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“Come on,” Stiles says, and if he’s trembling a little it’s only because Derek is standing over him, looking down at him, and if he keeps doing that Stiles is going to have to get back up and put his clothes back on, and actually, he’d rather not.
“Fine,” Derek says, dropping down on top of Stiles, weight pressing him back into the soft bedclothes.
Stiles has to fight to get Derek’s jacket off his shoulders, the leather stiff and unyielding, and when Derek grunts in irritation and gets up on his knees to shuck it Stiles is still left with the remainder of Derek’s clothing, and although Derek doesn’t wear a lot of clothes, doesn’t layer like Stiles, his Henley and jeans feel like an insurmountable obstacle under Stiles’ hands.
“Come on,” Stiles says again, frustrated, and this time when Derek stands over him he gets to watch the long stretch of Derek’s body as he pulls his shirt over his head, and when he drops his jeans Stiles is reaching out for him even before he climbs back up the bed, skin dragging warm and unsettling over Stiles until they’re face to face.
Derek watches him for a minute, exactly what Stiles doesn’t want, and he says, “You’re ready for this,” though Stiles thinks it’s a question.
“Not yet,” Stiles says, and then Derek’s touching him, hand brushing over his cock, down to his ass, repositioning Stiles, pushing his thighs wider although they’re already spread and shaking.
Stiles ignores the quiet sound he makes, ignores the strain in his muscles already, clenches his hands around his knees and waits as Derek looks at him again.
He isn’t looking at Stiles’ face this time, so it’s okay.
It’s okay until it goes on and on, just Derek’s face so close to him, too far, nothing else, and, “Please,” Stiles says, “please just—“ and Derek’s hands are on his ass abruptly, lifting him off the bed, and then Derek’s mouth is on him, moving like it’s a kiss.
“Fuck,” Stiles bites out, tries to reach for Derek’s head but can’t make it that far.
His hands clench in the quilt instead as Derek’s tongue strokes into him, an easy tease as Stiles helplessly tries to get him closer, body held immobile in the air, in Derek’s hands.
“Fuck,” he groans, “come on,” and Derek laughs, amused and pleased.
“Trying,” he says, and his mouth moves faster, harder, tongue flicking at Stiles’ hole until Stiles is moaning more than breathing.
“Fucking come on,” Stiles says again when Derek is sucking on him and his shoulders are aching in their arch to nowhere, trying to reach him, trying to touch, just touch, but he can’t.
Derek drops him back to the bed without a word, face tight, and his cock is pressing slightly into Stiles before Stiles finds the tube, lost in the rumpled sheets.
“Wait,” Stiles says urgently. “Wait, wait, just—“
Derek grunts, annoyed, but takes the tube, fighting with the plastic wrap before he gives up and pulls the metal apart with his teeth, cool gel spilling all over Stiles’ belly, Derek’s hands.
“This what you’re going to be like?” Derek asks, sweeping his hand through the puddle on Stiles’ stomach and tugging his wet hand over his cock. “Trying to tell me what to do all the time?”
Stiles tries to say that he isn’t going to be trying, not when he’s Derek’s mate, not when Derek has to factor him in, but he doesn’t quite manage it.
“Ngh,” he says, as Derek’s cock slides into him, quick and smooth, and Stiles tries to link his legs around Derek’s back, but there’s no grip, everything’s too slippery, so Derek shifts slightly, yanks at Stiles’ legs until they’re pretzeled tightly together, and Stiles’ hands are digging into Derek, large and wide over him, and he’s grunting every time Derek fucks into him.
“Or like this?” Derek asks, eyes blinking, trying to stay open. “Just going to spread and beg for it, like you are now?”
“I’m not—ngh,” Stiles says, as Derek goes deeper; and it isn’t true, he isn’t begging, but Derek laughs anyway, and when Stiles slaps Derek’s shoulder it isn’t exactly affectionate. “Fucker,” he says, and Derek’s laugh reverberates through them both, and Stiles has to set his teeth into Derek’s shoulder so he doesn’t beg.
Derek’s hips snap into him hard enough that Stiles feels a spark of pain in his back, bent where Derek lifted his ass to fuck.
Stiles moans sharply, but his nails are digging into Derek, driving him onward.
“You know I’m going to knot you, right?” Derek asks, even though he knows Stiles does. He’s just being a bastard, just taunting— “If you were female I’d keep fucking you until you were bred, but we can’t do that, so this is just so you’ll know you’re mine.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly—“ Stiles starts, and he means to say how it works, even though it is, he knows it is, just not everything, just not all it is, all they’ll be; but Derek props himself up on one hand, puts the other tight on Stiles’ cock, and it’s all Stiles can do to whimper.
“I’m going to come,” Derek says, hips slamming against Stiles, cock moving hard, wide and deep inside, barely leaving Stiles at all now, and Stiles can’t stop whimpering, because it’s good, it’s so good, but it’s enough. He needs more; he needs it to stop. “I’m going to come inside you, and there’ll be so much you can’t hold it all, but you’ll have to because my knot will keep it there, and it’ll make you open for it, it’ll make you gape so you can take more.”
Stiles is writhing, barely able to understand what Derek is saying, but then Derek takes his hand off Stiles’ cock and Stiles almost slams his head into Derek’s in response, so Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ head and shoves him back down.
“I’m going to come,” Derek says, breathless, “so you are too.”
And Stiles can feel Derek’s cock jerk inside him, can feel his body quiver as it rushes towards the edge, and then he’s coming because Derek wants him to, because he can’t not.
He’s gasping when he can feel, hear, see again, and there’s come and lube all over his body, sticking his skin to Derek’s, and Derek is still coming inside him, knot still growing, shoving Stiles wide.
“Oh,” he says softly, glad Derek probably can’t hear him above his low growl, all attention concentrated elsewhere. He wants to tighten around Derek, but it already hurts, and he thinks that might make it a lot worse.
It’s a relief when Derek stops coming, raises his head, when he knows there isn’t going to be any more, any worse.
He tries to move a little, tries to see if there’s any give, but Derek puts a heavy hand on his hip, rumbles, “Don’t,” and Stiles stills as Derek settles down against him, skin sweaty and warm everywhere it touches him, and it’s touching him everywhere.
After a little while, Stiles sighs, relaxes, can’t do otherwise, can’t be stiff and anxious when this is going to last, when this is going to last, going to happen again and again.
Derek is breathing deeply; Stiles can feel the shift of his stomach, the expansion of his chest every time. His hands are on Stiles’ side, rubbing, and Stiles can’t help the pleased noise he makes when the touch lingers, turns into a stroke.
“Mmm,” Derek breathes, puts his head against Stiles’ chest, turns it to the side so his cheek is pressed there, and his hands keep petting Stiles’ side all the while.
“Okay,” Stiles says, “that’s—“ But he can’t he can’t finish the thought, can’t tell Derek it’s nice, can’t tell Derek he’s nice.
Derek is rumbling steadily against him, and Stiles jerks, startled when the sound cuts off, but it’s just so Derek can turn his head, buss his lips against Stiles’ skin.
“Oh,” Stiles says again, and this time Derek lifts his head, looks into Stiles’ eyes, moves in impossibly closer to kiss him, arms looping around his waist.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, and Stiles makes a noise that he thinks is protest, but Derek just tilts his head back and kisses the underside of his chin, kisses down to his throat, and by the time his lips still on Stiles’ pulse, the noises Stiles is making are quiet and contented.
Derek sighs, breath gusting against Stiles’ skin, and tucks his head into the crook of Stiles’ shoulder, hair tickling his ear.
“So,” Stiles says, voice slurring sleepily. “Is this what you always do afterwards?”
“I don’t know,” Derek says. “I’ve never done it.”
“I think this is what you’re supposed to do, right?” Stiles is splayed wide open, still stretched around Derek’s cock, but he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. “If I’m supposed to be yours.”
“Hmm?” Derek says, nips affectionately at Stiles’ collarbone. “You are.”
Derek flips them suddenly, gripping Stiles’ hips tight, and it’s a sharp shock for a second, but then Stiles can relax, loose and drowsing, draped over Derek, dreamy and content under the hands stroking his back.
“Yeah, but—“ Stiles says, voice drifting along with his mind. “—from a sociological point of—“
“Shut up, babe,” Derek says, pressing a quick kiss to Stiles’ temple. “Go to sleep.”
Okay, Stiles tries to say, but the word gets tangled and lost in his mind, following him into sleep, colouring it.
When he wakes, he’s still sprawled on top of Derek, the rising sun through the window warming his skin where Derek’s body and Derek’s hands and Derek aren’t, and Derek is waking with him.