FIC: Teen Wolf -- Chaos Theory
Title: Chaos Theory
Author: the_deep_magic
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,840
Warnings/Promises: enthusiastically consensual face-fucking, dirty talk, irredeemable PWP
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, I just play with them.
Summary: It starts with a butterfly. I mean, probably. That’s Stiles’ best theory.
A/N: For this prompt at the kink meme. I don’t even know, but I’m not apologizing. And what is it about this fandom that makes me abuse italics?
Stiles couldn’t really tell you how all the complex - no, really, absurdly, supernaturally complex - events in his life have conspired to lead to this one particular moment in time. Maybe karma really is a thing; that wouldn’t even really register as unusual, in light of everything that’s happened in the past year. Maybe it has something to do with chaos theory. Stiles has been meaning to read up on that, since his understanding of it basically comes from Jurassic Park (the book, not the movie) and all he really remembers is something about fractals and the butterfly effect.
It’s probably a horrific oversimplification of a very intricate theory, but Stiles just decides to go with it: somewhere in Malaysia last week, a butterfly flapped its wings, weather patterns were forever altered, the barometric pressure dropped, and now Derek Hale is stretched out naked on Stiles’ bed, head tipped back over the side, mouth open and waiting for Stiles’ cock.
Yeah, that explanation probably makes just about as much sense as any other.
Stiles has a death grip on his own cock, too hard to be anything but painful, but it’s pretty much the only thing that’s keeping him from going off at just the sight of this. Even when Derek shuts his mouth to give him The Scowl - no less cranky for being upside down - it’s still the hottest fucking thing Stiles has ever seen. It is as though all porn, everywhere, has been condensed into a gorgeous, chiseled, frowning singularity that is now asking Stiles “…the fuck are you waiting for?”
Stiles would very much like to explain that he is attempting to calculate the length of time he needs to ensure that he’s not going to shoot the second he slides between Derek’s lips against the probability that Derek is going to decide this is a monumentally stupid idea and Stiles is never, ever going to have this chance again. Instead, he sort of… squeaks, and he sure that’s it. He’s ruined it for good. He will go to his grave regretting the one accidental squeak that denied him his one shot at nirvana.
But apparently not. The butterfly has spoken (er, flapped), and Derek just groans all annoyed like he’s not naked and inverted and casually fisting his cock - which is rock hard, by the way, even though they haven’t really even started - and he opens his mouth again, and Stiles is just going to have to go for it, dignity be damned.
Stiles takes a few deep, cleansing breaths before threading his fingers into Derek’s hair and tilting his head up just that little bit so it’s at the perfect height for Stiles to rub head of his cock against Derek’s lips. He’s not thoroughly versed on Sex Etiquette, but it seems like it would be rude to just shove right in there, however inviting (like, calligraphy-on-card-stock-with-a-little-tissue-paper-insert inviting) Derek’s mouth looks. And instead of the frustrated grunt Stiles is expecting, what he gets is an almost aggressively pleased sigh that makes him shiver all the way down to his toes even before Derek’s tongue peeks out to tease at his slit.
“Un-fucking-fair.”
Is what Stiles means to say. What actually comes out is mostly vowels, and Derek totally deserves it when Stiles can’t stop his hips from jerking forward until the head of his cock is engulfed in Derek’s mouth.
Derek - the stupid, insane, amazing bastard - just sucks lightly, and it feels so bizarre for his tongue to be caressing the top of Stiles’ cock instead of that sweet little spot on the underside, but bizarre is good. Bizarre is fucking awesome, especially when Stiles pushes in a little further and Derek moans around him, making Stiles pitch forward until he’s bracing his hands on the bed.
Well, thank god he didn’t just faceplant against Derek’s chest. That might have been embarrassing.
When Stiles can breathe again, he pulls his hips back just a little, keeping himself in Derek’s mouth through a truly awkward series of jerky, aborted little thrusts that are nowhere near what he really wants but so much more than he ever expected. Derek groans around his cock again, but this time it’s an irritated sound.
Cocksucking ass balls, Stiles is already fucking this up. He’s not entirely sure how - he’s fairly new to this, and there isn’t a manual (he checked) - but when he goes to pull out so maybe Derek can use his words for once, since there’s not enough blood in Stiles’ brain to interpret the precise nonverbal cues detailing how he’s managed to piss Derek off this time, Derek reaches back with both hands, grips Stiles by the ass, and yanks him forward.
Okay. Nonverbal cue received.
Still, Stiles would like some additional confirmation (see above re: one shot at this), so he sputters out, “You want me to- Can I-?”
Derek grunts and yanks again at the same time his throat just sort of opens and holy fuck, Stiles is sliding all the way in. He wails at the unbelievably hot, tight sensation of Derek’s throat constricting around his cock and oh god, it’s too much, Stiles is going to die. He’s going to die before he even comes, and how is that fair?
But he’s got the presence of mind to realize that Derek is breathing steadily through his nose (against Stiles’ balls, how deliciously fucked up is this) and not shoving Stiles off, and Derek rarely misses the opportunity for a good, hearty shove when Stiles is involved, so this must be kosher. Ish.
As slowly as he can, Stiles pulls back and thrusts shakily back in, crying out as Derek swallows around his cock, and through the almost incapacitating pleasure, Stiles’ focus narrows down to the arch of Derek’s throat. He runs his fingertips over the delicate, exposed skin, and when Derek shudders, Stiles can feel it too, right down to the core of him.
Sweat is breaking out across Derek’s skin, and Stiles has the brief thought of how difficult this must be for him, baring his throat in the most vulnerable way possible… until Stiles’ gaze travels down Derek’s body to where his hand has stopped its stroking, is now just squeezing his cock, which is leaking all over his clenched abs because-
“Holy shit, you are seriously getting off on this,” Stiles says, the awe of it eclipsing everything else until Derek grunts again, and this one’s a perfectly obvious yes, you fucking moron - Stiles knows that one pretty well - and Stiles is nothing if not adaptable.
He thrusts again, more steadily this time, and they both groan. Stiles gradually works up to a rhythm, slow because it’s too good to rush, and possibly also because he’s shaking too hard to go any faster. It’s - Jesus - it’s fucking unreal, Derek’s lips stretched around his cock, Derek’s throat working around Stiles cock, and most of all Derek’s hand jerking at his own dick like Stiles’ cock down his throat is the best thing ever.
Except maybe Stiles knows how to make it a little bit better.
Either that or he really is going to get himself shoved across the room, but he’s too crazy-high on endorphins not to try.
“You fucking love this, don’t you,” he murmurs, ignoring the way his voice breaks over the words in favor of rubbing his thumb over the place where Derek’s lower lip is tight and wet around him. He can feel the softness of Derek’s lip chafing against the push and pull of his cock, and it’s nothing short of obscene. “You’re hungry for it.”
Stiles has no idea where the words are coming from, but that’s hardly a new phenomenon and it makes Derek’s hips jerk up off the bed, so he just rolls with it. “That’s right, take it. Take all of it. God, your mouth feels so good stretched around my cock. And your throat, god, I could just fuck your throat for days. You want that?”
Derek moans by way of answer, loud and long, and Stiles will be lucky if he can keep this up for minutes, but what the fuck ever, he’s going to enjoy the hell out of it. He keeps one hand braced on the edge of the bed for balance and rubs the other through the sheen of sweat on Derek’s chest. One of the first things Stiles learned when they started doing this was that Derek is starved for touch. He needs hands on him, anywhere, everywhere, the more contact the better, and Stiles is more than happy to oblige.
He can’t quite reach Derek’s cock, but Derek seems to be taking care of that just fine himself, so Stiles’ only real regret is that he can’t see Derek’s face. He tries to imagine it: Derek’s eyes screwed shut, his nostrils flaring as he breathes Stiles’ scent in. God, he’s got to be drowning in it where he is now, and that thought nearly makes Stiles double over, his balls tightening as he nears the point of no return.
“Oh god, Derek, it’s too much, I’m gonna come. Fuck, I’m gonna come right down your throat, gonna choke you with it, gonna-”
And then the entire planet just goes ahead and stops rotating, because Derek comes first.
It hits Stiles like a punch to the gut - a punch made out of rainbows and sunshine and pleasure so intense it actually burns, sweeping through him fast and brutal like a brushfire. He’s pulsing hard down Derek’s tightening throat, just coming and coming and coming like it’s never going to stop.
But it does, and it goes from being the right kind of too much to the wrong kind so fast that Stiles jerks out too quickly, and the world switches from radiating with waves of perfection as angels sing in the background to Stiles slumped on the floor while Derek curls in on himself in a coughing fit in nothing flat.
Well, it was great while it lasted.
But Stiles is a stubborn bastard - he should know, Derek’s told him often enough - and he somehow manages to crawl up and soothe Derek with shaking hands until they’re both lying down the wrong way across the bed, feet dangling over the side.
“Oh my god,” Stiles moans, rolling half on top of Derek and tucking his head against Derek’s neck so he can mouth absently at the skin there. “Am I dead? I think I just died. Like, the last thing I remember was you deep-throating me into an aneurysm. But please don’t put that on my tombstone.”
“If you were dead, you wouldn’t still be talking,” Derek says, but his voice is the very definition of wrecked, and Stiles totally did that. With his dick. So, basically, life is good.
“Thank you, butterfly, wherever you are,” Stiles whispers, letting the sex-coma take him away in its pillowy arms of pillowiness.
“Weren’t wrong about the aneurysm” is the last thing he hears before he drifts offs.