Derek's hands are soft and unsure at first, fitting over his hips like he's afraid Stiles will break (him). He huffs, puts his own hands on Derek's neck and draws him in, bites his lip and soothes it with his tongue, teasing; he locks eyes with Derek and breathes out, "just fucking touch me."
Derek's eyebrows furrow, meet over the bridge of his nose, and his eyes go bright blue for a second. When they're back to their bright hazel, he takes one of his big hands and lets it rest against the upper part of his throat, thumb resting on Stiles' lower lip.
Stiles smiles, recognizing that as the challenge it is, and opens his mouth to let it slide inside.
Derek gasps, his other hand flexing on his hip, gripping tighter.
"I will," he says then, voice as deep as Stiles has ever heard it. "I will touch you, and I will make you beg. And when I'm done with you.."
"When you're done with me what?" Stiles asks, the flat of his tongue going over the pad of Derek's thumb with every word he speaks.
Derek smiles, soft and private and Stiles' heart flutters in his chest, the intensity of the sensation almost surpassing that of the heat spreading over him.
"When I'm done with you, you'll be a writhing, begging mess." He ducks his face then, makes his nose trail along Stiles' cheek, whispers. "And then I'm going to start all over again."
And then he bites the lobe of Stiles' ear, makes his breathe stutter, his own hands tremble and fall to Derek's shoulders. "That doesn't sound much like a 'when you're done with me' scenario."
The hand on his hip goes to lift his shirt, palm spread on the skin of his belly, fleshy part where his treasure trail starts. "That's because I'm never gonna be done with you."
It's cheesy, the sort of line that makes it into very unambitious softcore porn, but Stiles is about to fucking climb Derek, to just beg, shameless. He doesn't know whether it's Derek trailing his fingers lower and lower, just grazing the top button of his pants, or the hand that's still on his throat, quietly possessive, or the thumb that's inside his mouth, caressing his tongue and making his words slur and come out half butchered.
(Or the fact that Stiles is fucking gone on Derek, has been since day one.)
Derek smirks, takes his thumb out of Stiles' mouth and lets it trail along his lips, making them wet and shiny with Stiles' own spit.
"Okay," gasps Stiles then, "okay, okay. Just," He takes Derek's hand, tugs. "Let's get to the bed now, let's get this show on the road, or it's all going to be over embarrassingly soon."
Derek laughs at that, this tiny sound that crushes Stiles' lungs with unfair ease. But he lets himself be dragged over to Stiles' bed, lets Stiles push him onto it, lie down on top of him.
Lets Stiles' hands roam over his arms, over his chest, down to his abs, down to the hem of his shirt. "Off, off, off." He says, rushed, and Derek holds him with one arm to avoid toppling him, gets his shirt off in one swift movement.
Then he reverts their positions, flips Stiles under him with an ease that makes Stiles squirm, and almost tears his shirt off him.
"Easy there, big guy, I like that one."
Derek raises an eyebrow at him, and then just- he just goes for one of his nipples; he covers it with his mouth, swirls his tongue around it, makes it harden into a pebble, and Stiles forgets what it was he was complaining about in the first place.
Stiles' mind goes blank, offline, after that; he puts his hands on Derek's hair, lets them twitch over it, nails scraping his skin. Derek bites his nipple, blows cold air over it, plays him like an instrument. Amps him up and up.
And then stops, looks at him with eyes blown and dark and half-lidded, tells him "not yet", and Stiles just wants to whine, wants to come, wants this to go on forever, wants to,
"Please." He gets out, breathless and low, "please, you asshole, please."
Derek's arms are encasing him like bars, keeping him there where Stiles wants him, which Stiles maybe shouldn't find as arousing as he does. But the thought of Derek wanting to pin him turns some switch inside of him on.
He barely has time to register that, to bask in it in between his pleas, though, before Derek is moving, straddling him, putting his big paws on Stiles' pants, undoing the button, unzipping them, exposing his already precome soaked and tenting underwear.
Derek's hands (both of them, warm and sweaty and so everything Stiles has been fantasizing about lately) tease him, knead the skin above his boxer briefs; the meaty part of his hand is a hair's breadth away from touching the head of his cock through the fabric and it's the most cruel form of punishment, driving him crazy.
"Please what?" Derek asks, fingers slipping under the garment's waistband, brushing against where Stiles is leaking and burning.
His hands tighten on Derek, tugging at his hair in vengeance, showing his teeth for better effect.
It makes Derek mean, makes him lean into Stiles' grip, makes his fingers go lax and pliant, brush against him even more, slip right against his slit.
fuckfuckfuckfuck-
"Anything, Derek. Anything you want. Touch me, let me touch /you/, let me come. Something, anything, now."
"Don't say anything," Derek responds, voice like a threat, like a dark feral thing that will eat Stiles up. "Don't say things you don't mean."
"I fucking mean it," he says, voice low and raspy and sure of what he's saying. "I fucking mean it, c'mon."
Derek lets out this sound, then, like Stiles is tearing him apart just by giving him permission, just by allowing him to do things to his body, to himself.
Stiles' hands drop to the sheets and makes them into fists, hangs on for dear life, as he thinks about the less sexy things he can to avoid coming all over himself just for that.
Derek moves off him, then, lifts Stiles' hips up without any effort, without any help from him, and just barely avoids shredding both his pants and his underwear while taking them off frantically, as if they were getting in the way of something that he needs desperately.
"You too," he says, splaying his legs in a gesture that's obscene even to him, cock flushed and hard and hot, jumping at the motion, slapping against his own skin, smearing sticky drops of precome there.
Derek's clothes are gone so fast that Stiles can even hear seams ripping, and it kind of makes him want to laugh, wants to bury his face on a pillow at the ridiculousness that is them having frantic, sloppy sex in his bedroom right now.
But the desire doesn't last long, really, because as soon as he's out of his own clothes, Derek's back on him, settling between his parted legs, arms at Stiles' sides again, letting their cocks slide against each other with what little slickness there is, and Stiles closes his legs around him, locks them behind his back, pull him closer.
"Yes, yes, yes," he chants, "just like that, just, let me touch you, /yes/."
And he does, he brings his hands to Derek's face, to his cheekbones, traces his lips, drags them through his neck, presses his fingers barely on Derek's throat, which elicits a breathy blissed out moan from Derek; he keeps going on, digging his thumbs on Derek's shoulders, delicately brushing his fingers against Derek's sides, reaching around and just grabbing Derek's ass. Sinking his fingers there until he's sure there would be finger shaped bruises if Derek could bruise at all. And then he spanks him, without much force due to the positions they're in, but it still makes Derek's rhythm stutter, makes him close his eyes and breath out, "Stiles" like it's a blessing and a curse word at the same time.
His own hips jerk upwards, looking for more friction, for more skin, for /more/.
Derek pins him to the mattress, rams against him like he's trying to meld with him.
And that's when he ducks down and bites him, right where his shoulder and neck meet. He opens his mouth wide and licks a bit, and sinks his teeth hard enough to cause a bit of pain. Hard enough to melt Stiles' brain, to make him come hard and sudden.
"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, as he paints Derek's cock and stomach and thighs with his come, "Derek, Derek, let go, come on me."
And as simple as that Derek is almost curling in half, face buried in Stiles' neck, arms trembling and giving in, collapsing against him as Stiles feels his dick twitching and his warm come coating his pubic hair and his stomach and his own softening dick.
They stay like that, covered in sweat and come and fucking filthy from each other for a few minutes, hearts beating wildly and breaths evening out. Stiles is starting to pleasantly ache in some places, and though he never thought he'd be into marking, he starts feeling the urge to make the ache worse, to press against the bruises until he can make them stay there permanently.
Derek is mouthing at his neck, open mouthed and with no clear end goal, just going for it because he's there and he can, Stiles guesses.
And because Stiles can't let things be (really, he likes to disrupt quiet, beautiful things, it's a legitimate character flaw), he chooses that moment to grunt out, "hey, what was that you were saying earlier about never being done with me?"
"I swear to God, Stiles," mumbles Derek then, not moving an inch from where he is. Stiles snickers then, and resolves to blame it on post orgasm bliss or something.
(When they do get to round two, Derek discovers that Stiles goes into sex the same way he goes into everything else, wholeheartedly. He faces his first blowjob with the same 'go big or go home' philosophy he employs everywhere else and just goes down on him like he wants to choke on him, to be able to taste him on the back of his throat for days.
And then they get Stiles' lube from his drawer and discover anal play.
It's a fun and exhausting day.)