
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2519231.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Lydia_Martin, Laura_Hale, Talia_Hale,
      Sheriff_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Teacher-Student_Relationship, Teacher_Stiles, High_School_Student_Derek,
      Consensual_Underage_Sex, Bottom_Derek, Top_Stiles_Stilinski, Blow_Jobs,
      Rimming, Anal_Fingering, Anal_Sex, Come_Eating, Comeplay, Dirty_Talk,
      Slut_Derek, Power_Bottom_Derek
  Series:
      Part 2 of Mr._Stilinski
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-10-27 Words: 7013
****** Best Behavior (Mr. Stilinski, Part Two) ******
by alisvolatpropiis
Summary
     He pulled on the hoodie, just to see if it smelled like Derek, which
     it did, like maybe he’d been wearing it a lot. Stiles pulled it up to
     his face, breathing in smoke and sweet-spice, closing his eyes,
     letting it fill his senses, getting hard again, always, at the
     thought of Derek, so beautiful and confident and hungry, at the
     thought of wrapping himself up in the boy forever so he can always
     smell this delicious warmth, real and fresh, lick it from his skin.
     He’s got to stop this, this
     want
     .
     He sighed, frustrated, shoving his hands hard into the pockets of the
     hoodie, feeling the soft crunch of paper.
Notes
     Part Two! I've spent the last couple days working on this at the
     expense of pretty much everything else in my life because I can't get
     enough of cockslut Derek and weak-willed teacher Stiles. I hope you
     enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!
     Also, I (and Stiles) use the terms 'slut' and 'cockslut' with utmost
     respect and affection.
     Derek is seventeen in this 'verse and by the laws of the state of
     California, is underage, but all sex is clearly consensual.
     Also brief references to Derek having past relationships with
     Jackson, Parrish, and Cam Lahey, and Stiles with OMCs.
     Thank you thank you thank you for continuing to be lovely, kind,
     inspiring readers!! Hugs to you all. XOXO.
     (This is a much longer, more developed, infinitely smuttier version
     of this little drabble/ask)
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles stares at the small piece of a paper, a rectangle creased hard
lengthwise down the middle, thin and soft between his fingers. The edges are a
little worn from being in the pocket of his hoodie, curled on one side; he
imagines Derek, hand in the pocket during class, fingering the corner of the
rolling paper he had scrawled his phone number across, planning, scheming.
Stiles should tear the paper up, should reduce the blocky, aggressive string of
numbers to a pile of scraps and then light them on fire for good measure,
reduce them smoldering ash along with his need for the boy.
He pulls his phone from his pocket.
~*~
“You’ve got to stop,” Stiles had told him, arms crossed as he stood behind his
desk, deliberate of course, trying to keep a barrier between them.
He didn’t trust himself. Not after last week at the bar when he gave in so
easily to Derek’s seduction, to his own want.
And definitely not after spending the previous seventy-five minutes trying to
teach One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, while Derek stared at him, tapping the
barbell of his tongue piercing against his lip.
He had been doing so well, these past seven days, not letting himself get too
distracted by Derek, whose flirting remained but had tamed a bit, like he knew
he didn’t have to work so hard anymore.
And so what if Stiles had jacked off more in the past week than he had since
high school, always seeing Derek’s eyes looking up at him, remembering the hard
press of his strong, young body, his velvety hot mouth.
But he had kept it together at school, never losing the rush of excitement that
looking at Derek gives him, but getting used to it, adapting to always feeling
a little unsettled during seventh period and in the hallways when he sees Derek
leaning against the lockers, looking bored and unaffected.
Until this afternoon, when Derek, the little shit, sauntered into class a
couple minutes after the bell, wearing Stiles’ worn and faded purple hoodie
over a vintage Sex Pistols t-shirt so thrashed the hard lines of his taut abs
were clearly visible, smirking as he fell into his seat.
It shouldn’t have affected Stiles the way it did, seeing Derek in his
sweatshirt.
It shouldn’t have made him want him even more.
It shouldn’t have made him happy.
And then Derek put the frayed white drawstring in his mouth, tip of his tongue
twirling around it, a caricature of the way he tongued at the tip of Stiles’
cock.
Less than halfway through class he gave up trying to lecture and just put on
the movie, sitting at his desk at the front of the room, pretending to grade
papers while trying not to look up at Derek too often, thankful for the dark,
gathering the courage to tersely ask Derek to stay after class when the final
bell rang.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek had answered, stepping closer
to his desk.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I just wanted to return your hoodie.”
“Derek.” He meant it to be a warning, but there was far too much affection in
his voice. “What happened was a mistake,” he soldiered on. “It’s not going to
happen again.”
“But you want it to happen again,” Derek had said, not teasing for once, simple
and honest. “And so do I.”
He’s not sure how it happened after that, Derek falling to his knees again. One
moment Stiles was stern, grappling desperately for the last vestiges of his
professionalism, and then the next Derek was half under his desk, freeing him
from his khakis, one hand reaching up to tug playfully on his tie.
A week of remembering how good Derek’s mouth felt still hadn’t prepared him for
the return of it, for how soft and wet his tongue was, for the way he so
sweetly slipped the barbell into his slit, eyes impossibly big prisms of blues
and greens when he looked up at him, smiling.
~*~
“Have a good weekend, Mr. Stilinski,” Derek had smiled, dazzling with his
peculiar, potent mix of smug sweetness, thumb brushing over the drip of come on
his lower lip, other hand palming at the heavy bulge in his tight black jeans.
He stood there like that, just for a moment, like he was letting Stiles
memorize him, before shrugging off the hoodie and tossing it over Stiles’ desk,
leaving him to put himself away and stare at his ass as he walked away.
~*~
“You’re being an idiot. And Derek’s being ridiculous.” Lydia had said later,
not long after Derek left, seeing right through his pitiful attempts to explain
why she saw Derek Hale wearing that horrible hoodie she told him to burn.
He had looked through his fingers where he held his face in his hands, elbows
on the desk, embarrassed that someone else finally knew the depths of his
weakness, but relieved too, especially since Lydia didn’t judge him too
harshly. She did lecture him about fucking up Derek’s life and his own career,
not to mention the fact thathis own father could be the one arresting him, and
Derek’s mother would be prosecuting him, if it came to that.
“But I understand,” she had added softly.
“You do,” he had asked, incredulous. “You’ve fooled around with a student?”
Lydia shook her head, giving him a small, knowing grin. “No. I mean understand
where Derek’s coming from. It’s…exciting, having a crush on an attractive older
man who you’re not supposed to want. Especially when he wants you back.”
Stiles had raised his eyebrows at her, trying to think of all the male teachers
they had in high school, some of them, like Finstock, who were their colleagues
now. “You slept with a teacher?”
Lydia’s answering smile was wide, devious, eyes bright. “Not a teacher.” She
sat on the edge of his desk, leaning forward. “You remember Allison’s dad,
don’t you?”
~*~
The knowledge of Lydia’s affair with Chris Argent during most of their senior
year definitely gave Stiles something to think about for awhile that’s not
Derek, replaying various high school memories with this new information,
wondering if he should have noticed.
But it didn't distract him for too long, and after making dinner and eating
standing in the kitchen, he found himself sitting on the couch, remembering how
hard Derek’s cock had looked through his jeans, wondering if he went home and
jacked off afterwards, still tasting Stiles’ come.
He pulled on the hoodie, just to see if it smelled like Derek, which it did,
like maybe he’d been wearing it a lot. Stiles pulled it up to his face,
breathing in smoke and sweet-spice, closing his eyes, letting it fill his
senses, getting hard again, always, at the thought of Derek, so beautiful and
confident and hungry, at the thought of wrapping himself up in the boy forever
so he can always smell this delicious warmth, real and fresh, lick it from his
skin.
He’s got to stop this, this want.
He sighed, frustrated, shoving his hands hard into the pockets of the hoodie,
feeling the soft crunch of paper.
~*~
He programs Derek’s number into his phone, saving it as D, as if that could
somehow protect either of them. He hasn’t decided what he’s going to say to
him, knows that anything at all, even more attempts to tell him to stop, will
only encourage him.
He startles, cursing, when the phone jumps in his hand, caller ID showing his
dad’s cell. “Oh my god,” he mutters, running his hands through his hair trying
to compose himself before answering.
“Hey dad, how’s it going,” he answers, wincing at how awkward and shaken he
sounds.
“Stiles? This a bad time?”
“No, it’s fine. Everything’s good. What’s up, pops?”
“I’m calling to remind you about Thanksgiving next week.”
“Trust me, dad, you don’t need to remind a teacher about Thanksgiving. Four and
a half blissful days of freedom.”
His dad laughs. “I guess. It’s just been awhile since we’ve spent one together,
wasn’t sure what the plan was this year with you being back and all.”
Stiles grimaces at everything unsaid in his dad’s careful choice of words. At
how they stopped celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas in any real way after
his mom died, neither one of them willing or able to pretend like her absence
wasn’t a constant ache. Dad had taken to working extra shifts so the deputies
with young kids could celebrate the holidays with them, Stiles either joining
Lydia's family or playing videogames alone with pizza. For the last five years
he’s spent the holidays with Lucas’ family in Denver, never even bothering to
feel guilty about it until this moment.
“Well, I’m up for anything,” he says, working hard to be cheerful, suddenly
wanting to make up for it all. “What did you have in mind?”
It seems to work, because his dad sounds relieved, enthusiastic even. “Good.
We’ve been invited to dinner by one of my colleagues. I actually had
Thanksgiving with her family last year, and it was great. She’s the district
attorney, Talia Hale. She told me today that her son Derek is one of your
students. I hope that doesn’t interfere too much with your ‘freedom from
students’ plans,” he laughs, and to Stiles’ guilty mind it sounds menacing,
even though he knows it’s not.
Stiles wants to laugh too, dark and bitter, because that’s better than the
twist of anxiety he feels, the dawning horror that he’s going to have to go to
Derek’s house, meet his parents, sit through a meal with him and his family and
his dad, pretending like almost every waking (and dreaming) thought he’s had in
the the past two months hasn’t been about how badly he wants to fuck him.
“No, that won’t be a problem,” he manages to answer. “It sounds like a good
time.”
~*~
He doesn’t text or call Derek, but he keeps his number in his phone.
~*~
On Monday Stiles is in his classroom during lunch, trying to get caught up on
grading, when Derek walks in, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather
jacket. The hallways are crowded and loud, so he knows Derek’s not here for
another highly inadvisable blowjob, and Stiles knows he's totally lost it when
that thought disappoints him.
“You’re coming over for Thanksgiving with your dad,” he says, almost a
question, like he wants Stiles to confirm it, sitting on a desk in the front
row like he’s taken to doing when he hangs around to talk.
“Yeah, your mom invited us. I hope that’s okay. If it makes you uncomfortable,
I can convince my dad to – ”
“It’s fine,” Derek interrupts, calm cool breaking a bit, momentarily showing
his eagerness. “I won’t be uncomfortable. I think it’ll be…fun,” he adds,
grinning sweet and wicked.
“No. None of that, Derek. Not on Thursday, not in front of your parents and my
dad, the sheriff, for the love of god, please.”
Derek rolls his eyes, his whole head really, like he can’t even fathom how
ridiculous Stiles is, which, what the hell, asshole?
“I’ll be on my best behavior, Mr. Stilinski.”
~*~
“Careful,” Stiles warns his dad as he puts on his seatbelt, jostling the pink
box holding the dark chocolate butter pecan pie Stiles paid a small fortune for
at the fancy gourmet bakery in Hill Valley.
He taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives them to Derek’s house,
extra careful to wait for his dad’s directions before taking the turns he
remembers, feeling like a bundle of nerves, a livewire.
“Jeez,” his dad scoffs, finding the receipt for the pie. “She’s the district
attorney, Stiles, not the Queen.”
~*~
The Hale house is even bigger than Stiles imagined it to be, their wealth not
flashy, but clearly evident.
And, equally disconcerting but not wholly unexpected, Derek’s dad, James, is
fucking hot, nearly six and a half feet of heavy muscle and a salt-and-pepper
beard, and good lord, architects and dads are not supposed to look like Greek
gods.
Talia’s brother, Derek’s uncle Peter, is also unsettlingly attractive, and he
gives Stiles a too-slow once over when they walk in, greeted enthusiastically
by Talia and what looks to be a small herd of Labradors.
Stiles instantly regrets not taking the Xanax Lydia offered to give him.
~*~
The house is big, sprawling even, but comfortable and lived in, inviting. Talia
gives his dad a hug and peck on the cheek, and then whoa, there is she doing
the same to Stiles, taking the pie from him with a smile and leaning in to hug
him again, this time in thanks. He forgets for a moment the ridiculous
situation he’s in and the terrible choices he made because something about
Talia, even though she’s imposing with her dark-eyed beauty and authoritative
presence, radiates a warmth and comfort that reminds him so much of his own
mother.
He’s grateful for the distraction of the arrival of Derek, walking casually
down the stairs, immediately catching his gaze. That gratefulness doesn’t last
though, because, as he was dreading, it turns out the presence of Derek’s
parents and his own father does little to quell his attraction to him, does
nothing to stop his heart from racing at how handsome he is, clearly dressed
for company, probably at this mother’s insistence.
Derek’s freshly shaven, fully revealing the sharp line of his jaw that Stiles
can still feel ghosting along the crease of his thigh, that full red mouth
suckling. It makes him a little breathless, as does the snug fit of Derek’s
burgundy sweater, his shoulders broad and square, mohawk shiny with moisture,
like he just got out of the shower.
“Mr. Stilinski, Sheriff,” Derek says, walking over to shake their hands.
“Derek, happy Thanksgiving,” Stiles replies, wanting to scream at how awkward
he feels, at how his chest does this hollowing, inside-out thing when he sees
that Derek’s sweater has thumbholes, for the love of god.
Another dark-haired beauty, a girl who looks to be a few years older than
Derek, comes bounding down the stairs, her eyes the same otherworldly green as
Derek’s, but more catlike and mysterious. She introduces herself as Laura, and
Stiles remembers Derek telling him about her, his older sister studying at
Stanford. There’s his younger sister too, Cora, a steely-eyed eighth grader so
engrossed in her phone she barely looks up from her perch on the couch when
James calls out her name to introduce her.
“Stiles, you look a little overwhelmed,” James says, sympathetic, patting him
on the back and drawing him towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you fixed up with a
glass of wine.”
~*~
The wine – the most expensive Stiles has ever had, he’s sure – helps settle his
nerves, as does insisting on helping James and Talia in the kitchen, even
though they both keep saying that he should go watch the football game with his
dad and Derek. He declines, says he prefers cooking, which he doesn’t really,
but his strategy for the day is to stay as far away from Derek as he can in
order to attempt to pretend like there’s absolutely nothing for him to feel
awkward and guilty about.
Not a foolproof plan, of course, especially with the way Derek seems intent on
sabotaging it, coming into the kitchen to get a soda, and then to ask when
dinner’s going to be ready, and again to complain about Laura, and finally to
swipe mashed potatoes from the bowl Stiles is holding, making sure his parents’
backs are turned before winking at him as he licks his finger clean.
~*~
“Stiles, last year your dad said you usually spend the holidays with your
boyfriend,” Laura asks, pouring them both more wine.
They’re seated around the long dinner table in the dining room, Talia at the
head, James at her right; somehow Stiles ended up at the far end, directly
across from Derek, which he’s pretty sure has something to do with Derek
volunteering to help Cora set the table.
Derek doesn't look up at him at Laura’s question, but Stiles can’t miss the way
his shoulders tense, the way his hand tightens around his fork.
“Used to,” he answers her, nodding his thanks for the wine. “We broke up when I
moved back here.” There’s a murmur of sympathy from Talia and James, and a
sound that sounds suspiciously like interest from weird uncle Peter.
“Sorry,” Laura winces.
“It’s fine, really. Was for the best,” he adds, Derek finally looking up, eyes
unreadable. Stiles smiles at Laura, trying to reassure her.
“Have you had any luck finding a new beau since you’ve been back,” Peter asks,
sipping at his wine, eyes wide in mock innocence.
This has got to be karma, Stiles thinks, cheeks burning.
“Peter,” Talia warns. “Leave Mr. Stilinski alone.”
Derek’s laughter erupts through the room, loud and surprisingly high-pitched,
practically a giggle. A fucking giggle. “Sorry,” he says, realizing everyone’s
eyes are on him. He snorts back another guffaw, taking a drink from his soda,
still grinning, eyes locked on Stiles’.
“Peter,” Laura admonishes her uncle. “You’re making Derek weird by flirting
with his teacher. Stop it.”
“My apologies to you both,” Peter coos, clearly not apologetic at all.
~*~
“Derek, whatever happened with you and Cam Lahey,” Laura asks quietly when
their parents and his dad and Peter fall into a conversation about city council
gossip.
Stiles feels his own shoulders tense, takes another long swallow of wine, tries
to act like he’s not terribly, desperately interested in listening to Derek and
Laura's hushed conversation.
“What do you mean,” Derek asks, eyes darting over to Stiles before looking at
his older sister, clearly not wanting to talk about it.
“Nice try, dummy,” she scolds between bites of turkey. “I know him, remember? I
saw all of those Facebook pics of you two. And the fucking love sonnets he
wrote to your ass,” she shudders, gulping her own wine.
Stiles focuses very, very hard on his green bean casserole, trying not to
imagine what Isaac Lahey’s older brother, who he heard was a Marine, looks
like, or how familiar he might be with Derek’s ass.
“It was just a casual thing,” Derek shrugs.
“It seemed more than causal to him,” Laura prods, poking his arm with her fork,
getting gravy on his sweater.
“Yeah, so, that’s why we’re not seeing each other any more.”
“You’re such a heartbreaker, baby bro. Do you know how many dudes have come
crying to me about you?”
“Laura. Come on.”
“I’m serious. It’s getting old. At some point, after you’ve fucked every guy in
town, you’ve got to take responsibility for the hearts you break.”
Stiles chokes on his turkey, and goddammit, his wineglass his empty again. He
watches Derek level his sister with a piercing glare, a little scared at how
terrifying he looks.
Laura though, clearly used to it, just raises her eyebrows at him, a further
challenge.
“You’re just jealous because you didn’t get laid until college,” Derek smirks,
pointedly not looking Stiles’ way.
“Asshole,” she mutters, punching in him the arm, reaching for the wine bottle.
~*~
After dinner, when they’re helping clear the table, Derek invites Stiles to see
the family library he’s told him so much about, and no one bats an eye when
Derek leads him upstairs.
The library is beautiful, the one wall not lined with floor-to-ceiling
bookshelves made of all windows that let in the gray, early evening light. The
shelves themselves are breathtaking for their size and fullness, many of them
filled with what look to be heavy legal tomes, but not as many as Stiles was
expecting.
His jittery nerves at being alone with Derek soon give way to his ever-
overpowering curiosity and love of books, and he quickly makes his way to the
shelf nearest the windows, scanning the titles. Derek follows him, crossing his
unfairly muscled arms and leaning his shoulder against the shelf, watching him,
face blank and unreadable. His eyes, a gold-flecked blue-green today, narrow
more and more as Stiles remains silent, continuing his perusal. Derek clearly
has something he wants to say, so he’s just going to give him the time to say
it, no matter how badly he wants to ask.
“I haven’t fucked every guy in town,” he says finally, trying too hard to sound
unaffected. His voice is quiet, but that could be just because he doesn’t want
to be overheard, even tough the house is huge and everyone else is downstairs.
“I didn’t think you did,” Stiles says, also quiet.
“I’m not a virgin though, not by a long shot.” Derek moves closer, hips first,
brushing up against his side. "I like sex, and I'm not ashamed of that."
"You shouldn't be," Stiles breathes, thinks he should step away from him, feels
proud of himself for simply not leaning harder into his sturdy body.
"I'm smart about it, safe," he goes on, quiet and even. "Usually, that is.
You're the first guy I've ever sucked without a condom, the first guy I've ever
let come in my mouth."
“Derek,” Stiles warns, or maybe pleads. He’s not sure anymore. Derek confuses
him.
“Stiles,” he whispers, grinning when Stiles jerks his head toward him, eyes
going big in surprise that Derek’s finally calling him by his first name. It
twists at his chest in a new, even more curious way. “Do you want to fuck me?”
“Derek, please.” He’s definitely pleading now, but he’s pretty sure it's not
for him to stop, judging by the way he leans into his hips.
Derek answers by leaning all the way in, arms dropping to circle around Stiles’
waist, nuzzling his face into neck. It’s so intimate Stiles loses his breath,
shuddering. Derek’s mouth is hot and wet behind his ear, an open-mouthed kiss,
the blunt edge of his teeth finding his earlobe, nibbling. “I know you want to
fuck me,” he asks again, more insistent. “I know you do. I know you want to
fuck me open and fill me up with your come.”
He closes his eyes. “It’s…it’s not about what I want, Derek,” he chokes out,
unable to move away from him.
Derek rolls his hips and notches the rigid line of his erection into the groove
of Stiles’ hip. “What about what I want,” he purrs, breathy and hot.
How is he so good at this?
“It’s not aboutwant,” he tells him, pulling a way a bit, steadying himself
against the powerful waves of lust by reminding himself that his father and
Derek’s parents are downstairs, could walk in on them at any moment. Hell,
they’ve been so wrapped up in each other these past minutes the whole family
could have marched in without them noticing.
Derek doesn’t just confuse him.
Derek makes him stupid. “You’re seventeen,” he says, sounding harsher than he
means to.
“That didn’t seem to be a problem the other night when I had your dick in my
mouth. Or last week at school, also when I had your dick in my mouth.”
God, he’s an asshole. A cocky, utterly-gorgeous-and-fucking-knows-it, smart,
smug asshole that Stiles wants to hug, wants to cuddle the living hell out of
and cook breakfast for after spending the entire night fucking him into his
mattress, spearing him on his cock until he’s panting, whimpering, whining,
coming untouched and begging for more.
“That was a mistake,” he stutters, wholly unconvincing. “You’re seventeen,” he
repeats. “I’m fifteen years older than you. You’re underage.” The word makes
him feel dirty, which is why he says it. He needs to be jolted out of this,
needs to be brought to his senses, needs to break the spell Derek has over him
for both their sakes.
Derek scoffs. “And so in a month when I turn eighteen, I’ll magically have some
ability to consent that I don’t have right now? That’s bullshit and you know
it.”
“Arbitrary as the law may be, it’s still the law, Derek. And even when you’re
eighteen, this can’t happen. I’m your teacher.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone, Stiles. I don’t want you to lose your job any
more than you do.”
“Derek, it’s not about me losing my job. It’s about…power. I’m in a position of
authority over you.” He sounds stern, his voice steady if not with conviction,
at least with resigned acceptance of their situation. He rolls his shoulders as
he speaks, straightening his posture and shifting away from the hot press of
Derek’s hard body against his side.
He can do this. He’s the adult here. He’s more than his hormones, more than his
emotions.
He can say no to this beautiful boy who’s looking at him right now like he’s
the most marvelous thing he’s ever seen, eyes twinkling, smile bright, laughter
low and secret. “What?” Stiles asks, exasperated. “Why are you laughing?”
“It’s funny,” Derek whispers, pushing Stiles against the shelf, pressing full
up against him now, angling his hips to rub their cocks together, his stunning
smile growing even wider when he feels how hard Stiles is. “That you think you
have authority over me.”
Stiles wordlessly stumbles for a retort, Derek’s absurd eyebrows arching higher
and higher in adorable bemusement as he watches him sputter and fluster, unable
to argue with him.
Laura’s voice echoes up the stairs. “Derek! Mom says it’s time for pie!”
It startles Stiles, but not Derek, who’s still hard and insistent against him,
not moving.
“Okay,” he calls out to her finally, eyes still locked on Stiles’.
He leans in and plants a soft, tender kiss on his mouth, sweetness belying his
wanton teasing, another facet of the endlessly contradictory and utterly
intoxicating Derek Hale. “Come on, Mr. Stilinski. It’s time for pie.”
~*~
After dessert, Derek disappears upstairs and returns with a backpack, punching
Laura in the shoulder before leaning over the back of the couch to plant a
short kiss on the top of his mom’s head. “Awesome dinner,” he says. “I’ll see
you tomorrow.”
“Take Erica and her mom some leftovers,” Talia says, rising and walking to the
kitchen. Stiles looks up from his game of cards with Cora, not letting his gaze
settle too long on Derek’s small smile.
“Movie night at Erica’s,” Derek explains, telling Stiles everything he needs to
know with the lift of his ridiculous eyebrows, whispering low to him, taking
advantage of Cora’s immersion back in her phone. “You have my number.”
~*~
Are you sure?
It’s the first text he ever sends Derek, still slightly panting after coming
onto his stomach, curled over himself on the couch, burning up at the memory of
Derek’s mouth on his neck, of how he asked to be fucked, filled up.
I’m sure, Derek replies immediately.
Stiles answers with his address.
~*~
Half an hour later, Derek’s in his house, peeling off his jacket and throwing
it over the back of the couch, big eyes taking in his cluttered living room,
grinning when he sees the hastily wiped-up come on Stiles’ bare stomach. “Got
started without me?” He smirks, pulling off his shirt, reaching for the
waistband of the baggy, low-slung sweats Stiles is wearing.
Stiles leans into his touch, buries his face in his neck, mouths at his skin,
feels his own skin flutter and flex at every point of contact.
“I would have gotten here sooner,” Derek murmurs into his hair. “But I parked a
few blocks away and walked.”
It hadn’t even occurred to Stiles to suggest such a thing, but it’s smart, and
he’s glad Derek thought of it. The last thing he needs is for Derek’s flashy
Camaro to be recognized in his driveway.
His relief is quickly tainted by the realization that Derek is obviously very
good at sneaking around, the kind of good that comes with practice, with
experience. Stiles pulls him into a bruising kiss, surprised by his own
jealousy, abstract and confusing as it is.
“Who does Erica think you’re with?” He pushes Derek out of the living room,
towards the stairs, desperate to get him in his bed. He’s finally got this boy
where he wants him, can finally take his time, can finally strip him bare and
take him apart, wreck and ruin him, make him feel the ways Stiles feels every
goddamn day under the open heat of his unyielding, relentless gaze.
“Jackson,” Derek answers, breathless. Stiles groans into Derek’s collarbone,
far more irritated than he should be at the thought of Derek with that too-
pretty, smarmy shithead Jackson Whittemore.
“Are you still fucking him,” he asks, sharp, angrier than he intends. It occurs
to Stiles then, along with this new possessive lust that’s burning him up,
hands making easy work of Derek’s zipper, that he hasn’t tasted his cock yet,
hasn’t seen how gorgeous he’s got to be when he’s getting sucked off.
“Why, you jealous?” Derek snaps back, helping Stiles get his jeans off, kicking
them into a tangled pile at the bottom of the stairs. His voice rises oddly at
the end with something like hope.
Derek’s naked now, pretty young cock heavy and flushed, eyes locked on his, an
invitation, a challenge, a beckoning. Stiles wants to fuck the memory of every
man’s touch from his body, wants to make him forget every orgasm he’s ever had
at the hands or mouth or cock of someone else, wants to fill Derek’s body and
mind up with him.
He can’t seem to lie to the boy, so he doesn’t answer his question, just yanks
him into another punishing kiss before giving his chest a shove, pushing him
back until he falls to sit on a stair about halfway up.
Derek smiles and goes pliant under his touch, lets Stiles push him until he’s
lying back against the stairs, legs spread wide, exposed. Derek’s hands go up
to rest behind his head, relaxed, cocky, grinning again.
“Come and get it, Mr. Stilinski.”
~*~
Stiles was right.
Derek is a fucking vision when he’s getting sucked off.
~*~
Stiles basks in the swell of pride he feels when Derek, breathless and gasping,
empties heavily across his chest just as he lets him slide out of his mouth, at
the way Derek’s nubile body curves toward him, abs flexing, hands tugging at
Stiles’ hair.
Derek’s still panting when Stiles dips back down the steps to mouth at his
balls, suckling gently until the boy keens. Stiles pulls back, rubbing his
cheek along his muscular thighs dusted with soft, dark hair. He’s struck again
by the quiet strength coiled hard in his body, by the promise of power and bulk
it contains, is filled momentarily with the wistful desire to stay with him as
long as he can, to be there when he finishes growing into the astoundingly
beautiful man he’s going to become.
Stiles pushes that absurd thought away as he crawls up the stairs, up Derek’s
quivering body, hovering over him, caging him in, kissing him, pulling his
tongue piercing between his teeth, swollen cock still in his sweats, rubbing
hard into the groove of Derek’s thigh.
Derek groans and shifts down a bit, enough to take one of Stiles’ hard,
sensitive nipples in his mouth, flicking steel against the tip before licking
over into the hair between his pecs, gathering up some of his still-hot come.
Now Stiles moans, can’t help it when Derek looks back up at him, mouth open,
white mess of his own come a sticky puddle on his tongue. When he kisses him,
it's bittersweet, amplifying the overwhelming taste of Derek still in his mouth
from sucking him, filthy mess of spit and spunk webbing their tangling tongues,
sloppy, perfect.
~*~
“Has anyone ever done this for you,” Stiles breathes, groaning softly at how
Derek’s soft, pink hole flutters reflexively at the brush of air from his lips,
saliva flooding his mouth in anticipation of tasting him here, of feeling that
tight rim loosen and clench around his tongue.
“No,” Derek whines, pleading, last traces of his cool façade fading about the
time Stiles pushed him down to hands and knees in the middle of his unmade bed
and ordered him to crawl up, to hold on to the headboard, to keep his legs
spread wide.
Stiles is naked now too, cock starting to throb, but he’s patient, intent on
completely undoing him, on testing the limits of his teenage stamina, wants to
see if he can make him come twice before he even gets his dick in his pretty,
pretty hole and show him what it is to truly be fucked.
Stiles likes the look of his hands across Derek’s round, pert ass, spreading
him wide. He’s soft with hair here too, delicate little curls twirling around
his entrance, hypnotizing. “You want me to,” he asks, teasing his rim with the
feather-light tip of his finger, smiling when Derek hisses through his teeth.
“Want me to lick you open before I fuck you? Want me eat your perfect ass?”
Derek just nods, hands tight on the rails of the headboard, gasping hard.
Stiles runs his hands up his back, soothing, moving up to lean over his back,
pressing his chest, still sticky with Derek’s come, into his hot skin. He
nuzzles his neck, gentle, tender kisses behind his ear. “I’ve got you, baby,"
he whispers. "I’m going to take such good care of you.” Derek nods again,
reaches a hand back to clasp around Stiles’ neck, pulling him closer.
Stiles doesn't tease any more when he moves back down the long, erotic expanse
of Derek’s flawless back, spreading him open again to lick wide and wet from
his balls on up, spinning the tip of his tongue into the swirl of hair before
using it to coax him open, sliding deeper and deeper still as Derek’s body
gives way easily.
Derek makes the prettiest noises as he falls apart, rocking his hips back,
demanding more, which Stiles happily gives. It’s been a long time since he’s
been able to pleasure someone this way, even longer still since it’s been done
to him, but he remembers vividly, remembers what feels good.
Soon he’s tonguing into him as hard and fast as he can, reaching between his
shaking legs to give his straining cock a few exploratory strokes, teasing his
foreskin, slicking up a finger with his syrupy precome before slipping it into
him alongside his tongue. Derek takes his finger beautifully, the dense tight
heat of him so welcoming and soft Stiles pulls his tongue out so he can slip in
another.
Derek arches and moans, greedy. “Fuck me,” he whines, panting and desperate.
“God, Stiles, please, fuck me, fuck me.”
“Not yet, baby, not yet. You’re going to come for me again,” he whispers,
pulling his fingers from him to reach over to and get lube from the nightstand.
He rubs a generous drizzle between his fingers to warm it before slipping them
back in, easing all the way to the last knuckle. Derek whines and shoves back
hard, still seeking more, each eager twitch of his hips and hole undoing Stiles
bit by bit, entranced by how badly Derek seems to want, to needto be fucked. He
adds more lube and another finger, curving just so to find the sweet spot,
pressing down harder when Derek rocks his hips back hard, crying out as he
shoots powerful and thick all over the pillows beneath him, hands white-
knuckled around the rails of the headboard.
Derek’s still shaking, trying to catch his breath, when Stiles pushes into him
without warning, drinking up the surprised yelping groan of pleasure he makes,
groaning himself at how Derek’s ass swallows his cock just as easily as his
mouth does. He leans over him, wraps his hands around Derek’s on the headboard
and begins to thrust steadily, biting at his sweaty mohawk, drowning in the
impossibly tight, slick squeeze of him. “Is this what you wanted,” he huffs
into his ear, picking up the pace, drunk on how good he feels, on good how
Derek feels beneath him, taking him so good and sweet. “Begging to be fucked…is
this what you wanted, Derek, baby? Wanted my cock in your ass, wanted me to
make you mine?”
“Yes,” Derek grunts, nodding, smiling when Stiles pulls him back by the hair,
twisting his neck back to kiss him, hard and filthy, before pushing him away
with a playful shove.
“Show me,” Stiles orders, stilling his hips, pulling all the way out, croaking
out a tortured-sounding gasp when he sees the way Derek’s ass flutters and
quivers at the emptiness. “Show me how much you want my cock.” He leans back,
resting the backs of this thighs on his heels, angry red dick rigid and slick,
waiting for Derek to take him back in.
Derek slides back, falling forward to rest on his elbows as he positions
himself, shoving himself onto Stiles’ dick with an eager, confident thrust,
hips starting to roll in sinuous, wicked waves as soon as Stiles is nestled
tight inside of him again. “Oh fuck, Der,” he whines, control slipping while he
watches Derek slide himself back and forth on his cock, clenching, hips
rolling. Stiles drops his hands, clasping them tightly around Derek’s ankles
where they’re bracketing each of this thighs, ass bouncing as he fucks himself
harder, faster. “That’s it,” he encourages, voice low and thick. “Take what you
need, my sweet little cockslut.”
And Derek does. Stiles has never been with anyone so enthusiastic to be fucked,
so shameless and needy, each graceful roll and thrust more urgent than the
last, his need and love for it open and raw as he takes and takes, Stiles’ name
a broken moan on his lips the whole time.
Eventually Stiles can’t take it anymore, it’s too much beauty, too perfect, too
much everything threatening to burn them both up. He stills Derek with the firm
clasp of his hands on his hips, taking back control, pushing him down so he’s
flat on his stomach, his hips still thrusting, mindlessly pursuing his
pleasure.
Stiles' hands dig red, bruising shapes on Derek’s shoulders when he comes,
pushing him down, hips snapping hard and fast, coming with an explosive, aching
groan, spilling deep inside of him, gasping, lost in him, in them, collapsing
bodily on top of him, still buried in that tight wet heat, Derek dribbling more
come into the sheets beneath him, both of them trembling and weak.
~*~
Stiles wakes to Derek straddling his thighs, coaxing his half-hard cock with
slick hands, eyes big and dark in the pale, moonlit room. “You awake,” he asks,
tugging, hands more insistent.
“I am now, baby,” Stiles mumbles, mind slow and body dense, smiling up at him
through sleepy eyes, cock filling quickly, growing hot and fat in Derek’s
greedy hands. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, awed, hands circling his hips,
helping him sink down.
Derek accepts him smoothly, seating himself on Stiles’ cock like he was made
for it, sighing happily when he bottoms out. He doesn’t move for a long time,
seems perfectly content to just stay still, rooted to him, hands trailing
softly up and down Stiles’ torso, exploratory and gentle. When he does finally
move it’s to lean over and kiss him, slow and dreamy, hands reaching up to cup
his face.
Stiles has to close his eyes against the rush of affection, so strong it
threatens to overwhelm him, make him say or do something stupid like ask him to
stay forever.
Derek starts to roll his hips, slow, long undulations, tongue still sweet and
soft against his, languid, passionate. Stiles wraps his arms around his back,
pulling him in closer, holding on tight, resisting the urge to push up into
him.
He starts to move faster, hips twitching in shorter bursts, breaking the kiss
to bury his face in Stiles’ neck. “Stiles,” he whines into his ear, muffled and
broken, like he’s overwhelmed too.
“Derek, I’ve got you,” he chokes out, breath coming hard and fast. He runs his
hands down his back to clutch at his ass, fingertips pressing gently on his
rim, stretched full and slick with lube, gasping when Derek sits up abruptly,
eyes hazy and wild.
Stiles watches, stunned, awed, as Derek throws his head back and starts riding
him fast, giving in completely to his need, chest growing pink and shiny with
exertion, cock flushed and hard, bouncing and leaking. Stiles wraps a hand
around him, wants to give him something to fuck into while he’s fucking himself
so spectacularly. Derek nudges his hand away though, smiling down at him. “No,”
he pants, not breaking his rhythm, “just your cock, just want your cock.”
And that, that, Derek whining about coming untouched, is what does Stiles in,
makes him thrust up and cry out, emptying himself inside the boy again, flames
of bursting heat cascading through him, exhausting.
Derek is smiling, blissed out, grinding down harder, faster, pressing his
thumbs into the bony knobs of Stiles’ hips. “You feel that,” he asks, narrowing
his gaze on him. “Feel your come sliding out of me, Mr. Stilinski?”
Stiles nods, eyes fluttering back, basking in the hot drip sliding down his
shaft down to his balls, slick and sloppy with the sound of Derek’s relentless
fucking. Derek shudders and moans when he comes, shooting powerfully, thick
ribbons painting Stiles’ chest and face; he reaches up to run his thumb across
his mouth, smirking down at him.
~*~
In the shower, Derek leans his head against the tile while Stiles kneels behind
him, steam billowing, licking him clean with a gentle, tender tongue before
washing him properly.
When they fall back into bed, naked and still damp, Derek scoots close and
rests his head on Stiles’ chest, just over his heart, fitting under the crook
of his arm just right, like he belongs there.
End Notes
     I'm deleted-scenes on Tumblr. Come hang out for update info,
     drabbles, reblogs, fic recs, random ramblings, and a lot of emotions
     about fictional characters.
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