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The first time it happend - Stiles jumps him for the remote.
They’ve done this before—versions of it, at least. Pillow fights. Couch wrestling. The occasional over-the-shoulder carry when Derek gets annoyed and Stiles decides to make it worse by flailing like a gremlin. But this time it’s for the remote, and Stiles tackles him without grace, more limbs than leverage, landing half on Derek’s chest and half across his thighs.
“Give it,” Stiles huffs, breathless from laughter and bad form, digging his knee into the cushion for balance.
“No,” Derek says flatly, like he’s unimpressed, but his voice catches at the end. It’s quiet. Barely there.
Stiles grins. “Come on, man, you hate romcoms. Let me live.”
He lunges, grabbing at Derek’s wrist, trying to pry the remote from his fingers. Derek could hold onto it, could toss him off like he weighs nothing—but his grip loosens. Just enough. Just long enough for Stiles to straddle his hips, press both knees down into the couch on either side, and pin Derek’s wrist above his head.
It’s a joke. That’s what it starts as.
But Derek doesn’t move.
Not in the usual way, anyway. Not in the grunted, annoyed, slow-reversal kind of way that ends with Stiles on the floor and Derek rolling his eyes like Stiles is beneath bothering with. He doesn’t even try to twist out of it. He just—goes still.
His breath shifts. Subtle but sharp. Like he’s just remembered how to inhale.
And when Stiles leans forward, close enough to feel it, he swears the heat coming off Derek’s chest is not about losing a scuffle over movie night.
Derek’s eyes are on him. Wide. Blown. Not angry. Not even playful.
Just still.
And wanting, maybe. But Stiles doesn’t know how to process that without spiraling into seven layers of denial and horny panic, so instead he stares back, trying not to breathe too loud, not to shift too much where he’s straddling Derek’s hips. Not to notice the way Derek’s body responds—muscles taut beneath him, tension alive in every inch, but not against him. For him.
Stiles goes still too.
His fingers twitch, still loosely wrapped around Derek’s wrist, not pinning so much as holding. Not resisting gravity, just there. His knee brushes higher up Derek’s side, and Derek doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.
And that’s somehow worse. Or better. Or—
“What the hell,” Stiles whispers, mostly to himself.
And Derek still doesn’t say a word.
Stiles lets go like he touched a live wire.
Not fast enough to be suspicious. Not slow enough to be deliberate. Just—careless, casual, the way someone would move if nothing weird had just happened, if they weren’t definitely straddling their best friend’s lap and realizing that best friend had just… let them. Had just looked at them like that. Still. Quiet. Wanting.
He rolls off to the side with a groan, flopping back against the couch cushions, one arm thrown over his face like he’s being dramatic about losing the remote. Which, for the record, is still clutched in Derek’s hand like he might snap it in half.
“Ugh, whatever. Fine. You win. Enjoy your emotionally constipated shoot-em-up testosterone hour,” Stiles mutters, like his heart isn’t still beating in his throat.
He doesn’t look over. Not even a glance. Because if he looks, he’ll see. And if he sees, he’ll have to deal with the way Derek’s still not moving. The way that second stretched too long. The way his hips shifted just slightly up into Stiles’ weight before he froze like a goddamn statue.
So he doesn’t look.
But he thinks. Oh, he thinks.
Because that wasn’t just a moment. That was a reaction. That was heat under his hands and stillness that screamed yes and Derek not throwing him off when Stiles had him pinned. And the part that really messes with his head—the part he can’t stop circling in his brain like a fucking vulture—is that Derek could’ve stopped it. Could’ve ended it with one arm and a snort. And he didn’t.
Which means—
Shut up, Stiles tells himself. Stop. Don’t be that guy.
He scratches the back of his neck, sits up a little straighter, grabs the nearest throw pillow just to do something with his hands. He pretends he’s watching the screen. He pretends he didn’t notice the way Derek was breathing like he’d just run a mile, like Stiles had done something to him without even trying.
But he let me, Stiles thinks.
And his brain’s already off to the races. Mapping every angle. Replaying every second. Wondering how far he could’ve pushed it. Wondering what would’ve happened if he’d leaned down just a little more. If he’d said something—anything. If he’d asked.
He doesn’t even know what the movie’s about anymore. He’s not watching it.
He’s watching the space between them like it might catch fire.
Next time, he tests it.
It’s subtle. Or it tries to be. Stiles flops onto the couch like usual, sprawled across Derek’s lap with exaggerated groaning about his tragic back pain and how he’s probably dying of stress-induced organ failure.
“It’s a medical condition,” he says, poking Derek in the ribs, then again, harder when Derek doesn’t respond. “Do something nurturing.”
Derek grunts. “Get off.”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t give that annoyed push Stiles expects—the one that would land him on the floor with a scowl and some muttered insult about toddlers and boundaries. Instead, Derek sits stiff and still, breath going shallow when Stiles slides down a little further into his lap. Deliberate. Testing. His thigh pressing tight between Derek’s legs. Close enough to feel it. Close enough to know.
“Wow,” Stiles drawls. “That sounded a lot like stay right there, Stiles, your warmth is the only thing keeping my dead heart functioning.”
Still no shove. No snark. Just a long, sharp inhale and Derek’s eyes cutting to the side like maybe ignoring it will make it go away.
It won’t. Not this time.
Stiles taps his fingers against Derek’s chest, featherlight. Then firmer. Then shoves, playful but insistent, until Derek tips backward against the cushions, off balance from the way Stiles is half-crawled into his space. Stiles follows, knee hitting the cushion, fingers digging into Derek’s sides until he’s flat on his back, jaw tight, hands fisted in the sheets like he’s trying not to react.
And he’s still not throwing Stiles off.
That’s what gets him. Not the stillness, not the heat—those he remembers. But the submission. The choice. Derek is letting him do this. Letting him have this.
Stiles hovers, breath catching somewhere in his throat as he leans in slow, slower, until his mouth is right at Derek’s jaw. Close enough that Derek can feel it. Close enough that Stiles can feel Derek’s pulse stuttering under his lips.
Derek turns into it. Just barely. Just enough.
The banter dies in his throat.
Something heavy and sharp and wrong flickers through Stiles’ chest, gone before he can name it. Or maybe not wrong—just dangerous. Just real. Because if this is what Derek wants, if this is how he wants to give it—quiet and still and pliant—then Stiles has to be careful. Has to be sure. Because this isn’t a joke. Not anymore.
He doesn’t kiss him. Not yet.
But he doesn’t pull away either.
Derek could flip him. Easily. One twist of the wrist, one shift of his hips, and Stiles would be the one breathless on his back. He should. But he doesn’t.
He lets Stiles do it—lets him climb over him with all the finesse of a feral cat, knees digging, one hand pushing Derek’s shoulder down, the other curling tight around his wrist like he’s got any real control. He doesn’t. Not physically. Not in the way that counts. But Derek gives it to him anyway. Lies there, solid and still, beneath barely a fraction of Stiles’ weight like it’s heavy.
Stiles leans in, breath brushing Derek’s cheek, their chests close enough to share the same shallow rhythm. His grip tightens. His fingers splay across Derek’s sternum like he’s grounding him. Or daring him. Or both. Derek’s eyes are dark, his jaw tense, but his body doesn’t lie—hips tipping up, spine arched, chest rising too fast. He’s there, beneath it all, right at the edge.
“You gonna stop me?” Stiles murmurs, voice low, thumb dragging over the inside of Derek’s wrist.
Derek doesn’t answer.
He just breathes. Shakes. His fingers twitch against the sheets like they’re begging to hold back.
And when Stiles shifts his weight, pressing down slow and deliberate, grinding just enough for heat to spark between them—
Derek moans.
Not loud. But real. Shaky and bitten off like he didn’t mean for it to happen.
But it does. And now they both know.
Stiles kisses him mid-taunt.
No warning. No build-up. One second he’s smirking, the next his mouth is on him, full and hot and intentional. It’s not gentle. It’s not curious. It’s the kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve been thinking about it for too long and you can’t shut yourself up anymore.
Derek groans into it, low and wrecked, like the contact knocked the air out of him. His hands jerk against the hold Stiles still has on his wrists but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flip them. Just arches under him, hips pushing up in a sharp, involuntary grind, like his whole body’s reaching for more. Like the sound cracked something open.
Stiles gasps against his mouth, barely pulling back an inch.
“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to Derek’s mouth, already kiss-swollen, parted and panting like he can’t catch his breath. “That all it takes? One kiss and you melt for me?”
Derek doesn’t answer. He’s chasing it, breath ragged, leaning up like he doesn’t care what he looks like, like pride isn’t even a concept right now. His mouth parts on a soft, desperate sound that might’ve been a word if he wasn’t so far gone.
And Stiles—God, Stiles—feels it all in one dizzy rush: the power, the heat, the way Derek’s submission isn’t passive, it’s earned. A gift he’s giving Stiles on purpose. Because he wants this. Wants him. Wants to be kissed senseless and held down and stripped to the core without ever saying a word.
Stiles kisses him again.
Harder. Slower. Meaner.
Derek moans.
Stiles holds Derek’s wrists down, fingers tightening just enough to remind them both who's pretending to be in charge. Derek’s bigger—stronger, always—but his arms stay where they are, muscles trembling under Stiles’ grip, not from restraint, but from restraint not used. From choosing not to fight.
Stiles leans in, slow, mouth dragging along Derek’s throat like he has every right to be there. Like he’s claimed this stretch of skin with nothing but breath and will.
“Fuck,” he whispers against the heat pulsing just below Derek’s jaw, “you’re really letting me do this, huh?”
Derek gasps. Choked and shaky, like it’s costing him something not to move.
Stiles grinds down harder, pelvis slotting into the cradle of Derek’s hips, just to feel the way Derek reacts—tightens, lifts, a helpless buck up that gives everything away.
“You could flip me in half a second,” Stiles murmurs, lips ghosting over stubble, catching on the edge of Derek’s earlobe, “but you won’t.”
It’s not a question. It’s a revelation.
Derek’s breathing is a mess. Shallow and quick and so fucking loud against Stiles’ cheek. His mouth’s open, but no words come out—just a wrecked version of Stiles’ name, half-swallowed, like it hurts to say.
“You want this?” Stiles presses, voice hoarse now, full of heat and disbelief and something low and hungry that doesn’t bother pretending anymore. “Want me on top of you like this? Holding you down?” His fingers flex around Derek’s wrists. “Tell me you don’t want it.”
Derek doesn’t speak. Doesn’t pull away.
Stiles drags his mouth down Derek’s neck, bites just hard enough to leave it, and Derek shudders—shudders—beneath him, arching up into the pressure like he’s been starving for it.
“Say it,” Stiles whispers, not because he needs to hear it, but because he knows Derek can’t.
And Derek doesn’t.
He just lets his head fall back, throat bared, chest heaving, and gives it to him in every way that matters. Every inch of him reads yes. Even when his jaw locks. Even when he bites back the sound. Even when he shakes.
Stiles grinds down again, slow and cruel, and Derek breaks on a moan that wrecks Stiles more than anything he could’ve said.
Stiles stood up, heart thundering, hands still tingling with the ghost of Derek’s pulse under his palms. He stepped back just enough to breathe—but not enough to lose it. Not enough to give Derek time to think, to regroup, to remember how easy it would be to change his mind and throw Stiles off like this was just another mistake they’d laugh about later.
No. Not this time.
“Come on,” Stiles said, voice low, rough in his own throat. He didn’t wait for a response—just caught Derek by the waistband, dragging him up with a force that wasn’t strength so much as intent. Derek came easily. Too easily. Shoulders tense, eyes dark, mouth parted like he was still chasing that last breath Stiles stole from him.
They didn’t stumble. Stiles led.
Through the hallway. Into the bedroom. Familiar space, unfamiliar silence, the kind that hummed with things never said. Derek didn’t speak. Just let himself be moved, steps heavy, like his body knew more than his mind did.
When they reached the bed, Stiles didn’t hesitate.
He pushed.
Not hard. Not rough. Just absolute. Hands flat on Derek’s chest, and Derek fell back onto the mattress like he’d been waiting for it. Like gravity was finally aligned with what he wanted.
Stiles followed, climbing over him, knees on either side, breath uneven but focused. His fingers caught Derek’s wrists again—not tight, not demanding, but guiding. He brought them up. High. Rested them on the headboard like it was a goddamn altar.
“Right there,” he murmured, eyes locked on Derek’s. “Keep them there.”
Derek didn’t move.
Didn’t need to.
His hands stayed where Stiles left them. His chest rose in sharp, shallow pulls. And beneath Stiles, his whole body went still again—but not passive. Ready.
Stiles sat back on his heels for one second, just one, to take it in—the way Derek gave it, the way he waited for the next move like it mattered.
Then Stiles leaned in. Took.
Stiles didn’t kiss him right away. Not again. Not where Derek expected it.
His mouth moved from lips already bruised with silence down to Derek’s throat, tracing the stubble-rough edge of his jaw with tongue and teeth until Derek’s breath hitched. Notched lower, slower, over the thundering pulse at his neck, across the clavicle where tension held Derek too still, too tight, like one more touch would unravel everything he was trying to hold back.
It would. Stiles wanted it to.
He pressed open-mouthed kisses to Derek’s chest, pushed the shirt up with impatient fingers, teeth scraping over a nipple just to see if Derek would react.
He did.
A choked sound, not quite a moan, punched out of him as his spine arched off the bed, wrists twitching above his head like he forgot they weren’t restrained. Like the permission had left him breathless.
Stiles grinned against his skin, hot and mean and so fucking into it. “Still with me?” he murmured, lips brushing down the line of Derek’s ribs, every drag of his mouth a map of intention.
Derek didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He was wrecked—already—head tipped back against the headboard, lips parted, chest heaving like he’d just run miles. His eyes were closed, but his hips weren’t still, shifting under Stiles like instinct had taken over and sense had left the room.
By the time Stiles got to his jeans, Derek was gasping. Not soft, not quiet. The kind of gasping that came from trying to stay quiet and losing the battle. His fingers curled around the headboard but didn’t pull. Didn’t move. Stayed right where Stiles left them, even as his thighs tensed, even as his breath broke on another sharp, helpless sound.
Stiles mouthed at the waistband, nosed against the button with a groan of his own, because fuck, this—Derek like this—was more than he’d ever let himself want.
“Tell me to stop,” Stiles whispered, voice thick, mouth dragging lower.
Derek moaned.
Didn’t say a word.
“Tell me to stop, Derek.”
Stiles said it low, rough, right against the metal button of Derek’s jeans, breath hot through the fabric. His fingers flexed on Derek’s thighs, thumbs sweeping up instinctively, too soft for how hard he was shaking inside. He didn’t look up—not yet—but he felt Derek freeze beneath him, like the words hit deeper than his hands ever could.
Silence.
Except for the sound of Derek’s breath catching. Staggered. Labored. His hips lifted just slightly, not enough to chase friction, but enough to say don’t stop without saying anything at all.
Stiles pressed his mouth there again, slower this time, lips brushing denim, nose pressed against the sharp edge of a zipper.
“You have to say it,” he murmured, but it cracked. “I need you to.”
Derek’s wrists didn’t move. Stayed braced against the headboard like Stiles had tied him there. His fingers curled into the wood. Every line of his body drawn tight, vibrating with restraint. His throat worked like he was going to speak.
He didn’t.
Instead, he let out a broken, bitten-off moan—helpless and full of yes in every place he wouldn’t let himself say the word.
“Shit,” Stiles breathed, barely audible, barely himself.
His hands moved before his brain could catch up—rough with urgency, with disbelief, with the ache of finally. He unbuckled Derek’s pants with trembling fingers, teeth sinking into his lower lip as the metal gave with a soft clink, the sound obscene in the quiet. Derek didn’t flinch. Didn’t help. Just stayed there—open, shaking, undone—like this was a moment he’d been holding his breath through for years.
Stiles pushed the denim down, knuckles dragging slow against skin, baring inch after inch of heat and want and Derek, and holy fuck, he was beautiful like this. Messy. Bare. Jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts.
Stiles sat back for half a second, jeans tangled around Derek’s thighs, and just looked at him—every flushed line, every shiver, every place he didn’t say a word but meant it. He palmed over the front of Derek’s briefs, slow, intentional, pressing down just enough to make Derek gasp and arch, head tipping back like surrender was the only language left in him.
“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” Stiles whispered, and meant it.
Stiles leaned in, breath hot and uneven against the line of Derek’s stomach, fingers curling firm around his hips like he needed to anchor him there. Derek was already panting, already flushed everywhere, hands still gripping the headboard like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.
Stiles hooked his thumbs under the waistband of Derek’s briefs, dragging them down slow, kissing the skin just below his navel like he was stalling, like if he lingered here long enough it wouldn’t ruin him completely. But it would. It already had.
When he finally took Derek in his mouth, the sound Derek made was fucking devastating—a hoarse, punched-out groan that vibrated straight through Stiles’ chest.
He pulled off just enough to murmur, voice wrecked and certain, “You move, I stop.”
Derek froze. Breath shallow. Entire body shaking with the effort to obey.
Stiles smirked against him—dark, possessive, in it—then licked a stripe up the length of him, slow and deliberate, watching Derek’s fists clench against the wood like he was barely holding on. He was. He was.
And Stiles swallowed him down again, knowing full fucking well Derek would stay exactly where he was until Stiles said otherwise.
“Stiles.”
It tore out of Derek like he didn’t mean to say it, like it slipped past every defense he’d built just to hold himself together. Not loud—just rough, desperate, shaped around a breath that barely made it out. His voice cracked on it. His hips twitched like his body wanted to move, needed to, but remembered the rule too late.
Stiles paused.
Not because he was surprised—he wasn’t—but because of the way Derek said it. Like his name was a tether. Like it meant something more than stop or don’t or please. It was all of those things. But also more.
He glanced up, mouth still wrapped around him, eyes dragging up the line of Derek’s wrecked body to meet his face. Derek was gone—flushed deep red, sweat at his temple, lips parted, chest heaving, head pressed back against the headboard like looking would be too much.
“Yeah?” Stiles murmured against the heat of him, voice low and wrecked and loving it. “You want something?”
Derek didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
Just said his name again—quieter this time, cracked in half.
“Stiles.”
Stiles didn’t answer—not out loud. He didn’t need to. Derek saying his name like that, all wrecked and reverent, was more than permission. It was surrender.
So he kept going.
His tongue dragged along the underside with slow, deliberate heat, tasting the salt of skin, the tension vibrating through every inch of Derek’s body as he held still like his life depended on it. Stiles felt the tremble in his thighs, the way his stomach tightened under each pass of his mouth, the faint stutter in his breath every time Stiles went deeper.
And then he took him in, slow but sure, until the head hit the back of his throat.
Derek groaned—loud this time, sharp, like the sound got dragged out of his ribs.
But he didn’t move.
His fingers clenched white-knuckled around the headboard, chest heaving, jaw locked like if he let himself shift an inch he’d fall apart completely. His legs shook, tight with restraint, thighs trembling under Stiles’ palms.
Stiles breathed through it, lips stretched, eyes fluttering closed as he swallowed again, adjusting to the weight and heat and sheer want thrumming off Derek like it was something Stiles could taste.
He pulled back just enough to suck, tongue curling on the way out, then sank down again, letting it hit the back of his throat all over, every motion soaked in intent—this was for Derek, and he knew it.
“You’ve done this before?” Stiles asked, voice low and frayed with heat, lips slick, breath ragged against the inside of Derek’s thigh as his fingers slipped lower—exploring, teasing, learning.
He didn’t expect an answer. Not really. But Derek gave one anyway.
A shake of the head. Small. Barely there. But it landed.
And that—that lit something in Stiles he didn’t even know he was holding back.
“Oh,” he breathed, stilling for just a second, fingers resting at the edge of something raw and untested, sacred in the way Derek offered it without flinching. “Oh, fuck.”
Derek didn’t speak. Just lay there, arms still stretched above him, body tight with want and trust and restraint, flushed everywhere like the admission had undone him further. His jaw was clenched, throat working, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t close himself.
He offered.
Stiles’ hand trembled where it hovered. His mouth opened, then closed again because words weren’t enough for what was sitting hot in his chest, flooding through his veins like static.
Next time, he thought.
Next time, he’d go slow. He’d learn him. He’d take his time and make Derek feel it—every inch, every sound, every breathless fucking yes Derek couldn’t say but gave so willingly.
Next time.
Right now, Stiles just groaned and leaned in, pressed his mouth to the inside of Derek’s thigh, and let the fire burn hotter.
“Stiles… please. Let me touch.”
Derek’s voice was hoarse—torn from somewhere deep, like it scraped its way up just to make it out. He didn’t lift his hands, not yet, but Stiles could see it—the tremble in his arms, the way his fingers flexed against the headboard like it was hurting him now, not to give, but to be held back. Not from resistance. From desperation.
Stiles stilled.
His mouth hovered, breath hot against Derek’s skin, his hand still cradling the curve of Derek’s thigh, thumb brushing absent-minded circles into overheated flesh. And Derek—fuck, Derek—was staring down at him with eyes blown wide and pleading, pupils swallowed by need, cheeks flushed dark from restraint and longing.
“You wanna touch me?” Stiles asked, voice soft, wrecked, more affected than he meant to let on. He crawled up slow, chest dragging against Derek’s as he leaned in close, lips brushing his ear now. “Even after all that ‘don’t make it weird’ energy you’ve been throwing at me for years?”
Derek exhaled, pained and wanting, body arching up like he couldn’t take it anymore. “Stiles—”
“No,” Stiles cut in gently, pressing his palm flat against Derek’s chest to hold him still. His own heart was fucking racing. “You don’t get to beg unless you mean it.”
“I do,” Derek rasped, head pressing back into the pillow, jaw tight. “I fucking mean it.”
That shattered something in Stiles.
His hand slid down, fingers wrapping around Derek’s, prying them gently from the headboard, guiding them with intent, laying them against his own body like an offering.
“There,” he whispered, voice breaking right along with him. “Touch me, then.”
Derek did.
One hand came up slow—hesitant, reverent—and slid around the back of Stiles’ neck, fingers threading into the short hair there like he’d been dying to touch him for years but never let himself imagine it. It wasn’t forceful. Nothing about it was. But the desperation bled through in the way he held on, thumb pressed to the edge of Stiles’ jaw, palm trembling faintly with the weight of the moment.
He pulled him down—not yanked, not dragged, just drew him in—and pressed their mouths together like it was the only thing keeping him sane. No finesse, no calculation, just lips crashing into lips, breath to breath, and a soft, guttural sound torn from Derek’s throat like finally.
Stiles kissed him back, hard and messy and real, hips rolling without thinking, his hand still curled in the sheets beside Derek’s head for balance.
Then Derek’s other hand moved—slid down Stiles’ chest, over his ribs, under the hem of his shirt with a heat that made Stiles shiver. Lower, bolder, desperate now. Fingers fumbling at the waistband of his pants like he didn’t care about grace, didn’t care about rhythm, just needed more. Needed him.
Stiles gasped against his mouth, half-laugh, half-moan. “Took you long enough.”
Stiles kicked his pants down, rough and graceless, too frantic to care if he looked stupid doing it—knees scrambling, hips lifting, jeans shoved just far enough to get out of the way. He moaned when skin met skin, when their cocks pressed together hot and slick and perfect, the contact sending a shudder down his spine so violent he had to brace himself with one hand on Derek’s chest just to keep from collapsing.
“Fuck,” he breathed, rocking into the friction like he was starving for it. Derek arched under him, one hand still cradling the back of his neck like Stiles might slip away if he let go.
Stiles dragged his mouth along Derek’s jaw, kissing him open-mouthed and shaking, then buried his face in the crook of his neck, panting against the sweat-slick skin as their hips moved together, slow and filthy and aching.
“Next time, Derek,” he whispered, voice cracked and dark, breath catching on the promise. “Next time I’m gonna fill you up. Gonna take my time and get you so fucking open for me you won’t be able to think straight.”
Derek gasped, loud and unguarded, hips bucking up into his like he wanted it now, like he couldn’t believe Stiles was saying it, like it burned straight through him.
Stiles groaned, hand sliding between them to grip them both, pressure just enough to drag another noise out of Derek’s chest.
“The things I want to do to you,” Stiles murmured, licking into his throat, his voice almost reverent, like the words were holy, like they meant something. “Jesus, Derek. You have no idea.”
“Ah—” Derek moaned, the sound raw and breaking apart as he buried his face into the crook of Stiles’ shoulder, breath stuttering against skin like it cost him something just to feel this much. His hips moved helplessly, fucking up into the tight press of Stiles’ hand and cock, frantic now, no rhythm, just need—pure and wrecked and desperate.
Stiles swore under his breath, the noise ripped from deep in his throat. His other hand tangled in Derek’s hair, cradling the back of his head like he needed to hold him there, to feel the weight of Derek’s surrender tucked close against his neck. He curled his fingers, palm pressing down, guiding him closer with something more tender than control, less like ownership and more like anchoring.
“You’re so fucking hot like this,” Stiles whispered, forehead pressed to Derek’s temple, the words spilling out between gasps. “You don’t even know. Look at you—fuck—you’re losing it.”
Derek whimpered in response, open and wrecked, hips stuttering as he ground up harder, chasing friction, chasing him, breath hot against Stiles’ collarbone.
And Stiles held him through it—steady, shaking, there.
“Please… please—” Derek’s voice cracked, the word dragged out against Stiles’ skin like it hurt to say, like he couldn’t stop saying it. His mouth was open, panting against the curve of Stiles’ shoulder, body taut and trembling and flushed all over. He sounded ruined. Gone. Like nothing existed outside the feel of them pressed together, skin on skin, heat winding tighter through every pulse of his hips.
Stiles tightened his grip around both of them, his other hand still curled in Derek’s hair, holding him there, grounding him with touch and voice and want. He rocked down into every thrust, hips dragging slow and filthy over Derek’s, the friction sharp, unbearable, perfect.
“You want to come, Derek?” he asked, voice low, rough, every syllable pressed straight into Derek’s ear like a brand. “You want me to let you?”
Derek nodded, frantic now, face still hidden, but his whole body answered for him—hips bucking, hands trembling, breath catching in a sound that was almost a sob.
Stiles groaned, kissed the side of his head, felt the tension coil tight enough to snap. “Then come for me,” he said, voice gone to ash. “Show me.”
Derek spilled onto himself with a strangled moan, body seizing beneath Stiles like the tension had finally snapped and all he could do was break through it. His hips jerked up once, twice, desperate and messy, mouth open against Stiles’ shoulder as he gasped, “Fuck—Stiles—God—” like he didn’t know which word would save him and couldn’t stop trying.
Stiles held him through it, hand still tight around both of them, feeling every pulse, every tremble, Derek’s come hot between them, slick and sticky across their stomachs. The sound of Derek’s voice—wrecked and unguarded—dragged something deep and dangerous out of him, and then Stiles was gone too, groaning low and desperate, forehead pressed to Derek’s as his hips stuttered through it.
“Fuck, Derek—shit—oh my God—” he gasped, the words punched out between clenched teeth as he spilled, grinding down through the aftershocks, bodies slick, skin flushed, breath tangled together like they didn’t know how to stop.
Derek was still shaking.
Stiles didn’t let go.
Stiles dropped a moment later, completely spent, limbs loose and useless, chest heaving as he panted into Derek’s shoulder. Their skin was sticky, hot with sweat, come smeared between them, but he didn’t care—he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He just lay there, face buried in the crook of Derek’s neck, the sound that escaped him somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
“Ugh,” he muttered, because that was the only word his brain could form.
Derek didn’t say anything. Still flat on his back, breath shallow, eyes half-lidded, lips parted like he was caught somewhere between dazed and dreaming. Stiles felt the flutter of his pulse beneath his cheek and let himself stay just a few seconds longer.
Eventually, with a sigh and a grunt, Stiles pushed himself up, limbs protesting, skin reluctantly peeling away from Derek’s. “Don’t go anywhere,” he mumbled, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Derek’s lips, more instinct than thought.
He stood, bare feet cold against the floor, and glanced around the room with the vague disorientation of someone who hadn’t planned to end up here but had. He found a box of tissues on Derek’s nightstand—half-empty, of course—and started the awkward cleanup, wiping at their stomachs with one hand, tossing balled-up tissues toward the trash with the other.
Mental note: buy lube.
Yeah. That was definitely a next time problem.