TW fic: Good Things
Title: Good Things
Words: 1,461
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Derek/Stiles
Summary: PWP
Warnings: Handcuffs.
Disclaimer: Characters/etc. belong to Jeff Davis.
They have two hours until his dad gets back, and Stiles can’t decide if he should be thankful or-
Derek noses Stiles’ dick, pressing kisses to the juncture of his hip and thigh. Stiles is already achingly hard; the sensation of Derek cuffing him to his headboard kind of sealed the deal. And then there was the slow undressing. Derek still had his jeans on, the bastard, while Stiles was stark as the day he’d been born. Which. Okay, wrong time to think about birth.
Stiles feels the scrape of stubble along the insides of his thighs and he wants to groan, egg Derek on. So he does. “You are such a fucking tease, you know that?” he says, with the intention of sounding irritated, but it mostly comes out breathy. Derek laughs, his breath hot against Stiles’ dick.
“This was your idea,” he mumbles. His hands get a satisfying grip on Stiles’ thighs and spread them, making Stiles whimper. No, definitely not whimper, definitely something more-more-
“Unnn.”
Derek smiles, taking that as answer enough. “I think you said something about holding you down until you were begging for it?”
It’s completely absurd to feel embarrassed with Derek licking over his balls, but no feat is impossible for Stiles. He wiggles his hips as a flush blooms over his cheeks and chest. “That was said in confidence.”
“You grabbed my ass and whispered it in my ear.”
The sensation of Derek’s breath on his skin makes Stiles’ toes curl. “I was drunk.”
Derek lets it go, stupid smile lingering as he leans forward to ghost his breath over Stiles’ dick again. Hands knead at his thighs and Stiles rethinks the whole “begging for it” thing. Derek-Derek licks the head, and Stiles’ entire body surges forward. Bruises. There are going to be rings of bruises around his wrists. His chest heaves.
“Derek,” he says, and it’s only kind of a plea. Derek sucks the tip-just the tip-into his mouth, hands firm on Stiles’ legs. Stiles arches his hips, trying to get more of the heat, but just like that again it’s gone, and Stiles’ body falls back against the pillows and headboard.
“Tease,” he grits out. He hears and click and-then, yes, there are fingers spreading slick against him. Down against him, into him. He can’t even-Derek’s fingers circle his entrance, one daring to push in, but only just. Not even to his first knuckle, and then he’s out again, reaching for the bottle. Stiles watches him through lidded eyes, mouth hanging dumbly open.
Derek’s finger returns, a welcome and persistent warmth against him. It slides in this time, all the way in, and Stiles swivels his hips down against it. A bead of precome eases its way out of his dick, falling towards his stomach, and it’s only then that Stiles realizes Derek is pulling his ass up, getting halfway underneath him. His mouth falls onto the underside of Stiles’ dick as his finger curls inside of him, and Stiles sort of gasps.
He closes his eyes because it’s-it’s just good, it’s so good, but then the loss of the visual is too much and he has to force his lids open again. “Oh.” The sight of Derek’s lips sliding against the back of his dick, now slick from saliva, is good. Good being the best word Stiles can come up with at the moment, because Derek is pushing a second finger into him, coated in even more lube. He tries to swallow, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth.
“Talk,” Derek says, suddenly, and his voice is about how Stiles feels: wrecked.
“About wh-what?” he stutters, biting down on his lip and yanking at the handcuffs. The unyielding metal sends a surge of pleasure shuddering through his abdomen.
Derek’s mouth drops to lick around his fingers, thrusting deep within Stiles. “Just talk.”
“I’m thinking about writing an ode to your, uhn, fingers,” says Stiles, throwing his brain-to-mouth filter out the window. (Which he totally had, regardless of what anyone said.) “Your fucking giant fingers, fuck.” Derek grunts-maybe that was a laugh-and Stiles would have smiled but then- “And oh, fuck, your tongue, it just-I don’t know how, with the wetwarm sllii-nnnggfuck.”
“You like my tongue?” Derek asks, pushing his fingers down hard within Stiles. He’s not searching, just moving, just working Stiles.
“Yes,” he breathes emphatically, jerking his hips against Derek’s fingers to get more of them. But then they are gone, fuck, and the handcuffs keep Stiles from going after them. “But your fingers, those are great too, like I said-”
Derek sits back, kneeling better and readjusting his grip on Stiles. He hooks his arms under his thighs, ending up with a face full of-
“Oh-hhh. Y-yeah, your tongue definitely deserves an ode, too. Maybe a sonnet. We learned about sonnets, I could totally-fuck-write one of those.”
Derek isn’t even eating him out yet, he’s just lapping at his hole, which was already slick but now it’s wet. Stiles isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep talking for much longer-his thoughts are turning incoherent-but thankfully, his mouth has a mind of its own.
“Christ, Derek, it-with the stubble, oh my gosh, I need to buy you a razor-fuuck, oh, I have a coupon for AA batteries-”
Stiles’ heart jumps into his throat when Derek growls. Suddenly he is up against Stiles’ mouth, crowding him, kissing him hard, which is okay kind of gross all things considered because that means he’s indirectly kissed his own-which of course he cleans because hygiene but it is still kind of gross-but at the same time Derek is biting his lip and grabbing the scruff of his neck and dragging his hand down Stiles’ chest which is fantastic-
“Pay attention,” Derek says against the side of his mouth, kissing down to his jaw and then neck and that’s good, too.
“It’s not my fault you’ve fucked the attention span out of me, fucked me silly with your fucking tongue-”
Derek kisses him again, and Stiles gets wrapped up in Derek’s fucking tongue again.
And then that tongue is gone, pulling back as Derek sinks to Stiles’ ass again.
…allowing Stiles an excellent view of Derek’s shoulders, and suddenly he’s aching to get his hands all over Derek. “I can’t decide if I hate these cuffs or-” Derek’s tongue licks into him, teeth framing it and fighting to get into Stiles and his brain kind of short-circuits. “-uuuhhhnn.”
Derek makes a weird groan of approval, gripping Stiles’ thighs tighter, and Stiles adds another bruise to the list. Or. Bruises. He tries to count them, but the sight of Derek’s back muscles clenching and twisting as he throws his whole body into Stiles is-more than distracting. Watching Derek’s face is also extraordinary. His expression is so concentrated, brows furrowed, cheeks flushed, nose nudging his balls when he goes up-
“Derek,” he pants, because he’s close, he’s so fucking close. His dick-his poor, hardly touched dick-is plum purple against his stomach. It bobs obscenely when he jerks against Derek’s tongue, doing something wonderfully indecent down under, and Stiles almost sobs. “Fuck, Derek, so-”
“Not yet.”
And if Stiles does sob at that, it’s not his fault. He can feel the crest of his orgasm approaching, but then Derek’s not about to push him off the edge. He knows Stiles, knows when he’s close, knows what it takes to finish him, but Derek’s mouth against his ass is making Stiles question everything he thinks he knows about himself.
He’s blubbering now, words just incomplete pleas as his toes curl and his body strains towards Derek. There’s a moment where Stiles is seriously going to kick Derek if he doesn’t-but then Derek’s movements are faster, and then his fingers are back, moving in and twisting and finding him-
Stiles is trembling and he doesn’t even know what he wants anymore and then Derek drags his knuckles up the underside of his dick and he’s gone. His body jerks and Derek grabs his length, fisting him through it and Stiles doesn’t know when it will stop.
But it does, and Stiles is panting. His entire body is covered in a sheen of sweat and-gross, he can feel it dripping down the center of his back-Derek looks satisfied but not spent, just crawls up to kiss Stiles. The kiss is slow, though, and Stiles doesn’t even bother to think about the gross factor this time. He just smiles, licking his way into Derek’s mouth.
He mentally files handcuffs away under Good Things, right in between hamburgers and handjobs.
*
Words: 1,461
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Derek/Stiles
Summary: PWP
Warnings: Handcuffs.
Disclaimer: Characters/etc. belong to Jeff Davis.
They have two hours until his dad gets back, and Stiles can’t decide if he should be thankful or-
Derek noses Stiles’ dick, pressing kisses to the juncture of his hip and thigh. Stiles is already achingly hard; the sensation of Derek cuffing him to his headboard kind of sealed the deal. And then there was the slow undressing. Derek still had his jeans on, the bastard, while Stiles was stark as the day he’d been born. Which. Okay, wrong time to think about birth.
Stiles feels the scrape of stubble along the insides of his thighs and he wants to groan, egg Derek on. So he does. “You are such a fucking tease, you know that?” he says, with the intention of sounding irritated, but it mostly comes out breathy. Derek laughs, his breath hot against Stiles’ dick.
“This was your idea,” he mumbles. His hands get a satisfying grip on Stiles’ thighs and spread them, making Stiles whimper. No, definitely not whimper, definitely something more-more-
“Unnn.”
Derek smiles, taking that as answer enough. “I think you said something about holding you down until you were begging for it?”
It’s completely absurd to feel embarrassed with Derek licking over his balls, but no feat is impossible for Stiles. He wiggles his hips as a flush blooms over his cheeks and chest. “That was said in confidence.”
“You grabbed my ass and whispered it in my ear.”
The sensation of Derek’s breath on his skin makes Stiles’ toes curl. “I was drunk.”
Derek lets it go, stupid smile lingering as he leans forward to ghost his breath over Stiles’ dick again. Hands knead at his thighs and Stiles rethinks the whole “begging for it” thing. Derek-Derek licks the head, and Stiles’ entire body surges forward. Bruises. There are going to be rings of bruises around his wrists. His chest heaves.
“Derek,” he says, and it’s only kind of a plea. Derek sucks the tip-just the tip-into his mouth, hands firm on Stiles’ legs. Stiles arches his hips, trying to get more of the heat, but just like that again it’s gone, and Stiles’ body falls back against the pillows and headboard.
“Tease,” he grits out. He hears and click and-then, yes, there are fingers spreading slick against him. Down against him, into him. He can’t even-Derek’s fingers circle his entrance, one daring to push in, but only just. Not even to his first knuckle, and then he’s out again, reaching for the bottle. Stiles watches him through lidded eyes, mouth hanging dumbly open.
Derek’s finger returns, a welcome and persistent warmth against him. It slides in this time, all the way in, and Stiles swivels his hips down against it. A bead of precome eases its way out of his dick, falling towards his stomach, and it’s only then that Stiles realizes Derek is pulling his ass up, getting halfway underneath him. His mouth falls onto the underside of Stiles’ dick as his finger curls inside of him, and Stiles sort of gasps.
He closes his eyes because it’s-it’s just good, it’s so good, but then the loss of the visual is too much and he has to force his lids open again. “Oh.” The sight of Derek’s lips sliding against the back of his dick, now slick from saliva, is good. Good being the best word Stiles can come up with at the moment, because Derek is pushing a second finger into him, coated in even more lube. He tries to swallow, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth.
“Talk,” Derek says, suddenly, and his voice is about how Stiles feels: wrecked.
“About wh-what?” he stutters, biting down on his lip and yanking at the handcuffs. The unyielding metal sends a surge of pleasure shuddering through his abdomen.
Derek’s mouth drops to lick around his fingers, thrusting deep within Stiles. “Just talk.”
“I’m thinking about writing an ode to your, uhn, fingers,” says Stiles, throwing his brain-to-mouth filter out the window. (Which he totally had, regardless of what anyone said.) “Your fucking giant fingers, fuck.” Derek grunts-maybe that was a laugh-and Stiles would have smiled but then- “And oh, fuck, your tongue, it just-I don’t know how, with the wetwarm sllii-nnnggfuck.”
“You like my tongue?” Derek asks, pushing his fingers down hard within Stiles. He’s not searching, just moving, just working Stiles.
“Yes,” he breathes emphatically, jerking his hips against Derek’s fingers to get more of them. But then they are gone, fuck, and the handcuffs keep Stiles from going after them. “But your fingers, those are great too, like I said-”
Derek sits back, kneeling better and readjusting his grip on Stiles. He hooks his arms under his thighs, ending up with a face full of-
“Oh-hhh. Y-yeah, your tongue definitely deserves an ode, too. Maybe a sonnet. We learned about sonnets, I could totally-fuck-write one of those.”
Derek isn’t even eating him out yet, he’s just lapping at his hole, which was already slick but now it’s wet. Stiles isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep talking for much longer-his thoughts are turning incoherent-but thankfully, his mouth has a mind of its own.
“Christ, Derek, it-with the stubble, oh my gosh, I need to buy you a razor-fuuck, oh, I have a coupon for AA batteries-”
Stiles’ heart jumps into his throat when Derek growls. Suddenly he is up against Stiles’ mouth, crowding him, kissing him hard, which is okay kind of gross all things considered because that means he’s indirectly kissed his own-which of course he cleans because hygiene but it is still kind of gross-but at the same time Derek is biting his lip and grabbing the scruff of his neck and dragging his hand down Stiles’ chest which is fantastic-
“Pay attention,” Derek says against the side of his mouth, kissing down to his jaw and then neck and that’s good, too.
“It’s not my fault you’ve fucked the attention span out of me, fucked me silly with your fucking tongue-”
Derek kisses him again, and Stiles gets wrapped up in Derek’s fucking tongue again.
And then that tongue is gone, pulling back as Derek sinks to Stiles’ ass again.
…allowing Stiles an excellent view of Derek’s shoulders, and suddenly he’s aching to get his hands all over Derek. “I can’t decide if I hate these cuffs or-” Derek’s tongue licks into him, teeth framing it and fighting to get into Stiles and his brain kind of short-circuits. “-uuuhhhnn.”
Derek makes a weird groan of approval, gripping Stiles’ thighs tighter, and Stiles adds another bruise to the list. Or. Bruises. He tries to count them, but the sight of Derek’s back muscles clenching and twisting as he throws his whole body into Stiles is-more than distracting. Watching Derek’s face is also extraordinary. His expression is so concentrated, brows furrowed, cheeks flushed, nose nudging his balls when he goes up-
“Derek,” he pants, because he’s close, he’s so fucking close. His dick-his poor, hardly touched dick-is plum purple against his stomach. It bobs obscenely when he jerks against Derek’s tongue, doing something wonderfully indecent down under, and Stiles almost sobs. “Fuck, Derek, so-”
“Not yet.”
And if Stiles does sob at that, it’s not his fault. He can feel the crest of his orgasm approaching, but then Derek’s not about to push him off the edge. He knows Stiles, knows when he’s close, knows what it takes to finish him, but Derek’s mouth against his ass is making Stiles question everything he thinks he knows about himself.
He’s blubbering now, words just incomplete pleas as his toes curl and his body strains towards Derek. There’s a moment where Stiles is seriously going to kick Derek if he doesn’t-but then Derek’s movements are faster, and then his fingers are back, moving in and twisting and finding him-
Stiles is trembling and he doesn’t even know what he wants anymore and then Derek drags his knuckles up the underside of his dick and he’s gone. His body jerks and Derek grabs his length, fisting him through it and Stiles doesn’t know when it will stop.
But it does, and Stiles is panting. His entire body is covered in a sheen of sweat and-gross, he can feel it dripping down the center of his back-Derek looks satisfied but not spent, just crawls up to kiss Stiles. The kiss is slow, though, and Stiles doesn’t even bother to think about the gross factor this time. He just smiles, licking his way into Derek’s mouth.
He mentally files handcuffs away under Good Things, right in between hamburgers and handjobs.
*