Ficlet: You Started It, Stiles/Derek
Author: wellhalesbells
Title: You Started It
Rating: Hard PG-13
Pairing/s: Stiles/Derek
Character/s: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Original Characters
Summary: Derek has his priorities in order.
Warnings: None
Content Notes: None
Submission Type: Ficlet
Word Count: 701
Prompt: Goals
Author's Notes: This'll probably end up a bit longer on the AO3-version but this is a nice little bite of story all on its own. Also, can I get my contributor tag changed please? :P
Derek can’t catch his breath, Stiles’ moan reverberating in the heavy, sex-damp air around them and rattling along the planes of Derek’s bones, leaving his entire body shaking. He grips harder at Stiles’ hip, the heel of his palm pushing him hard into the counter’s edge, other arm slung across the breadth of Stiles’ shoulders, wrapped around him from behind, fingers digging into his bicep. Stiles’ toenails make tiny, crescent-shaped indents in the skin at the hill of his foot, toes still curled.
Derek scrapes his stubbled jaw against the soft inside of Stiles’ neck, drags his dry lower lip over the hammer of his pulse, breathing warm, damp breath into warm, damp skin. Stiles tries to disconnect from him and Derek reflexively tugs him back, thumb coming up to smooth under the curve of his shoulder blade, sliding through beads of sweat and against soft skin.
Stiles shivers, sighs and his toes unfurl, stretch. His fingers stay clenched around the counter of Derek’s kitchen island, holding them both upright.
He scrubs knuckles up from Derek’s neck into his uncomfortably slick hair and all his muscles unwind at once. Derek lets out his own decompressing breath and pulls away from Stiles’ warm body heat.
Stiles scratches at his throat with a hum, bumps Derek back further with his ass leading the charge so he has enough space to turn around and say, accusatory finger in Derek’s face and all, “You started that one.”
Derek raises an eyebrow. “You stuck your hand down my pants. Unprovoked.”
Stiles doesn’t look impressed, counters Derek’s eyebrow with both of his. “Um, all the provocation. You were wearing sweatpants. Only sweatpants.” He crosses his arms over his chest, raises his chin like the defiant shit he is. “You started that one.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “I apologize for the seductive attire.”
Stiles nods approvingly. “Good. You should. Harlot.” He snatches for his jeans-they’d barely managed to get them all way off so they’re right near his feet-and tugs them on. Derek’s nostrils flare over the lack of briefs, the scent of he and Stiles catching in his nostrils. The finger comes back to poke at Derek’s naked chest. “I told you I had studying to do. You’re every bit the bad influence my dad warned me you’d be. Next stop is teen pregnancy, dropping out of high school and stripping.”
“You’re twenty-two, you’ve already graduated and people keep paying you to keep your clothes on.”
Stiles’ cheeks go an even splotchier red. “That restaurant was a frickin’ sauna, okay? I had every right to shed a couple layers.”
“They only objected after you took off your shirt, shoes and socks and stacked them on the table in the shape of a TIE fighter.”
Stiles’ jaw tightens. “It was a subtle commentary on the temperature of their establishment. Also on intergalactic solar-powered spaceships.”
Derek’s eyes pinch. “Was it?”
He’s distracted from Stiles’ tirade of an answer by someone loudly bemoaning, “Goddamn, I think they’re actually done; I can finally hear myself think again.” Larry. Derek’s complete douchebag of a downstairs neighbor who always has a thing or twelve to complain about when it comes to Derek.
Derek glares down at the kitchen tile.
Peg, a friend of Larry’s girlfriend, who doesn’t share one iota of his douchebaggery: “Disappointing, wasn’t it? I’m guessing it’s nothing but AutoTuned Kanye West and where you should take your next pecs selfie in there. I vote for cold storage, by the way. Think about it, you’d pop, bro.”
Derek grins, grabs Stiles’ elbow as he’s yanking on his t-shirt and tugs it right back off. Stiles stares down at the shirt pooled on the floor with an exaggerated frown. “That is the opposite of what the goal was,” he laments. He looks back up at Derek and correctly interprets the look in his eyes, saying, “Again with it being your fault. You, sir, are an instigator.”
Derek nods agreeably and tells him, “We have a new goal: ruin Larry’s day.”
Stiles’ face cracks into a wide, devious grin, throwing his arms around Derek’s neck. “Now that is a to-do list I can get behind.”
Title: You Started It
Rating: Hard PG-13
Pairing/s: Stiles/Derek
Character/s: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Original Characters
Summary: Derek has his priorities in order.
Warnings: None
Content Notes: None
Submission Type: Ficlet
Word Count: 701
Prompt: Goals
Author's Notes: This'll probably end up a bit longer on the AO3-version but this is a nice little bite of story all on its own. Also, can I get my contributor tag changed please? :P
Derek can’t catch his breath, Stiles’ moan reverberating in the heavy, sex-damp air around them and rattling along the planes of Derek’s bones, leaving his entire body shaking. He grips harder at Stiles’ hip, the heel of his palm pushing him hard into the counter’s edge, other arm slung across the breadth of Stiles’ shoulders, wrapped around him from behind, fingers digging into his bicep. Stiles’ toenails make tiny, crescent-shaped indents in the skin at the hill of his foot, toes still curled.
Derek scrapes his stubbled jaw against the soft inside of Stiles’ neck, drags his dry lower lip over the hammer of his pulse, breathing warm, damp breath into warm, damp skin. Stiles tries to disconnect from him and Derek reflexively tugs him back, thumb coming up to smooth under the curve of his shoulder blade, sliding through beads of sweat and against soft skin.
Stiles shivers, sighs and his toes unfurl, stretch. His fingers stay clenched around the counter of Derek’s kitchen island, holding them both upright.
He scrubs knuckles up from Derek’s neck into his uncomfortably slick hair and all his muscles unwind at once. Derek lets out his own decompressing breath and pulls away from Stiles’ warm body heat.
Stiles scratches at his throat with a hum, bumps Derek back further with his ass leading the charge so he has enough space to turn around and say, accusatory finger in Derek’s face and all, “You started that one.”
Derek raises an eyebrow. “You stuck your hand down my pants. Unprovoked.”
Stiles doesn’t look impressed, counters Derek’s eyebrow with both of his. “Um, all the provocation. You were wearing sweatpants. Only sweatpants.” He crosses his arms over his chest, raises his chin like the defiant shit he is. “You started that one.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “I apologize for the seductive attire.”
Stiles nods approvingly. “Good. You should. Harlot.” He snatches for his jeans-they’d barely managed to get them all way off so they’re right near his feet-and tugs them on. Derek’s nostrils flare over the lack of briefs, the scent of he and Stiles catching in his nostrils. The finger comes back to poke at Derek’s naked chest. “I told you I had studying to do. You’re every bit the bad influence my dad warned me you’d be. Next stop is teen pregnancy, dropping out of high school and stripping.”
“You’re twenty-two, you’ve already graduated and people keep paying you to keep your clothes on.”
Stiles’ cheeks go an even splotchier red. “That restaurant was a frickin’ sauna, okay? I had every right to shed a couple layers.”
“They only objected after you took off your shirt, shoes and socks and stacked them on the table in the shape of a TIE fighter.”
Stiles’ jaw tightens. “It was a subtle commentary on the temperature of their establishment. Also on intergalactic solar-powered spaceships.”
Derek’s eyes pinch. “Was it?”
He’s distracted from Stiles’ tirade of an answer by someone loudly bemoaning, “Goddamn, I think they’re actually done; I can finally hear myself think again.” Larry. Derek’s complete douchebag of a downstairs neighbor who always has a thing or twelve to complain about when it comes to Derek.
Derek glares down at the kitchen tile.
Peg, a friend of Larry’s girlfriend, who doesn’t share one iota of his douchebaggery: “Disappointing, wasn’t it? I’m guessing it’s nothing but AutoTuned Kanye West and where you should take your next pecs selfie in there. I vote for cold storage, by the way. Think about it, you’d pop, bro.”
Derek grins, grabs Stiles’ elbow as he’s yanking on his t-shirt and tugs it right back off. Stiles stares down at the shirt pooled on the floor with an exaggerated frown. “That is the opposite of what the goal was,” he laments. He looks back up at Derek and correctly interprets the look in his eyes, saying, “Again with it being your fault. You, sir, are an instigator.”
Derek nods agreeably and tells him, “We have a new goal: ruin Larry’s day.”
Stiles’ face cracks into a wide, devious grin, throwing his arms around Derek’s neck. “Now that is a to-do list I can get behind.”