Derek hears Stiles swear under his breath, just barely louder than his own panting huffs against the sheets. His lips are wet and clinging to the fabric, and he’s trying to stop his knees shaking so much they drop his hips flat.
“Fuck,” Stiles is muttering over and over, touching Derek everywhere he can reach as he stuffs him full, grabbing his thighs and his hips with slick palms to drag him back onto his dick. He’s a heavy-perfect weight pressing in and sliding out, shoving forward with bitten-off grunts, sharp hipbones digging into Derek’s ass.
His own hands are useless lead things at the ends of his wrists, slipping and clenching in spasms every time Stiles fucks into him, spreads him wider and makes him take it.
When his quaking legs finally give up straining, Stiles rides the fall down onto him, hand slapping onto Derek’s back as a brace and his cock suddenly deep enough that Derek swallows and swears he feels it there at the back of his throat, all heat and blood where Derek’s drum-tight around him. They both groan and Derek ruts against the mattress, dick smearing precome and his pulse thudding away between his legs, stomach flipping at being so full, almost too much even as he grips down to feel it as much as he can, his hole clenching when Stiles pulls back to the head and then rocks in, replacing the air in Derek’s lungs and breaking up the words stuck at the back of his tongue.
“Wish you could see yourself,” Stiles grits out, his voice all snapped pieces and unsanded edges, suddenly loud over the wet slap of skin and all the tiny desperate animal noises Derek’s blurting with every thrust. “How fucking perfect you are like this, every time, your ass squeezing me like you can’t get enough.” He wraps his fingers around Derek’s bicep, leans his weight up, and the leverage slides his cock a little deeper. The hand on Derek’s back runs through sweat and threads into his hair, spans out on the back of his skull. It makes Derek feel smaller, somehow, like he’s more fragile than he is. That’s a special talent of Stiles’.
It feels like he’s being ground through the bed frame, through the mass of his own body and past everything solid he can focus on, like Stiles is pinning him to empty air with his big hands and his perfect dick. He’s being eroded down to just his nerves, left with nothing to do but feel the new wave of every push that sloshes from his hips to the base of his skull and back down to his curling toes.
If he could scrape a thought together he’d laugh at the image of himself as a tide, Stiles’ own particular gravity tugging and leading him. He’d laugh, but he wouldn’t be wrong, would he?
There’s a confession there somewhere: I need you. I need this. I don’t want it to stop. Please.
He thinks the blurring around what little he can see is from tears clinging to his lashes. He thinks he’s saying Stiles’ name over and over like it’s the only word he knows. He doesn’t know if he’s gotten off yet or if he’s staying hard and being rucked through his own come every time Stiles’ hips meet his ass, cock slotting into him and kicking loose more begging, more shaking.
Stiles is holding him down with the weight of his body, and it doesn’t matter that Derek’s stronger, he can’t even coordinate his fingers except to scrabble at the sheets, can’t do more than clench around every inch like he needs it to live, holding onto the bed even though he knows Stiles won’t let him fall apart, will keep track of all the pieces.
It’s its own world; just the bed and them, metal creaking and the filthy, gorgeous sounds Stiles keeps making around the lip Derek knows he’s got pulled between his teeth. Even though he can’t see, he knows how far Stiles’ ruddy flush reaches and what his expression is, that mix of tight concentration and something like disbelief that edges close to awe when he thinks Derek won’t notice.
And he thinks Derek looks good during this?
“I’ll show you one day,” Stiles says, leaning down to breathe into Derek’s ear. His dick rubs along Derek’s prostate and a battered groan falls off his tongue, fabric between his teeth as if it muffles anything. Stiles kisses the edge of his jaw and slots them tight together, knees in the V of Derek’s spread legs. “Maybe we can video this sometime, record you taking it just like this.” Derek’s eyes shut tight on a sharp twist in his belly and his breath escapes in a high hiss.
Stiles cards his fingers through Derek’s hair, the gentle scratches along his scalp like a sharp edge to the all-swallowing roll of Stiles’ hips.
“I’d suck you off while we watched it,” he murmurs like Derek hasn’t gone so taut he thinks he’ll shatter instead of snap. “Get my mouth on your cock while you watch me fucking you – while you look at how good you are, just for me.” He snaps his hips hard a few times and Derek white-knuckles the sheets. Stiles’ breath spreads across the bared side of his throat and gooseflesh prickles between his shoulders. “You’re so good, Derek.”
It could be his voice or the way Derek’s dick is stuck between his stomach and the bed or how hard Stiles is sliding over that spot in him, but his orgasm floods everywhere and heaves hard from his gut, and he groans with more breath than he realised he had left as he pulses and twitches, sticky gouts spreading all over his belly and along his cock, face mashed into the mattress and feeling nothing else as he clamps down on the dick in him and everything goes hazy white.
Stiles makes a harsh shuddery noise and fucks him through it, rough and sloppy thrusts until he’s mouthing silently at the back of Derek’s neck, and then Derek feels him let go, feels him swell and groans again at the warmth trapped inside him, imagines Stiles spurting deep into him and feels another weak pulse add to the tacky mess he’s lying in. The slide of Stiles’ cock turns almost frictionless, and wet trails run down to his balls and onto the sheets. He wonders vaguely how long he can get away with not cleaning up before Stiles declares it gross. Some human conventions will never make sense to him.
He’s got Stiles lying flat on top of him, a pleasant weight that just barely makes the filling of his lungs more of an effort. He can feel the bruises on his neck and the scratches on his back and tries to concentrate on them not healing, pictures them as parts of himself that his body should leave alone.
I need this.
Stiles is starting to soften, slipping out of him inch by inch, and there’s no way to pretend it doesn’t bother him; the emptiness right after is never something he gets used to, even with his sore muscles starting to buzz and fix themselves.
“’ll move in a minute,” Stiles slurs, mouth on Derek’s hairline. His breath stirs Derek’s hair. “Maybe two minutes.”
He huffs, then turns and slides his foot to hook it over Stiles’ ankle, then turns his head so their temples knock together.
“Three minutes,” he says, breathing slower and closing his eyes, listening to the slowing metronome of Stiles’ heartbeat where it’s tapping a tattoo on his back, under the one that’s already there.
He settles deeper into the bed, lax under Stiles’ weight.
He’s sure he can keep them here for more than three minutes.