FIC: Teen Wolf -- P and Not-P
Title: P and Not-P
Author: the_deep_magic
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,690
Warnings: underage, dirty talk, a past sexual trauma is very briefly referred to in a flippant, immature way
Spoilers: pretty much all of season 2
Disclaimer: This is not my sandbox and these are not my toys.
Summary: In real life, unlike formal logic, all the premises can be true but the conclusion can still be false.
A/N: I just set out to write some silly outsider POV. This turned out less silly and more introspective, but hey, there’s porn, so everybody wins?
Danny
Danny knows this particular set of moves. Knows them very personally. There’s the “sit on one buttcheek ‘til it goes numb, then switch to the other” technique. But that only works for so long; the chairs in the chemistry classroom - hell, all the classrooms - are brutal.
Then there’s the “put all your weight forward on your thighs” maneuver, but that one never lasts long, because your quads start to burn pretty quick, and if you just try to lift your legs up and balance on the edge of the chair, you’ll fall over. You can sort of lean on your desk for a while, but not if you have to actually move your arms to take notes or turn on a Bunsen burner or carefully transfer a very precise amount of chemicals from one beaker to another.
The “sit with one leg tucked under your thigh” is probably the lesser of the evils - it keeps your weight off uncomfortable places, though it puts your foot to sleep and you have to remember to shake it out before class ends or you’ll stand up and find one of your legs won’t hold you.
So yeah, Danny is intimately familiar with this little dance. But what’s got him staring so hard he hasn’t added a single word to his notes in the past twenty minutes is the fact that it’s Stiles doing it. Apparently the “Am I attractive to gay guys?” question got answered. Vigorously.
Now that Danny thinks about it, yeah, it sort of makes sense for Stiles. Because that thing with Lydia was never going to work out, and maybe he’s been confused and was sort of overcompensating. Well, summer break is over and he’s sure as hell got it figured out now. Good for him. And good for whoever he figured it out with, because come to think of it, Stiles does have a pretty nice ass. And a flat-out pretty mouth.
The only question that remains is… who is it? It’s obviously not Scott - even if he were heteroflexible, he’s only got eyes for Allison. Could be someone else on the lacrosse team. Jackson? Danny actually has to cover his snort of laughter with a cough at that thought, because he doesn’t need to be a psychic to know that Stiles is obviously the bossiest bottom ever, and it would drive Jackson up the wall, and-
Okay, Danny does not need to be thinking about his best friend that way. Ick. That’s no more likely to happen than Stiles and Scott. Still funny as fuck to think about, though.
Greenberg? Nope.
So… Isaac? Danny’s seen Stiles talking to Isaac more in the last few months than he ever had before. And Isaac’s been more aggressive on the field, but Danny still can’t quite see him as a top. Plus, he and Stiles don’t really have that kind of chemistry. Stiles is… almost paternal around Isaac. No, no way.
Must be that Boyd guy. That’s really the only other guy Stiles seems to be friendly with, and hell, Danny’d probably let Boyd do to him whatever he did to make Stiles squirm like that. He doesn’t really know Boyd apart from that weird night when Finstock pulled him out of the stands and handed him a lacrosse stick, but Boyd’s got “aggressive top” written all over him. Maybe that’s what Stiles goes for.
The bell rings, and Stiles shoots straight out of his chair. “Thank god,” he groans to no one in particular, stretching his legs and looking utterly relieved to be standing up again.
Danny doesn’t want to be That Guy, the one dispensing gay advice, but it seems like Stiles is kind of new to this, so he taps Stiles’ shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Stiles replies, his smile bright but a little pained.
“Just a hint,” Danny says, dropping his voice a little. No one else needs to know Stiles’ business. “Try sitting with one leg tucked under you. It takes most of the pressure off. I know these seats are a bitch.”
Stiles looks a little confused, but he doesn’t ask Danny what he’s talking about, so Danny feels pretty well justified in his conclusions. “Uh, thanks,” Stiles says. “I’ll try that.”
He walks away, and if Danny takes an extra second watching him go, hey, Stiles did gay bait him once for his hacking skills. Danny can objectify him a little if he wants to.
Erica
Erica’s mostly gotten over her thing for Stiles. Mostly. Still, she feels for him, even if she has no intention of letting him know it. The way he keeps getting his ass handed to him and coming back for more - she can’t decide if that’s an admirable trait or a sign of mental illness.
That thing she had for Derek for about five seconds? Totally over it.
Really, he has the same totally awesome wolfy power she does - more awesome, actually, since he’s been a werewolf his whole life and, oh yeah, the alpha thing - but he’s constantly acting like someone lit the fuse on his tampon. Because seriously, lighten up. Erica’s been kidnapped and tortured by a psychotic old guy, which was immediately followed by being captured and held hostage by the alpha pack for five days, and it still beats the hell out of wondering whether today’s the day the flickering light in the English classroom is going to send her into a seizure, make her piss herself in front of her classmates.
Because those same assholes that used to mock her or, at best, pity her? Would now gladly lick her boots if she’d let them. Not that those little shits are even worth her time. She’s cut an alpha werewolf in two. With a broadsword. So fuck them.
Where was she? Oh, right, Derek is growling at them again. Not training hard enough. Getting distracted. Can’t do that because you never know what’s out there. Same shit, different day.
Until Stiles smacks Derek on the arm, which has to hurt his hand more than it hurts Derek. “Hey, lighten up,” he says. “We’ve all got midterms in two weeks, and most of us are still trying to pass our classes.”
“You think the next threat to your lives is going to wait for your midterms to be over?” Derek snarls at him, and if it had been any of the wolves, Derek would have thrown them against a tree by now. Hell, if the two of them weren’t doing what they pretend no one else knows they’re doing, Derek still might have thrown Stiles against a tree.
Stiles flushes - he does it so easily, all it takes is Erica glancing him up and down once and he’s fuschia, for god’s sake - but he doesn’t back down. “You think yelling at us about being distracted is going to make us less distracted? Because if Harris hasn’t harassed the ADD out of me by pure spite yet, I don’t think screaming ‘focus!’ is ever going to make anyone focus. No matter how freaky-red somebody’s eyes get.”
Derek advances on him, fangs starting to pop out, and at least Stiles has the good sense to back up. “Well, what would you suggest?” Derek asks, every word dripping with acid.
“Everybody splits up into pairs and spars instead of waiting to run at you one at a time. They keep each other focused.”
As usual, it’s actually a good idea, but of course Derek can’t just say that. He has to get in one last snarl at Stiles before gritting out, “Boyd and Jackson. Erica and Isaac. Scott, you’re with me.” And then he takes his shirt off. Because it’s Derek.
Okay, Erica can certainly appreciate the visual without feeling any real attraction, but seriously, she doesn’t know how Stiles puts up with it. Though Stiles is doing the painful trying-not-to-stare-at-Derek thing, because they’re still trying to hide it for some reason. Maybe Derek wants Stiles all for himself. He’s definitely got more than a little possessiveness going on there.
She just hopes Derek knows how lucky he is Stiles hasn’t told them all to fuck off and gone back to his pre-werewolf, non-terrifying life. Because Stiles risks his ass all the time for them - quite literally. He came out of the kitsune thing two months ago with a broken tailbone, among other injuries. Derek must be crazy-good in the sack to get Stiles to bend over for him, make him flush red all over, gasping through those pretty pink lips as he begs for more-
And so Erica is willing to concede, as Isaac easily pins her to the ground, that maybe she hasn’t completely gotten over her thing for Stiles.
Scott
Stiles answers the phone with a prolonged “Owwwww.”
Scott sighs. “Does that mean you’re not coming over to play Halo 3?”
“Dude, you are more than welcome to bring it over here. And then help me crawl down the stairs, because I don’t think my legs even work anymore.”
“You were over at Derek’s all afternoon again?”
“Oh my god, you sound like my dad.”
“It’s your own fault, you know.”
“I know,” Stiles groans. There’s a pause, and then: “Bring Cheetos? I ran out.”
Okay, Scott does kind of owe Stiles for all those times he’s blown him off for Allison. That’s what tonight was supposed to be about - bro time. It’s just that Stiles is the one with the car, so he usually comes over so that Scott doesn’t have to bike home at ass o’clock in the morning. But, hey, Scott can deal. Not like he has to worry about muggers or anything. “The puffy kind or the regular?”
“Puffy? What the hell, man, you know I’m a traditionalist.”
“Yeah, sorry, sorry.”
“Puffy Cheetos, honest to god…” Stiles trails off. Then hangs up.
Scott chucks his phone in his backpack and heads downstairs. Damn it, he’s going to have to go eight blocks out of his way to the gas station to get the Cheetos. Yeah, Stiles was the one who asked for it, but Derek has got to stop training him so hard.
Jackson
God, McCall is such a little bitch. He’s all “control this” and “control that.” What the fuck ever. Jackson never took any shit on the field before he got turned and he sure as hell isn’t going to take any now. It’s not like he was so spectacularly shitty before that now he has to hold back or else people are going to suspect something.
Jackson rips off his lacrosse gear - he still hasn’t gotten over the way it reeks of everyone he took down in practice, including McCall. And Lahey. And Stilinksi. It’s like fucking werewolf potpourri.
(And he only knows what that is because Lydia insists on keeping some of it in her lingerie drawer. It was kind of nice before, but now it feels like an entire flower shop shoved up his nose when all he wants to smell is Lydia. Not that he’s going to tell her that. Maybe he can sneak into her room and throw it away while she’s sleeping. No, never mind, she’d just go and get more.)
Ugh, he can even smell McCall on his skin. That’s about the only thing that would make him think twice about knocking that little shit to the ground every chance he gets - or trying, anyway. Mostly they just end up in a stalemate, grinding up against each other, and-fuck, gross. He’d rather smell like Greenberg.
At least he can still take down Stilinski with ease, but that was never a challenge. You’d think Derek would’ve taught him some kind of defensive maneuvers now that they’re fucking, but apparently not. Jackson’s not even sure why Stilinski’s still on the team - oh, yeah, he heard about that magical game-saving shit that he only half remembers because he was busy being mind-controlled by Allison’s psychopath of a grandfather, but now that he and Lahey and - fuck - McCall are back in commission, Stilinski has been back on the bench all season. He’s last year’s news.
But apparently nobody told him that, because he’s taking his goddamn time in the shower, groaning almost pornographically under the hot water. Jackson wonders if that’s what Stiles sounds like when Derek’s got him on all fours. And then Jackson is wondering where the everloving hell that thought came from.
“Uh, this shower’s taken, dude,” he hears Stilinksi say with more than a little amusement, and fuck, it must have looked like he was staring. Better turn it into a glare. Not like that works on Stilinski anymore, because he’s got a werewolf boyfriend and what Jackson can only assume is a death wish.
But when Jackson glares, he can’t help but notice the bruises around Stilinksi’s hips. They’ve all got bruises - well, they did, before half the team could heal before getting up off the ground - but these are very particular bruises. Jackson can’t really count from here, but he’d bet his Porsche there are exactly ten of them, five on each hip.
Stiles realizes what Jackson’s staring at and looks down, then back up. He doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. “I know you want a piece of this,” he sighs. “But I keep telling you, you’re not my type.”
Jackson doesn’t even need a comeback for that. He just smirks and turns toward one of the other showerheads on the far wall. If Stilinksi gets off on being Derek Hale’s bitch, that’s his deal. Not that he should look so fucking smug about it.
Lydia
Lydia notices Stiles now. It’s kind of hard not to after he rammed his Jeep into her lizard-boyfriend. Yes, okay, there were the things he said before, about being devastated if she died, and she’s not as cold-hearted as people thing she is.
As she sometimes wishes she was.
But something changed with Stiles over the summer, and she doesn’t have to be a werewolf to sniff it out. She doesn’t know when it started with Derek, but it’s got to have been going on for at least six months now. And she’s not worried about him, because Lydia Martin does not have time to worry about Stiles Stilinski, except… she’s worried about him.
Not that she’s worried about Derek treating him badly, because she of all people understands that relationships look a hell of a lot different from the inside than they do from the outside. And she also understands now that Stiles wouldn’t take any kind of abuse or intimidation. She’s seen him when she deigns to come to what they call their “pack meetings”; he doesn’t let Derek get away with the least amount of bullshit.
But she’s also seen Stiles in the hall, limping just a little and trying to hide it. Jackson thinks it’s funny. Jackson also got blue-balled for a month for telling Lydia he thinks it’s funny, so he keeps it to himself now. Because when Jackson first turned, Lydia was limping like that. She knows he secretly hates himself for it, but for the first few months afterward, Jackson couldn’t control himself when they were in bed. He never seriously hurt her - his claws never even broke her skin - but he got rough. It was kind of hot at the time, but afterwards… not so much.
Lydia had thought Derek would be different, what with having a lifetime to learn control, but maybe something with Stiles is different. Or maybe Derek is just really fucked up - she doesn’t know anything close to the full story, but she does know he’s got more emotional baggage than anyone she knows, and that’s taking into account the time Derek’s uncle possessed her from beyond the grave and made her resurrect him.
Though cutting his head off six months later did give her a decent sense of closure.
Still, Derek should not be taking his emotional baggage out on Stiles’ ass. And she has no idea how to tell Stiles this, because even though she suspects he already knows, it’s not like they talk. Well, sometimes he talks, and she is in the general vicinity, but they’re still far from friends.
And when she thinks, about it, that’s… kind of a shame. Because they have a lot in common, even if it’s mostly some pretty messed-up shit. And he’s not in love with her anymore, but he still respects her, has always respected her. He does try to invite her to more of their pack things because they’re long on claws and short on brains (his words), and she’s going more and more, but he also told her he wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see any of them again, not after what Peter did. And what Derek did - she hardly thinks he gored Jackson in the gut to save his life by somehow turning him into a werewolf.
How and why Stiles is tangled up in all this, especially when, from what she’s seen, Scott mostly seems ambivalent, Lydia doesn’t really know. But Stiles is nothing if not devoted, even if he’s not the same Stiles that fawned over her for years, and she doesn’t want to see him get hurt.
Which is how she finds herself calling out his name down the crowded hallway as classes let out. And he really has changed, because she has to say his name twice more to get him to turn around.
Predictably, though, he looks puzzled as he walks carefully back over to her. “Hey, Lydia, what’s up?”
Balls, now she has to think of something plausible to say. “Do you still have that book on the Boer Wars checked out from the library? Because it’s overdue and I need it for my final history paper.”
“Oh, shit. Yeah, I’ve still got it at home. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.”
Other than the frown at the mention of the overdue book, he looks… good. Really good. Happy, even. It’s like there was a heaviness weighing on him before and she never noticed it until it was gone. But then, she never noticed much about him for years. “Good,” she snaps, falling so easily into her old role.
Before, he would have gotten that slightly deflated look in his eyes, but now he just nods. “Can’t believe the library only has one book on the Boer Wars. It’s like no one even cares about the sovereignty of the Orange Free State. Lingering imperial madness is what it is.”
The halls clear out quickly after the final bell, and already they’re nearly alone. So before she can stop herself, she says, “Listen, Stiles, don’t let Derek hurt you.”
Now Stiles looks downright baffled. “What?”
“You’re limping.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, it’s not what you think-”
“I know what it is. He doesn’t mean to be rough with you, but he is. When Jackson turned, and we-”
Stiles flails both hands frantically in the air. “Whoa, okay, stopping you right there. I do not need to know that. I do not want to know that. I may need to go home and scrub my brain with bleach.”
“I’m just saying, if Jackson can learn to control himself, Derek can, too.”
Now Stiles is blinking at her, his eyebrows halfway to his hairline. “Oookay. Noted.”
He’s looking at her like she’s the one with the screw loose, and it’s really starting to piss her off, so she just rolls her eyes and spins on her very expensive heels to leave him to his… whatever it is.
But he stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Everyone’s meeting at Derek’s on Saturday. He broke down and bought a grill, and I’m bringing burgers. You’re invited.”
Stiles Stilinksi is inviting her to a wolf party. When did this become her life?
Stiles
Apparently all the cool werewolves don’t need to lock their front doors, so Stiles just comes right on in, chucking his backpack on the couch. Because there’s a couch now. More than one, in fact. The rebuilding is coming along quite nicely; soon Stiles is going to have to stop needling Derek about being one step down from living in a van down by the river.
Eh, there’s plenty of other stuff to needle him about. For instance, there’s the fact that he knows exactly what time school lets out and exactly how long it takes Stiles to drive here, and yet he’s still somehow not finished with his workout. His shirtless workout. On the floor of the living room.
Subtlety is not Derek’s greatest strength.
Oh, and heaven help Stiles if he interferes with the last of Derek’s push-ups, so Stiles just folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the arm of the couch, watching the show. Derek’s skin is just starting to glisten with sweat, the broad sweep of muscle down his back shifting and flexing as he keeps his body perfectly straight.
Stiles wonders just how long this is going to go on, because of course this little show is having its intended effect, and Stiles has to reach down and adjust himself in his jeans. Fuck, one of these days he’s just going to take a running jump, lick as much sweat off Derek’s tattoo as he can before he’s bucked off. So apparently Derek’s predilection for licking is contagious. Good to know.
Eventually, Derek finishes, popping right up to his feet like he didn’t just do a zillion and a half push-ups, and Stiles rolls his eyes and flushes at the same time. It’s a gift.
Derek reaches for a teeny little towel draped over the ottoman and wipes at his face. Nowhere else, just his face. Stiles likes. “So you’re never going to believe this,” he says, pushing off the wall and strolling casually toward Derek. “Lydia Martin is worried about me.”
He gets Eyebrow Configuration #18: I want you to elaborate but I’m not going to ask, so he continues. “Specifically, she is worried about my delicate, fragile ass.”
That gets a reaction. “Since when is Lydia thinking about your ass?”
“See, I want to say ‘since always’ and have it secretly be true, but I also want a set of solid gold hubcaps and a special law of physics that allows for a real, working lightsaber, but none of that’s happening.”
Eyebrow Configuration #2: Answer the goddamn question.
Stiles grins. “Since she’s figured out that my big, bad alpha is giving me an uncontrolled, wolfy ass-pounding every chance he gets.”
“And she figured this out… how?”
“You remember that really sweet parkour move I did when we were practicing evasion training the other day?”
“I remember you trying to run up the side of a tree. And failing.”
“Yeah, that. I played it off all cool, but it turns out a pulled groin is not something you can really hide for all that long. Especially when sitting in chem class with an ice pack on your crotch would look kind of suspicious.”
That makes Derek move toward him. “You’re hurt?”
“Oh my god, this is like a paper cut compared to what I usually end up with. Not even a paper cut, more like a very mild hangnail.”
“Still,” Derek says, voice going soft as he hooks his fingers in Stiles’ belt loops and tugs them together. “I don’t like you getting hurt.”
“Hey, I’m not a fan of it either,” says Stiles, running his hands up that hard, sweaty chest. “’Specially since it’s going to be a few days ‘til I can fuck you.”
Derek growls and buries his face against Stiles’ neck, inhaling deeply.
“I know, right? But there’s other stuff we can-yeah, that’s one option.”
Because suddenly Derek is on his knees, yanking at Stiles’ belt like it’s personally offended him. “Ack,” Stiles yelps, not wanting to slow down the process but not wanting to do the Drive of Shame on his way home. Again. “Watch the jeans. I don’t have an extra pair of pants on me today.”
Derek grumbles something Stiles’ can’t hear, and though he’s still a bit spiteful with Stiles’ zipper, nothing tears. Before drawing Stiles out of his boxers, Derek bunches up Stiles’ shirt with one hand to lick and suck at the exposed skin of his belly. It makes Stiles’ whole body twitch, caught between the need to laugh and moan, and he fists his hand in Derek’s hair and yanks him away. “Play nice.”
Eyebrow Configuration #23: Or what?
“Or I jerk off on your face again.”
There’s not really a set configuration for what Derek’s eyebrows do next, but it’s a general indication that Stiles has failed to come up with a genuinely objectionable form of punishment. Sure, Stiles could have said “Or you don’t get to suck my dick,” but no. Stiles is never going to say that particular combination of words. Not ever.
Especially when Derek is pulling Stiles’ cock free of his boxers, leaving his jeans up and the rest of his clothes on, and yeah, that’s kind of hot, especially with Derek naked to the waist. He really should be more naked, though. “Hey, you unzip, too.”
Derek complies, and Stiles is more than gratified to see that Derek’s already starting to get hard. Not quite as hard as Stiles yet, but then, Derek is gripping Stiles’ cock and starting to rub his stubble against it.
“Mmm, fuck, that’s good,” Stiles practically purrs, swaying a little when Derek starts using his lips. He almost stumbles back, but Derek catches him hard around the waist, fingers digging in to keep him upright. “Hey, careful,” Stiles says, chuckling. “Last time you did that, you left some very distinctive bruises. And I know it’s not lacrosse season anymore, but still.”
And Derek may be all about the hickeys, but he’s also very careful not to hurt Stiles, so he backs them up until Stiles can lean against the tall arm of the couch again. It’s better on Stiles' poor, injured groin anyway. Stupid fucking groin pull. There’s no way that kid made it halfway up the tree; that YouTube video had to have been doctored.
And then all thoughts of deceitful parkour videos - hell, all thoughts in general - go flying right out of his head, because Derek’s closing his mouth around the head of Stiles’ dick and Stiles moans, long and loud. He’s a big believer in positive feedback for good behavior.
Derek sucks him down easily, but takes his time. Stiles would never have predicted that Derek Hale would be such a fucking tease, but he sure as hell is when he wants to be, and now is apparently one of those times. But Stiles just waits it out, enjoying the visual of his cock slowly disappearing into Derek’s mouth. It’s like a filthy magic trick, and it makes Stiles ache in the best way.
“Oh fuck, Derek, your mouth,” Stiles groans, trying hard not to thrust. Not time for that yet. “So fucking hot and sweet. Oh my god, yeah, take it all, just like that.”
Derek’s got his nose buried in Stiles’ pubes and he just stays there, throat contracting around Stiles’ cock and it’s Stiles who has to focus on not choking when he tries to breathe. This has to be some kind of freaky werewolf thing, because he’s never seen anything like this, not even in porn, and the wicked look Derek shoots up at him nearly has him doubling over in pleasure.
But then Derek’s pulling back - slowly, of course - and Stiles can form words again. “Ohhhh, god. I don’t know what I like better, fucking your ass or your mouth. Your mouth is so hot, shit, I love watching my cock slide in and out of your lips. And your to-huuuungue,” Stiles barely manages to get out, because the tip of Derek’s clever tongue is pressing right at the bundle of nerves beneath the head of Stiles’ cock. And Derek’s mouth is all business, but his eyebrows are smiling, dammit, and they’re smug. That’s a new one to add to the list. Eyebrow Configuration #37: I can suck you so good you forget how to talk.
Nobody else had better be seeing Eyebrow Configuration #37.
It’s too much, and Stiles uses the hand still fisted in Derek’s hair to pull out completely and rub his wet cock against Derek’s cheek. The stubble burns now, but it draws Stiles back from the edge a little, and he has the presence of mind to hear the rhythmic brush of skin against skin - Derek is jerking himself off.
Stiles wiggles his hips and slaps Derek lightly across the cheek with his cock. Derek glares up at him, but half his face is wet with his own spit from Stiles’ cock and Stiles just says, “You’d better not come before I do.”
“Then just let me suck it,” Derek growls.
He’s a man (wolf?) of few words, but he does make a convincing argument.
“Oh my god, fine,” Stiles huffs, like he’s doing Derek this huge favor by shoving his cock between Derek’s lips. And maybe he is, because Derek moans, letting the head of Stiles’ cock slide against the inside of his cheek. Oh god, Stiles isn’t going to be able to hold off much longer, especially once Derek starts bobbing his head, deep grunts reverberating all the way up Stiles’ spine.
“F-fuck,” Stiles stammers. “Love this. Love this so fucking much, but I wish I could have your ass right now. Your ass is gorgeous. Always gorgeous, but especially when you’re taking my cock. Oh god, you’re so fucking tight, and you just take and take, no matter how hard I give it to you. If I could, I would bend you over the arm of this couch right now and fuck you until you clawed right through the cushions.”
It’s not that Stiles doesn’t love Derek’s cock, because he totally does. It’s thick and uncut and a bit of a challenge to fit in his mouth, and Stiles does love a challenge. It’s just too much for his ass, though, the burn of it never quite giving way to real pleasure, and it took all of twice for him to realize that Derek wasn’t all that into it, either. Maybe it’s a Kate thing - he’s sure as hell not going to ask, because that crazy bitch can just stay dead - or maybe it’s just a Derek thing, but although Derek’s kind of ambivalent about doing the fucking, he loves getting fucked. Loves it. Goes crazy for it, and even if it weren’t the ego boost of the goddamn millennium, Stiles thinks he would still love fucking Derek, just for the sounds he makes and the way he shoves back on Stiles’ cock like he can’t get enough of it-
And Stiles is pretty sure he said that last part out loud, but whatever, it’s not a secret. Well, not between them. “Unh,” Stiles grunts, and he’s really yanking Derek’s hair now, pulling him down on to his cock over and over. “As soon as my stupid groin is healed, I’m going to fold you in half and watch you leak all over those perfect fucking abs while I just stuff you full of my cock and you take it like a good boy.”
Derek moans, which has Stiles’ balls pulling up tight against his body so that when Derek sucks again, fast and hard, Stiles is gone. He digs his fingers against Derek’s scalp and holds on, not that Derek needs the motivation to swallow him down, but it feels so good to keep Derek close as Stiles comes in hard, clenching waves that leave him gasping and wrung out all the way down to his toes, whimpering when Derek keeps sucking him until he’s gotten every last drop.
Stiles slumps back against the couch, releasing his death grip on Derek’s hair to stroke it apologetically. He knows Derek doesn’t really mind - likes it, in fact - but Stiles really feels like he ought to apologize to the hair. It’s soft and it’s pretty and it’s done nothing to deserve the abuse Stiles puts it through.
Since Stiles hasn’t got werewolf senses, it takes another few seconds for the smell of it to hit his nose, and when he looks down, sure enough - Derek came all over his hand and his belly and oh, it rolls down the grooves of his abs so nicely. Still. “Aw, I wanted to do that,” Stiles says, his voice a little slurred.
“Next time,” Derek promises, pressing his nose to the sweaty curls at the base of Stiles’ softening dick. “And alternate ice and heat on the muscle. It’ll heal faster.”
Stiles laughs. “How in the hell do you know that?”
“JV baseball team. I had to fake a few strains to fit in.”
Stiles wants to ask more - he always wants to know more about Derek’s life, especially before the fire, because it’s moments like this when Derek is relaxed and a little goofy with endorphins that Stiles thinks he can see the real Derek, the one not gutted by grief and pain. But he knows pushing is the fastest way to shut Derek down, so he just enjoys the little scrap of knowledge for what it is, files it away in his mental folder labeled “Stuff Derek Probably Won’t Even Remember He Told Me About Himself.” And imagines teenage Derek in those tight baseball pants. It’s good stuff.
Meanwhile, Derek has carefully tucked Stiles back in his boxers and is reaching for the teeny workout towel to mop himself up. “I don’t know,” Stiles muses as he shifts up to sit fully on the arm of the couch. “Maybe I ought to play up the limping a little longer. Wouldn’t want to damage your alpha rep as a bad-ass top.”
Eyebrow configuration #31: The things that come out of your mouth are absurd, but I put up with you because you totally sex me up right.
Yeah, #31 is Stiles’ favorite.