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"No hands," Stiles says warningly, nips at Derek's shoulder, a gentle reminder. The guilt is always quick, when it comes, but Stiles laves the spot with his tongue -- forgiveness. Derek calms.
Stiles is pressed all along Derek's back, arms curled around Derek's torso, hands slipped up and under his tshirt. Derek is hot all over, body wound up tight from nothing but Stiles' fingers on his skin. His focus has narrowed completely to the hot wet mouth on his neck and the fingers scratching down his belly and across his hip. It feels like it's been ages -- only ten minutes maybe -- since Stiles slipped into bed behind him and gathered him close. Derek whines, low, but keeps his hands where they are.
He wants--needs something more, wants to touch Stiles, wants to roll over and beg Stiles to fuck him. He can never quite describe it, like his skin feels too stretched all over, too tight to contain him and he just needs, but he never knows what he needs.
Stiles knows. Stiles holds him and talks him through it and gets into his head and makes it bearable. Makes it so Derek doesn't have to think, so he no longer feels crippled from the frustration of figuring out how to fix the consuming urge of not-enough.
The process -- Derek doesn't know what else to call it -- is frustrating in itself, because his instincts to reach out and take and push back defensively are hard to ignore. But he tries, he wants to. Stiles takes care of him when he gets like this and he trusts Stiles to get him through it.
"You're okay, it's okay," Stiles murmurs gently against the shell of his ear. He shivers, remembers to breathe when Stiles presses a kiss to the curve of his neck. He presses back, craves maximum contact, feels the lingering ball of anxiety in his chest loosen when Stiles curls impossibly closer, holds him tighter.
He's hard, has been for a while, but he lays there, revels in the feeling of Stiles' fingers trailing across his skin, shuddering when they brush against places that are particularly sensitive. He fists his hands in the sheets, shuts his eyes so he can focus on the steady rhythm of Stiles' heartbeat and the quiet harsh breaths coming from them both.
It makes sense, letting Stiles overwhelm him so it overwhelms the need buried beneath his skin like a permanent splinter. He's terrible with words sometimes. Everyone jokes about it because it's true, but he hates it. Hates that he can never put into words what it's like when he feels like this. He wants to figure it out. Wants to be able to ask Stiles for whatever it is he gives Derek anyway. At least he can say thank you, after. He can say please, and Stiles, and he can moan and nod his head, and it seems to be enough -- for Stiles.
Stiles slips a knee between his from behind and Derek feels the denim, rough against his bare legs.
He swallows, unsticks his throat. "Stiles," he begs, voice hoarse from disuse. Stiles slips one hand higher up his chest, scrapes a nail across Derek's nipple and then pinches once, hard. Derek doesn't manage to keep the whine from escaping his chest.
"I've got you," Stiles promises. There's a tenderness in his voice that Derek sometimes doesn't know how to respond to. It winds him and makes him feel nervous and vulnerable and weak, but he trusts it. He craves it; the same way the tightness in his chest and across his skin leaves him wracked with mindless frustration. He feels ashamed of it, still, but the affection and desire that Stiles puts out in return are always enough to counter that.
Derek nods to make sure Stiles gets that he knows. Stiles has always got him.
It's almost enough to make him cry from relief when Stiles slips a hand into his shorts, tugs on his dick briefly before lifting the hand up to Derek's mouth. Stiles doesn't wait, just slips three fingers into Derek's mouth and across his tongue and Derek groans, licks and sucks and gets them covered in spit the best he can and then Stiles' palm, too. His body lights up when Stiles lets out an answering groan and grinds against him before returning a wet hand to Derek's dick.
"You can come, anytime," Stiles says, hand focused on working Derek over. Derek nods, inhales sharply when Stiles slips a finger beneath his foreskin. Stiles kisses the corner of Derek's jaw and Derek's chest clenches, tight and sudden. He loves this boy. This boy who makes him think and feel, who scares him half to death sometimes with worry. This boy who is sometimes reckless and always stubborn, all sharp cold angles one minute and soft warmth the next. Who somehow made a place for himself beneath Derek's skin while he wasn't paying attention. Derek loves him fiercely, was willing to die for him even before all of it.
His body feels like it's igniting beneath Stiles' fingers and the corners of his eyes are wet, when he finally comes, spilling over Stiles' fist and muffling his cries against his arm. His head goes quiet, at last. The chaotic want-need finally gone and replaced with a faint humming. Hibernation Mode, Stiles likes to call it. He can feel Stiles shifting, reaching back for the damp cloth and methodically cleaning up, tucking him back into his shorts and kissing the nape of his neck.
Stiles tugs at him gently and he rolls over, gets his own arm around Stiles. Finally. Their noses bump as he angles his head for a kiss and Stiles smiles, one of his quiet intimate ones reserved for times like this. It fuels the sated glow beginning to develop in his gut; makes the warmth expand until everything feels whole again.
"Okay?" Stiles asks. Derek leans back in and noses across Stiles' cheek, nods. Stiles kisses him again.
Derek squeezes Stiles' hip, leans into the palm Stiles curves along his jaw. "Perfect," Stiles says quietly, pleased. Derek feels his heart thud. He doesn't understand how a single word affects him like this and he always blushes, feels his cheeks and ears run hot from embarrassment, and never responds. Stiles always says it anyway.
He turns his head and presses his lips to the soft skin on the inside of Stiles' wrist, hopes it conveys how grateful he is.
Stiles tangles their legs in an effort to cuddle closer, and Derek breathes him in.
Perfect might be a little too much to wrap his head around, but what he's got right now is pretty amazing as it is.