
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/511020.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Missing_Scene, Underage_Drinking
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-13 Words: 976
****** like secondhand smoke ******
by coricomile_(orphan_account)
Summary
     Why had he come here?
Notes
     Apparently all I want to do with this fandom is put dicks in Stiles'
     mouth without coming up with plot. Yay plotless porn?
     Set mid-episode Lunatic, after getting drunk in the woods.
There's a pebble digging into his knee. Stiles can feel its edges, sharp and
craggy, sliding into his skin where the mesh of his shorts doesn't quite come
down. It hurts, a burst of pain each time he moves, but he can't reach down to
brush it away. His fingertips are numb, palms shaky from the bottle of booze
he'd smuggled out of his dad's cabinet.
Scott can't get drunk anymore. Not that he did it a lot before, but he'd never
feel the dizzy looseness of getting wasted again. Would never get to use a
slick lipped lie about alcohol lowering his inhibitions ever again. Those
Stiles gets to keep for himself. He'd laugh if he could.
Instead, he pulls his dizzy head back, the pain in his kneecap shivering up his
thigh, and drags in a desperate breath. His chest hurts, inside, outside, a
giant bundle of burning lungs and aching, hurting rib space that isn't really
protected enough. The hand around the back of his head tries to grab his hair,
but there isn't enough to hold onto.
"Hang on," Stiles chokes out. He closes his eyes, trying to fight down the
nausea rising up in his stomach. Too much. whiskey too fast. "Hang on."
His mouth kind of hurts, sore at the corners where it's been stretched open. In
front of him Derek shifts, his wet dick moving that much closer to Stiles'
face. It's thick and dark, feels bigger in his mouth than it looks. Stiles
frees a hand from its death grip in Derek's jeans and wraps numb fingers around
him. Derek doesn't say anything. Stiles is so grateful it stings.
When the nausea clears, he leans in again, lips curling around the fat head of
Derek's cock. It's salty and smooth, aggravates the cracking corners of his
lips as it slides in. He'd choked the first time. Got swept up in the need to-
something. Prove himself, maybe. Hurt himself maybe. He pressed his spinning
head down until his throat closed up, a cough already nestled up beside his
Adams apple.
Derek hadn't said anything then, either. Just rubbed the tender spot behind
Stiles' ear and waited patiently as he got his breath back. Stiles had expected
him to be rougher. Expected to be shoved around, slammed up against a wall and
taken by force like he was in a trashy romance novel. Instead, Derek had looked
at him standing in the yard, pathetic and drunk and miserable, and let him take
the reins.
As Stiles pulls back, heavy tongue tracing the strange line of Derek's dick, a
vicious part of him wonders what Scott would do if he saw. They're not hiding.
They're not even inside. Stiles is kneeled down on the shitty, oil stained
concrete of the garage, the door open and facing the street. It's almost three
in the morning, dark but for the cloudy, thin light of the moon. If anyone came
by, they'd see him. Them.
Derek's hips move slow and easy, the hand on the back of his head keeping him
steady. Stiles stares up at him glassily, willing his mouth open wider. This is
the only way Derek fucking Hale will ever get him to shut up.
Stiles sucks at him, messy and jerky. It's the least skilled blowjob anyone has
ever gotten, but he's trying. He bounces the back of his skull against the palm
of Derek's hand, too drunk-lazy to move forward on his own. His fingers are
still wrapped loosely around the base if Derk's cock, a roadblock to keep him
from choking again, the teeth of Derek's fly biting into his skin.
Whatever he's doing works. Just as his jaw starts threatening to lock up, Derek
pushes him away. It's rough, makes him fall back against his heels, but the
part of him that isn't too stupid to remember that Derek's a werewolf knows it
wasn't supposed to be. Above him Derek goes tight, the hand that isn't on
Stiles' shoulder cupping the head of his dick as he comes. The sound he makes
is rough. Like an animal.
Stiles isn't hard. Whiskey dick at sixteen. Leave it to him to screw up his
only chance of having someone else touch him. He palms at himself feebly, but
his cock stays soft under his basketball shorts. The mean, angry part of
himself that's been rising up for weeks says he probably deserves it.
Derek helps him up, his dry hand strong enough to pull Stiles to his feet
effortlessly. He's wearing the same look he's had on all night. The one that
he'd put on when Stiles had stepped into his space cautiously, approaching a
wild animal. The same look he'd had when Stiles had dropped down in a heap at
his feet, loose limbed and desperate. Pity. Commiseration.
"Why are you here?" Derek asks.
Stiles watches him tuck his soft dick back into his jeans. It's better than
watching his stone cold face, anyway. There's a smudge of darkness on the denim
where Derek had wiped his hand. Very, very slowly, Stiles turns himself around
and goes back to his jeep. If Derek really wants to know, all he has to do is
ask again.
He doesn't.
There's soot and dirt and grease on Stiles' knees and shins, a solid line of it
from sock to kneecap. The pebble that's been sinking into him since he'd
started is still stuck to his skin, lodged in with the rest of the dirt. He
could go to Scott's, dirty and cold, and climb in through the window. He could
smear soot and dirt all over Scott's bed and tell him he could be a turncoat
too. Instead, he starts the engine and lurches the jeep forward, pretending not
to see Derek following behind slowly.
Why had he come here?
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