"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.
