
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/519138.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Face-Fucking, Dirty_Talk, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Humor,
      Established_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-22 Words: 1838
****** Chaos Theory ******
by the_deep_magic
Summary
     It starts with a butterfly. I mean, probably. That’s Stiles’ best
     theory.
Notes
     There's nothing to specifically suggest that anyone is underage, but
     I went ahead and warned for it anyway. No spoilers. Nothing but porn,
     really.
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.
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