiles lets out a moan or a whimper (which, uh, happens a lot, actually). He's addicted—crap, he's getting poetic now, isn't he?
"Derek," he moans. "this is—mmmnnh-great and all—but could we—"
"Bed?" Derek cuts him off, his voice breathless and low and…yeah, okay, Stiles is never going to admit that he almost came in his pants from that. Nope, never. He shudders, dropping his forehead to Derek's shoulder.
"Yes," Stiles grits out, slides off Derek's lap and pulls him up after him.
The journey to the bedroom is slow and hot and awesome because Derek keeps pushing Stiles up against whatever wall they're nearest to and kissing him until his jeans are tight (tighter) and painful (more painful) against his dick and he can't breathe, let alone think. Eventually, though, his back bounces on a plush mattress, and Derek's weight presses him in further, his fingers working at the buttons of Stiles' jeans, his mouth fast and desperate and messy over Stiles'.
"Come on," Stiles hears himself say, past the fuzzy daze of arousal that's making his fingers clumsy as he tries to push Derek's shirt over his shoulders. "Too many clothes."
Derek groans a response, something low and throaty that sounds like fuck, but Stiles doesn't hear it so much as feel it, because his jeans and boxers have disappeared, and clawed fingers are dragging up his flanks, taking his shirt with them, and he's focused on the feeling of bare chest against his. Stiles isn't sure whether he should be angry because he's more naked than Derek, or turned on because Derek is looking at him like he's—
"Fuck, Stiles." Derek noses at his stomach, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the skin, and Stiles bites at his forearm, whimpers as Derek presses his jeaned-covered thigh in between his legs. "You're—"
"Clothes," Stiles manages, gestures towards Derek when all he does is looked confused. "Your clothes, for fuck's sake, Derek." He pushes up, grabs at Derek's shirt that's rucked up over his shoulders and tears it off, then starts working on his jeans again, although it's a little distracting when his dick keeps getting in the way. The fifth time he somehow grabs at it instead of Derek's zipper, he gives up and flops back down to his back with a sigh. "Can we just have sex with your jeans on?"
"You're an idiot." Derek grins though, wide and…wolfish, leans to one side, and slides out of his jeans, and his briefs and…yeah, that's a nice cock.
"You're the one that—oh fuck." He bites his tongue when Derek's hand closes around their dicks, narrows his eyes when Derek starts working it up and down. God, that feels amazing, but…"No, wait. Derek—"
Derek freezes, eyes going wide as he tries to scramble away. "What? You don't—"
"We've done this already," he says, starts laughing when Derek's eyes go even wider, and his hands, grip at Stiles thighs hard. "I want—"
"We don't need to, Stiles," Derek croaks. "If you're not sure. If you—"
Stiles sighs. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you? Seriously?"
"What?" Derek says, but his expression tells Stiles he already knows exactly what Stiles is going to say.
"I want you," Stiles tries to make his voice low and growly and… it kind of works, "to fuck me."
"Fuck." Derek swallows, looks down at the sheets while Stiles watches Derek's cock harden and leak pre-come. Fuck yes.
"You've got—?" Stiles nods his head towards the nightstand.
"Yes." When Derek meets his eyes again, they're hard and intense and, so fucking hot. "Are you sure?"
There's a long pause, during which Derek just looks at him with that same stare. The sad thing is that his cock doesn't get any less hard. If anything, it gets harder, just because of the anticipation. Maybe Derek puts off, like, werewolf pheromones just for him. Ones that make anything and everything a turn on. Or, well, that could just be Stiles being a horn-dog. Whatever.
"Yes," Derek finally says. When he doesn't move, Stiles realizes he's waiting for a response.
"What do you think, asshole?" And then he grabs at Derek's shoulders, pulls him down, groaning at the feel of naked skin against naked skin, and starts kissing him, grinding his dick up into Derek's thigh and wrapping one leg around his ass to get closer.
Derek's hands are everywhere, pressing and kneading and ghosting along the few areas of Stiles' torso that are still tender. And then he's placing kisses at Stiles' jaw, leaving a trail of marks along his jugular and across his collar bone, nipping at Stiles' chest and watching, eyes dark and red and strangely enough, content, as he watches Stiles curse and arch up off the bed. He keeps going, lower and lower, and Stiles grabs at his hair and massages his scalp, babbling incoherently and probably making an idiot of himself.
It seems to work for Derek, though, because he keeps at it. Keeps at it until he's licking a wet trail up Stiles' dick, one hand skimming down lower to trace right above Stiles' ass, the other hand on his own cock, stroking up and down in a rhythm that's making Stiles kind of crazy.
Stiles pushes his hips up, wanting to get closer, much closer, and digs his nails into Derek's shoulders. His dick is leaking pre-come like crazy, there's an ache in his balls, and he's been about five seconds from coming for the last twenty minutes or so, but he needs Derek in him. Fuck, he wants it.
"Derek." He pulls his hair with one hand, gestures towards the nightstand with the other. "Lube. Condom. Come on. "
Derek eyes him for a second, then leans over to reach the nightstand. He comes back to sit on his heels, already squeezing lube onto his fingers, and pulls Stiles until his ass is in the air—it's embarrassing until it's not, really—and his legs are spread open on either side of Derek's thighs.
"If you'd stop fucking staring and get on with it, already—holy fuck." Stiles keens—he wasn't even fucking aware he was capable of keening—when a lubed finger pushes in. Yeah, yeah, okay, this is happening. He's done this before, with his own fingers, but the angle is different, and the finger is different, and, oh wow, it's good. So good. The best kind of good, the—oh, and it's moving.
Stiles bites at his lip and pushes back into Derek's finger, laughing when he hears Derek's cut off curses, only to moan when Derek's finger catches his prostate and he has to think of Coach Finstock so he won't come.
Damn it, he'll forever be haunted by the dude.
When Derek adds a second, and then a third, and then a fourth finger, Stiles is pretty sure he's going to go crazy. Not the good kind of crazy, either. The bad kind. With, you know, hallucinations and shit. And when there's suddenly nothing, and he opens his eyes—sometime during between the second and third finger, he found out it was easier not to come if he didn't see how dazed Derek looked, or how his dick was leaking pre-come all over Stiles' thigh, or how his eyes were flashing red and his canines were sharp—he sees Derek staring down at him, unopened condom wrapper in hand.
"I—" Derek starts. "Werewolves don't have knots."
"Y-yeah?" Stiles is too mind-fucked (literally? Yeah, literally) to think of a good comeback for that one. "Good for you, bud."
"We also don't get… diseases."
"No condom?" Stiles asks, because he's pretty sure that's where this is going. And fuck, okay, he's good for that. He's great. That just sounds fucking awesome actually. Derek licks his lips, nods as he breathes into Stiles' knee. "Okay."
The condom is thrown across the room hard enough that it hits the opposite wall with a loud snap—Stiles catalogs that so he can make fun of Derek for it later—and then he feels Derek's dick pressing against him, and then it's pressing in.
He's pretty sure he keens again. It's a manly keen, really.
Derek pushes in slow, too slow, slow enough that Stiles can feel every inch as it slides against his insides. It hurts, yes, of course it does, but once Derek is all the way in, and his balls hit up against Stiles' ass, the pain turns into a dull pressure. It's a throbbing ache, hot and heavy, that slowly turns into pleasure, enough pleasure so that Stiles hear Derek murmuring nonsense against his knee over the rush of blood in his ears, his eyes squeezed shut and his breaths coming out hot and heavy against the skin of Stiles' thigh.
They stay there, frozen, until Stiles gets fed up, and starts nudging Derek's back with his feet, pulling him forward and canting his hips up until little sparks of white pleasure start zipping through the ache. Derek groans at that, grabs Stiles' ass, and seems to get the message, because he starts thrusting in and out. Deep, thorough, agonizingly good thrusts that make Stiles' dick hard and hot and heavy again. Stiles grabs at it, pumping up and down in time with the movement of Derek's hips until the ache gets too much, turns into a white, hot, bright mix of pleasure and pain, and he's coming all over his chest and the bed.
He's still in an orgasm induced daze when Derek whimpers, and then groans, and then growls, grabs his ass, and starts thrusting in hard and fast. His dick twitches, because of course it does, and he pushes back, arching up so that Derek slides along his prostate with each thrust in. He feels Derek's fingers skim around where they're connected, then he shudders, half collapsing to bite at Stiles' neck and nipples and stomach. He feels it, when Derek comes, and he…he likes it. It's a strange feeling. A strange good feeling. It's hot and dirty and wetand-
"Fucking hell, Stiles," Derek whines from where his face is smashed against Stiles' shoulder, almost lazily nipping at his skin. "So good."
"Y-yeah." Stiles fidgets, just to feel where Derek is still in him, his hips pressed hard against Stiles, like he's trying to keep his come insi—oh. "This is a… is this a werewolf thi—fuck that's hot."
"Just, let me," Derek's voice is amazing like this. Like it's broken. Pleading. Like he's begging Stiles. Ugh, Stiles is going to get hard again soon. "Let me stay… in. Please."
Stiles wraps his legs around Derek's torso, shifting so he's more comfortable, and pushes down on Derek's back with his heels. "Yeah, yeah. It's good."
Derek hums in the back of his throat, reaching up to kiss along Stiles' neck, nosing at his jugular and then just… staying there. His hands skim at Stiles' sides and when Stiles looks down, his eyes are closed and he has a blissed out smile on his face.
Wow. Derek smiling is… yeah, that's some powerful stuff.
Stiles brings his hand up and cards his fingers through Derek's sweat-damp hair, gulping when Derek presses his head into the touch and cants his hips forward, just enough so Stiles can feel that he's already—or is it still?—half hard.
"So..." Stiles clears his throat. "That was awesome."
"Yeah," Derek mumbles into his skin.
"Guess we're over the anger thing?"
"I'd say that was a pretty spectacular loss of virginity, except I haven't fucked you yet." Ahh, now that gets a response, in the form of Derek's dick twitching where it's still inside Stiles, and Derek's head rearing up so he's looking at him with wide eyes. "I mean, only if you're cool with that, and later, since, ya know, you're still—"
"Yeah." Derek licks his lips, eyes roving over Stiles face. He must find something he likes, because he grins, and leans forward—that gets a gasp from Stiles, because, shit, that angle—to lick into his mouth. "I know."
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