I Want Us to Make It: Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5.
“I love you,” Stiles tells him.
It’s a sweltering afternoon, not quite summer yet but the weather hasn’t seemed to care, thick and liquid-heavy with humidity, all salty-sweet with the mix of human perspiration and those neon colored popsicles that Stiles is always bringing around, sliding in between his lips, pouted and perfect because he knows that it drives Derek mad.
Derek is bent under the hood of his car, the back of his neck slick with sweat that runs down the column of his throat, gathers in the folds of skin between his fingers and the inside bend of his elbows, causing bits of dirt to mingle and harden black spider lines amongst the smooth gleam of Derek’s flesh.
He’s currently in the process of an oil change for the Camaro. Derek isn’t a mechanic by far, but he is fully capable of doing something as simple as an oil change and he likes it, besides. Likes the tinny smell of gasoline and the faint burn of the engine after it’s been turned off, likes the dull twisting bits of metal and iron and the wires twining through the engine parts. He likes the grime that builds beneath his fingernails and the way it stains the pads of his fingertips, likes that their marred imperfections won’t leave until he removes them by choice; likes the tactile experience of it all.
Derek freezes when he hears Stiles’ voice behind him though, his hands halting their grip on the engine parts, feels the front of the bumper dig into his thighs. His shirt is damp at his lower back, and his eyelashes flutter in salt-sticky clumps against his skin.
He twists around carefully, hands still trapped beneath the hood of the car, hidden amongst the black metal rods. He swallows against the sandpaper in his throat, tries for a steady voice.
Stiles is seated cross-legged on the grass of Derek’s yard only a few feet away, his normal perch when Derek is otherwise preoccupied and Stiles just likes to be there. A chemistry text book is splayed across his legs, his chin propped in his hand as he tilts his head slightly at Derek, a small lazy smile pulling easily across his mouth; white teeth gleam beneath the ruddy red of his lips.
Derek isn’t sure if he’s supposed to respond, if this silence is Stiles’ way of waiting for Derek to reciprocate, to say the words back. And Derek has only once said the words aloud, but Stiles hadn’t been there to hear and it hadn’t been by choice either and Derek isn’t sure that he’s ready to say them again. He can feel the metal tube against the palm of his hand give in warning to the fierce grip of his fingers.
But Stiles only watches him with his head turned sideways, his eyes soft and lingering with something special beneath the slope of his brows and after a moment his gaze falls downward, eyelashes smudging against pale skin.
Derek doesn’t say anything back.
“I love you,” Stiles tells him, his mouth dampening the words against Derek’s mouth, his jaw, the pulse at his throat, anywhere that he can reach.
It’s summer now, one month until Stiles leaves and Derek’s panting beneath Stiles’ touch, his neck arching each time Stiles’ grip tightens on his cock and twists his wrist in that way that always makes Derek cry out hoarse and buck up into his fist.
They’re laying in Stiles’ bed, and the mattress isn’t wide enough and it’s too hot, the air thick with summer heat and the musky scent of sex that is all but driving Derek mad. Stiles is naked beside him, plastered up against Derek’s side as he jerks him off and whispers into Derek’s ear like Derek is coherent enough to understand any of it.
Stiles moans into the hollow of Derek’s cheek, as if he’s the one losing his mind, strung out on the rush of summer heat and sloppy frantic kisses and clumsy too-eager fingers.
Derek’s jaw falls slack as he clutches at the sheets, Stiles’ thigh, fingers slipping against the slick sheen on his skin and all Derek can feel is the tight coil of orgasm building in the base of his spine, the throb pounding in his ears and the taste of Stiles’ come still lingering on his tongue, the roof of his mouth.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” Stiles is whispering, hushed and urgent as he jerks Derek off and Derek gasps unseeingly up into the fog swelling behind his eyelids. “I love you like this, Derek, just like this, you’re so perfect and-“
Derek’s hips stutter and he grapples at Stiles’ thigh, claws threatening to break skin but Stiles never minds, crazy stupid boy, only urges Derek on with open wet kisses and his mouth is so hot against Derek’s cheek, so hot, so hot, like Stiles has swallowed up the sun and Derek is too close and why is he allowing himself go be devoured without trying to run.
“I love you, always, always but god, especially like this-“
Derek turns his face abruptly, pushes his mouth against Stiles’ to smother the words, keep them trapped on Stiles’ tongue and between his teeth as Stiles stripes him hard, once, twice more. Derek grabs Stiles around the back of his neck, hauls him in impossibly closer and comes, spine curving sharply as he spills against Stiles’ stomach.
Stiles huffs a small laugh into Derek’s mouth, warm and breathless even though it’s Derek who can’t seem to draw enough oxygen into his burning lungs.
Stiles says, “I love it when you do that,” and sounds pleased, sounds like he means it, and runs a hand over his belly, fingers sliding through the sticky mess that clings to the curve of his knuckles and hard gleam of bitten down fingernails. He sucks the edge of his thumb into his mouth, licking himself clean as he pushes two long fingers into Derek’s mouth to do the same, lips and tongue and teeth of both their mouths laving at Stiles’ artful fingers.
And Derek doesn’t understand why Stiles has to use those words so much.
It’s when Stiles tells him a third time, that Derek finally breaks.