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The apartment door slammed and Stiles jumped three feet in the air, even though he'd been expecting it. He scrambled up off the couch and turned to the door. "Hey, ba—"
Derek stormed across the living room, shoved Stiles against the nearest wall, and slotted their mouths together before Stiles could finish his greeting.
All right, so tonight would be a "no talking" night then.
Derek tightened one hand in Stiles's hair and pulled, forcing his head to one side and deepening the angle of the kiss, fucking into Stiles's mouth with his tongue. Each thrust liquefied another bit of Stiles's bones, until all he could do was cling to Derek and whimper.
He loved this, loved being manhandled, loved Derek being rough with him. Not that he didn't love Derek being gentle, those quiet nights when they moved together slowly and soulfully and Derek just looked at him like he was something invaluable and precious. Those nights left Stiles breathless and overwhelmed and possibly a little teary-eyed that he got to have this, that Derek chose him and trusted him and loved him.
But Stiles had spent the past five years of his life around werewolves and the past two years of his life dating one. Yeah, he really liked it rough.
Derek finally let go of his hair, but it was only to grab Stiles's ass and hoist him up. Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek's waist and would have grinned at the satisfied growl that got him, except that Derek pushed him back into the wall and ground their dicks together, and holy fucking shit yes.
"I'm going to ride you till you scream," Derek whispered, and then sank his teeth into Stiles's neck.
Stiles arched into it and whispered, "Fuck yes."
Derek growled again and hauled Stiles off the wall, carrying him down the short hallway to their bedroom. He dumped Stiles on the bed with a grunt, and Stiles was going to make a comment about cavemen, really, but then Derek stripped off his shirt and pants, and honestly, the blood in his brain was much better suited going other places.
Like his dick.
Stiles pulled off his own shirt, but before he could get his hands on his belt, Derek was there, mouthing at the skin above his jeans and undoing the belt with one hand. Stiles bucked up into the touch and Derek nipped him lightly. The next thing Stiles knew, his belt was smacking into the wall and his jeans were right behind it.
"Eager much?" Stiles tried for teasing, but it came out breathless.
Derek crouched over him and nosed at his boxers, dragging his face over Stiles's still-clothed dick. Stiles dropped his head back to the bed with a groan. He was pretty sure his dick was already hard enough to pound nails, and if it wasn't, five more seconds with Derek would make it so. He was almost grateful for his boxers, because otherwise he'd be perilously close to coming now and Derek had plans for his dick. And Stiles was too much of a gentleman to disappoint.
"Lube," Derek growled, and it vibrated straight from his mouth into Stiles's dick.
Stiles flailed at the bedside table, grabbed the lube, and tossed it down to Derek. It smacked his shoulder and landed on Stiles's thigh. Derek raised his head, eyes dark with desire—no, wait, they were flashing blue. Definitely blue.
Stiles tried to apologize, which was hard when his dick's response to Derek's glaring was to throb. "Dude, you know my coordination sucks—"
Derek lunged up and pinned his arms to the bed, kissing Stiles deeply and so very, very filthily. Stiles let him, opening his mouth to give Derek all the access he wanted.
Derek bit his bottom lip before sitting back and stripping off first his underwear, then Stiles's. Stiles sucked a breath at Derek kneeling over him, completely naked, legs spread, dick hard and dripping. It was the most gorgeous sight he'd ever seen.
Stiles started to sit up to get his hands on Derek's dick, but Derek snarled and Stiles immediately lay back down. Which was just fine, because then Derek slicked up his fingers and started opening himself up, and Stiles had the best view.
He'd been wrong before. This was the most gorgeous sight he'd ever seen: Derek fucking himself on his fingers, getting himself ready for Stiles's dick, making these little noises like it felt good but his fingers just weren't enough, like he wanted more and now.
Stiles had to grab the base of his dick and mentally recite sophomore year lacrosse stats to keep from coming right then.
Then Derek grabbed him, hand slippery with lube, and Stiles felt his eyes roll back into his head. He ran his hands over Derek's thighs, over the coarse hair there, feeling the muscles bunch and quiver under his hands. Stiles groaned. "Fuck yes, God, Derek, you're so fucking beautiful, you don't even know."
Derek rumbled, too soft to be a growl, and then sat on Stiles's dick.
It was slick and hot and tight and perfect, and the little noises Derek had been making turned into breathy words, fuck and God and Stiles. He slammed up and down, hard and fast, and Stiles was not going to be lasting long, no, because he'd lost the ability to think about anything except Derek and his wonderful ass. He was so goddamn close, his toes were curling into the sheets and his whole body felt coiled like a spring.
Then Derek leaned forward and put his hands on Stiles's arms—hands that had motherfucking claws, seriously—and that was all it took to push Stiles over the edge, his orgasm hitting him like a fist, having him arching up into Derek's body as much as he could.
The world went white and fuzzy around the edges, and the only two words that came out of his mouth were "fuck" and "Derek."
Derek howled, and Stiles was vaguely aware of hot come striping his chest. He was far more aware of Derek clenching around him as he came, squeezing in a way that was just on the edge of too much for Stiles's post-orgasm sensitivity.
Derek shuddered once more and he didn't faceplant, exactly, but he mashed his face onto Stiles's chest and snuffled there, rubbing his face all over and yeah, that was doing things to Stiles. His dick valiantly tried to get back in the game, and his heart did its stupid flip-floppy thing it always did when Derek scented him.
Stiles laced his fingers through Derek's hair. "You know, you probably shouldn't actually inhale your spunk."
Derek's response was to bite his rib, and Stiles let out a shocked burst of laughter. "Ass." He squeezed and then scratched Derek's scalp. "So, do you want to tell me what all that was about?"
Derek shoved himself forward and buried his face in Stiles's neck. "Hate people. Love you."
His heart fluttered, because Stiles would never get tired of hearing Derek say "love you," and he pressed a kiss into Derek's sweaty hair. He knew now was not the best time to push for any more details. That could come later. "I love you, too. But we should really clean up before we get stuck together."
Derek tightened his arms around Stiles. "No."
"Dude, your spunk's going to dry in your beard. You hate it when that happens. It'll take five minutes and then we can go back to cuddling."
"No."
He understood the scent thing, he really did, but Stiles was already starting to feel sweaty and gross and no matter what Derek said now, he'd be bitching about the jizz-crusted beard in an hour. Stiles sighed and scratched his fingers absently down Derek's neck. "If you come take a shower with me, I'll blow you. And we can swap shirts after."
There was a long hesitation, and Derek finally relaxed his arms. "Okay."