Archive of Our Own ^beta

     Stiles gasps quietly, trying to suck in a breath of air to replace the one he's lost moaning Derek's name. His fingers are tangled in the taller man's hair and his legs are wrapped around his waist. They've both long since lost their clothes, the feeling of skin on skin tempting them.

     It’s moments like these when Stiles can forget that Derek will be gone as soon as this is over. He can pretend that the man on top of him isn’t only interested in the benefits of sex, that he might be interested in something more.

     Stiles' back is arched in a way that could be classified as painful, his body rocking with Derek's. There’ll be bruises littering his skin in the morning for sure after this. Purple marks making pretty patterns on his hips where Derek's fingers have gripped too tightly. There are red marks where Derek’s teeth have almost punctured Stiles soft flesh, covering the expanse of skin along his neck and across his shoulders.

     The overwhelming fullness Derek's cock gives him is something he'll never forget. His head's a haze, his fingers scratching down Derek's skin and leaving marks he knows will be gone in the blink of an eye. Stiles leaves them anyways, subconsciously hoping that maybe they'll stay longer. A silent claim for anyone and everyone. Though he didn't know it, this man belonged Stiles.

     Or so he dreamed.

     These sessions with Derek never last long, and all too soon it's over. Stiles holds back a whine when he feels the emptiness that comes with Derek pulling out, cum decorating the inside of his and Stiles’ thighs.

     Derek’s panting slightly from exertion, and his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. Stiles can’t help but think about how absolutely gorgeous this man is.

     A moment of silence passes between them before Stiles is able to finally slow his breathing down to a normal pace. His heart might be racing, as it always is in Derek’s presence, but at least now he can actually breathe.

     "Are you staying?"

     Stiles already knows the answer. It’s always the same. But for some reason, he asks anyways. Some small part of him is still holding out, still stuck in dreamland where everything is wonderful. However Stiles knows better than anyone that dreams aren’t real, and if they are, they’re the kind you need to run away from. The Nogitsune taught him that.

     Yeah, he doesn’t trust the dreamer part of himself that much anymore.

     Derek gives him a look. The one he makes when he’s stuck with an unpleasant decision, between a rock and a hard place. Where his eyebrows scrunch together and the skin of his nose crinkles in little folds. Frowns shouldn’t be that perfect but then again, it’s Derek of all people. Stiles knows that face well and is grateful that he didn't get his hopes up in the first place.

     "No."

     Stiles doesn't let the small sliver of disappointment he’s feeling show in his eyes. He doesn't let it show that Derek's slowly killing him inside every time they do this. Why did he even agree to any of it in the first place? He’s frequently asked himself that question before, but whenever his lips meet Derek’s it’s like all of his reservations go flying out the window. Derek has a funny way of rendering his brain unable to think.

     "Alright," he replies quietly, his voice a bit hoarse from their tryst. "You can use the shower. Body wash is still in the same place."

     Derek nods, untangling himself from Stiles so he can grab his clothes from their places strewn across the floor. A grey Henley and dark jeans. The typical Derek Hale combo.

     Stiles doesn’t bother getting up just yet, instead taking the few silent moments he has to just lay there. There’s an ache between his thighs and now he can acutely feel each mark that’s been left on him. With careful hands Stiles traces along his skin, hissing softly when he accidentally presses to hard. He wonders momentarily if something has Derek agitated, usually he was a little more considerate.

     The soft pattering of water is what breaks him out of his thoughts, and Stiles finally pushes himself to his feet. He stumbles a bit, like a faun on new legs, before catching himself. There’s no way Derek will want to share the shower with him, (Stiles scoffs, as if he ever did before- despite it being his damn shower), so he settles for cleaning himself up with a few tissues. Almost worthy of a trick-shot into the waste bin.

     His clothes are snatched up from the floor and haphazardly pulled on before his bed gets stripped. There’s no need for the Sheriff to come home and find questionable stains in his sons room. Now that’s a conversation Stiles wants to avoid at all costs, because inevitably it’ll lead to an interrogation of ‘who’ and Derek’s already got a track record with the police.

     He can hear the squeak of the shower shutting off as he gathers his sheets up. As soon as Derek’s dressed he’ll be gone and Stiles can’t help but sigh. Short and sweet his ass, this was just short and disappointing. The brunette huffs and carries his stuff out to the washer, determined to get a load started now so that it’s out of the way. Never let it be said he wasn’t efficient (because he knew damn well he was).

     By the time he gets back to his bedroom, Derek is standing by the window with his hair still damp. Stiles swallows and rocks on the balls of his feet.

     “See you later then?”

     Derek raises a brow at him and Stiles wants to kiss him right then and there. But he knows he can’t, Derek isn’t his, and it’s frustrating.

     “Yeah. There’s a pack meeting coming up,” he says nonchalantly. “I’ll see you then.”

     Not the answer Stiles wanted, but it was the one he got. So he just nods and awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck, he really can’t help the fidgeting.

     “Yeah, alright. Cool beans Sourwolf. See you then.” Ugh, just shut up already.

     Derek rolls his eyes and before Stiles can put his foot even further in his mouth, he’s out the window and gone. Fucking werewolves and their inability to use doors like normal people. At least now Stiles can slump and let all of the tension that had built up from that pitiful excuse of a conversation out. It doesn’t stop the aching tightness in his chest, but it’s something.

     A frown mars his features and Stiles looks away from the window.

     Definitely something.