Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/883881.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, No_Archive_Warnings_Apply
  Category:
      M/M, F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Toyota_(Teen_Wolf), Isaac_Lahey, Cora_Hale,
      Allison_Argent, Sheriff_Stilinski, Alan_Deaton, Talia_Hale, Laura_Hale,
      Scott_McCall, Erica_Reyes, Heather_(Teen_Wolf), Peter_Hale, Matt_Daehler
  Additional Tags:
      Tumblr_fics, Alternate_Universe, Pining, Epistolary, Animals, Courtship,
      Inspired_by_Art, Pack_Mom_Derek_Hale, Hale_Family_Feels, Bondage, Dirty
      Talk, bottom!Derek, Top!Stiles, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alpha!Stiles,
      Omega!Derek, Implied_Mpreg, Established_Relationship, Sex_Toys, Multiple
      Orgasms, Edging, Orgasm_Delay/Denial, sub!derek, dom!stiles, Dom/sub, Pet
      Play, Spanking, Discipline, nullification, Rimming, Human!Derek, Age
      Reversal, Blow_Jobs, Glory_Hole, Foursome_-_M/M/M/M, Intercrural_Sex,
      Sexual_Fantasy, Anal_Fisting, Anal_Fingering, Roleplay, Role_Reversal,
      Knotting, Werewolf!Stiles, First_Time, Barebacking, Public_Sex, Failwolf,
      Constipation, Miscommunication, True_Love, Douching, Overpreparation,
      Fluff, Crossdressing, always-a-girl!Derek, Pregnancy, Domestic_Fluff,
      stripper!derek, Wererabbit!Derek, Crossover, Pegging, Always-a-
      girl!Stiles, Fractured_Fairy_Tale, Nipple_Play, Overstimulation, Marathon
      Sex, BDSM, Sounding, Accidental_Voyeurism, Teacher-Student_Relationship,
      Loss_of_Virginity, Temporarily_Unrequited_Love, Photocopier!Derek, Deputy
      Stiles_Stilinski, Werespider!Stiles, Stalking, Double_Anal_Penetration,
      In_Medias_Res, Non-Negotiated_D/s, Jealousy, Oblivious_Stiles, POV
      Outsider, Screamer!Derek, Troll!Stiles, fanboy!Derek, Stilinski_Twins
  Series:
      Part 1 of Tumblr_Fics
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-15 Completed: 2013-10-07 Chapters: 50/50 Words: 41837
****** Every Day I'm Tumbln' ******
by Sheepnamedpig
Summary
     Short fics originally posted to my_Tumblr, edited and collected here.
     Capped at 50 chapters.
***** Once upon a time in ancient China *****
Chapter Summary
     Backstory: Derek is from the Middle East and ran away from home b/
     c REASONS, heading east until he hit the seaside town of Beacon
     Hills, which is in southeast China. Basically everyone but the Hales
     are Chinese and therefore LANGUAGE BARRIERS also because REASONS (of
     the admittedly practical variety).
     A/N: Much discussion of linguistics ahead. A phoneme is a unit of
     sound like the /ah/ sound or the /sh/ sound.
"See," Stiles gestures widely with his chopsticks, “moveable type is destined
to revolutionize the entire world. Maybe spark a renaissance or two. With
moveable type, you can produce mass printings of books for cheap, which means
the poor will be able to afford them, which means the lower classes will become
literate. Suddenly you’ve got cheap education for the masses, which increases
human capital and social mobility, and then it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump
to raising the standard of living for even the poorest of the poor. Well, in an
ideal world, but it’s possible. Though it’s a shame that’ll never happen here,
y’know?"
Derek stares at him like he’s gone insane, but then Derek eats out of his bowl
with his hands which ugh and gross, so it’s not like Derek has any room to
judge.
"Our written language just makes it impossible, which sucks, and fie on
whatever sadist designed a written language made up of unique ideograms. Though
if we managed to develop a writing system with a limited number of characters,
no more than say, forty or fifty, that can be combined to form unique phoneme
combinations, that would be awesome," Stiles muses. Derek shovels more rice
into his mouth.
"Each phoneme combination can represent a word or idea, with more common
concepts being shorter for simplicity’s sake, and then when all the short
combinations run out, (which would take some doing, I’ve done the math), you
just start making longer combinations. Or you could even assign certain common
ideas to specific phonemes and put the phonemes together like interlocking
pieces of meaning. Like, say you had a phoneme that represented water and
another phoneme that represented the idea of a container. You could just piece
them together and voila! a two-part word for ‘aquifer’ that doesn’t involve one
getting carpal tunnel from writing out the ten thousand strokes all the
freaking time."
Derek picks a slice of beef out of his bowl, reaches across the table, and
shoves it into Stiles’ open mouth. With his fingers.
"Oh my God!" Stiles splutters. “You are so gross, did you know that? Why can’t
you just use chopsticks! Ugh. I can’t believe you touch your food with your
hands. I mean, buns are okay because they’re designed to be eaten with your
hands, but rice? Vegetables? Fish? Who knows where you’ve put those mitts of
yours, and don’t you even dare pretend that rubbing them in water makes them
any less dirty. You’re gonna give me tetanus or something,
you unhygienic jerk."
Derek glares at Stiles, holding up a clump of rice in warning. Stiles flinches
away and returns to his own bowl with only a few grumbles.
"Linguistics is just awesome, okay?" he mutters to his rice and chopsticks. He
taps the sticks together and they click agreeably.
Derek huffs, rolls his eyes, and says something undoubtedly rude in his own
language, but he nudges Stiles with his hip on the way to pile his empty bowl
with the rest of the dirty dishes. He heads out after that to wash up, and when
Stiles finishes his own lunch, he lays out Derek’s prayer mat facing west for
when Derek gets back.
He’s never understood religion, particularly of the monotheistic variety, but
maybe, when he finally learns Derek’s language or Derek finally learns his, or
they learn enough of each others’ to piece together a conversation, Derek will
explain it to him.
***** The Cinderella Sterek fic I will never ever ever write. Ever. *****
Stiles is the son of the local lord (Papa Stilinski) who marries the widow
Victoria Argent after his wife dies. She brings with her her own daughter,
Allison, and Allison and Stiles get along well and Victoria is a good, if
sometimes terrifying, stepmother to Stiles. A neighboring lord, greedy for the
Stilinski family’s wealth and holdings, somehow seizes the family’s assets and
kills Papa Stilinski, leaving Stiles as the lord but the family penniless and
homeless.
Prince Derek is being pushed by his family to marry, but he’s arrogant and cold
and literally nobody wants anything to do with him. It doesn’t help that he’s
got most of the rest of the royal family in front of him in the line of
succession, nor that he chases every potential suitor away as hard as he can.
Stiles, desperate to help his family, goes to the palace and offers to marry
Derek. The royal family is like, what the Hell?
But nobody else is volunteering and Stiles refuses to be chased away, so they
get married and Stiles is able to use his new and not-inconsiderable clout to
strip the evil lord of his title and property and have the man finally face
justice. With his stepmom and stepsister taken care of, he settles in to life
at the palace, making new friends and regularly plundering the royal family’s
library.
His marriage to Derek is completely loveless and, aside from a passionless and
painful consummation the very first night, sexless. Derek doesn’t like Stiles
and Stiles doesn’t like Derek and that’s how it seems destined to remain.
Except Derek sees Stiles making friends with the other people in the court,
sees him having fun and living life to the fullest. It makes him angry for some
reason and he decides that if he’s going to be miserable, he might as well take
Stiles down with him. So he tries to punish Stiles, reassigning his favorite
manservant to the harsher duties, showering Stiles’ friends with disfavor, etc,
and for a while it works, but when Derek realizes that his anger stemmed from
jealousy, he backs off and goes back to letting Stiles do as he pleases.
Unfortunately, it’s too late for their relationship, which went from bad to a
heap of razor-sharp shards.
From then on, Stiles actively despises Derek, for good reason, and goes out of
his way to avoid him. Even the rest of Derek’s family comes down on Stiles’
side, expressing disappointment in Derek even though they still love him as
family.
To make things worse, Derek starts to fall in love with Stiles from afar. He’s
entranced by Stiles’ laughs and smiles, the way he’s fair and generous and
loyal, how he’s clever enough to give Lady Lydia and Prince Peter a run for
their money, how he’s mischievous but not harmfully so, and how he’s just
generally a better person than Derek deserves. Deep down, Derek begins to wish
he could be less of an unpopular, temperamental jerk and more like Stiles.
Knowing that Stiles responds to all correspondence by hand, he writes an
anonymous letter to Stiles asking how he can become a better person. Stiles
answers it, asking about the anonymous writer to better understand what kind of
person they are. This starts a regular exchange of letters between them with
Stiles completely ignorant of who he’s writing to.
Derek starts trying to put Stiles’ advice to good use, taking more time to
listen, trying to see issues from another’s perspective, be more forgiving of
honest mistakes and accidents, be more generous, etc. Stiles also suggests he
smile more, but that’s a little beyond Derek’s capabilities. All the while, he
falls deeper in love with Stiles but knows that Stiles wants nothing to do with
him in spite of their matching rings.
Stiles, on the other hand, is noticing Derek changing for the better, how he’s
not such an asshole anymore, and stops avoiding Derek quite so much simply
because he’s curious to see how far the changes go. Stiles still refuses to
have actual conversations with him because once bit, twice shy, but he’s less
cold to Derek, which secretly makes Derek happy.
Also, Stiles is starting to fall in love with his anonymous penpal, which sucks
epically. They talk about all kinds of things, about court politics, books,
people they’ve met, places they’ve been, their childhoods (about which his
penpal is understandably vague), their dreams, their hopes, etc. But when they
talk about love, the penpal is always sad because he’s in love with someone who
despises him. Penpal refuses to give details, mostly because Derek knows how
smart Stiles is and doesn’t want to lose this precious connection between them.
Stiles lets it go and feels guilty that he a) wants Penpal to get over the
person he’s in love with and b) is willing to commit adultery in the event that
Penpal actually falls for him.
He even asks Derek (through notes, not in person) if it would be okay if he had
an extramarital affair. He’s expecting to get shut down, but Derek,
heartbroken, just asks, "Do you love them?" Stiles answers "Yes," and even
though it kills Derek and makes him loathe himself even more, he says, "Do as
you like."
Ironically, this both eases Stiles’ conscience and hurts him. On one hand,
Derek obviously cares so little about Stiles that he doesn’t mind Stiles having
an affair (which makes Stiles wonder if Derek has been having an affair(s?)).
He kinda wishes Derek gave enough of a damn to be offended by Stiles’
infidelity and care about their marriage. On the other hand, he's free to enter
into a relationship with Penpal, should the opportunity arise.
So, permission received, Stiles says he wants to meet Penpal. Derek is freaked
but desperate for the opportunity to talk with Stiles during the upcoming Mask
festival, a week-long town-wide party during which everyone wears masks and
even royalty are treated as common people.
Derek functionally disappears during the festival aside from official events,
which is fine by Stiles because it gives him more freedom to spend time with
his Penpal, who is surprisingly shy but acts like Stiles hung the moon and
painted all the stars.
They talk about everything and dance and eat food together and basically act
like a young couple in the first blush of love. Stiles falls even further in
love, and when they finally discuss love, he admits that he wishes Penpal would
move on from his unrequited love so Stiles could have a chance at winning his
heart.
Derek is dumbstruck, but also knows that if Stiles finds out who exactly is
under the black wolf mask and costume, he’ll flip, and not in a nice way. So he
says that he can’t, even though it makes Stiles look so sad.
On the very last night of the festival, everyone unmasks themselves at
midnight. Stiles is looking forward to it until Penpal says that he absolutely
doesn’t want Stiles to see his face. Stiles is disappointed, but teasingly says
that he’ll wear a blindfold the whole time if Penpal gives him a single kiss in
return. Derek agrees to the offer, much to Stiles’ surprise, and on the very
last night, Stiles takes off his mask, lets Derek blindfold him, and gets his
kiss from an unmasked Derek. And then a few more kisses after that because
neither of them really wants to stop.
They’re tucked away in a hidden corner, so they figure they’ll be safe from
prying eyes, but apparently their corner is not so hidden because a group of
revelers almost finds them. Derek panics, not wanting anyone to see them
together. He runs, or tries to, but Stiles catches him by the hand and doesn’t
want him to go, so Derek slides his hand out of his glove and escapes, leaving
Stiles standing there blindfolded with nothing but a wolf mask and a black,
silver-embroidered glove.
Stiles goes straight back to the palace, no longer in the mood for partying,
and finds Derek skulking around looking flushed and disheveled. Derek’s a mess
because he literally sprinted all the way to the palace to change out of his
costume and hide it, but Stiles doesn’t know that and is in a shit mood
besides, so he asks Derek how his own affair is going, since Stiles’ sure isn’t
going anywhere.
Derek, still shaken and not sure how to face Stiles, admits that he has never
been unfaithful and sticks to that even though Stiles is incredulous. Then
Stiles finally realizes that Derek is serious and asks whim outright why he
hell he gave Stiles permission to go outside their marriage.
Derek tells Stiles that he knows Stiles will probably never feel anything for
him, so if Stiles were to fall in love with someone else, he’d let Stiles go to
be with that person.
Stiles, of course, is shocked. Of all the things he’d expected to hear, that
one was the absolute last. He asks Derek out of curiosity if Derek would even
let Stiles divorce him. Derek says that his family would probably take issue to
that, but if Stiles and his lover really wanted it, he’d side with Stiles and
push for the divorce, even if it meant going against his family and sovereign.
Derek knows he’s basically talking himself into a corner. If Stiles were to
take him up on the offer, he’d be forced to divorce Stiles, then turn down any
offer of marriage Stiles might make to his penpal. In the end, that would leave
Stiles with precisely neither of them, but he needs Stiles to know that the
offer is there.
Luckily, Stiles knows that, even though Penpal seemed to enjoy their makeout
session, he was still completely in love with someone else, which he admits to
Derek. Derek heaves a mental sigh of relief at dodging that particular arrow,
but wishes that he didn’t have to keep stringing Stiles along.
Stiles and Derek get along a lot better after that night. They even participate
in civil conversations, which pretty much blows everyone’s minds, including
their own. But while all is well on that front, things aren’t going quite so
smoothly for Stiles and his penpal.
Stiles doesn’t want to pressure Penpal into anything, so aside from asking if
he could keep Penpal’s mask and glove, he makes no more mention of it,
determined not to make things awkward. Things are awkward anyway because Derek
lets some (or maybe a lot) of his happiness over his and Stiles’ improved
relationship slip into his letters, and when Stiles forces the reason out of
him, Stiles is kinda crushed by the news that Penpal is finally befriending his
unrequited love.
Derek, realizing he’s stumbled on a golden opportunity, plays up Penpal’s
relationship with the other guy, basically pulling their love story out of his
own fantasies. Stiles is supportive, but outside the letters, Derek can see
that it’s taking a toll on him, so he decides to make a clean break of it. As
Penpal, he thanks Stiles for his advice on how not to be a raging asshole,
their discussions, their week together, Stiles’ unwavering support, and
promises Stiles that there’s someone out there that loves him as much as Penpal
loves his mystery guy.
And then that’s it. No more letters.
Stiles is suddenly the most morose and moody bastard in the palace even as
Derek is becoming friendlier and more open. It’s like they’ve switched
personalities. Stiles is so miserable that he even latches onto Derek’s clumsy
attempts to comfort him.
They start spending a lot of time together, Stiles channeling his heartbreak
into the physical pursuits that Derek usually prefers and Derek being happy
that Stiles is willing to spend time with him and do activities with him.
Slowly, their tenuous thing solidifies into a friendly acquaintance, and from
there starts building into an actual friendship.
Derek is nervous at first, worried that they’ll talk about the same things that
Stiles and Penpal wrote about and that Stiles will realize that Derek and
Penpal are literally the same person, but luckily Stiles seems determined to
avoid thinking about Penpal and everything they discuss is new territory.
The whole court and royal family is bewildered by how well things are going
between them. Derek, taking Stiles’ advice to heart, apologizes for being a
dickweed to Stiles in the early days of their marriage. Stiles tries to
apologize in return for being so quick to judge, but Derek waves him off,
saying that his first impression had been extremely accurate.
What Stiles likes about Derek, aside from his sassy wit, is that Derek never
asks about Penpal, and when Stiles finally volunteers the story, Derek listens
quietly but intently, like Stiles is imparting unto him the Word of God. Over
time, Stiles begins to discover even more things he likes about Derek: that
he’s forgiving of honest mistakes and accidents, that he always tries to think
of issues from multiple perspectives, that he’s generous with charities and
charitable work. He still never smiles, but that’s a bit much. Slowly, so
slowly it takes him a long while to notice it, he starts to develop the same
feelings for Derek that he’d had for Penpal, which terrifies him.
It’s not on the same scale or nearly as intense, but only not yet, and the
feelings that are there get stronger every day. There is, of course, the small
matter of Derek returning Stiles’ affections, but he’s pretty sure that won’t
be a problem. He’s not blind, after all, and Derek doesn’t look at anyone’s
mouth the way he looks at Stiles’. It only indicates physical attraction, of
course, but it’s a starting point, so he makes plans to tell Derek about his
evolving feelings the night of their first anniversary.
Their anniversary party is small, seeing as Derek is only a minor prince, but
there’s tradition that states that their anniversary night should be spent
together, so they both end up in the same room they’d consummated their
marriage in.
“Derek, there’s something I need to tell you,” Stiles says.
Derek nods. “Of course, but I have a gift for you.” He goes to a side table and
picks up a flat rectangular box, his fingers tracing nervously over the sharply
folded corners of the wrapping paper. “And a confession to make.”
Derek holds the gift out to Stiles, who takes it, weighing it curiously in his
palm. “Another gift? The summer house for Victoria and Allison wasn’t enough?”
Stiles plucks at the ribbon, unraveling the bow and let it hang over his wrist
as he unfolds the wine-red paper. Derek is fidgeting like someone’s dropped a
lizard down his shirt and Stiles pauses, watching the prince sweat.
“If there is anyone who knows why this present should not be opened, let them
speak now or forever hold their peace,” Stiles teases.
Derek actually wipes his palms on his thighs which, wow, is the most nervous
gesture Stiles has ever seen him make.
“Open-” Derek’s voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Open it. You’ll probably
hate me for it, but I need you to know.”
Okay, that’s a little worrying. Dropping the wrapping paper, he pries the lid
up and flips aside the tissue paper to reveal-
A glove. A black glove embroidered with sweeping lines of silver thread.
“Where did you get this?” Stiles whispers, staring down at the glove. “This is-
This belongs to me.”
He looks up and Derek is shaking his head minutely. The prince reaches into an
inside pocket and pulls out an identical glove, displaying it on his palm.
“This is the one that belongs to you.”
Stiles stares dumbly between the two gloves because he’s right, the one Derek
is holding is the very one he’d kept as a reminder of the one person who had
broken his heart without even trying. And the one Derek had given him, with its
matching pattern and opposite-facing thumb, was its match.
“Where did you get this?” Stiles asks breathlessly. “Who did you get this
from?”
Derek takes a deep breath and answers, “Nobody. Nobody gave it to me. I was the
one wearing it that night.”
Stiles’ jaw sags open.
“You-” he sputters, “You were- the- I don’t believe you!”
Derek nods decisively, crosses over to his writing desk, and pulls out a sheet
of paper. He dips a pen in the inkwell and writes a few lines as Stiles
watches, then puts the pen down and returns to Stiles, handing over the page,
the wet ink still shining in the light.
Dear St Dearest Stiles,
I can tell that you are angry, and you have a right to be so, but the truth is
that I have loved you for a very long time, since I saw how you embraced your
life here and found happiness in spite of the misery I tried to heap upon you.
I deserved your anger then, and I deserve it again now. I do not expect you to
return my affections, for that is one miracle that I do not deserve, but I felt
that you needed to know the truth so that you might finally find closure and
move on.
Yours, always yours,
Derek
The handwriting matches perfectly. The man he’d written to, the man he’d fallen
in love with, the man he’d kissed, was Derek.
The letter and box slip from Stiles’ suddenly nerveless fingers. He closes the
gap between them with one long stride, steps into Derek’s space, and drives his
fist up into Derek’s chin.
Stiles is no boxer, but there’s enough force there to send Derek sprawling back
onto the floor, sparks exploding in his vision. Stiles is on him again in half
an instant, straddling his waist and dragging him up by the front of his shirt,
arm raised to give Derek the shiner to end all shiners.
“Oh my God,” Stiles yells. “Oh my God! You are such an asshole!”
He drops Derek, whose head bounces off the thin rug, and catches Derek’s face
between his palms, swooping in to mash their lips together. Derek moans in
pain, still dazed from the sucker punch, and Stiles angrily bounces his head
off the floor again.
“Oh my God. I hate you so much,” he growls breathlessly, then hunches over for
another rough kiss. Feeling vindictively affectionate, he starts biting roughly
at Derek’s lips.
“Ow,” Derek grunts. But he opens his mouth and lets Stiles draw his tongue out
so he can bite at that, too.
“You deserved it, ass,” Stiles snaps between bites. “You have got so-” bite ”-
freaking-” bite ”-much-” bite, bite ”-groveling to do.”
Derek pulls his tongue back in just long enough to say, “Ok.”
Stiles rears back just far enough to glare effectively. “Ugh. You are such a
pain in my ass. Why do I even like you?” Derek stiffens and shies away which,
“Nuh-uh, you don’t.”
With a heave that almost puts his back out, Stiles drags Derek up and over,
rolling them so Derek is the one sprawled on top of Stiles.
Derek moans as the room spins. “Please don’t do that again. I don’t want to
throw up on you.”
Stiles maneuvers Derek’s head into an optimal kissing position. “If you do, I'm
going to add it to the list of things you’ll be begging my forgiveness for.”
“Ok,” Derek repeats.
“I want another horse,” Stiles demands imperiously, dragging his lips over
Derek’s face just because he can.
“Ok.”
“And another summer home for when Scott and Allison get married.”
“Ok.”
“And bad poetry.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough to make even Lord Finstock weep with agony.”
“Alright.”
“And you have to recite it before the court.”
“I’ll have Laura schedule it.”
Stiles gently tips Derek off him so they’re lying face-to-face. Derek blinks
woozily but pulls his arm up so both their heads are pillowed on it. Stiles
presses a kiss to the end of Derek’s nose, glad he had aimed for his chin at
the very last moment.
“I want a happily ever after,” he says.
Derek smiles and says, “Ok.”
***** Three times a quail fails to woo a kiwi and one time he succeeds *****
Chapter Summary
     Fic based on this fanart by michellicopter.
“You’re biologically efficient,” Derek Quale says.
Stiles blinks, turns on his heel (because he’s a kiwi and he has heels so fuck
you and your stupid wings, Derek Quale) and trots away. Derek’s backhanded
compliments were novel at first, but now Stiles just wants nothing to do with
them.
“Dude. Uncalled for,” he hears Scott say. “If you don’t have anything nice to
say don’t say anything at all.”
Darwin bless Scott MaCawl, loyal friend and brother from another branch of the
evolutionary tree.
&&&
Derek drops a bundle of leaves in front of Stiles, who nudges at them curiously
with the tip of his beak. They smell…leafy.
“Uh, thanks? I’ll add them to my nest?”
Derek seems to be trying to think of something to say, so Stiles waits. And
waits. And waits. So Stiles picks up the leaves in his beak and turns to go.
“They’re for you to eat,” Derek grunts.
“Um. I’m more of a meat kind of guy,” Stiles mumbles around the leaves
“Fine.” Derek snatches the leaves right out of Stiles’ beak and flushes, the
downward force of his wings spraying Stiles with loose dirt as he takes off.
“Asshole,” Stiles yells after him.
&&&
“This is for you,” Derek says.
“What is it?” Stiles asks politely. His prior ‘asshole’ had not gone as unheard
as he’d thought and his dad had used Parental Disappointment on him as a
result. It was super effective.
“A nest.”
Stiles eyes the nest. It looks vaguely nest-like, but even to Stiles’
relatively untrained eyes it’s kind of a mess. But Stiles is trying to be
polite, or at least not an outright jackass, so he says, “It’s kinda small for
a kiwi, dude.”
Derek’s wings twitch in surprise and he eyes Stiles like he honestly hadn’t
noticed how big Stiles actually is.
“Nevermind, then,” he says, and stalks off.
This time Stiles looks around for dropping eaves before he says (quietly) to
himself, “What a freak.”
&&&
Stiles doesn’t even recognize Derek; the quail is so covered in dust and dirt
that he looks like a girl.
“Follow me,” Derek pants. Because he’s out of breath. Stiles knew, as a
hypothetical possibility, that Derek could physically exert himself to the
point of breathlessness, but the guy is crazy fit, even more so than Jackson
Whitecay, who is maniacal about staying in shape for swim season.
So Stiles follows, partly out of curiosity but mostly out of boredom. His dad
is out doing Sheriffy things and Scott is hanging out with Allison Silverback,
which yeah, Unlikeliest Couple of the Year award goes to…
Stiles starts to recognize his surroundings pretty quick, since Derek is
leading them back in the direction of Stiles’ burrow, and yep, there it is. And
spread out in front of it is a freaking all-you-can-eat buffet of bugs and
worms and seeds and berries and even a few frogs, which Stiles hasn’t had since
he banned them from his dad’s diet a while back.
A lot of things click into place: the (backhanded) compliments, the leaves,
the nest. Which, how on earth did Stiles not figure it out after the
freaking nest?
“Are you trying to impress me?” Stiles says incredulously. “Are you trying
to mate with me?”
“Yes,” Derek snaps. “But clearly you’re not interested.”
He flaps up into the air but Stiles bites his ankle before he gets too high and
hauls him back down to the ground.
“Aw, hell no,” Stiles says. “You’re not doing that whole propose-and-run
thing.”
“What do you mean, ‘propose’? I just want to date you!” Derek shouts, but when
Stiles nudges him in the direction of the delicious looking smorgasbord, he
doesn’t even put up a token protest, walking so close to Stiles that he’s
almost under Stiles’ bulk.
“Tough shit, buddy. Kiwis are monogamous. Welcome to the family and until death
do us part.” And then Stiles picks up an overripe berry and smashes it into
Derek’s face.
***** The obligatory Toyota fic *****
Chapter Summary
     DEREK HALE, SOCCER PACK MOM.
     A continuation of shipsanddip's ficlet.
Stiles’ hands are cartwheeling through the air as he explains, in detail, his
latest conspiracy theory about that shitty MTV show he’s started watching,
‘Teen Fowl’ or something. Whatever. Derek just focuses on the road and bites
his lip against pointing out that Stiles’ theory only works because he’s
completely forgotten that thing that happened at 28:33 in episode 9. Not that
Derek knows what happened 28 minutes and 33 seconds into episode 9 because he
absolutely doesn’t watch it obsessively like Stiles does, just has the DVDs for
when the pack comes over and needs to be distracted from wrecking his stuff and
jumping off the spiral staircase.
A rabbit darts out onto the road, fast enough to startle even his reflexes, and
he slams on the brakes, shooting his right arm out in front of Stiles’ chest.
The rabbit darts away, but Derek’s senses reach out automatically, searching
the surrounding area for further threats. Nothing presents itself, and Derek
relaxes by degrees. His clawed hand loosens on the steering wheel and he pulls
his right hand back to rest them on ten and two, just like his mom taught him.
"Oh my god," Stiles breathes.
Derek glances over, then double takes at Stiles’ slack jawed expression. He
only looks at Stiles’ lips once. Okay, twice. “What."
Stiles’ mouth and glittering eyes widen into an expression of unholy, mocking
glee. “Dude, you just mom armed me. Driving your soccer mom car."
Shit.
***** The Boiler Room scene, revised *****
Chapter Summary
     Written in response to shipsanddip's reaction to the boiler room
     scene because I felt that her reaction was more genuine than Derek's.
Scott and Isaac skid to a stop and Derek’s there, he’s alive, leaning over the
girl, Cora, with this expression on his face, like Is this the real life, Is
this just fantasy?, like he’s seeing something that he doesn’t believe, refuses
to believe, can’t process, does not compute, blue screen of death. It’s one
they’ve been catching glimpses of all night, since the fight in the vault,
interspersed with lucid-seeming moments where Derek talks about killing Boyd
and- and Cora, his sister.
Derek’s fingertips hover over the curve of her cheek, not close enough to
touch, just there, feeling the illusory heat of her body,
transient, ephemeral. 
"Derek…?" Isaac ventures.
Derek’s head darts up. His eyes don’t quite focus on them and he looks,
looks lost, like he’s stuck somewhere between here and somewhere else, but he
pulls it together just enough to nod in the direction of the supply room, where
the third heartbeat is pounding out a rapid staccato. “There’s someone," he
sighs, almost dreamily, “help them. And Boyd, we need to…"
His eyes go out of focus and slip down to Cora, her face soft in
unconsciousness. Scott jogs off in the direction of the third heartbeat and
Isaac kneels next to Boyd, hauling a limp arm over his shoulders even though he
can’t takes his eyes off Derek and Derek’s sister.
"Um," he says. He feels awkward, off-balance in a way he hasn’t felt since he
was still a human. There’s something he should say, probably, some phrase or
sentence or philosophical quote, but he doesn’t know what it is, only that the
sun is up and Scott is coming back and they all need to get out of this stupid
fucking boiler room.
But maybe he doesn’t actually need to say anything, because Derek lets his
fingertips land on Cora’s cheek, his hand sliding in to cup her jaw, and it’s
like a slow-motion hug, his thickly muscled arms curling around Cora’s slim
body as he presses his face into the vulnerable arch of her throat. Isaac hears
his heartbeat stutter, sees his shoulders shudder in something that might be a
sob, and smells salt that might not be from sweat or blood.
***** Dirty talk *****
Chapter Summary
     shipsanddip prompted: Can I have Derek riding Stiles while Stiles
     talks dirty to him please?
"I-I’m supposed-" Derek gasps, “I’m supposed to be in contro-oh! Fuck, there,
yes!"
Stiles bucks his hips up, feet planted firmly on the mattress as Derek bounces
and rocks above him, impaling himself on Stiles’ cock with the kind of intense
focus Stiles has only seen when Scott tries to scrape the last of the peanut
butter off the bottom of the jar. He wishes he could use his hands, could grip
Derek’s hips and tease Derek’s bobbing cock, but they’ve been handcuffed to the
headboard. Hence the whole thing where Derek thinks he’s in charge.
"Ha!" Stiles breathes out sharply, letting his hips drop to the bed on one of
Derek’s downstrokes. Gravity pulls Derek down after him and the ringing smack
of flesh on flesh almost drowns out the sharp breath that punches out of him.
“You like it, you love it when I’m the boss of you, yeah. Yeah."
Derek whines and moves his hands from the bed to Stiles’ chest to get better
leverage. It changes the angle of his hips and Derek grinds down eagerly even
as Stiles fucks upward with aborted little thrusts. Fuck, Derek’s so hot and
soft inside, and so so so good.
"Love having my dick up your pretty ass, don’t you, pretty honey, love me
filling you up with my cock until you’re taking it so deep up your lovely hole
that you choke on it. Yeah, you love it so much."
Stiles rolls his hips until Derek lifts a little, giving him the space to fuck
up into Derek’s ass with rapid strokes that make Derek moan from deep in his
chest.
"Got a cock ring for you," Stiles grunts. “Thought maybe you could wear it on
your gorgeous cock."
Derek’s eyes, glazed over with pleasure as his orgasm hurtles closer, focus
shakily on Stiles’ face.
Stiles grins toothily, a shark’s smile. “Changed my mind. Gonna wear it and
fuck you ‘till you scream for mercy."
The muscles of Derek’s torso flex into sharp relief as he comes, hunching over
Stiles’ chest as his mouth falls into a slack ‘o’. Stiles follows hard on
Derek’s heels, but forces his eyes to stay open and watch as Derek shudders and
shivers, his come raining down on Stiles.
***** First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes... *****
Chapter Summary
     Sanhaim prompted: Omegaverse, they’re going for kids and Derek’s the
     omega. 
     Featuring human!Alpha!Stiles and werewolf alpha!Omega!Derek.
Stiles glances at the box of fertility tests on the nightstand even as he’s
hopping clumsily out of his underwear, the blush of his synchronous heat
staining his front from forehead to pubes. Derek breathes in the scent that
wafts off of him. Another gush of natural slickness leaks out of him and he
squirms on the mattress, reveling in the way his asscheeks slip against each
other. Still, if he has to take one more of those fucking tests…
"If I have to take one more of those fucking tests I’m going to take that box
and shove it up your urethra and you can pee on the fucking stick for once,"
Derek snarls.
Stiles winces but clambers onto the bed without another glance at the box.
"I just wanna be sure, okay? We’ve been trying for so long and it’s frustrating
sometimes," Stiles says, curling into Derek’s side and rubbing his palm in long
sweeps up and down Derek’s sternum.
They’d been trying for a child for almost two years now, but it had taken them
nine months to consult a doctor about why Derek wasn’t conceiving even though
they hadn’t missed a single one of Derek’s every-other-full-moon heats.
Apparently, though Derek’s heats were as regular as clockwork, his actual
fertility was extremely sensitive to stress, and it had taken another eight
months for them to figure out how to keep Derek’s stress levels low enough for
his body to do its thing. Derek has had to learn to delegate most of his duties
as Alpha werewolf of Beacon Hills to Stiles and the rest of the pack, but on
the other hand he hasn’t felt this healthy and energetic since before the fire.
He can practically feel his fertility, the way his body aches in ways it didn’t
during his past heats.
Stiles’ hand slips lower to wrap around Derek’s cock and give it a firm pull.
The heat builds in Derek’s groin, sharpening to a stinging need as Stiles’ hand
slips lower to roll Derek’s balls, and then lower still to smear Derek’s
leaking slickness along the feverish skin of his perineum. He’s so wet, fuck,
so ready.
Stiles is already there, kneeling between Derek’s spread thighs like he’d
smelled Derek’s heat spiking even with his weak human nose. The press of the
tip of his cock to Derek’s relaxed, slippery entrance is a relief and a tease,
and then Stiles is pressing in, the shape and bulk of his cock achingly
familiar.
Derek loses a few seconds, gets pulled into a heat haze like he used to when he
was a teenager. After the fire, he’d thought that the new clarity that came
during his heats had been a sign of maturity, but he realizes now, as he
clutches desperately at Stiles’ shoulders to brace himself against the waves of
pleasure, that it had been a sign that Kate had taken more from him than he’d
thought.
Stiles hikes Derek’s legs up, folding them around his waist and changing the
angle of his thrusts. He nails Derek’s prostate dead-on and Derek shouts,
arching into Stiles as their sweat-slick bodies move together.
"We’re—baby," Stiles pants, curling down to kiss Derek’s slack mouth, “We’re
gonna make a baby."
Derek’s breath hitches. His heart clenches in his chest, knotted up with the
kind of fierce, encompassing love he thought he’d never feel again after the
fire. But Stiles, Stiles… Derek grabs Stiles’ head with both hands and forcibly
deepens the kiss, moaning into it as Stiles’ swelling knot pulls at Derek’s
rim.
Stiles whines into the kiss. “Derek, I’m gonna knot soon, gotta get you-"
Derek growls and shoves Stiles up into a kneeling position, then turns and
sinks back down onto Stiles’ cock, both of them now upright with Derek’s back
to Stiles’ chest. Stiles wraps his arms around Derek, one hand teasing a nipple
that will someday swell with milk and the other stroking Derek’s leaking cock
in counterpoint to his thrusts. It’s all Derek can do to to reach back and hold
onto Stiles, his anchor, as orgasm crashes down on him. He comes and comes,
jizz streaking out over the sheets as his hole clenches tightly around the base
of Stiles’ knot.
The pressure triggers Stiles’ own orgasm, his knot swelling sharply and tying
Derek in place as his body starts pumping come into Derek’s fertile body. His
arms tighten around Derek’s torso in a bear hug as he ruts mindlessly through
his long orgasm.
It’s Derek who lowers them to the mattress, tipping them onto their sides so
they’re curled together; Stiles doesn’t buy the whole big spoon/little spoon
thing, likening it to minestrone soup instead, when the peas get tucked into
the shell pasta. It’s a very Stilesean idea, but Derek likes the imagery, likes
being the pea to Stiles’ shell, and the parallel image of him being the shell
to their baby’s pea.
Derek settles into the afterglow, enjoying the last few pulses of Stiles’ cock
as Stiles comes down from his own orgasm. His had sweeps down Derek’s chest to
his belly and Derek’s hand meets him there, their fingers tangling over where
their baby will grow.
"We’re gonna have a baby," Stiles whispers, awed. “Scott’s gonna be the best
godfather ever."
"What." Derek instantly goes stiff. “Boyd is going to be the godfather."
"What the hell, man. I promised Scott way back when we were in—"
Well, so much for the afterglow.
&&&
Much later, Allison cleverly points out that there’s no law against a child
having two godfathers. Boyd and Scott milk it, playacting a fake relationship
at the baby shower while their wives egg them on from the background.
&&&
***** Kinky *****
Chapter Summary
     Based on michellicopter's smokin' hot art.
Derek gasps and shudders, watching Stiles lift a come-slick hand to his mouth
even as his cock pulses out its last few drops of come. The dildo buzzes
relentlessly against his wrung out prostate and it’s all he can do to keep
himself upright over Stiles’ thighs.
"Please," he whines, hips jerking from aftershocks and overstimulation.
"Hmmm?" Stiles says lazily, sucking Derek’s come from his sinfully gorgeous
fingers. Derek’s cock rallies for a feeble twitch of interest.
“Please," he begs.
"Please what?" Stiles drawls, laying back against the pillows and looking down
his chest, admiring the gleaming lines of come. “Please fetch you your tea?
Please wash your Toyota? Please buy a mountain ash paddle and spank your ass
raw?"
Derek keens at the last suggestion, hips thrusting against air at the pain-
pleasure torment of the vibrator against his prostate. “Please, please touch
yourself," Derek cries.
Stiles reaches down and pats the long ridge of his cock, then gives it a
thoughtful tug through the fabric of his track pants.
"I dunno," he says doubtfully, eyebrows furrowing in theatrical disappointment.
“I was thinking of fucking you with it after you came a second time, but I
guess I could jerk off instead."
The breath whooshes out of Derek in a sharp “oh!" and he backpedals, “No, no,
fuck me, I want you to fuck me."
"Cool," Stiles purrs, letting a hand play across his chest, smearing a line of
come over his nipple. Derek watches with laser-like intensity. “Don’t be too
long, or I’ll fall asleep."
"O-okay," Derek says, and his eyes roll up as he rocks his hips, focusing on
the vibrations within him and the returning tide of pleasure. “Okay."
***** Hold it *****
Chapter Summary
     shipsanddip prompted: edging is my fav so a bit edging (i.e orgasm
     control) and subby!needy!derek
The stopwatch Derek is clutching between trembling hands reads eight minutes
and forty-three, forty-four, forty-five seconds. It’s barely half his previous
record and already he thinks he won’t be able to hold out. Then again, when
he’d set that record he’d thought he wouldn’t be able to hold out then, either,
but he did, he held on, he broke his previous record and set a new one, and
come hell, high water, or the second coming of Jesus, he’s going to do the same
this time.
Stiles’ hand is relentless on his dick and relentlessly steady. His clever
fingers know their art now, know how and where to touch to rile Derek up and
just how hard to press to keep him there, poised on the brink of orgasm until
Derek’s willpower gives in. And when it comes to Stiles, Derek has so little
willpower…
The plastic creaks between Derek’s fingers and he deliberately loosens his grip
one iota at a time until the device practically tumbles from his lax fingers.
Ten minutes now, and eighteen, nineteen, twenty seconds. He can feel the
muscles in his belly tighten and Stiles eases off, leading him back. His cock
feels feverish even to him, fat with blood and hard with unsatisfied tension,
the slow, even rub of Stiles’ hand inescapable like an itch that can’t be
reached. Eleven minutes.
It’s ironic that Stiles was the one who suggested this, asked Derek to hold him
down and do it to him. He’d lasted for about half an hour, they hadn’t really
been counting, then Derek had gotten impatient and desperate and swallowed
Stiles’ cock down to the bush, tipping Stiles over the edge. A few days later,
Stiles had procured a set of sex toys made of mountain ash and given Derek the
punishment of his life for breaking the rules. The memory of it still gives
Derek an instant hard-on, even when he’s with Peter or either of the Argents.
Thirteen minutes and thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine seconds. Stiles
doesn’t say a word, but Derek can sense his pride, smell his rising excitement
as Derek’s last record inches closer. Derek clings to it, to Stiles’ approval
and the happiness that Stiles feels when Derek succeeds, clings to it like he
never clung to his anger and hate. Those things anchored him, yes, chained him
and dragged him down, pinned him like a fly in a spider’s web, but Stiles’
pride is like a pair of wings, lifting him above the greedy demands of his
instincts, freeing him in ways he’d forgotten he could be free.
Fifteen minutes ticks over into sixteen minutes and Derek is hanging on by the
skin of his fangs. Only Stiles’ palpable happiness grounds him, tucking around
him like a down comforter in winter. He clings to it desperately as the seconds
tick by, as his abdomen trembles like a shivering chick and his toes curl
tight.
Sixteen minutes and fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four.
There’s a burst of sweet spice, brown sugar and cardamom, pride and happiness
and accomplishment sweeping over Derek and thickening with every second that
Derek keeps holding on. It settles on him like a warm mist, soaking into his
skin and filling him up with a sense of his own pride and accomplishment,
happiness from having lived up to Stiles’ expectations.
It feels like breakthrough.
Derek relaxes, letting the stopwatch slip through his fingers to fall on the
bed. He doesn’t need it anymore. Stiles’ hand slows to a stop.
"Congratulations, baby," Stiles says quietly, intimately. “What do you want for
your reward?"
"Kisses, please."
Stiles lunges up the bed to deliver, interspersing languid, open-mouthed kisses
with affectionate pecks and murmured ‘so proud’s that make Derek squirm with
giddy pleasure.
"Gonna kiss you all over," Stiles promises. “From head to foot and everywhere
in between."
"Yes, please," Derek answers dreamily.
"Then I’m gonna kiss your cock, lick it and suck on it the way I do your
tongue."
Heat winds tightly in Derek’s groin. “Yes, please, please,"
"And when you come I’m gonna savor it in my mouth. I’m gonna savor it because
you worked so hard to keep it for me."
“Please," Derek whines.
Stiles grins and begins dropping kisses all over Derek’s face. “So well behaved
for me," he says. “So good and perfect, my perfect little mate."
He howls softly, a crooning ‘auooooo’, and Derek follows the sound home.
***** Bad dog *****
Chapter Summary
     THE BOTTOM!DEREK GAMES with Ash and Nat
     Round 1: Spanking
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"PUP!"
Pup flinches, but obediently answers his owner’s call, trudging guiltily into
the bathroom, where Pup (maybe a little deliberately, okay definitely
deliberately, owner’s just been so busy lately and Pup misses the attention)
left all his dirty clothes laying on the floor.
Sure enough, there’s owner, arms akimbo and leg jiggling impatiently. Strewn
all over the clean tiles and mats are Pup’s muddy things.
Owner gestures to them and says, sharply, "Well?"
Pup whines, kneels, and gathers them up, carrying them the few steps to the
hamper.
Owner sighs. He looks tired these days, filling in for his father as interim
Sheriff until an election can be called. Maybe this was a bad idea.
"You know what to do," Owner says, gesturing at the bed.
Pup nods and drops to his hands and knees next to the bed, dragging out the
bigger of the boxes of toys that his owner keeps. There are two wooden paddles
inside, among other things, and Pup lays his fingers on the cherry wood paddle,
looking hopefully up at his owner.
Owner shakes his head, tired and disappointed. Crushed, Pup lifts out the
mountain ash paddle and puts it on the bed before returning the box to its
place under the bed. Dust puffs up and Pup sneezes.
"We don’t earn playtime with bad behavior," Owner says, sitting on the edge of
the bed and pulling Pup up to lay across his thighs. “Especially when you do
the bad behavior just to provoke me. Twenty swats for being a bad Pup, but if
you’re very good for the rest of the evening, I’ll let you suck me before bed.
Okay?"
Pup whines and nods and braces himself for the first hit. It stings across his
bare left cheek, followed by a strike to the right cheek. Owner goes back and
forth, methodical, ignoring the way Pup whines and holding him down when he
squirms. After twenty impersonal swats, Pup is keening, tears of pain and shame
dripping onto the carpet as drops of precome drip from Pup’s engorged prick.
"Oh, Pup," Owner sighs. He draws Pup up onto the bed and into his arms. “I know
I haven’t been paying attention to you, but if you’re feeling lonely, I’d
rather you just tell me I’m being a bad owner than act out. You’d been doing so
well lately."
Pup whines and licks Owner’s jaw apologetically. Owner kisses Pup’s nose and
lets Pup rest after his punishment, combing his fingers through Pup’s hair as
the evening wears on. Next time, when his owner is busy, Pup will be just as
selfless as Owner, returning Owner’s endless patience and generosity with some
of his own.
Chapter End Notes
     After 3x08, punishment kink is suddenly a good deal more relevant to
     my interests.
***** Stiles' fucking mouth, okay? *****
Chapter Summary
     THE BOTTOM!DEREK GAMES with Ash and Nat
     Round 2: Rimming
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Even after three years of being together, Stiles is still amazed that Derek is
willing to have sex with him. Of course, it’d taken three years after Derek’s
release from Kate Argent’s crazy torture basement for them to get together, and
another year after that for them to start having sex, but still, six years at
the mercy of psychopath Kate and her physical, emotional, and sexual tortures
are somehow pushed aside when Derek leans into Stiles’ space, slants his mouth
across Stiles', presses his tongue into Stiles’ mouth with aggressively clear
intent.
Stiles drops one last kiss on the smooth and spit-slicked stretch of skin where
Derek’s penis and testicles used to hang, teases the narrow slit where his
urethra opens, and gently nudges Derek over onto his belly.
"Yes," Derek hisses, eagerly spreading his thighs to make space for Stiles. “I
want your mouth, put your tongue in me."
And okay, maybe part of the reason Derek is willing to let Stiles touch his
body, marked in ways even werewolf healing can’t repair, is because Stiles
apparently gives the most amazing rimjobs? Well, whatever makes Derek happy
makes Stiles happy, and Stiles loves giving Derek rimjobs anyway, so…
"Your mouth," Derek snaps impatiently, glaring over his shoulder.
Stiles grunts, spreading Derek’s cheeks and diving in to lap up the length of
the crease, coarse black hair tickling the pad of his tongue. He gives it a few
more broad laps before zeroing in, focusing his lips and tongue on the pucker
of his anus. Derek moans and pushes into it, chest sloping down to the mattress
like a cat mid-stretch.
"Yeah," he chants, “Yeah, yeah."
Stiles teases the pucker with the pointed tip of his tongue, flicking across
the fleshy ridges of skin and prodding the center experimentally.
Derek opens easily around his tongue, already loose from drawn-out pleasure,
and Stiles presses his face deeper into Derek’s cleft, forcing his tongue
deeper. Encouraged by Derek’s eager moans and grunts, Stiles wedges his hand in
next to his cheek and pushes a finger in alongside his tongue. Derek’s inner
muscles clench at the new intrusion, then clench again when Stiles hones in on
his prostate, rubbing it firmly.
His other hand slips under to Derek’s front, tracing firm circles around
Derek’s urethra. The stretch of hairless skin there is sensitive like Derek’s
cock had probably been, werewolf healing restoring sensation, if not structure,
and Stiles takes ruthless advantage of it, massaging and rubbing even as he
darts his tongue in and out of Derek’s hole in a parody of fucking.
Derek is heaving breaths like a bellows, moaning on every exhale and gasping on
every inhale as Stiles mercilessly grinds on his prostate and the skin around
his urethra. Stiles pulls back just enough to nip teasingly at the lax ring of
muscle, and the brief sting of pain makes Derek jump, so he does it again.
Derek doesn’t come, but Stiles can tell he’s close, so he whips out his trump
card. With his finger, he presses down on the rim of Derek’s hole, pulling it
toward his perineum. Then he hooks his tongue over the opposite edge so he’s
holding Derek’s rim open with his finger and tongue. He pulls, stretching Derek
open, letting his teeth skim over the stretched ring of muscle.
Derek gasps, grunts, and curls in on himself, dripping prostatic fluid on the
bedspread. Stiles eases his tongue free, leaving his finger inside to massage
the come out of Derek’s prostate and watches, spellbound, as the puddle between
Derek’s knees spreads.
Chapter End Notes
     Fun backstory: Stiles is a P.I. and the one who discovered that Kate
     was keeping Derek imprisoned. Through some gutsy gumshoeing, Derek
     was freed, but not before Kate got her last cheap shot in (cutting
     off Derek's penis and testicles). Cue hospitalization, trial of the
     century, we the jury find the defendant guilty on all charges, life
     in prison with no chance of parole, therapy, civil case pending,
     interim homelessness. Deeply mistrustful of basically everyone,
     (except Sheriff Stilinski, because who doesn't adore Sheriff
     Stilinski), Derek ends up going to Stiles, the first person he saw
     after six years of nobody but Kate, and they end up living and
     eventually working together in a sort of Holmes and Watson situation.
     Actually, exactly like Holmes and Watson, because this is my Sherlock
     AU.
***** I dare you *****
Chapter Summary
     THE BOTTOM!DEREK GAMES with Ash and Nat
     Round 3: Face fucking
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Derek is definitely regretting this. He is regretting this with all his teenage
heart and wondering if he can sneak out without the lacrosse team finding out
that he welched on a dare. He pulls at his hair, suddenly feeling
claustrophobic in the toilet stall. It would turn out okay, right? Sure, what
little social status he’s managed to cling to would evaporate and the lacrosse
team would make his life hell for the rest of high school, but that’s gotta be
better than-
Derek freezes as the door to the next stall over swings open. Through the hole
in the wall between the two stalls, he can see a man moving, a stranger
unzipping his fly and pulling his dick out. The man steps further forward and
the sound of piss pouring into the toilet echoes in the tile-and-metal
bathroom. Derek licks his lips with a dry tongue, pinches them between his
teeth, and shifts to kneel in front of the glory hole, mouth and chin showing
through the cut-out circle.
The man doesn’t seem to notice at first, finishing up and wiping, but the
shuffling of his clothes pauses. Derek’s heartbeat pounds in his head and he
clenches his eyes shut, wondering if the man will use his mouth or leave him
alone. There’s nothing for a long moment, and then something soft and body-warm
touches the slack curve of Derek’s lip. Derek blinks his eyes open to check.
It’s just a finger. Derek wonders if he should be relieved, and then the
stranger asks, “Are you sure?"
Derek gasps. He knows that voice, hears it every day during Brit Lit,
fantasizes about it at night, been given so many inappropriate boners by that
voice that he’s passed right through embarrassment into annoyance. 
It’s Mr. Stilinski’s voice. Stiles Stilinski, Brit Lit teacher, Sheriff’s son,
and object of Derek’s longstanding crush.
"Yes," Derek breathes. “Yeah."
"Okay," Mr. Stilinski says, and the finger is replaced by his half-hard cock.
Derek sucks it eagerly into his mouth. He’s practiced with Laura’s dildo, the
one their parents don’t know about, all the while imagining Mr. Stilinski
fucking into his mouth. But now, having the actual thing, it’s so much better,
so much richer and amazing. Derek can’t get over the heat and taste of him, the
way he swells to hardness on Derek’s tongue, the way he fills Derek’s mouth.
"Fuck," Mr. Stilinski hisses. “Fuck, you’re good at that."
Derek preens, sucking hard at the head before going deep, pressing his face
against the metal partition separating them. He swallows and breathes through
his nose until his gag reflex subsides, then pulls back, only to go deep again.
This time, he stays. He presses his face against the metal and moans. When Mr.
Stilinski inches a little deeper, Derek moans again, trying to show his
approval. 
It only takes two small, rocking thrusts for Mr. Stilinski to get it, and he
starts fucking Derek’s mouth in earnest, plunging in and out with measured but
deep thrusts.
Derek loves it, lets his eyes droop closed as Mr. Stilinski uses his mouth. His
dick is hard as a crowbar in his pants and he adjusts it so he can focus on
pleasuring Mr. Stilinski instead. He moans wantonly, leaning against the metal
barrier, and when Mr. Stilinski starts to speed up, he bobs his head in
counterpoint to Mr. Stilinski’s thrusts, deep throating him on every thrust.
The first burst of Mr. Stilinski’s come goes straight down Derek’s throat, but
Derek catches the rest on his tongue, milking the length of Mr. Stilinski’s
cock with his hand as he sucks greedily at the head. He’s reluctant to let go,
to lose the feel and taste and scent of Mr. Stilinski, but his teacher hisses
and pulls back as his cock softens, oversensitive.
Derek watches through the hole as Mr. Stilinski tucks himself in and zips up.
"Thanks," Mr. Stilinski says, sounding genuinely grateful. He presses his
finger to Derek’s spit-slick and swollen lip in a mirror of his previous
gesture.
Derek smiles around it, and this time it’s Mr. Stilinski who gasps.
Chapter End Notes
     Crap, more 3x08 feels. No, what are you talking about, I'm not
     crying, it's just raining inside my house.
***** In Teen Wolf AU, harem has /you/ *****
Chapter Summary
     curlsabroad prompted: Skinny dipping in a hot tub at night, then
     going outside to let the steam curl off their bodies and cool down.
     Intercrucial sex or a bit of cock worship.
Chapter Notes
     Since this gets confusing, the Stileses are as such:
     Stiles 1: aggressive, perceptive, bossy, the guy with a plan
     Stiles 2: protective, selfless, selfish, impulsive
     Stiles 3: guilty, quiet, hesitant, intense
Stiles curls into Derek’s left side, sinking a little lower on the jacuzzi’s
bench and keeping a protective eye on a second Stiles while the third Stiles,
kneeling up over Derek from his right side, aggressively kisses him. Derek
arches into the biting, sucking press of mouths and skates his hand over the
miles of naked skin that steam gently in the open evening air.
"Y’know," the protective Stiles says, “I get that we’re supposed to be laying
low and hiding that stupid cursed teakettle, but this feels a lot more like
vacation than hiding. Who knew the Argents would spring for a luxurious hidey-
hole away from home, right?"
The second stiles, sitting across from them in the jacuzzi, looks guiltily away
from them, shoulders hunching in.
The aggressive Stiles drags himself away from Derek’s mouth and looks at the
guilty Stiles. “C’mere," he says. “He wants all of us, including you."
Guilty Stiles shakes his head and curls in on himself. The protective Stiles
bristles.
"Hey, leave him alone," the protective Stiles snaps, slipping off the bench to
stand between the two. “Let him do what he wants."
The aggressive Stiles squares off against him, but before he can instigate yet
another fight between them, Derek drags him back down to the bench and hooks a
foot behind the protective Stiles’ knee, pulling it out from under him. He tips
into the water with a flail and a splash and surfaces with an outraged
splutter.
"Stop fucking fighting," Derek snaps at the two, eyes flashing red. The
aggressive Stiles snorts but settles back into Derek’s right side and turns
perceptive eyes on his shy counterpart. The protective Stiles, lacking that
perception but full up on selflessness and impulsivity, wades away and drops
down next to the guilty Stiles, draping an arm over his hunched shoulders even
as the guilty Stiles eyes the empty space at Derek’s left with the kind of
longing hunger that Derek used to see sometimes before he and Stiles got their
shit together. Derek softens his expression and holds his hand out.
"Would you come sit next to me? It would make me happy if you would."
The shy Stiles looks from Derek’s hand to his face and back again. Derek hopes
he’s made the right move; this Stiles is skittish and hard to read, his face
quiet without being blank even as he exudes so much guilt that even Derek
chokes on it sometimes. He wonders what Stiles did, or what Stiles thinks he
did, that he blames himself enough for the guilt to have earned itself a
physical body when that stupid cursed kettle split Stiles into three.
Apparently Derek has struck the right tone, because the guilty Stiles lets
himself be reeled in. He tucks himself tightly against Derek’s side, like he’s
trying to hold onto him with his whole body. Protective Stiles rolls his eyes
and follows, dropping onto Derek’s lap.
They all lean into him, their feelings for him the one thing they all have in
common, and Derek lets his head loll back onto the edge of the jacuzzi. 
If Stiles had been himself, all in one piece, they probably would be having sex
by now, unable to resist the lure of bare flesh and privacy, but somehow being
split into three has mellowed him. Maybe it’s because their individual
attraction to Derek is spread thin amongst the three of them. Derek doesn’t
know. But there’s no denying the sensual intimacy of the four of them curled
together, bare skin on bare skin all submerged in hot, frothy water.
Derek, penned in by Stileses, drowses like a cat in a sunbeam.
The aggressive, perceptive one taps him to awareness a while later. Derek feels
like cooked jelly.
"We should get out. We’re getting overheated," he says.
Derek nods and he slips out from under Derek’s arm, climbing out of the jacuzzi
onto the deck. His sleek, wet body billows steam in the cool air as he gets the
towels and Derek can barely tear his eyes away to climb out after after the
other two Stileses. Only now, there’s three wet Stileses all steaming and wet
and beautiful and staring at Derek’s hardening cock.
The aggressive Stiles smirks, standing next to the towels but making no move to
pick them up. “Maybe we should air dry," he suggests.
The protective Stiles is already shamelessly stroking his dick, eyeing Derek
like he’s dinner and dessert all on one plate. The quiet Stiles stares at Derek
with a silent intensity that makes his skin prickle.
Derek shivers under the weight of their collective stare and the muscles of his
ass clench in anticipation. “We’re not having sex out here," he says.
The shameless one rolls his eyes expansively and grabs him by the hand,
dragging him toward the house. Derek trails after him, wreathed in the steam
still rising off Stiles’ body.
"We’re totally getting a jacuzzi," the aggressive Stiles says as he slips into
the house, ushering the quiet Stiles in before him.
The Stiles pulling Derek toward the bedroom crows, “Aw, yeah."
The third Stiles doesn’t say anything, but when Derek glances back over his
shoulder, he’s smiling just slightly. He peels away into the attached bath when
they get into the bedroom and emerges with a towel in hand.
"We shouldn’t get the bed wet," he says. The two other Stileses converge on him
and start rubbing him down, playfully tussling as they get him, and then each
other, dry.
It’s bizarrely arousing to watch. Of course, the sight of Stiles naked is
always arousing to Derek, but seeing this much Stiles, three whole copies of
him, naked and wrestling with a towel, well, Derek understands the whole
fascination with women wrestling in mud a little better now. And of course the
aggressive Stiles, keen-eyed as ever, keeps glancing over at Derek and then
touching one of the other Stileses in a way that is decidedly less innocent
than he’s pretending to be.
At some unknown signal, their heads turn in unison to Derek, still dripping
lukewarm water on the carpet. The impulsive one lunges first, towel in hand.
The other two flank Derek, penning him in again, and suddenly he’s the one
being manhandled, the vocal Stileses laughing and the quiet one smiling as they
briskly rub him down. Their rough swipes with the damp towel are interspersed
with caresses and kisses and, from the shameless one, bites.
When the quiet Stiles decides they’re all sufficiently dry, he leans into
Derek, followed by the other two, who lean and shove until Derek topples over
onto the mattress. The weight of them landing on him forces the breath from his
lungs.
"Hey," the bossy Stiles says to the protective one, “get the lube." And then he
arranges Derek to his liking, the guilty, quiet Stiles laying beneath the
shelter of Derek’s bulk. His fingers tentatively trace the definition of
Derek’s chest and shoulders, like they’re not sure of their welcome, no matter
how tenderly Derek kisses him.
There are hands on his ass, lube-slick fingers dipping into his relaxed hole to
stretch him. Two more hands squeeze into the space behind his balls, smearing
lube on the upper insides of his thighs and along his perineum. Derek gasps and
ruts against the belly of the Stiles beneath him.
One of the Stileses, he doesn’t know which, shifts around to sit just above the
quiet Stiles’ head. His and Derek’s bodies are offset just enough that Derek
can reach the other Stiles’ cock with his mouth and he sucks eagerly on the
head as the Stiles behind him pushes three fingers into Derek’s ass. He makes
an annoyed ‘tch’ when he sees the other Stiles feeding Derek his cock.
"A+ teamwork," he snarks. He reaches under Derek with one hand, holding Derek’s
balls up out of the way as the Stiles under Derek guides his cock into the
narrow gap along his perineum.
"Pshyeah," the impulsive Stiles says, guiding Derek’s head up and down. “Like
you expected me to wait around for you two to get in on this."
Derek moans as the aggressive Stiles presses his cock into Derek’s slicked
hole. He squeezes his thighs tightly and the Stiles under him gasps against his
collarbone and plants his feet to rut up into the tight gap.
There are some fits and starts as they get into a rhythm, their six hands
tugging and shoving Derek here and there, rubbing up his sides, along his
spine, tracing the whorls of his tattoo. The quiet, somber Stiles is especially
attentive to Derek’s nipples, rolling them between his clever fingers.
The rest of the world goes away, fading out of Derek’s awareness until there’s
just him and and the three cocks pounding into him. He’s never had sex like
this before—the kind that makes him feel sheltered, safe enough to let himself
be buoyed up on the rising swell of pleasure—and he knows that as much as he
misses the sharp eyes, giving heart, and shadowed soul of his Stiles, he’s
going to miss this too, once it’s gone.
Derek’s thighs ache with the strain of holding them closed, but he can tell
they’re all getting close. The Stiles in his mouth starts face fucking him and
Derek lets him, watching with hooded, unfocused eyes as his cock drives in and
out, shiny with Derek’s spit. When his cock swells ominously, Derek takes him
deep, burying his nose in Stiles’ wiry pubes and swallowing as he comes down
Derek’s throat. His fingers clench and relax in Derek’s hair with each pulse,
and then Stiles eases Derek off his sensitive cock, guiding his head down to
kiss the somber Stiles with slack, swollen lips.
The Stiles fucking his ass starts pounding hard, slamming over his prostate
with each sharp lunge. Derek moans and keens into the quiet Stiles’ mouth and
grinds his dripping cock against his flat belly. A hand worms its way between
them, and with a few rough pulls, drags Derek over the edge, his body flexing
and bowing as he streaks white come all up the Stiles’ chest. The bossy Stiles
slams his cock into Derek once, twice more, then comes, gripping Derek’s hips
hard enough to bruise a human.
Derek, limp and shivering with aftershocks, lets himself be rolled onto his
back, his legs spread and lifted by the two other Stileses as the third slips
between them, guiding his cock into Derek’s still-twitching hole. He fucks
Derek gently, with deep, even thrusts that make Derek tremble. Finally he, too,
comes, without much fanfare, filling Derek’s already come-slick hole with more
of the same.
The three of them fuss over Derek, wiping him down, kissing and touching and
murmuring at him. They burrow their way under the covers and Derek, wrung out
in all the best ways, falls asleep under a heap of Stileses, wondering what
tomorrow will bring.
***** Homoerotic Buddy Cop verse Part 1: Nice to meetcha *****
Chapter Summary
     Deaton will forever maintain that he was not of sound mind and body
     when he made the decision to pair up Stilinski and Hale.
"And this," Supervisor Deaton intones, drawing to a halt in front of one of the
workstations with a little click of his heels, “is Datamancer Stilinski. You’ll
be working with him from this point on."
Derek gives the datamancer’s station a perfunctory once-over. It is, like the
others’ around him, a concave, floor-to-ceiling screen cluttered with dozens of
open browsers, some panning through walls of text, others running videos, one
or two flicking through social networking sites. Stilinski sits with his back
to them, but his hands hover outside the arms of his chair, subtly twitching
and flexing. He taps the ring and pinky of his right hand together, the
circuitry of his manip gloves shining through the black cloth under the harsh
fluorescents above, and on the screen, a new window pops up.
Derek blinks. It’s his personnel file, and completely uncensored to boot.
Deaton pointedly turns away from it, perfectly aware that nobody on this floor
has the security clearance to view personnel files in their entirety but
apparently perfectly willing to turn a blind eye to proof of his subordinates’
rule-breaking.
Stilinski curls his right ring finger and the file obediently disappears. Just
to show off, then. Fine. Derek’s worked with worse.
"Stilinski has your case file and I’ve already authorized the standard field
equipment for you, Operative Hale, which you can pick up at your leisure,"
Deaton says. He glances between them. “Best of luck, and do try to keep
property damage down."
Stilinski snorts. Deaton doesn’t roll his eyes, precisely, but his body
language seems to suggest that he would, and expansively too, if his
professionalism could bend far enough to permit it. He walks away, almost
perfectly silent, even to Derek’s werewolf hearing.
Stilinski’s fingers curl into loose fists and all the movement on his screen
pauses at the signal. He turns his customized office chair, peeling his manips
off, and Derek’s breath fucking catches at his first glimpse of the datamancer.
Like all other mancers, he has no pupil or iris, just solidly colored scleras,
a warm caramel brown that suits him unreasonably well. Derek wonders
whimsically if his moles taste like dark chocolate and his skin like
marshmallows.
"Welcome aboard, dude," Stilinski drawls. “Call me Stiles. You ready to get
this party started?"
Derek swallows down the inappropriate rush of attraction and nods. “What’ve we
got?"
Stiles grins, slow and broad with bubblegum pink lips, and Derek thinks he’s
maybe made a terrible wonderful terrible mistake somewhere along the line.
***** Homoerotic Buddy Cop verse Part 2: Getting to know all about you *****
Chapter Summary
     Good thing werewolves can't get diabetes.
"Here you go, dude," Stiles says, dropping into the passenger’s seat and
tapping Derek’s shoulder with a Starbucks coffee cup. Derek takes it absently,
not looking away from their target and raises it to take a sip—
Only to choke when what comes out is most decidedly not liquid.
"What the hell?" he coughs, popping the lid off. There’s no coffee in it at
all, just white sugar. “I said coffee, Stiles. Not one of your dumbass pranks."
"Please," Stiles snorts, sipping something that is probably actual coffee.
“Don’t think I don’t know your dirty secret."
Derek glares. “What secret."
Stiles smirks, all smug and punchable. “That you drink decaf, Hale. You don’t
actually want caffeine. You just want a convenient hot liquid in which to
suspend massive amounts of sugar."
"So what," Derek snaps, embarrassed, “You got me straight sugar for laughs? How
the hell am I supposed to eat this, anyway?"
Stiles’ eyebrows climb as he blinks slowly. “Well, first of all, I thought I’d
just cut out the middleman. And second of all, you were supposed to throw it
out like the huffy diva you are, not actually eat it. But I’ve got a spoon if
you want it."
He pulls a spoon and a bundle of napkins out of his pocket and holds them out.
There’s no mockery in his expression for once, not even the general amusement
Derek is used to seeing; his expression is open but bland, like Stiles is
offering a spoon for Derek to eat soup instead of sugar.
Derek takes the spoon, not quite sure what to think.
"So, I got Danny to send me our guy’s phone records, but the guy’s a total text
whore, so I’ll need to go back to the office to analyze it all—"
Derek sneaks a little sugar while Stiles talks, just a few grains in the bowl
of the spoon, but when Stiles’ expression doesn’t so much as flicker, he goes
back for a bigger spoonful, relaxing in his seat as he keeps an eye on their
target and an ear on Stiles.
***** The obligatory fisting porn *****
Chapter Summary
     sanhaim prompted: They’re trying fisting for the first time and Derek
     is loving EVERY second of it.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Well, Mr. Hale, that’s about it for today. Do you have any more questions
before your prostate exam?"
Derek mutely shakes his head, grateful once again for the looseness of his gown
as his cock thickens at the mere mention of the exam. The doctor guides him to
stand and bend over the exam bed with his feet apart.
"I’m going to use my finger to examine your prostate through the wall of your
colon," the doctor says with clinical impartiality. Derek can hear his gloves
rustling as he applies lubricant to his finger. “Is that okay?"
"Yeah," Derek grunts. He ducks his head, trying to hide the blush he can feel
heating his face and throat. If he’s lucky, the doctor won’t notice how hard
he’s gotten.
There’s a touch of a finger against his rim, but it hesitates.
"I notice that there’s already lubricant here." The doctor delicately traces
the rim of Derek’s hole. “There’s also some irritation and swelling. Have you
recently had anal intercourse?"
"No," Derek whispers, embarrassed. “Just a toy."
"I see. Well, make sure you wash your toys well with soap and hot water.
There’s a lot of bacteria inside our bodies that’s meant to stay in there."
The doctor slips his finger in easily, Derek’s sphincter still loose from the
toy. He prods at Derek’s prostate and Derek grunts, instinctively pushing back
onto the doctor’s finger.
"Are you alright, Mr. Hale?" the doctor asks. He lays a warm hand on the small
of Derek’s back.
"Ye-yeah," Derek breathes. But when the doctor begins inspecting his prostate,
tracing the shape and testing the feel of it, he clamps down around the
doctor’s finger and grinds down shamelessly.
"Mr. Hale," the doctor sighs. “If you could please hol-"
"More," Derek whines. He pushes his rear back and rolls his hips, wanting more
of that finger on his prostate.
The doctor takes a slow breath and says, “That would be highly unprofessional
of me," but he’s already leaning into Derek’s space. Derek can smell the
arousal wafting through his black slacks and white coat.
"Please," Derek begs. “I won’t tell, I promise."
"No," the doctor purrs into Derek’s ear. He drapes himself on Derek’s back,
pressing him down onto the exam bed as he slides another finger in. It had
already been slicked with lube. “No, you won’t."
Derek moans and arches, pushing his ass greedily into the doctor’s hand. It’s
not- it’s not enough.
"More!"
"Shhh," the doctor soothes. He gently places his free hand over Derek’s mouth.
“You have to be quiet, understand? This is a doctor’s office. Wouldn’t want one
of the nurses to walk by and hear you begging for it, would you?"
Derek shakes his head and groans into the doctor’s hand, the sound smothered by
his gloved palm.
"You’re doing very well, Mr. Hale," the doctor says. “Ready for more?"
Derek whines and nods desperately, cupping a hand over the doctor’s to help
keep the sound from escaping. The fingers slip free as the doctor rearranges
his hand, and then he’s filling Derek, sliding his fingers into Derek’s eager
hole and stretching him wide, wide-
"That’s-" Derek gasps. That is not three fingers. His knees feel shaky and he
locks them before he can slide to the floor.
"One, two, three, four," the doctor says, wiggling the tip of each finger in
turn. “How are you doing, Mr. Hale?"
"Good," he pants into the doctor’s palm.
"Not too much?"
"No. It feels- I like it. It’s just. Good."
“‘It’s just good’?" the doctor asks, ominously bland.
Then Derek feels it, the doctor’s thumb slipping in alongside his fingers, the
‘good’ warming to a hot, stinging stretch as the doctor slowly presses in, the
ridge of his knuckles coming up against Derek’s rim. Derek squirms, not
prepared for the intensity, and he claws at the surface of the exam bed,
desperate for something to hold onto.
"Breathe with me," the doctor says calmly, and counts out cycles of inhales and
exhales. Derek forces himself to follow them. He’s shaky at first, gasping and
stuttering his way through the cycles, but the doctor keeps counting, steady
and patient. Eventually, Derek’s hands relax on the exam bed.
"Bear down for me," the doctor says. Derek does, exhaling noisily. There’s a
moment when the pain overcomes the pleasure, but the doctor is efficient,
pushing through until his knuckles and the heel of his palm slip through
Derek’s sphincter. And then there’s relief, the strained ring of muscle closing
around the doctor’s narrower wrist. Derek breathes through it, focusing on the
flow of air in his lungs instead of the almost unbearable fullness in his ass.
"Congratulations, Mr. Hale," the doctor murmurs into Derek’s ear. Derek turns
his head and the tip of the doctor’s nose swipes over Derek’s cheekbone. “You
took it all."
He barely hears the words. The heel of the doctor’s hand is a constant pressure
on Derek’s prostate. Derek can’t help but roll his hips, experimenting with the
flex of the doctors’s hand inside of him. It moves with him for the most part,
but the way it slides against his insides is… intense. The doctor turns his
hand just so, fitting the base of his thumb against Derek’s prostate and Derek
arches into it, rolling his hips to chase that pressure and friction.
The doctor guides them down, his arm wrapped tight around Derek’s waist,
lowering him until Derek’s shaking knees hit the floor. The movement changes
the position of the doctor’s hand and Derek grinds into it, clinging to the
side of the exam bed and keening into the doctor’s hand, still covering his
mouth.
"You seem to be in some distress, Mr. Hale," the doctor says. His voice is just
a shade too husky to be purely professional. His hand peels away from Derek’s
mouth. “What can I do to help you?"
"Touch," Derek gasps between moans. “Touch my- touch my cock, please, please!"
"You would like for me to stimulate your erection?" the doctor asks. His hand
slides under Derek’s gown and around to his front, his index finger and thumb
forming a loose ring around the base of Derek’s leaking cock. “How would you
like me to do that?"
Derek grips the side of the bed, struggling to focus. “H-hold it."
The doctor loosely curls his hand over the shaft, letting it rest in the palm
of his hand.
"Gr-rip," Derek prompts. The hand curls until the doctor’s fingers close over
it in a firm hold.
"Slide it up, and then the head. Rub the head." The hand obeys, dragging up
Derek’s shaft. The doctor’s thumb swipes firmly over the head, rubbing the
frenulum, dipping into the urethra, and tracing the ridge of the corona. Derek
hunches over like he’s been gut-punched and presses his face against the side
of the bed, gasping for breath.
"Down. And then aga-again."
The doctor’s hand slides to the base of Derek’s cock, pauses, and begins to
repeat the cycle, sliding up, rubbing over the head, and sliding down. At the
same time, the hand still in Derek’s ass starts to twist in tandem.
Derek, overwhelmed, arches, his spine bowing as he tips back onto his heels,
head thrown back and eyes gazing blindly at the ceiling. The doctor swipes his
hand one last time over the head of Derek’s cock and he comes, mouth open and
teeth bared in a silent roar as the whole world whites out around him.
&&&
He’s still on the bedroom floor when he comes to, but Stiles is there with him,
spooning him from behind as he pets Derek’s sweaty chest. He’s hard, the hot
ridge of his cock pressed against Derek’s asscheek, but when Derek shifts, he
holds Derek still, grounding him with the simple press of his palm over Derek’s
heart and his lips at Derek’s nape.
"You really weren’t kidding about the doctor fantasy," he says fondly, nuzzling
Derek’s hairline. “I thought you were going to come with just one finger in
you."
Derek grunts lazily.
"And don’t worry about this," Stiles adds, grinding his cock against Derek’s
aching ass. “You can make it up to me tomorrow morning with some sexy maid
roleplay."
Crap. Derek hates wearing heels.
Chapter End Notes
     Derek may hate the heels, but he kinda likes the skirt. He really
     likes the feather duster.
***** Homoerotic Buddy Cop verse Part 3: On the job *****
Chapter Summary
     Derek may not understand how Stilinski does what he does, but he
     definitely appreciates it. In many, many ways.
"Aw yes," Stiles crows, hopping out of the car and all but sprinting toward the
library. “Fucking love libraries."
Derek trails along in his wake. They’re pressed for time, hunting down a
librarian turned wendigo, but the first thing Stiles had done after reading the
case file was to insist that they stop at the librarian’s place of employment
even though it had already been thoroughly picked over by the Bureau.
"The thing about public libraries," Stiles explains, flashing his badge at the
girl at the desk, “is that the books want to share. Private libraries keep
their secrets, but public, especially circulating, libraries will spill their
guts to anyone who’ll walk by slow enough to hear."
Derek supposes that he doesn’t have any room to talk, since he’s not a
datamancer, but when Stiles starts to turn in circles in the open, airy space,
he can’t help but roll his eyes.
"Keep doing that and you’re going to get dizzy," he says blandly. “If you puke
I’m leaving you here."
Stiles pauses and wobbles, then glares at Derek. “Dude, do I distract you when
you’re doing your werewolfy thing?"
"Yes," Derek says.
Stiles’ mouth works but for once no snark comes out. “Well, shut up while I
commune with the data, okay?"
Derek huffs and rolls his eyes, but settles in to wait, focusing on his own
senses.
Stiles is a beacon of sensation, a vivid blur of sound and scent and color.
There’s candy in his pockets. Beyond that are the patrons, many of whom are
staring at them. There’s the ominpresent scent of books, vanilla like ice cream
seeping into every surface, inanimate and animate. Their wendigo bleeds the
same smell, noticeable even under the stink of blood. Electricity hums through
the lights and computers. Heartbeats thrum. Blood rushes, digestion gurgles.
The plants in the corners breathe.
Something stirs at the very edges of Derek’s senses. He turns his head this way
and that, trying to pin it down, but it surrounds him, like the sound of the
autumn wind rustling the dying leaves when he jogs through the forests back
home. He expands his hearing to the limit but the sensation stays distant.
Scent yields the same non-result. He pulls them back, not wanting to overwhelm
himself, and the odd presence remains.
It feels familiar, buzzing at the edges of his awareness, and when Derek turns
to face Stiles, that buzzing is magnified thousandsfold.
The sensory noise snaps Derek out of his daze like a sucker punch to the face
and he reels his senses back in. He rubs his eyes even though they’re not the
problem; all his senses tingle and feel strangely spotty, the same way his eyes
get when he’s looked directly at the sun.
Stiles is standing perfectly still. He would look like a statue if not for the
faint twitching of his fingers, an ingrained habit from using the manip gloves.
Around the edges of his outline, the air seems to shimmer, and Derek wonders if
what he’s seeing is a datamancer in full dive. He hadn’t known that was even
possible with data sources as primitive as books.
A handful of minutes pass, and the buzzing fades out of his senses’ reach.
Stiles blinks, blinks again, and turns to Derek with a triumphant grin. Not for
the first time, Derek wonders what Stiles sees when he looks at him, if he can
read Derek’s DNA right off his skin, if the endless wounds that his healing
factor has absorbed are somehow archived in the tissues.
"This library has a disproportionately large number of books on spiders, so I
now know everything I never wanted to know about the freakish things. But I
also know that there’s an exhibit on spiders currently on display at the
museum. Let’s go, Lassie," Stiles chirps, plucking a hard candy from his pocket
and tossing it at Derek like it’s a fucking treat. (Aside from the fact that it
kinda is.)
"So our wendigo librarian likes spiders?" Derek asks, unwrapping the candy as
they head out. Fake cherry and Stiles-scent explode in his mouth and Derek
rolls the candy around on his tongue to savor the flavors.
Stiles shudders. “More than just likes. But if you really want to know, ask me
when you need to lose your appetite as fast as possible."
They clamber back into the car, which is starting to smell less like a random
mix of Bureau employees and more like them, just them, and wonders if he should
ask anyway and use the undoubtedly horrifying story to squash his libido when
it gets unruly. He glances at Stiles, who is already pulling up the museum’s
website on his tablet.
Maybe not, though.
***** The Loft scene, revisited *****
Chapter Summary
     Anonymous prompted: Alpha stiles/human derek + knotting
Chapter Notes
     This is set in an AU where the Stilinski and Hale families are
     swapped. Stiles was the dumb kid who got snared by Kate and his mom
     was the one who died in the fire. Meanwhile, Derek is Scott's best
     friend and it's Laura who drags the two of them out that night and
     gets herself bit.
Derek paces the length of the bare living room, not for the first time wishing
that Stiles would actually buy basic furniture for his empty house instead of
leaving Derek to sew up the oozing wound in his side by only the orange glow of
the streetlights that comes in through the big picture windows. He checks his
phone again, but there’s no new messages, only confirmation from Laura saying
that she got his text about Stiles being alive.
Well, Derek thinks, sliding down to sit on the hardwood floor next to Stiles’
unconscious body, at least the water works.
Derek falls asleep at some point, but wakes to the image of Stiles leaning over
him, his big hands gently tucking Stiles’ worn, brown leather jacket around
him. Stiles pauses, and Derek thinks he looks like something out of a museum,
shadows limned in garish orange light.
"Hey buddy," Stiles whispers. “Sorry to wake you. Thanks for sewing me up,
though."
Derek sits up and brown leather slips down to pool in his lap. “Did you heal?"
Stiles ducks his head to look and prods at the awful wound, looking more like a
kid picking a scab than the big bad alpha of Beacon Hills’ ragtag werewolf
pack. “Not yet, but it’s getting there."
"Sorry it’s a mess," Derek says sheepishly. He plucks at the leather jacket and
absently arranges it over his legs.
"I guess your embroidery could use a little work, but no complaints from this
quarter." Stiles tilts his head to look out the windows. “You should probably
get home before your uncle the deputy sheriff initiates a manhunt."
Derek shakes his head and reaches out, hovering his fingers over the jagged
wound on Stiles’ shoulder. “I want to stay with you."
Stiles sighs and pulls away. “Look, kid-"
"Don’t call me that," Derek snaps.
"It’s what you are," Stiles says coldly. He sighs, shoulders slumping, and
continues in a softer tone. “In a few years you probably won’t even remember my
name. You’re a good kid and you’re gonna grow up to be a great guy, and someday
you’re going to make someone the happiest person in the world."
"I recognized you. That day in the woods, when me and Laura were looking for
Scott’s inhaler."
"…So?"
"So, I recognized you even though I hadn’t seen you since I was ten. Do you
really think I’d forget about you again?"
Stiles’ mouth works, like he wants to say many things but can’t decide what
should come out first. “Hope springs eternal, I guess," he sighs eventually.
"I’d wait for you," Derek says. He lifts a tentative, trembling hand and cups
Stiles’ cheek. His skin is feverishly hot, his body fighting off whatever it is
that’s keeping him from healing. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to."
Stiles chuckles weakly, but leans into Derek’s hand. “That’s the exact opposite
of the problem I’m having. You really have no idea, do you, how much I want
you."
Derek gasps, an involuntary little wisp of a breath. On some impulse, some
thrumming need vibrating under his sternum, he leans into Stiles’ space, closer
and closer until he can feel Stiles’ breath fanning across his lips. He’s
shaking, terrified and exhilarated and hoping so hard. Stiles leans in those
last few millimeters and closes the gap between their mouths.
Derek’s never kissed anyone before and it’s obvious, but Stiles guides him,
teaches him how to press and pull and sink into someone else’s mouth. Stiles
tastes of blood and curly fries.
"Holy god, you smell so good," Stiles moans. He noses down the column of
Derek’s throat, dropping kisses on his pulse point, his adam’s apple, the notch
at the top of his chest. A long-fingered hand slides up under Derek’s shirt to
splay against his back. “I shouldn’t do this. This is such a bad idea."
"What are you talking about," Derek breathes, pressing Stiles back down onto
the floor. He may want to make out with the guy of his dreams, but he doesn’t
want the guy popping his stitches in the process. “This is a great idea."
"The worst idea. Your parents are gonna castrate me, and then your uncle the
deputy sheriff is gonna shoot me, and after all that I’ll be sent to prison for
statutory rape. Maybe I should’ve spent less time worrying about your virtue
and more time worrying about mine."
"Um," Derek says sheepishly. He crawls over to his backpack, which is sitting
against the wall, and sticks a hand in one of the pockets, coming up with a
fistful of condoms and lube packets.
"No," Stiles says. “We’re not jumping into this, especially not here. Your
first time deserves to be somewhere better than on a dusty floor in an
abandoned house."
"But I want it to be here! I mean, I didn’t think it’d be on the floor of the
living room, but-"
"Wait," Stiles interrupts. “You’ve been thinking about this? Like, actual
fantasies? I’ve gotta hear this."
"Wha-" Derek splutters. He pounces on Stiles, clapping his hands over that smug
grin. “Shut up!"
Stiles wrestles Derek’s hands away. “Was I romantic? Was there a candlelit
dinner? Soft jazz playing in the background? Did I carry you up to our bed?
Were there rose petals?”
"You’re such an asshole," Derek accuses. “Why do I even like you?"
Stiles sighs and lets Derek go, his arms flopping limply to the floor. “Hell if
I know. But I hope you’re not expecting much. Wounded guy, here."
Derek snorts. “You drove around town in your jeep for hours while dying from a
wolfsbane bullet. You can get it up long enough to make a teenager come."
Stiles gasps theatrically and raises his hand to his chest. “No compassion for
the wounded! I knew it, you just want me for my body."
"I’d never seen your body before tonight," Derek says, abruptly somber. “You’re
always wearing a billion layers." He gingerly touches Stiles’ abdomen, just
above the mess of stitches.
Stiles watches him, keen predator’s eyes cataloging Derek’s expressions and
emotions.
"You really want this." 
"Yeah."
Stiles catches his hand and grips it just shy of too tight. “Derek, are
you sure?”
Derek locks eyes with him and says, “Yes. I’m sure."
"Still don’t get why you’re so insistent on doing this here," Stiles says. He
draws Derek down to lay next to him on the floor. “It’d make me feel better if
you’d wait."
"I don’t get you. You keep saying you don’t want this, then you say you do, and
I can’t tell if you really want this or not. If you don’t, just say so. I’m not
going to rape you."
Stiles snorts. “Lemme be clear then. I want you every way you’ll let me have
you. But I still think it’s too soon."
Derek curls into Stiles’ side and places his hand on Stiles’ heart. “Then why
are you letting me do this?"
"I guess I’m just tired," Stiles says. He tips his head to face Derek and the
shadows hide his expression. “Kate, Gerard, the kanima, the alphas. I’m just.
So, so tired of hurting all the time. I want to feel good for a while, even
though it means taking advantage of you. Vicious cycles."
Vicious cycles? Derek thinks. 
"Don’t think of it that way," he pushes up onto one elbow to curl protectively,
or maybe possessively, over Stiles’ body. “I want this. If anything, I’m the
one taking advantage of you."
"Second verse, same as the first," Stiles murmurs darkly, but he lifts his head
up to bring their mouths together. 
Derek kisses him gently, trying to remember what he’d learned as he slides a
leg over Stiles, straddling his hips. He slides his hands down Stiles’ arms,
the lean muscle firm under his palms, and tangles their fingers together,
drawing Stiles’ hands to his body.
"You should probably let me turn over," Stiles says into Derek’s mouth.
Derek grunts, annoyed. “Please. I started fingering myself when I was thirteen.
I can handle it, I promise. Besides, it’s not like you have a knot or
anything."
Stiles’ hands go conspicuously still on Derek’s hips. “Uh, hey, about that."
Derek sits back and glares down at Stiles. “Laura was joking when she said
that. You don’t have a knot."
Stiles jazz-hands. “Surprise?"
Derek huffs and rolls his eyes. His freaking life. Of course Stiles has a knot,
because that’s par for the course in the weirdness that Derek has fallen into.
"You sure you don’t wanna wait? At least until we can get somewhere with a
bed?"
Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Stiles’ wounds look less awful than they
did. Derek smooths a hand down the center of his chest and feels the rise and
fall of his breathing.
"I want it," he says, deciding to lay all his cards on the table. “I want you.
Here. In the house that you rebuilt from your mom's drawings. It’s just
symbolic, okay?"
Stiles stares up at Derek, half his expression lost to shadow. The other half
is serene and unbearably fond.
"She would’ve loved you. Kicked my sorry butt for not waiting and doing things
right, but she’d have loved you."
Derek feels his ears go hot and tries to school his giddy expression into
blankness.
"I’m tired, Derek," Stiles says. “I’ve been an alpha since I was sixteen and
blaming myself for falling into Kate’s trap. My pack was just me and my dad for
six years, and now that I’ve got something like a proper pack, it’s under siege
from all comers. But nobody wants to work together, everyone wants their own
way, and it’s pulling me apart.
"I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Keep trying to be strong, keep
trying to herd cats. I don’t even know if I’ve got it in me to live out the
rest of the week. I don’t know what to do, what decisions to make, or even if
I’ve got the strength left in me to follow through on them. I’m just really
tired."
Derek swallows hard. He doesn’t know what to say or what to do. All he knows is
that he has an overwhelming urge to comfort Stiles and support him with all the
strength in his weak human limbs.
"All I know," Stiles adds, “Is that being with you makes me feel like I don’t
have to hurt anymore."
Derek’s eyes water at the confession and he scrubs his hands over them,
pinching away the tears. 
"Crap, I’m being such a downer." Stiles pulls Derek down and kisses the smooth
corner of his jaw. “Sorry."
Derek turns his face into it, chasing Stiles’ mouth with his own. He can feel
his face burning. Cool air brushes the small of his back as Stiles slides his
hands under Derek’s shirt.
"Let me comfort you?" Derek asks, then immediately feels like a trite moron.
But Stiles says, “You always are," and splays his hands over the wings of
Derek’s shoulder blades. His long fingers dip into the space between, rubbing
the skin like Derek is the one with the tattoo. They ease Derek’s jacket and
shirt off together and at the press of Stiles’ warm (no longer feverish) skin
against his own, Derek shivers.
Getting the rest of their clothes off is a little more awkward. Derek unties
his shoes and strips his socks off before shoving his jeans and boxers off,
then helps Stiles with his, peeling away his clothes with much more care and
curiosity.
Stiles is white and speckled all over, and Derek traces lines between the moles
on his thigh even as his eyes fix onto Stiles’ cock. It’s hard, dark under the
unflattering street lights, and there’s a slight bulge around the base. Stiles
guides his hand to it and he squeezes it gently. It feels oddly spongy and the
pressure makes Stiles grunt and rock up into his fist. Stiles flinches a moment
later and his fingers flutter over the wound in his side.
This time, Derek definitely sees a difference. Most of the wound is still an
ugly gash, but it’s no longer oozing and a few of the stitches at the very edge
anchor into smooth, even skin.
"You’re healing," Derek says, quietly relieved.
"Yep. That’s a thing I do. Also, coming in your hand is a thing I might do."
Derek drops Stiles’ cock like a hot potato. It makes Stiles laugh and Derek’s
face burns with embarrassment.
"So what do you think?" Stiles asks, gesturing at his dick and the soft bulge
of tissue at its base.
"I think my life has become a story arc on Supernatural," Derek snarks dryly.
“Werewolves and murder lizards and knotted dicks, oh my. But I still want it,
weirdly enough."
"Yeah? Why? Why risk your friends and family on all this?" Stiles says,
gesturing broadly.
Why indeed. Derek picks opens a packet of lube and squeezes it onto his
fingers. He’ll have to be slick and loose as hell if he’s going to take that
knot in him without tearing something.
"Being a werewolf has made Laura a better person. She’s still a bully, but
she’s not as…bad, I guess? Me and Scott have actual friends now, and Scott’s
found Allison, who he’s over the moon in love with. Uncle Peter is finally
interested in his job instead of just going through the motions. Jackson’s not
a raging asshole anymore and he and Lydia are actually really happy together."
Stiles has slicked up his own fingers and follows Derek’s hand around behind
him, the combined touch of their fingertips against his opening making Derek
shiver and slump down onto Stiles’ chest.
"And what about you?" Stiles asks. He trails kisses down from Derek’s hairline
to the corner of his mouth.
"I get to be with you," Derek says distractedly. Stiles’ finger is working in
alongside his. The stretch and faint burn is familiar, something Derek has done
to himself more times than he can count, but the unfamiliar fingers make it so
much better, letting him focus on the sensation instead of the action.
"Seems like a raw deal," Stiles says flippantly. “You getting stuck with a
damaged asshole with more baggage than LAX."
Derek pins Stiles’ face between his hands and kisses him hard, more a painful
mashing of lips than anything else. “I want all of you," he says vehemently.
Stiles’ eyes widen and Derek can practically see his brain churning, adding a
new layer to everything they've said. Stiles drags him down and kisses him
back, just as fiercely, and Derek can almost hear what he’s thinking, not quite
an I love you too, but something close, almost there, I care about you so much
that I want to be near you as much as I can.
When their lips drift apart, Stiles says “You got lube in my hair," and pumps
three long, knobby fingers in and out of Derek’s welcoming hole.
"Deal with it," Derek deadpans, and sits back, grinding down onto Stiles’
fingers. A fourth works its way in and Derek breathes through it, bearing down
and relaxing with the ease of long practice.
"Oh my god, you really weren’t kidding about fingering yourself, were you?"
Stiles stares down at where his fingers are sinking into Derek’s body.
Derek breathes slowly through his nose. “There may have, umm! May have been a
toy?"
Stiles pushes himself up on his free hand and nips his way up Derek’s chest to
his throat. “Tell me about the toy," he says darkly, possessively, before
putting his mouth on Derek’s throat and initiating what will undoubtedly be a
mean hickey.
"Uncle Pe-ah! Peter got it for me," Derek gasps.
Stiles’ eyes flare red. “What."
"It was a joke." Derek clumsily pets Stiles’ face and shoulders, like he can
wipe away the sudden tension. “He accidentally walked in on me fing-fingering
myself."
Stiles’ eyes dim and he hums thoughtfully as he twists his fingers in Derek’s
ass, dragging his fingertips over Derek’s prostate. Derek jerks and his eyes
loose focus at the sharp burn of pleasure. “Somehow I’m not surprised. Your
uncle the deputy sheriff is creepily inappropriate, for all that he’s a sassy
bastard. Pass me a condom."
Derek forces his face to go blank so he doesn’t scowl at the condom he hands
over. Call him hasty or foolish or whatever, but he’d been hoping to feel
Stiles in him without a condom.
"Are you seriously pouting?" Stiles asks incredulously. “Look, you’ll thank me
when you can walk around without having to worry about jizz leaking out of your
ass."
"I could always just shower right after," Derek sulks, but he rolls the condom
onto Stiles’ dick anyway.
Stiles blinks. “Wait, the water works?"
"Uh, yeah. Gas and electricity too. I even lit the pilot light under the water
heater so I could wash your side with hot water."
"Wait, so why are we in the dark?"
Derek rolls his eyes expansively. “No lightbulbs. Can we stop talking about
utilities and have sex now?"
Stiles stares up at Derek. Then he pulls off the condom and empties a full
packet of lube onto his bare cock. Derek’s breath catches. He lifts up and
shuffles forward, taking Stiles’ heavy cock in hand to line it up-
"Wait," Stiles says, reaching for their clothes. He starts folding them
sloppily.
"What now," Derek bitches.
"Wow, Primadonna Girl, slow your roll. Just thought you might want to spare
your knees the abuse." Stiles drops two messy piles of folded clothes next to
Derek’s knees.
Derek feels himself blushing again but shuffles onto the piles. His knees
instantly feel better than when they’d been supporting his weight on the wood
floor. “Sorry," he mutters. “Thanks."
"Giddyup," Stiles says, smirking. He reaches down to slap Derek’s ass with one
big hand and Derek jumps, more at the sound than the brief sting. Derek rolls
his eyes but sinks down onto Stiles’ cock, both of them groaning at the
sensation.
"Oh my god," Derek moans, working his way down into Stiles’ lap with little
hitching rolls of his hips.
"No fucking kidding," Stiles agrees. He wraps his arms around Derek and clings
to him. “Fuck, you’re so tight. I’m not gonna last, sorry, it’s just been too
long."
"Oh my god," Derek repeats. “Just. Touch me. Touch my cock."
Stiles works his hand between them and starts jerking Derek’s cock, the feel of
a foreign hand making his eyes roll back in his head. Derek shifts his knees
and drops that last inch onto Stiles’ hips; he can feel the spongy tissue of
Stiles’ knot already starting to expand against the inside of his rim.
"Holy god, really not gonna last," Stiles pants. The arm wrapped around Derek
squeezes tighter. “Why do you smell so good?"
"Old Spice," Derek says as he lifts up. The noise Stiles makes falls somewhere
between a laugh and a wheeze as Derek’s rim squeezes the steadily swelling
knot. Derek rolls his hips experimentally, only fucking the length of Stiles’
knot, and Stiles just starts babbling nonsensically, Derek’s name interspersed
with ‘oh my god’s and ‘fuck’s and ‘holyshitholyshit’s. So yeah, Stiles is a
talker, no surprise there.
He also whines and whimpers, especially when Derek squeezes the base of his
knot, clenching his inner muscles tight around the thickening bulge until it
gets too big for Derek to get his sphincter over. He settles into Stiles’ lap
and just rocks, savoring the pressure of the knot against his prostate.
Stiles’ hand stutters unevenly over Derek’s cock as he gets close to coming.
He’ll give it a few pulls, get distracted by the pressure and heat of Derek’s
ass around his cock and knot, then seem to remember it again. Derek doesn’t
mind much, more smug at how he’s made Stiles fall apart.
"I’m close," Stiles whines. “Let me-let me-"
"Anything," Derek says, petting Stiles’ hair.
Stiles tips backward until he’s laying flat, sets his feet, and thrusts. The
force of it lifts Derek bodily into the air, riding Stiles’ hips like a bucking
bronco. Pleasure explodes in his groin and he shouts, then shouts again as
Stiles drops down only to shove upward again, slamming his cock into Derek as
deep as it can go.
Stiles thrusts up a third time and a brutal snarl rips out of him as he comes,
his body a straight line from his shoulders up to his knees as his cock spurts
come into Derek’s body. Derek sobs as the knot pulses against his prostate and
hastily jerks his cock. A few pulls is all it takes for Derek to follow, come
streaking out over Stiles’ heaving chest. The clenching of his ass wrings an
animalistic groan from deep in Stiles’ body, the rumble of sound raising a
sympathetic shiver that traces down Derek’s spine.
Stiles lowers them to the floor, Derek’s knees landing on the piles of folded
clothes as he comes down from his orgasm. It’s a slow process, since Stiles’
knot is still pulsing against his prostate and his hips still twitch
spasmodically, jostling his cock and pulling at Derek’s rim. Derek touches him,
running his hands over Stiles’ arms and hair and face and chest. The wounds on
his shoulder have healed by now, and the jagged slash on his abdomen isn’t far
behind, closing up even as Derek watches. He’d get scissors to cut the
stitches, but he’s, well, stuck.
Stiles stares up at him from under hooded eyes, his hands warm on Derek’s
thighs though he’s starting to get chilly everywhere else. Stiles’ brown
leather jacket is still lying on the floor where Derek left it and he snags it
by the hem, dragging it over and shrugging it on. The collar smells like
Stiles’ aftershave. Stiles zips it up for him and smooths the sleeves down his
arms, pressing their palms together and folding his fingers over. Derek grips
him back and leans down for a slow, languid kiss, careful not to pull against
Stiles’ knot.
Stiles hmms into Derek’s mouth. “Was it what you wanted?" he asks quietly. The
sound of his voice seems inordinately intimate after the sharp sounds of their
lovemaking.
"More. Better," Derek says. He feels his eyes drooping. It’s been a long day
and night and he feels safe and comfortable here with Stiles. “You?"
"I feel good. Well, the stitches are pulling a little, since I don’t need them
anymore to hold me together while I heal." 
Derek tries not to read into it, tries not to find symbolism where it wasn’t
intended, but as he and Stiles work together to pull out the stitches, Stiles
cutting and Derek pulling, he can’t help but feel a rush of pride that he was
the one to heal Stiles. That he was the one that Stiles let close enough to
help him heal.
He traces the fading pucker of the wound and thinks about new growth.
***** Reckless endangerment *****
Chapter Summary
     1lostone demanded: VERY VERY VERY TOPPING-FROM-THE-BOTTOM Derek.
     Public sex encouraged. Can be fuck or die, or just bored on a Tuesday
Chapter Notes
     TW: questionable consent, but it is consensual
The Stilinski house has a fairly open floor plan, the first floor rooms opening
into each other in a way that reminds Derek vaguely of his family’s house
before it burned. You can’t see into the kitchen from the living room though,
which is what Derek’s counting on as he grinds back against Stiles, fucking
himself on Stiles’ cock as Stiles clings to the counter behind him, pinned
upright by Derek’s body.
Of course, the second anyone steps out of the living room, they’ll be able to
see Derek, jeans around his thighs, rubbing himself through boxer briefs pulled
down in the back just far enough to accommodate Stiles’ cock in his ass. And
then they’ll see Stiles behind him, red-faced and gasping around the hand he’s
shoved into his mouth, the edge of the counter grinding into the small of his
back as Derek grinds back on his cock.
The pack is entertaining (read: distracting) the Sheriff in the living room,
begging for stories of Stiles’ childhood from a man who really just wants to go
into the kitchen to get a beer. They, of course, can hear what Derek is doing
to Stiles in the kitchen, probably overheard the hissed argument when Derek
first pinned Stiles against the counter, got down on his knees and blew him
aggressively until he got hard, then impaled his pre-lubed ass on Stiles’ cock.
Stiles is close, unbearably turned on by the risk of discovery, and Derek
slides his hand into his briefs, jerking his cock roughly as he fucks himself
carefully on Stiles’ cock. Too fast and they’ll rattle the cabinets. Too slow
and someone will walk in.
The Sheriff gets up and takes a step toward the kitchen. Derek growls, lower
than human ears can detect, and Isaac jumps to his feet, dragging the Sheriff
over to look at the pictures of Scott and Stiles as kids sitting on a side
table. Behind Derek, Stiles squeaks and reeks of arousal so strong it makes
Derek’s head spin. A long-fingered hand slides into Derek’s briefs alongside
his own and starts jerking Derek’s cock.
Fuck, but it’s good. Good enough that Derek’s eyes go a little unfocused, his
hearing a little dull. Scott mutters something dark to himself that Derek can’t
make out. Stiles’ hand does something obscene to the head of Derek’s cock and
he comes with a strained grunt, pumping hot come into Stiles’ hand and his own
briefs. Stiles isn’t far behind, grinding his cock into the spasming clutch of
Derek’s ass. He comes with a sharp, breathy exhale.
The rest of the pack, trapped in the living room, gives a collective sigh of
relief. 
"Oh, are they done?" the Sheriff asks. Still pinned to the counter by Derek’s
weight, Stiles whines and covers his beet-red face with the hand not dripping
with Derek’s come. The Sheriff’s footsteps are purposely heavy as he walks
across the living room toward the kitchen, and Derek and Stiles scramble to put
themselves together, fumbling with their respective belts just as the Sheriff
rounds the corner.
"About time," the Sheriff says. “Stiles, you know where the bleach is.
Scrub everything."
Stiles obediently retreats to the sink, turning on the tap to wash his hands
and splash water on his flushed face.
Meanwhile, Derek is trying to stare down the Sheriff, but even alphas aren’t
immune to the Parental Glare of Severe Displeasure.
Derek slumps. The Sheriff smirks.
"Hale, why don’t you go clean out the gutters. And then you can wash my
cruiser. In fact, why don’t you vacuum the inside while you’re at it."
Derek glances out the window, where it’s barely noon and already over a hundred
degrees out. Then he looks at the Sheriff. 
Better outside than inside, he decides. At least if he’s outside he’ll be able
to get a head start when the Sheriff decides to come murder him.
***** This is why we eat our fruits and vegetables *****
Chapter Summary
     dokuhan prompted: Derek finally gets to poop.
     (Based on the idea that Derek is always so miserable-looking because
     he’s always too busy trying to save everyone’s asses (read: getting
     his ass kicked) to have time for a healthy movement.)
Stiles sighs into Derek’s kiss, pulling Derek down to lay between his spread
thighs. He smooths his hands over the broad planes of Derek’s back and feels
nothing but tension. He pulls back.
Derek looks, well, like he always looks. Unhappy and tense with a touch of
tragic misery and not at all like he’s having fun kissing his no-longer-
jailbait boyfriend.
"Dude, do you ever relax?" he asks, digging his fingers into the knotted
muscles at the small of Derek’s back. He can’t get much leverage, and Derek
undoes what little good Stiles can do anyway when his shoulders bunch up
defensively. Shit.
He clears his throat and tries for a sultry tone. “Or maybe I should fuck all
that tension out of you," he suggests, sliding his hands downward to squeeze
Derek’s gorgeous ass. The tense misery on Derek’s face slips toward something
softer, then Derek flinches away, pushing up off of Stiles’ body.
"I can’t," he says, but before Stiles can even open his mouth to suggest the
other way around, Derek glances pointedly in the direction of the
bathroom. Ohh. Well, there are ways to work with that, too.
"You wanna use the toilet and then maybe we can take a shower together? Get you
all clean for me?"
Derek’s eyes widen a little and his ears go pink. “Yeah, I’d-" he stutters.
“Yea-"
Derek and Stiles’ cells go off simultaneously. There’s a brief traffic jam of
flailing limbs as they both lunge for their respective phones.
"Scott," Stiles reads.
"Isaac," Derek confirms.
Well, Stiles thinks. Maybe next time.
&&&
Fucking hunters. Derek and Stiles manage to get Scott, Isaac, and Cora out of
harm’s way, but unlike werewolf eyes, human eyes can’t see tripwires. Stiles
gets caught and spends two days in the company of a bunch of surprisingly
hospitable redneck hunter wannabes before the rest of the pack manages to
spring him free.
"What took you so long?" Stiles hisses.
"Negotiations," Derek spits, like the word itself tastes like ass. Stiles rolls
his eyes, then does a double take.
"You okay, man?" he asks.
Derek is shifting from foot to foot, shoulders tight and face a stony mask.
“I’m fine," he says shortly.
Yeah, Stiles thinks, bullshit.
But then Allison is waving Stiles over to where the rednecks are looking
contrite as Lydia scolds them in her usual singular manner.
&&&
Stiles wakes up in his own bed the next morning with Derek clinging to him like
an octopus with severe separation anxiety. The guy’s even still wearing his
jacket, for god’s sake. 
There’s tension around his eyes and mouth, which strikes Stiles as
unusual—aren’t sleeping people supposed to look relaxed? But then again, Stiles
did get caught by hunters, even if they were unusually nice ones who got Stiles
a side of curly fries with his burgers, so Stiles writes if off as stress.
At about noon, Stiles changes his mind. Derek isn’t clinging to him anymore,
but he holds himself with rigid control. Each movement is mechanically
deliberate, carried out with an austere economy of motion that looks downright
eerie. Stiles and the Sheriff have a few intense (and intensely creeped out)
silent arguments behind Derek’s back, trading head jerks and wide-eyed looks
until the Sheriff makes a tactical retreat into his bedroom, leaving Stiles and
Derek alone.
"Hey," Stiles says. “Are you okay? You look kind of…"
Stiles mentally gropes for a word. Tense? Robotic? Pod person-y?
"I’m fine," Derek bites out.
He leaves exactly thirty minutes later though, just gets up and walks out with
a distracted, perfunctory goodbye.
That hurts, a little bit.
&&&
There’s radio silence for two days, then Cora calls:
"Get over here and deal with him. Now."
Such a charming girl.
The loft is blessedly free of everyone but Derek when Stiles arrives. Derek,
who is pacing through the open space like, like… Well, Stiles doesn’t know, but
like something that feels the need to do a lot of very intense-looking pacing.
"All right," Stiles says sharply, throwing himself onto the couch. “What the
hell is going on with you?"
Derek doesn’t say anything, just keeps pacing around his loft like a goldfish
making circles in its bowl. Stiles seethes a little. He may or may not still be
pissed off about Derek’s abrupt departure two days before, followed by two days
of avoidance.
"Derek!" Stiles snaps. "Stop.”
Derek freezes and turns to look at Stiles. He bares his teeth, but his eyes
only flicker a dull, half-assed red, so Stiles stands up and strides over until
he’s crowding Derek against a wall, staring him down. Wonder of wonders, Derek
submits, sagging against the wall and rolling his head to bare his throat.
Jesus fucking-
"What the hell, Derek," Stiles whines, not a little freaked out. “Are you- are
you dying?"
Derek jumps like he’s been goosed. “What! No! I’m just-" He bites off the rest
of the sentence and looks down, hiding his expression.
"Just-?" Stiles prompts.
Derek’s head tips in the direction of the bathroom. Stiles sighs and steps
back, gesturing for Derek to get on with it.
"Right, bathroom, whatever, just go. And make it quick."
Derek doesn’t move, though. “I can’t," he says.
Stiles gestures impatiently with his hands: Can’t what?
Derek looks up and locks eyes with Stiles. His face is red. “I. Can’t."
The circuits in Stiles brain hum with activity, churning through all the subtle
clues Derek's been handing out. His mouth slowly falls open.
"You," he parrots slowly, “Can’t."
Derek nods slowly. Stiles nods slowly back.
Ooooookay.
And then, research. Or well, a quick glance at Wikipedia followed by a trip to
CVS, bankrolled by Derek’s debit card, which of course Stiles knows the pin,
don’t be stupid. Janice at the register give Stiles some useful advice, since
her daughter had a pretty bad bout of oh god Stiles just can’t think it when
she was in college and away from home cooked meals and decently balanced
nutrition.
The next few hours are among the most awful hours of Stiles’ life.
But somewhere along the way, between trying and failing to calm Derek down and
prying open the windows with one hand while holding his shirt over his face
with the other, he manages to extract from Derek a promise of infinite favors,
so there’s that.
And then afterward, Derek is so relaxed, so relieved, that he just flops onto
his bed, shower-warm and loose-limbed, and smiles up at Stiles with this
disgustingly beatific smile until Stiles had no choice but to cuddle the fuck
out of his big, warm, floppy body.
(And fuck no, they don’t have sex. Because no. Just no. Stiles has had enough
of butts and butt-related stuff for the next few months, thanks so much Derek
for murdering Stiles’ libido, all the chaste kissing and yeah, just no.)
***** Too much of a good thing *****
Chapter Summary
     annabethlemorte requested: Stiles overprepares for his first time
     taking it up the butt
     Modified with anna’s knowledge to bottom!Derek ‘cause that shit is
     bee ay en ay en ay ess.
Stiles moans into Derek’s long, sucking kiss. Derek’s stupid henley is fighting
him, bunching up around Derek’s ribs and keeping Stiles from getting his hands
all over the tattoo he’s been wanting to molest for fucking ages. Derek laughs
against Stiles’ mouth and pushes himself up, kneeling between Stiles’ splayed
thighs to pull the damn shirt up and off. There’s a hickey blooming on the side
of his throat under the dark stubble.
Derek drops back down to his forearms and Stiles finally gets his hands on
Derek’s ink. Or where he knows Derek’s ink is, since there’s no perceptible
difference that his hands can feel. Derek shivers anyway and Stiles ducks his
head down to suck a hickey onto the other side of Derek’s throat.
"Having fun?" Derek asks. His voice is rough, throaty with arousal, and tickles
Stiles’ kiss-bruised lips.
"Om nom," he mumbles. “‘m a vampire, gonna suck your blooood."
"As long as you don’t fucking sparkle," Derek grumbles. Stiles pets his tattoo.
Mrs. Hale still hasn’t quite recovered from her Twilight phase.
He rolls them over, Derek sprawling out beneath him. Stiles sits up and strips
off his own shirt, then hovers over Derek, dropping teasing kisses on his face.
"What am I talking about, you were totally Team Jacob. Maybe I should be a
werewolf instead?" He howls, aroooooo. “I’d turn into a giant dog and you could
ride on my back."
"Wolf, dumbass, you’d turn into a wolf." He raises his hips obediently for
Stiles to strip off his ridiculously tight jeans and plain boxer-briefs.
“That’d be cool though, riding you around. Might train you to a saddle and
bit."
Stiles snorts. “The only bit I want in my mouth is this one," he says, and
waggles Derek’s cock. “And besides, we both know you like it better when I’ve
got the reins."
Derek snorts and rolls his eyes. “Pants off, Lone Ranger."
Stiles mentally strangles his insecurities and shoves them in a box to smash
with a hammer later. Derek wants him, has explicitly stated that he thinks
Stiles is hot, and actually douched for him. He probably won’t disappoint
Derek. Hopefully. He eels out of his jeans and feels his self-confidence
inflate a little when Derek eyes his cock and licks his slack lips. Derek’s
stare meanders up Stiles’ chest, darting from mole to mole, then gets stuck on
Stiles’ mouth, so Stiles leans down and kisses him.
This time, it’s Derek who moans into the kiss. His legs come up, curling over
Stiles’ hips and lifting his hips to grind against Stiles’ belly. Stiles props
himself up on one elbow to reach around and down, teasing the top of Derek’s
crack with his fingers before dipping in. The crinkled hairs are already damp
with sweat, and tucked between two glorious asscheeks is Derek’s hole, warm and
soft to the touch. Stiles presses a finger in and Derek hisses. Stiles freezes.
That was not a sexy hiss. That was a the-dog-got-too-excited-and-drew-blood
hiss. That was an ouch hiss.
Stiles pulls back. “Derek?"
"Sorry, keep going," Derek says. “I’m fine."
Stiles keeps his eyes on Derek’s face this time, gently rubbing the pad of his
finger over the sensitive furl. Sure enough, the skin around Derek’s eyes and
mouth goes tense.
"Wow Pinnochio, don’t stab me in the eye with that nose of yours," Stiles
snaps, sitting up.
Derek sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. “For fuck’s sake, Stiles. It
just stings a little."
“‘Stings a little’?" Stiles parrots incredulously. “If it just stings a little
now, how much do you think it’s going to sting when I’ve got my dick in there?"
Derek doesn’t say anything, but his face goes conspicuously blank.
Stiles clenches his fist and grinds his teeth in frustration. “If you don’t
want to catch, you should just have fucking said so."
That gets a reaction; Derek curls up off the bed in an effortless display of
abs and catches Stiles’ face between his hands.
"I do," he says intently. "I do. I just-"
Stiles’ eyebrow climbs. “Just…?" he prompts.
"I may have, um. Gone. Overboard? A little."
"Gone. Overboard." Stiles repeats dumbly. “With?"
Derek’s hands slip to Stiles’ shoulders and he ducks his head, the crown
butting against Stiles’ sternum. His ears and nape turn tomato red as Stiles
watches. “With the douche? And the washing? And maybe douching again?"
Stiles feels his eyebrows try to climb up into his hair. “So you’re saying that
you washed yourself too thoroughly and it irritated the skin, so now you’re too
sensitive down there to do anything?"
Derek hunches in on himself. His whole neck is red. Even his chest, what little
of it Stiles can see from this angle, is red. “Yes?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
"Yes," Derek repeats miserably.
Stiles sighs and says, diplomatically, “Well, it could be worse."
"How the hell could this be worse," Derek grouses to Stiles’ chest.
Stiles reaches between them and takes Derek’s cock in his hands. It’s gone
soft, but chubs up immediately between his palms. Derek’s obsession with
Stiles’ hands is legendary among their friends.
"You could have friction burns on your dick," Stiles suggests. He fans his
fingers over the head of Derek’s cock and follows it with a firm pass of his
thumb over Derek’s frenulum. Blunt nails dig into the meat of Stiles’
shoulders.
"Who-who the hell even does that?" Derek asks, incredulous.
This time, Stiles is the one to turn red.
***** Cinderella took off her slippers *****
Chapter Summary
     Anonymous wanted: Crossdressing Derek fic, because everyone always
     does crossdressing Stiles but not Derek.
"Cora!" Derek wheezes, slowing from a jog to a stop as his barefoot, barely
dressed sister disappears around a corner. He puts his hand out, bracing
himself against a wall as he catches his breath. Or tries to, anyway. His other
hand goes to his waist, which is pinched tight by the brand new corset and
formal gown that his mother and older sister bullied him into. Ordinarily, it
wouldn’t be so bad—Derek likes dressing up just as much as Cora hates it—but
they’d insisted on lacing him more tightly than usual, complaining that if he
was going to keep bulking up in the chest and shoulders, he’d have to balance
it out by lacing tighter to make his hips look fuller. Derek had gone along
with it, wanting to make a good impression at Crown Prince Stiles’ ball, but
now he’s regretting it.
He toes out of his heeled shoes and flexes his feet on the cool floor as he
tries to slow his breathing. Laura insisted on them too; apparently high heels
on shoes all the rage in the capitol. Give him his soft slippers any day.
He can’t seem to catch his breath. Derek gasps and leans heavily against the
wall, his head spinning from the lack of air making its way into his lungs. He
scratches at the gown’s laces, but his satin-gloved fingers slip clumsily over
where the knot is tucked away, and he slumps down to his knees, his layered
skirts puffing up around him.
I’m going to die, Derek thinks hysterically, digging for the knot with both
hands, I’m going to die before I ever got a chance to dance with the Prince and
it’s all Laura and Mother’s fault.
Derek’s breathing gets shorter as he begins to panic.
Oh my god, I’m going to die!
Derek hears shouting, feels strong hands on his arms and face and a voice
speaking to him, but his vision is already tunneling to black, closing to a
pinprick of light even as he hears a blade sawing at his laces.
&&&
Derek wakes in bed with a pounding headache, groans, and rolls over, only to
get tangled in a man’s embroidered jacket. Laura and Cora tumble in, Mother hot
on their heels.
"Oh my god, Derek, are you okay?" Laura all but screams into his face. He
flinches at the volume and pushes himself up to lean against his pillows.
"What happened?" he asks. He peeks under his sheets to find himself in just his
shift and underthings.
His mother and sisters share guilty looks.
"Well, dear," his mother says, “We laced you up a little too tightly, and then
Cora made you chase her around, and then, well…"
"You missed the whole ball," Cora says abruptly. Laura hisses and smacks her on
the arm. Mother brusquely shoos them out of the room.
Derek sags against his pillows, disappointed. He’d wanted so badly to see the
Prince. He picks disconsolately at the embroidery on the tailed jacket, which
had apparently been draped over him while he slept. He wonders who it belongs
to.
Mother sighs and climbs up onto the bed, wrinkled gown be damned, and leans
against the headboard next to Derek, who leans into her embrace. She pets his
hair, which is still stiff with product.
"I’m sorry, dear. I know how much you were looking forward to it. The King and
Prince are both very fond of Beacon Hills, you know, and I'm sure they'll stop
here during next year's tour and request a ball like they always do."
Derek nods and sighs, returning his mother’s hug.
"You have a guest, by the way," Mother adds. “The man who found you and cut you
out of your corset. He’s been hovering around us all evening, asking after your
health, and refuses to leave until he’s sure that you’re well. He even offered
to write a letter to Countess Ennis’ corset maker, who specializes in ladies
with a larger build."
Derek groans and flops back onto his pillows. “Mother, I don’t want another
suitor," he whines. “They’re all so annoying."
Usually, Mother scolds him for so casually spurning suitors, but this time
Mother’s eyes twinkle mischievously and she pats him on the hand. “Give this
one a chance, dear. You may find yourself surprised. I’ll send him in."
Derek groans again, louder and angstfully, but he obediently props himself up
against his headboard, drawing his covers and the jacket up to his chest. It
smells surprisingly good, even at the nape of the collar where the fabric has
been stained a little darker from old sweat.
The door has barely shut behind Mother before there’s a soft tap-tap against
the wood. He calls for his guest to come in, prepared to hate him on sight only
to freeze when the head that pokes in reveals itself to be very familiar.
"Hi," Prince Stiles says, sliding in. He’s underdressed, in just a silk shirt
and embroidered vest. An embroidered vest that matches the jacket Derek is
suddenly clutching to his chest.
"Your Highness!" Derek yelps. He scrambles to pull the sheets up higher,
feeling naked in just his shift.
The Prince’s hands dart up to pat the air, alarmed. “Sorry! Duke Talia said you
were well enough to see visitors, but I’ll be out of your hair soon. I just had
to—" 
He seems to lose his train of thought, eyes fixed on Derek’s face, which Derek
can feel getting steadily hotter. He licks his lips and Derek’s eyes can’t help
but follow the quick swipe of pink tongue.
"I’m, uh," Prince Stiles says, “staying in town. For, to, um, a few days! To do
a, uh, thing." He licks his lips again and Derek watches again. “I hope you’re
feeling better? Bye."
Prince Stiles, cheeks pink, all but lunges for the door.
"Wait!" Derek shouts. The Prince freezes and turns slowly to face Derek; his
cheeks are as flushed as Derek suspects his own face is. “Thank you. For saving
my life."
The Prince bows low with a showy flourish. “It was my honor, m’lady."
Derek pulls the covers and jacket up over his mouth to hide his giddy smile.
There’s a tempest of butterflies in his belly and his breath feels short in all
the best ways. The scent that wafts up off the embroidered jacket gives him the
strength to ask, “Can I see you again?"
Prince Stiles smiles, open and wide, and blurts, “Of course! Always. Whenever
you like." And Derek lowers the jacket to smile shyly back.
***** Domestic bliss *****
Chapter Summary
     Anonymous asked for: Derek mpreg with a side of adorableness.
     Mpreg isn't my thing, so you get always-a-girl!Derek, aka Dana.
Scott and Allison watch, stupefied, as Stiles happily lets himself be bossed
around by a very pregnant Dana. It’s such a weirdly normal dynamic; Scott and
Allison are so used to the bickering and occasionally violent banter and Stiles
browbeating Dana into going along with his plans that seeing Dana order him
hither and yon is just weird.
"This is so weird," Scott whispers to Allison. 
"I know, right?" Allison whispers back. “It’s like something from the Twilight
Zone or something."
"Pod people," Scott says, nodding. 
Dana, laid out on the couch with her feet on Stiles’ lap, demands another
cushion under them. Stiles tugs out a couch pillow from behind his back and
gently lifts her legs to place the pillow underneath, handling her ankles like
they’re made of spun glass.
Allison and Scott watch quietly for a few more minutes. It’s bizarrely
enthralling, like watching a spider spin a cocoon around its prey or cat gifs
on tumblr, and they just can’t look away.
Dana demands the TV remote. Stiles obediently hands it over with a broad smile
on his face even though Scott knows, he knows, that Stiles absolutely hates
Dana’s TV watching habits. There’s literally only so much ESPN a man can take
before he wants to watch something else.
Sure enough, Dana clicks over to ESPN and Stiles sits there, his hands absently
but thoroughly massaging her feet and ankles while his eyes glaze over.
"Do you think she drugged him?" Allison asks out of the side of her mouth. Dana
doesn’t seem to hear, focused as she is on her precious ESPN.
"Maybe? This is seriously freaking me out, though."
Dana abruptly demands Cheetos and peanut butter and Stiles smiles and gets up
to fetch them, even propping an extra pillow under her feet to keep them at
roughly the same height while his thighs are elsewhere. 
Allison and Scott shudder in horror.
***** That awkward moment when pt 1 *****
Chapter Summary
     Anonymous prompted: Stripper derek and millionaire/business man
     stiles who is also a few years older and they’re both lonely and
     maybe feels and sex
Derek should maybe feel guilty about still being a stripper when he’s already
got a full time job courtesy of his uncle’s nepotism, but college
was expensive and he’s only got an entry level position anyway, so he doesn’t
feel all that bad about it. 
Or at least, he doesn’t until he does a private gig at Laura’s college
roomate’s bachelorette party and turns around mid-gyrate to see his uncle’s
boss leaning against a wall and watching.
Yeah, he maybe starts to regret it right about then.
&&&
Heather, Laura’s old roommate and Mr. Stilinski’s goddaughter, is surprisingly
cool about the whole thing, letting him off the hook as all the women coo
pityingly at him and hustle him into the bathroom to get re-dressed. He’s still
red in the face when he slinks out and almost screams in fright when he rounds
a corner and unexpectedly comes face-to-face with Mr. Stilinski.
"S-s-sir!" Derek yelps.
"Hey," Mr. Stilinski says, putting his hands up. He’s smiling gently, like
Derek is a baby animal that has done something adorable. “It’s cool. Your
secret is safe with me."
Derek’s mouth flaps uselessly and he can feel his face twisting into what is
undoubtedly an unflattering expression.
Mr. Stilinski pats the air soothingly. “I’m serious, it’s fine. You’re not
going to get fired, and you’re hardly the only employee with a life outside the
company."
Derek groans and drops his face into his palms. Mr. Stilinski pats him on the
shoulder.
"Let’s get you a drink," he says and leads Derek over to the alcohol.
Sure enough, a few cups of coke-flavored rum later, Derek is feeling much less
agonized about his predicament. It helps that Mr. Stilinski is being so nice
about the whole thing, engaging him in small talk as the bachelorette party
rages on beyond the corner they’ve tucked themselves into. He’s so nice to look
at, the thick-framed glasses and artfully messy hair making him look a decade
younger than his forty-one years. In fact, if it wasn’t for the laugh lines
around his eyes and mouth and the faint speckling of grey in his hair, Derek
would never have known that Mr. Stilinski was older than his uncle, who is
fanatical about skin care. And wow, his mouth. Derek sways forward, eyes on the
prize.
Mr. Stilinski chuckles warmly and presses him back by the shoulder until he’s
leaning against the wall behind him.
"I think it’s time to cut you off," he says, plucking the red cup out of
Derek’s limp grasp. And inch of soda-flavored alcohol sloshes in the bottom.
"Noooo," Derek moans piteously, “I wanna kiss you."
Mr. Stilinski blinks. “You do?"
Derek nods fiercely and is abruptly grateful for the wall at his back when the
world spins. “Yesss. I really like your mouth. I really like your face. I
always want to kiss you. Especially when you wear weird ties. I really like
you."
Maybe it’s a trick of the light or maybe Derek is really, really drunk, but
he’s pretty sure that when Mr. Stilinski’s eyes dip down, it’s to look at
Derek’s mouth. Derek smiles, showing off his pearly whites, and Mr. Stilinski’s
pretty, pink mouth sags open a little.
Suddenly, he’s being dragged away, his sister and the birthday
girl—“Bachelorette," Laura corrects—pulling him by the elbows into the kitchen
where an Amazonian woman with epically blonde hair shoves a water bottle into
his hands. Derek paws at the cap for a few seconds until the blonde woman
snatches it from him and returns it de-capped.
"Thanks," he mutters, then drinks.
"Oh my god, Laura. Did Uncle Stiles get your stripper brother white-girl
wasted?" He hears the birthday girl—“Bachelorette," the blonde Amazon says—ask.
Derek doesn’t see Laura’s expression, tipping his head back to empty the water
bottle into his mouth. He tilts ominously on his heels as his body follows the
motion, but hands grab him and hold him upright.
"I think so," he hears Laura say darkly. “I’m gonna have Peter slap that
asshole with a harassment suit so hard his head pops off."
"Noooo," Derek moans. The empty bottle disappears and a fresh one materializes
in its place. “He’s so nice. I like his face so much."
The three women blink at him as he sways on his feet. He paws at the new water
bottle and the birthday girl—“Bachelorette," the birthday girl says—helpfully
opens it for him.
"I really wanna taste his penis," Derek sighs.
"Is it still harassment if the attraction goes both ways?" the birthday
girl—"Bachelorette," the three women chorus—asks.
***** The obligatory Hoechlteeth fangasm *****
Chapter Summary
     Derek is a wererabbit.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The thing about full moons is that they don’t just make wererabbits like Derek
extra jumpy, they make him extra horny. In New York, he’d had fuckbuddies that
he’d more or less trusted not to slash his throat mid-fuck, but since coming
back to Beacon Hills, suitable partners have been hard to come by. Had been
hard to come by.
This thing with Stiles is new enough, tentative enough that Derek very nearly
doesn’t text him. It won’t be the first full moon he’s spent alone. But his
dick wins out, as usual, and when Stiles shoulders the loft’s door open, Derek
is right there at the door, tossing a spare sock out and slamming the door shut
behind Stiles. He grabs the eighteen year-old by the belt buckle and drags him
over to the bed.
"Oh my god," Stiles says, slapping at Derek’s grip on the front of his pants.
"Let the fuck go! You’re giving me a wedgie."
"Then take your fucking pants off," Derek snarls. His ears itch to unfurl to
their proper length and he suspects that his two front teeth are longer than
usual.
Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Is this a booty call?”
"Yes," Derek says, and strips off his shirt. He toes off his shoes and socks
before going for his belt, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Stiles
hesitantly squirming out of his dozen layers. He’s still body shy around
Derek—they’ve only fucked twice, the first time being barely a week and a half
ago—but his dick is already half-hard when he climbs onto the bed.
Derek watches it sway and his ass clenches instinctively, triggering a shiver
like a tectonic event. He must make some noise, because Stiles looks curiously
over at him.
"On your back," he says, and gets lube and condoms. Plural. They’re going to
need them.
Stiles splays out in the center of the mattress, idly fondling his hardening
cock as Derek pulls a condom out of its wrapper. He looks uneasy, for all that
his dick is on board, but Derek doesn’t care. He needs Stiles’ cock in him. He
just fucking needs it.
As worked up as he already is from the full moon shining in through the wall of
windows, he doesn’t need much prep. Lube, two fingers, scissoring, and then
Derek is lowering himself onto Stiles’ sheathed and slicked dick, shuffling on
his knees until he’s sitting square on Stiles’ pelvis. He rolls his hips and
feels his face shift, unbidden, the bridge of his nose thickening, hair
sprouting along his jaw, furred ears rising in a smooth stretch, all so sweet
and easy like it hasn’t been since he was a child.
He can hear Stiles’ accelerating heartbeat, hear the thrumming rush of blood
through his body. The whispered “wow” fills his ears like Stiles spoke it
straight into his brain. Derek rolls his hips again and the slick sound of
Stiles’ cock in his ass sparks across his hearing like gunfire.
He dials his hearing back and gets to it, bouncing on Stiles’ cock, lifting
himself up and down on tirelessly powerful legs. Long-fingered hands grip his
hips, experimenting with the angle, and Derek follows them, canting his hips
and hunting for that perfect angle, that angle where the head of Stiles’ cock
bumps over that sensitive gland on each thrust.
Their rhythm is rough, choppy with inexperience, but Stiles is a fast learner.
He sets his feet onto the mattress and begins meeting Derek’s downward thrusts.
Derek leans back, planting his hands behind him, and yes, there, fuck, right
there. His head tips back and he rides the waves of pleasure as Stiles fucks up
into him, hard.
He can hear Stiles muttering to himself over the sound of his own gasping,
little fucks and shits and Dereks and a dozen other expletives that tip out of
his mouth. Derek blinks up at the ceiling and abruptly wonders why he isn’t
kissing that mouth. He curls forward, losing that perfect angle, but in
exchange he gets Stiles’ mouth, those pink lips and that whip-sharp tongue and
Stiles’ long, long fingers tangling in his hair, randomly gripping and tugging.
Derek pulls one hand free and guides it to his neglected, leaking cock, and
then Stiles grips and tugs him there, too. His fingers are clever on Derek’s
cock; Stiles has elevated jerking off to an artform so thoroughly practiced
that he doesn’t even need to pay attention to it anymore. Derek fucks himself
harshly between Stiles’ cock and Stiles’ hand, buries his face in Stiles’
throat, and comes with a breathless grunt. Stiles works him through it, pumping
his cock and fucking up into his spasming ass until the last drop of come oozes
out onto Stiles’ belly.
Derek’s ears twitch and swivel and shiver when Stiles’ breath disturbs the fine
hairs. He’s still hard in Derek’s ass, his heart still drumming along, and
Derek rocks back onto him, enjoying the pleasure of being full now that the
urgency of the full moon has passed. He busses a lazy trail up from Stiles’
throat to his jaw to his cheekbone to his soft, wet mouth, lapping up Stiles’
harsh breaths. They taste like toothpaste. Derek wonders, a little guiltily, if
he woke Stiles with his text.
Well, no point in crying over spilt milk. He tucks his feet under Stiles’
thighs, wedges his arms under Stiles’ back, and flips them over. Stiles flails
momentarily before settling in between Derek’s thighs. He’s a little more
comfortable in this position; Derek thinks the extra control afforded by it
appeals to his pathological need to be helpful. And sure enough, the first
thing Stiles does is slip a pillow beneath Derek’s hips.
Derek pulls Stiles down for a kiss. When he places his hand on Stiles’ chest,
still streaked with cooling lines of Derek’s come, he can feel the thrum of his
heart. He hitches his legs up around Stiles’ waist and pulls him in.
Stiles begins rocking into him, at first with short rolls of his hips, then
longer, harder as his arousal ramps back up again. Derek moves in counterpoint
and when he palms his cock, it begins to get hard again.
"Fuck," Stiles hisses when he sees Derek’s cock firming up. His hips slam into
Derek’s ass, the sharp smack of skin on skin ringing in the open acoustics of
the loft. He gets his arms under Derek’s knees, tilting his ass higher to get
at that sweet spot. Derek arches greedily into it, hooking one arm around
Stiles’ neck to draw him down and working his cock with the other. He pants and
moans into Stiles’ mouth, coaxing slack, distracted lips into hungry kisses and
sliding his tongue along Stiles’ teeth, chasing the taste of mint.
Stiles pounds into him, his kisses getting sloppy as he gets close. With a few
last forceful lunges, he comes. Derek holds him through it, squeezing around
Stiles’ cock as it pulses and swallowing Stiles’ choked cries.
Stiles’ thundering heartbeat slows gradually and he pulls out, hastily tying
off the condom and putting his fingers in Derek’s twitching ass. Derek sighs at
the feel of his nimble fingers sliding in, then gasps as they zero in on his
prostate. Stiles’ other hand joins Derek’s on his cock and together they stroke
it, Derek stripping the shaft while Stiles works the head. 
Derek moans into Stiles’ mouth, his hand carding through his hair to cup the
curve of his skull as Stiles pushes him relentlessly to another orgasm. The
three fingers in his ass fuck in and out of him, dragging over his prostate on
each pull while the nimble fingers on his cock tease his slit and crown and
smear pre-come all over the sensitive head. Stiles’ thumbnail catches in
Derek’s slit and he comes, again, jerking and shuddering as Stiles milks him
ruthlessly until he’s whining and squirming away from the almost painful
sensations. Stiles lets him go, wiping his hands on the bedspread before
running them soothingly up and down Derek’s sides and thighs.
"Was that what you needed?" Stiles asks between languid kisses.
Derek hmms and rolls them back over, draping himself over Stiles’ chest and
sucking a meandering trail of wet kisses down Stiles’ come-tacky torso.
"I’ll tell you when we’re done," he says, and reaches for another condom.
Chapter End Notes
     Credit where credit is due, this whole mess was provoked by eeames’
     Hoechleteeth_tag. Therefore, I claim no responsibility and no
     consequences can be laid upon my shoulders.
***** Welcome to Beacon Hills pt 1 *****
Chapter Summary
     A Teen Wolf/Welcome to Night Vale crossover, because I couldn't
     resist.
Stiles doesn’t find out about Beacon Hills’ community news blog until a few
months after he first moves into town as the new Deputy. It’s probably a good
thing, since it means that he’s had a while to acclimatize himself to Beacon
Hills’ general bizarreness and the exceedingly creepy way people call him
‘Derek’s Deputy’ as opposed to Deputy Stilinski.
(“Deputy Stilinski,” Stiles hisses manically into his phone after a torturous
double shift. “Deputy Stilinski.” 
His dad makes a sympathetic noise in response.)
But after months of wondering who the hell this ‘Derek’ asshole is, it’s nice
to at least put some personality to the name. Not a face though, since the
blog, called Welcome to Beacon Hills, has absolutely no pictures of its
creator. 
There are, however, a lot of pictures of Stiles. Pictures of him in his
cruiser, eating lunch at the Wendy’s, ticketing Peter Hale, ticketing Peter
Hale again and again, (Stiles keeps a meticulous record of his many encounters
with Peter Hale just in case he needs to file a sexual harassment suit against
the creep), doing paperwork at his desk at the station, and so on and so forth.
Bewildered and freaked out and intensely curious, Stiles hunts down the blog
posts from the day of his arrival.
Stiles smiled, his perfect moles shifting into a flawless recreation of the
constellation of the mysterious lights above the Wendy’s, and I fell in love
instantly.
"Oh my god," Stiles says faintly, mortified (and a little charmed).
(“A stalker,” Stiles wails into his phone, trying for vicious outrage and
landing instead in breathless giddiness. "A stalker!"
His dad sighs in response.)
***** That awkward moment when pt 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     The morning after.
Chapter Notes
     Continuation of this_ficlet, because Juleon begged so prettily and my
     muse was willing to play along.
Derek is minding his own business, sitting at the tiny dining table in his
sister’s apartment with his face buried in his folded arms and mourning all the
undoubtedly terrible decisions that have led him to this point in his life,
when Laura drops down into the chair across from him and says, “Wow baby bro,
you got fucking wasted  last night.”
And it’s not like Derek doesn’t remember, okay? He remembers every last
mortifying detail, brain painfully clear thanks to his own metabolism and all
the water his sister and her friends basically forced down his throat. He
presses his face further into the cradle of his arms and moans piteously.
"Yeah," Laura continues. "You kept muttering ‘the birthday girl’ under your
breath whenever you looked at Heather and I think you hit on Uncle Peter’s
boss."
Derek contemplates sliding down off the chair and onto the floor. Maybe Laura
will forget he’s there if she can’t see him under the table.
"By the way, I gave him hell about getting you shitfaced, but apparently he
didn’t do it on purpose and he felt really bad about it. He’s a pretty decent
guy. Well," Laura amends, "decent for a guy who willingly hangs out with Uncle
P in his free time. I approve of your taste in men, baby brother, for all that
your taste in women is horrifically abysmal."
Derek presses his hands over his ears and slouches lower in his chair. “Oh my
god,” he moans piteously. “Shut up.”
"So I guess you don’t want his personal number, then?" Laura says faux-
innocently. "He left it specifically for you, but I guess I can throw it-"
Derek lunges across the table, grabbing Laura’s arm as she stands, presumably
on her way to toss the number in the trash.
"What," he says, wide-eyed. "He left— Seriously? He left his number?"
Laura smirks down at Derek, all shiny white teeth and malicious glee.
***** Welcome to Beacon Hills pt 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD.
     A continuation of this, because because.
Chapter Notes
     If you don't listen to Welcome to Night Vale, this will probably not
     make any sense whatsoever. Your options therefore are either to a)
     listen to WtNV, b) let yourself become consumed by WtNV, or c)
     despise Steve Carlsberg with the force of a thousand burning desert
     suns.
     Or you could just skip to the next chapter, I guess.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It’s Matt Daehler who calls the Sheriff’s department, and it’s Matt Daehler
who’s waiting on the sidewalk when Stiles pulls up in his cruiser to address
his complaint. Matt Daehler, who Stiles has neither talked to, nor even met
before this moment, but Matt Daehler who Stiles instinctively hates because
he’s been steadily catching up on Derek’s blog, Welcome to Beacon Hills and
Derek, modest, adoring Derek, absolutely despises the guy.
Still, it’s Stiles’ job to treat everyone equal in the eyes of the law, so he
puts on his lawman face and goes over to where Matt Daehler is impatiently
tapping his foot and inappropriately fondling his camera.
"That cloud is obstructing my photography," Matt Daehler says shrilly,
gesturing at the glowing cloud floating above the dog park. "Arrest it for
loitering!"
Stiles looks up at the gently strobing cloud, watching it change from azure to
indigo in peaceful ripples. Then he looks away, blinking hard to dispel the
light hypnotic daze and cursing himself for forgetting to put on his
department-mandated aviators before looking at magic-based phenomena. The
aviators might look hella douchey, but they protect him from mind-altering
magics based on eye contact. 
Properly bespectacled, Stiles looks up again at the cloud. It’s been a pretty
benign presence in Beacon Hills since randomly showing up one day, raining
small live animals wherever it goes but never anything bigger than a slightly
starved tabby. (According to Derek’s blog, The Hales took the cat in and named
it Annie Get Your Gun, or Aggie for short.)
Stiles crosses over to the edge of the dog park, careful not to stand too
close. On the other side of the fence, in the improbably dense forest, shadows
seethe.
"Um, excuse me," he calls up to the cloud. A moment later, all the hair on his
body stands on end and he gets the severe feeling of being watched. “Uh, hi.
Yeah.”
The cloud ripples in a fan of purple-red-peach. Stiles chooses to interpret it
as a reciprocated greeting.
"So, Mr. Daehler over there seems to want to take photos of the dog park for
some reason," Stiles says, gesturing in Matt Daehler’s general direction. "And
while I would ordinarily say that he has no grounds for a reasonable complaint,
the dog park is technically a no loitering zone. For the safety of the
citizenry, you see. But since you’re new in town, I can probably let you off
with a warning. So if I could please ask you to maybe loiter on the other side
of the street, that’d be great."
The cloud strobes green-blue-ultraviolet and obediently drifts across the
street, the bulk of its mass now hovering over the new froyo place. A massive
bull crocodile falls out of the cloud and crushes the car parked in front. Matt
Daehler’s car, if Derek’s sneering description and Matt Daehler’s scream of
rage are anything to go by.
The cloud quickly flashes a series of yellows and oranges, like it’s
embarrassed, but Stiles feels a sly brush of amusement in his left ulna.
I’m Allison, the glowing cloud mindwhispers into his skull, trilling a rainbow
of giggly indigos across his inferior parietal lobe. With his ears, Stiles
hears Matt Daehler screaming and ranting crazily. Sorry if I’m making trouble
for you, but he’s been a complete jerk to me all day.
No trouble at all, miss, Stiles thinks back.
(“Best friends,” Stiles crows to his dad later that day. “Best friends.”
His dad laughs.)
Chapter End Notes
     Ok, so you WtNV listeners need to send_me_some_prompts_or_something
     because I want to write more of this verse but I literally do not
     know what to write about. And before you ask, no, Sheriff Stilinski
     is will not be the shadowy leader of the Sheriff's Secret Police. But
     if any of you prompt about wheat and wheat byproducts, I'm totally
     going to report you to the SSP and get that sweet stop sign immunity.
***** Needs moar pegging *****
Chapter Summary
     Anonymous asked for: Pregnant!Stiles still working to fill
     subby!Derek’s needs.
As happy as Stiles is to be pregnant, to watch her belly and breasts swell with
a kid that’s going to be half her and half Derek, she really misses pegging her
husband properly. She misses her favorite harness, misses watching her fake
dick disappear into Derek’s sweet little hole, misses pounding him into the
mattress like the world will end if she doesn’t drill him straight through to
China.
Instead, she has to make do with this: Derek riding a dildo suction-cupped to
the kitchen floor while she moves around him, making dinner and occasionally
adjusting his pace with the tip of her riding crop.
It’s not bad, per se. She gets to circle him, teasing him from all angles with
the tip of the crop, sliding it up his spine, over the peak of a nipple, along
the insides of his thighs, but still, pegging. She presses the shaft of the
crop down onto his shoulder and he stops bouncing, sinking down the dildo until
he’s sitting almost flat on the floor. He stares up at her with glazed,
unfocused eyes.
Stiles briefly wishes she could drop her panties and have him eat her out, but
with her belly as big as it is, he’d probably disappear completely behind it,
broad shoulders and all. Derek whines, sensing her disappointment. She ruffles
his hair, carding through the dense strands, then grips it tightly, pulling him
up and pushing him down until he’s steadily fucking himself on the dildo again.
"Once this kid gets born I’m gonna fuck you so hard," she croons, rapping the
end of the crop against his balls every time he bottoms out. "I’m gonna fuck
you so hard that even your werewolf ass will be feeling it for a solid week."
Derek doesn’t say anything, just gazes up at her with an enraptured expression
that says everything.
***** The Little Human *****
Chapter Summary
     The Little Mermaid, reversed. Welcome to the other 70%, Derek.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The Sorceress Kate’s potion burns in Derek’s throat, echoing the ache in his
face where she took the beauty of his features in payment in addition to his
voice, turning him malformed and mute and helpless. The burn spreads down
through his body, expanding into his legs and he tears at the fastenings of his
breeches, shoving them, and his boots, down and off as his legs begin to fuse
together. It’s disgusting to watch; the bones and muscles shift visibly under
the skin, blood welling from a thousand small incisions as scales push up out
of his pores.
Gills open up, painful and bleeding like slashes of a knife, arcing along his
ribs and back. His breath abruptly goes short and he claws desperately at his
throat with one hand, reaching toward the sea with the other.
Every tissue in his body screams with the agony of transformation and Derek
crawls toward the surf, dragging his heavy tail. His hair falls out all at
once, drifting in tufts to the sand like black snow. More scales come up
through his scalp and the skin of his upper body and he drips rivulets of blood
onto the wet sand.
His vision tunnels just as he reaches the gentle waves. He hauls himself
forward and collapses into the surf, unconscious.
He’s underwater when he comes to, his gills fanning gently in the stiller water
below the waves. The pain is mostly gone but for a lingering ache, a sense of
wrongness that feels embedded in his bones. 
He gives his new tail a flip and glides forward, curling through the water as
he learns how to move all over again. Most of it comes easily, as though the
knowledge is embedded in the spelled bone and muscle of his new form, and when
he feels like he has a decent grasp on the mechanics, he turns out to face the
dark, endless water.
Somewhere, out in the dark depths of the ocean, there’s a merboy that Derek
sold his face and voice for. His soul calls out for the boy that he’d found,
harpooned and gasping in a stale tide pool, that he’d shared all his secret
thoughts and hopes with as the boy recovered, that he’d carried back into the
ocean, the boy gasping and trustingly limp in his arms. The boy that Derek has
three lunar cycles to find and seduce before the potion's magic runs out.
The silent blackness is terrifying to the old, primordial parts of Derek’s
human mind, but he angles for it anyway, slipping away from the familiar shore
with only a handful of memories and a name to guide him.
Stiles, wait for me.
Chapter End Notes
     I dare you to tell me that fractured fairy tales aren't your favorite
     kind of fairy tale.
***** Have soem pegging *****
Chapter Summary
     Continuation of this prompt fic for creeperdwarf.
It’s about three months before Stiles has a change to come through on her
promise. Three frustrating, sleepless, amazing months. (It might’ve gone on
even longer than that, but her dad basically kidnaps his own grandchild one
evening and tells her and Derek to decompress a little before they implode, so
it’s only three months. He’s barely out the door before Stiles hauls Derek to
the bedroom and snarls an order to come as many times as he can.)
She ties him up, ties him down, uses every inch of padded leather strap they
have then improvises with Derek’s belts when he begs for more. The plain
pinewood paddle comes first; she swings it at Derek’s ass until even his
werewolf healing can’t keep up, his ass glowing cherry red as she pants and
sweats with the exertion. The feather is next, though it doesn’t last long.
It’s torturous for both of them, Derek for the sensation of the light brushes
against his sensitive ass, and Stiles who has to take so many deep, calming
breaths that she gets a lightheaded. After a few minutes she gives up and just
stuffs her face in Derek’s crack.
Derek yowls like a tortured cat, bucking against her face as best he can with
what little leverage he has. Stiles doesn’t stop until her mouth goes sore and
slack and Derek is a whimpering puddle of dazed werewolf.
She gives them both a breather then, turning him onto his back (the bedspread
is dark where he bit and came on it) and sitting on his face through two
screaming orgasms. They take the edge off, at least. And Derek does look so
pretty when he’s buried in her snatch, cheeks and nose shiny with her juices.
He’s practically catatonic when she rolls off of him to paw through their toys.
The nipple clamps go on first; she gives the connecting chain a teasing pull,
then puts the string of links in Derek’s mouth, tacit permission to pull as he
likes. Over his clamped nipples, she tapes two bullet vibrators. Derek jolts
and arches with a low wail. Stiles puts the gag in over the chain after that.
Her fingers dither over the cock rings, lingering fondly over vibrating one,
but eventually she decides not to. She doesn’t want anything limiting Derek’s
ability to come. At least, not right now. Instead, she goes for the string of
ben wa balls. 
She has to kick him over onto his side to put them in, which puts uncomfortable
pressure on his bound arms, so she goes quick, slicking and stretching Derek
just enough to get the balls in. She anchors the loop on the end with a dildo
so it doesn’t get lost inside, then follows the balls with a modest vibrating
plug. Not too thick though, she wants Derek tight when she fucks him.
And then she lays on top of him and proceeds to worship his body with her hands
and mouth as he writhes and keens beneath her. His cock jerks erratically
against her belly and she grinds helpfully down against it, riding the wave of
his body. She’s pretty sure he comes at least once, but he’s already shot
himself dry and he never softens, so she can’t be sure.
Stiles takes her time exploring Derek’s body, relearning the taste of his skin,
the feel of his flexing muscles beneath her palms, the scent of his musky
crotch. It’s all beautiful to her and she revels in it, from the sweaty border
of his hairline to the whorls on his toes. On her way back up she trails lazy
kisses up his legs, pausing to inspect the jut of his ankles and the caps of
his knees with her mouth. She turns the plug off, then the bullet vibrators
over his nipples. 
Derek slowly stills, twitching intermittently like a car engine ticking as it
cools. She eases the spit-slick gag out of his mouth and massages the jaw
muscles, peppering kisses on his cherry-red face. She licks her lips and tastes
the salt of his sweat.
"Still wanna get fucked?" she asks, petting his damp hair. Derek’s whole body
gives an interested twitch. She busses his forehead and lifts up to prep.
She takes off the bullet vibrators and clamps first, teasing the swollen nubs
and breathing cool air over them. Out comes the plug, then the string of ben wa
balls, Derek’s hole stretching obscenely over each of them.
Derek’s favorite dildo is an indigo-colored monstrosity, ridged and bumpy but
softer than a real cock. She snaps the base of it into her leather harness and
steps into its leather loops. After so many months of neglect, the leather is
stiff and her fingers clumsy on the buckles, (not to mention the baby weight
still lingering in her hips and thighs that pulls the straps tighter than
usual), but Derek is whining and squirming in his restraints like the greedy
little boy he is, so she ignores the chafing, rolls on a condom, and hastily
lubes up.
Stiles doesn’t give him any more prep than two thin fingers and a lot of lube,
so his hole resists when she presses the head of the dildo against it. She
doesn't let up though, and eventually Derek opens to her cock like a flower
opens to the sun, eagerly and beautifully. She forces his bound legs up and
sinks home on an easy thrust.
Derek’s mouth falls open on a sigh as his body remembers how to embrace the
intrusion.
Then she pulls out, kicks him over onto his belly, and slams back in, going
straight into a fast, punishing fuck that makes Derek scream and thrash against
the leather restraints.
Stiles doesn’t let up for a heartbeat, fucking him until her body can’t
maintain it anymore, then shifting them to a new position so she can use
different muscle groups to fuck him into oblivion.
Everything goes slippery with sweat as she pounds into him. Her thigh muscles
twinge and she rolls Derek onto his side, straddling one thigh and raising the
other to fuck into him sideways. When her back muscles start complaining, she
drags him to the edge of the bed and stands between his lewdly gaping thighs.
She fucks him hard and brutal until he stutters out a signal to slow down, then
fucks him long and slow until he greenlights her for more.
He takes it, gorgeously, gone shameless with pleasure. Stiles thinks she counts
a few orgasms, wrung forcefully from his shaking body, but Stiles no longer
knows how to tell. They’ve never gone this far before.
Maybe they could’ve gone even farther than this, but Stiles spent forty weeks
pregnant and then another three months too busy for sex, and her diminished
stamina is almost spent.
Stiles is the one to signal yellow this time. She slows her pace, gently
working Derek’s cock as she rocks him to one last dry orgasm, then unsnaps the
dildo from her harness, freeing herself to collapse on the bed next to him
without forcing him to relinquish the fullness in his ass.
Her hands shake as she unbuckles the restraints, sweaty fingers slipping over
metal and leather. He watches her from beneath barely opened eyelids and
doesn't lift a single finger to help.
She ends up kicking the whole mess of leather over the edge of the bed, then
shimmies out of her harness, sending that over too. Exhausted, she curls up
against Derek’s shaking body and lets him slip a hand between her thighs. He’s
barely awake, eyelids fluttering closed more often than open, but his big
fingers diligently work her clit to an easy orgasm. It’s the perfect end to a
great night, and they fall asleep in each others’ trembling arms.
***** Baby's first sounds *****
Chapter Summary
     msdistress asked if I'd ever written a sounding fic before.
     At that point, I had not. But now I have.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Derek likes to climb into Stiles’ room sometimes, when the ache of missing him
gets a little too sharp to ignore. They text and Skype when they can, but
Stiles is in the honors program at his university in freaking Boston and shares
a dorm room with three other guys, and Derek hasn’t so much as seen Stiles’
cock in almost eight weeks, now.
So yeah, sometimes Derek climbs into Stiles’ room to roll around on his bed,
whatever.
This time though, there’s a slim cardboard box on the foot of the bed, some
package that Stiles got in the mail and his dad tossed into his room for him to
find when he gets back. Or at least, that’s what Derek thinks until he looks at
the mailing addresses.
It’s not addressed to Stiles at all; the TO: is filled in with Derek’s name but
followed by the Stilinski’s home address, while the FROM: lists S. Stilinski
and the address of his dorm in Boston. Derek sniffs the package, and over the
usual scents of the postal service are bacon and a brief smudge of the
Sheriff’s scent, like the man picked it up and then hastily dropped it, then
delivered to Stiles’ room with a pair of bacon-smelling tongs.
(The real stuff, not that turkey bacon Stiles insists on. Not that Stiles will
be finding that out from Derek. Derek knows what side his bread is buttered
on.)
Derek slits the tape open with a claw and pulls out a nondescript zippered
case. On the front of the case is a post-it note with a smiley face drawn on
it.
Inside is a set of eight round metal rods, each about a foot long and gently
curved at the ends. They graduate in size, the thinnest being about the width
of the tine of a fork and the largest being thicker than Derek’s pinky finger.
He stares at them, confused.
There’s a thickly stuffed envelope in the bottom of the box and he opens it,
pulling out folded printouts and pamphlets on, on…
On urethral sounding.
Derek drops the whole mess back on the bed and throws himself out the window,
appalled, confused, and a little aroused in spite of himself.
He’s back an hour later, grimly determined. He collects the sounds and the
fruit of Stiles’ undoubtedly meticulous research, writes a note for the Sheriff
saying he’s still on for Thanksgiving, and goes home, red in the face and
squirming with paranoia that someone will glance into his car and know.
He tells himself he’ll steel his nerves, go through the research, and try it in
a week if he’s ready.
And then Stiles texts with a photo, showing off the leather gloves he bought to
replace his fraying knitted ones, and Derek just sort of falls over onto his
bed, zippered case in one hand and lube in the other.
The reading Stiles oh-so-helpfully provided is pretty straightforward: use
lube, go slow, sharp pain is bad. The first sound is too thin, sliding in
without much sensation. The second is better, but the third is jackpot. He
holds his cock up and the gravity drops the sound halfway down the shaft in one
easy slide. He takes a few deep breaths, massages his balls and perineum, and
pushes the sound deeper.
It feels strange. Uncomfortable, even with successive reapplications of lube,
and outright painful when he tries to turn the sound to fit it deeper but
accidentally turns it the wrong way. But it’s intense and his toes curl and
feet flex as the sound slips deeper. The curved end bends up to rest where the
urethra passes through the prostate and Derek gasps, pulling his legs up in a
reflexive reaction to his prostate being stimulated. But there’s no cock in him
this time, real or otherwise, just a thin rod of metal that makes him want to
arch and rut.
He slicks up a finger and pushes it into his twitching ass, imagining that it’s
Stiles’ long finger reaching in and massaging his prostate from the outside
while his other hand fucks it from the inside with short little nudges of the
metal sound. Derek keens and arches and cries Stiles’ name, and Allison and
Lydia watch, flushed and slack-jawed, from the open doorway.
 
 
(They just wanted to borrow his stand mixer.)
Chapter End Notes
     deREK THIS IS WHY PEOPLE BUY HOMES WITH FRONT DOORS THAT LOCK.
     Allison actually did just want to borrow Derek's stand mixer because
     Papa Argent broke his and with Thanksgiving just around the corner he
     refused to leave his kitchen long enough to go out and buy a new one.
     So Allison dragged Lydia over to Derek's to borrow his, which is
     nicer than her dad's old one anyway.
***** First impressions... didn't someone write a book about those? *****
Chapter Summary
     Slob!Derek makes an improbably good first impression with the hot new
     neighbor across the street. And then he has to live up to it.
“Yes,” Laura says.
“No,” Derek replies
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“No!
“YES!”
“NO!”
“NO!”
“YES!”
Laura fistpumps. “Yes!”
Derek drops his head in his hands and moans, “Noooo.”
She pats him on the head. “Derek, you are so stupid I almost feel bad about
taking advantage of you. Except not really. Now get up, take a shower, and put
some real person clothes on. You’re going to say hi to your new neighbors if it
kills you in the process.”
Derek grunts and scrubs his fingers through his unkempt and slightly greasy
hair, but goes begrudgingly to freshen up. He even brushes his teeth, and fie
on Laura who says he never makes an effort.
There’s an outfit already laid out on his bed when he gets out, the unworn
green cashmere sweater his mom got him for Christmas a few years back and a
pair of the super tight jeans his uncle insists on buying for him all the time.
Derek hates them, hates the way they cling and constrict his movement, and he
goes to his bureau only to discover that Laura has emptied out all his sweats
and shorts and comfortable jeans, leaving only Peter’s skinny jeans behind.
“Laura! Laura, I am not wearing these jeans,” he shouts toward the living room.
“For god’s sake, Derek, grow a pair and put the damn jeans on!” she shouts
back.
Derek glares at the jeans in question. “If I grow a pair I won’t even be able
to fit in the stupid things,” he mutters as he steps into the plain grey boxer
briefs Laura laid out for him. He puts his socks on next, since he probably
won’t be able to bend far enough to put them on once he’s got the damn pants
on.
It takes him twenty minutes of squirming and yanking to get the things on and
reasonably settled. He leans over to pick up the green sweater and the denim
tightens ominously over his ass and thighs. Careful not to bend any further,
lest the seams pop and give Laura even more reason to mock him, he snags the
sweater with his fingertips and hauls it on. A glance in the direction of the
mirror and he pronounces himself dressed and minces gingerly into the living
room.
Laura wolf-whistles, then goes at his hair, finger-combing the mostly wet mess
of it off his forehead. “Much nicer, baby bro. You look like a real boy and
everything!”
Derek rolls his eyes expansively. “Can we just get this over with?”
“Sure,” Laura chirps. “On one condition.”
Derek eyes her warily. “What.”
“Smiiiiile,” Laura says, pinching his cheeks.
“No.”
“Yes.” She boops his nose and grabs his keys and their mom’s famous New-
Neighbor Casserole off his cluttered coffee table. “Now let’s go welcome your
new neighbors.”
Derek follows her sulkily out the door, watches as she locks his door behind
them, the door of the house that he bought with his own gainfully earned money,
and follows her across the street to where the new neighbors are supposedly
getting themselves settled in. He hasn’t seen them yet, being the sort of
person who doesn’t snoop in other people’s business, Laura.
Laura stops him on the sidewalk. “Okay, let’s see those pearly whites.”
Derek curls his lips away from his teeth. Laura rolls her eyes. “Point five out
of ten, would not recommend.” She sighs and shakes her head, the same way their
mother does when she’s quietly disappointed. It’s blatant emotional
manipulation, but Derek folds like a house of cards anyway. He rubs his face
with both hands and stretches his mouth into a close-lipped smile, squinting
his eyes for effect.
Laura gives it a critical stare, then shrugs. “Six out of ten, but it’ll have
to do.” They head up onto the walk and up the steps of the porch. There’s a
rectangular outline on the wood in front of the door where his old neighbor’s
welcome mat used to lay.
Laura rings the doorbell. There’s voices, then footsteps and someone fumbling
with the locks, and the door swings open to reveal a guy. A guy who is one
thousand percent Derek’s type.
Derek’s fake smile relaxes and widens with genuine surprised pleasure. And,
like an idiot, he leans in, holds out his hand, and says, “Hi! I’m Derek.”
Laura’s jaw drops in shock, but Derek is too entranced by his gorgeously
perfect new neighbor to notice.
The guy tentatively smiles back and shakes Derek’s hand. His fingers are
fucking sinful and Derek’s dick valiantly tries to pop a boner within the
confines of its denim prison. He licks his lips—holy shit, his mouth—and says,
“I’m Stiles. Nice to meet you.”
And Derek falls in lust, instantly.
***** Teachers can want the D, too *****
Chapter Summary
     creeperdwarf asked for: teacher!Derek bottoming for student!Stiles.
Derek doesn’t know how he got here, bent over a desk in his classroom with his
pants around his ankles and his shirt rucked up to his armpits while a
seventeen year-old fucks him from behind.
(Actually, he knows exactly how he got here; he was staying late and grading
essays in lieu of going back to his hollow apartment and got a text
reading DTF?, to which he replied, yeah.
(Actually, he was subbing in sophomore history and his eyes caught and clung to
a pair of pink, pink lips. He’s been a fool ever since.)
The edge of the desk cuts into his thighs—he’ll have ruler-straight bruises
later—and he grips it, pulling himself back into Stiles’ thrusts, his chest
slipping sweat-slick over the smooth surface of the desk. Stiles grips him by
the hips and pins him to stillness, then ups his pace, fucking him with short,
quick jabs that make Derek choke on sparking pleasure.
(Stiles, for all that he’s an impulsive teenager, is more cautious in this than
Derek is. Derek doesn’t like to think about what that says about himself.
(But if it’s important, Stiles will tell him anyway.)
Stiles slows, lengthening his strokes until he pulls out, rubbing the head of
his dick up and down over Derek’s grasping hole, coyly dipping in, feinting
away to trail pre-come and lube down Derek’s taint to his drawn-up balls.
"Please," Derek asks. Stiles lines his dick back up and pushes in slowly, both
of them savoring the taut stretch of the initial breach. The angle changes as
Stiles leans down, curling over Derek’s back to kiss away the sweat at the nape
of his neck.
"Thank you," Derek breathes, and Stiles briefly nuzzles the hairline before
straightening.
(Ask Derek about Chaucer. Ask him about Catch 22, The Color Purple, Johnathan
Swift, Harry Potter, hell, ask him about The Tale of Genji, and Derek will tell
you all about themes and characters and technique and style. 
(Ask him about Stiles and his words will dry up like a drop of water on a Death
Valley summer day.)
Stiles grinds and ruts as he gets close. Long, nimble fingers dance over
Derek’s cock and balls, tugging and caressing and teasing until Derek reaches
back, catching Stiles’ hip in a desperate grasp. He jerks back and forth
between Stiles’ groin and hands. Stiles leaves him to it for a cruelly long
while, then finally takes him firmly in hand, lightly massaging his sac as he
roughly jerks Derek’s leaking cock to orgasm. Come jets out, streaking the
chair and the floor under the desk. Stiles gasps at the sudden clench of
Derek’s ass and spills, filling Derek with teenage spunk.
It’s Stiles who cleans up, running baby wipes carefully over their genitals and
scrubbing away streaks of milky come. It’s Stiles who smooths down Derek’s
shirt, tucks them into his pants, buckles the belt, and guides arms into a
blazer. It’s Stiles who shuffles Derek’s papers into neat stacks and collects
his keys and wallet and messenger bag.
(It’s Stiles who wraps steady arms around Derek and cradles him as the last of
the shaking subsides, Stiles who is cradling more than just Derek’s body.)
***** Technical Difficulties *****
Chapter Summary
     xanotherrandomblogx prompted: Married sterek, future, jealous!Stiles.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Stiles peers around the edge of the door frame into the bedroom, frowns, and
turns to glare down at his dick. 
This is your fault, he mouths at it, why can’t you freaking vibrate!
The buzzing ticks up a level and Derek moans pornographically, the slick sounds
of the vibrator sliding in and out of his ass absolute hell to Stiles and his
non-vibrating penis.
Though, maybe there’s a spell, some sort of sex spell that will give Stiles’
dick magic vibrating abilities. There’s gotta have been some sort of demand for
recreational spells at some point, right? Back in the days before modern
vibrators? Stiles hies back to his office to do some research.
Derek’s moans follow him down the hall, but if Derek can prefer a vibrator to
his husband’s dick, then Stiles can prefer his books to Derek’s ass.
Chapter End Notes
     Before you ask, no, I can't be persuaded to continue this one, for
     that way lies a quagmire of relationship angst and couples counseling
     and I refuse to be party to that.
***** Cherry boy *****
Chapter Summary
     flagonsandapples prompted: First time bottoming for Derek, who
     seriously didn’t think he’d be this nervous. (Or that it would be so
     damn good.)
Chapter Notes
     FYI: College sports team AU.
The way Derek offers to catch sets Stiles’ teeth on edge, makes him want to
punch his teammate/fuckbuddy/frenemy in the face until his straight nose
flattens and his stubble is matted with blood. He offers like he’s doing Stiles
this huge fucking favor, like yeah, he’ll take it up the ass from Stiles, but
Stiles is going to owe him blowjobs from now until infinity in exchange.
Stiles sucks it in, pretends to be pleased, grateful, and plots revenge.
He starts the actual sex off with a blowjob, pulling out all his tricks and
aces and emptying his metaphorical sleeves until Derek is sobbing with
pleasure, already more undone than Stiles has ever seen him before. And then
Stiles rolls him over and repeats the treatment on Derek’s ass, pulling back
every time Derek gets close to coming and forcing his tired mouth to work the
tight pucker until the whole bottom half of his face aches. By then, Derek is
clawing at the sheets and pushing his ass desperately back into Stiles’ mouth.
Hah, not so fucking smug now, are you, Hale?
He gives Derek a chance to cool down a little while he gets the lube and
condoms. A pillow gets wedged under Derek’s groin, lifting his ass.
The first finger goes in with no resistance at all; Derek’s gone limp with
pleasure, his whole body a relaxed puddle of muscle and moaning. The second
doesn’t meet much resistance either. Derek moans as a third finger stretches
him open.
Stiles takes care to go slow, never stretching Derek beyond what he can take,
never letting him feel anything sharper than the warm stretch of his sphincter.
Derek needs to associate catching with mind-blowing pleasure, not pain. He pets
Derek’s prostate from inside his ass, pressing only just hard enough to be
felt, and as Derek relaxes further, Stiles starts pumping his fingers in and
out of his slick hole.
Derek rocks with it, riding the back-and-forth like he was born to it and
groaning like an amateur porn star. Stiles eases a fourth finger into Derek and
he sighs like he’s found fucking Nirvana or something. Stiles grits his teeth,
abruptly furious that he can’t see Derek’s face while he takes the man apart.
He eases his fingers out, ignoring Derek’s whine, and rolls him over.
Derek is red from his hairline to his belly, his eyes glazed and expression
full of awe. Stiles slides his fingers back in one at a time and watches
Derek’s eyelashes flutter and his mouth open into a soundless ‘oh’.
"Like that, huh?" he asks smugly. He gives his fingers a twist and Derek’s abs
twitch. "Look at you, taking it like you were made for it."
Derek’s mouth shapes a ‘no’ and his eyebrows furrow.
Stiles smirks cruelly. “You’re gonna love this from now on. You’re gonna want
it up the ass all the time, probably won’t even be able to get hard at the
sight of some other chick or dude offering up their own hole to get fucked.”
Derek whines and squirms, but his cock twitches and spits out a fat drop of
pre-come.
"You’ll probably even beg for it. I can see it, you wandering around the locker
room after a game, begging the guys to fuck your little pussy." Stiles scissors
his fingers as much as he can in the virgin-tight clench of Derek’s ass. "But
they’ll never be as good as me. None of them will ever make you feel as good as
I did, right?"
Derek doesn’t answer, so Stiles smacks his asscheek.
“Right?" he insists.
"Yes!" Derek cries, rolling his hips down onto Stiles’ fingers.
Check and fucking mate, Stiles thinks. He rips open the foil condom package and
it on one-handed, slicking himself as he tests the give of Derek’s rim.
Derek whines when Stiles pulls his fingers out, then rocks eagerly down when
Stiles lines his cock up, the tip disappearing into Derek’s ass without Stiles
having to move at all. He looks up at Derek’s face from under his eyebrows and
makes a mental note to get Derek to ride him. If he can manage it, it'll
definitely be a fuck to remember.
He pushes in slowly, breathing out on a long hiss as Derek’s virgin hole
squeezes him. He’s drowned out entirely by Derek’s throaty moan. Stiles gives a
few experimental thrusts and realizes that he’s not going to last as long as
he’d hoped.
Calculating the angles in his head, Stiles lifts Derek’s legs up onto his
shoulders and cants his hips, thrusting up and in. Derek shouts and grabs at
the sheets so Stiles keeps doing what he’s doing, only experimenting a little
to see what works and what doesn’t. Eventually he finds the perfect angle, the
one that makes Derek go ‘oh’ with each thrust.
Meanwhile, Stiles thinks about everything he can to keep from coming. He thinks
about calculus, about intestines, about the ancient civilian aide at his dad’s
Sheriff’s Department who always seems to know where everything is. He thinks
about the condescending smirk Derek had given him when he’d offered to bottom.
He thinks about his mom.
He looks down at Derek, Derek who has done nothing to wrong him aside from be a
close-minded jerk, and thinks his mom would be disappointed in him.
Stiles clasps Derek’s neglected cock and jerks it firmly, twisting over the
head the way he knows Derek likes best, and watches Derek shout and shudder
through what looks like an amazing orgasm. Stiles comes too, rutting into the
clenching heat of Derek’s body, but it feels hollow and disappointing.
He pulls out as soon as he can, smoothing a hand over Derek’s side when he
grunts in discomfort, and disposes of the condom. A quick look at Derek’s hole
shows no damage, and though he’ll probably be sore, it’ll be the good, well-
fucked sore and not the bad-hurt-pain sore. Stiles wipes them both down with a
damp washcloth and starts pulling on his clothes, feeling thoroughly disgusted
with himself.
Derek pushes himself up on wobbly arms. “You’re not-?”
Because Stiles usually stays the night, crashing in Derek’s bed to avoid his
fucking Aryan Brotherhood wannabe roommate and his roommate’s godawful racist
asshole gang buddies.
"No," Stiles says. "I’ve got—shit to do. See you around." 
He’s turning the door knob when Derek fucking collides with him, pancaking him
against the door and pinning him there with his ridiculous bulk. Stiles
thrashes but Derek’s like a goddamn wall.
"So what," Derek snarls at the back of Stiles’ head. "That’s it? I let you fuck
me and suddenly I'm not good enough for you anymore?"
"I don’t owe you a single goddamn thing, asshole," Stiles spits. Derek’s weight
abruptly lessens so that he’s not squishing Stiles against the door so much as
just holding him there.
Derek sighs and Stiles feels his breath on the nape of his neck.
"You’re right," Derek says quietly, resignedly. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You can
leave any time you want.”
Stiles stares blankly at the door. Derek says it like he’s bitterly jealous,
like he wishes he could leave, too. And what—what the fuck. Stiles gulps for
breath like the air around him has gone too thin. Stiles and Derek,
StilesandDerek, they—
"We barely tolerate each other,” Stiles says desperately.
"No," Derek says. "You barely tolerate me. I do whatever it fucking takes to
get you to just look at me for a while.”
Stiles gets that feeling again, that desperate need to see Derek’s face and
read what he’s feeling in his eyebrows and the fine creases around his eyes.
But he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even peek.
"I don’t love you," Stiles blurts.
"I know," Derek says. It’s so matter-of-fact that Stiles feels guilty in spite
of himself.
"I don’t even like you, most days."
"I know that too."
"You’re a complete jerk."
"So’re you."
Stiles’ hand clenches around the doorknob. Derek is hardly leaning against him
anymore, more a body-warm presence at his back. Stiles could easily elbow him
out of the way and escape. He squeezes the knob and stands still.
"Normal people ask each other out."
Derek gasps quietly and sways into Stiles. His hands come up on either side of
Stiles to brace against the door, but it feels less like he’s caging Stiles in
and more like he’s holding onto the wood to keep from holding onto Stiles.
"Will you go out with me?" Derek asks, breathy and hopeful.
Stiles suspects that this will either be the absolute best or absolute worst
decision of his life. There won’t be any in-between, not with Stiles and Derek.
He takes a deep breath, his back meeting Derek’s front as his ribcage expands.
"Yeah."
***** I < 3 Y O U *****
Chapter Summary
     Derek is a photocopier that only works when Stiles uses it. Thus,
     everyone in the office is always asking Stiles to do their copying
     when the line for the not-Derek copier gets too long.
Chapter Notes
     I dunno, you guys. I just don't know.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles is in the zone. He’s hammering through his work, pounding out emails,
slamming those reports through, galvanizing his fellow employees while
finessing the management and being an all-around model of productivity.
Then Erica.
"Copy these for me," she commands, the snap of her gum audible over the thump
of papers onto his desk. "The first three need to be double-sided. I need two
copies of each, except for this one, this one, and this one, which I need six
of, stat, so hop along."
Stiles grits his teeth and flexes his fingers over his keyboard. Dammit, he
was in the zone.
"Use Scott."
Erica snaps her gum again. “There’s six people already in line for Scott.”
"Then go downstairs and use R&D’s copier."
"Yeah, tried that. Lydia’s got her claws into it and I’m not suicidal, thanks."
Stiles sighs and pushes away from his desk, mourning his precious zone but
picking up the stack of papers anyway. He slides the five lying on top into his
left pocket, since the right is already full of the cash he's already collected
today from other people farming out their copy jobs to him.
The fluorescents in the western copy room flicker on as Stiles enters, the
energy-saving lights having gone out since Stiles was last in here. He’s really
the only person who ever comes in here these days, ever since Kate Argent
fucked up the copier that the cubicle monkeys named ‘Derek’. Now everyone uses
‘Scott’, the machine in the eastern copy room. Unlike Derek, it loves everyone,
so there’s a line to use it more often than not.
"Hey, Derek," Stiles coos, running his hand over the document feeder. The
machine is quiet and cool under his palm, hibernating in Power Saver Mode.
Stiles taps the display and Derek hums to life, purring under Stiles’
experienced hands. "Mmm, you’re so good to me, baby. Faster and more efficient
than that puppy Scott, aren’t you? Scott wishes its prints were half as sharp
as yours."
Stiles taps in the command for two double-sided copies and slots the first
stack of paper into the feeder. Derek beeps at him, patient but thrumming
gently with anticipation.
"Those other people, they don’t get you," Stiles says. He runs his hands along
the trays, stroking his fingers along the ends. "But I do. I know just what you
need and I’m gonna give it to you.”
He presses down firmly on the green Start button and Derek obediently starts
sucking down Erica’s documents and churning out crisp, warm copies.
Stiles leans against Derek’s front, which radiates the heat of its internal
functions. 
He caresses it and says, “I love you too.”
Chapter End Notes
     I just really don't know, okay?
***** Arrest *****
Chapter Summary
     reclininghorizontally prompted: Stiles was unexpectedly and
     incredibly turned on watching Derek be handcuffed and manhandled
     during his arrest back in season one and he gets preoccupied with the
     concept. He begins to find excuses to hold onto Derek’s wrists, not
     realizing it gets Derek just as hot.
Chapter Notes
     AU where Stiles was born a few years earlier but everything else
     remains the same.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Derek Hale got hot is Stiles’ first thought when the man himself walks out of
the ruins of his family’s old home. But then, the last time Stiles saw Derek
was when they were both sophomores in high school and Derek was being pulled
out of their chemistry class by the principal. So there’s that.
And then his dad is beckoning him forward and Stiles actually starts hearing
what his dad is saying and okay, wow, apparently Derek Hale also got suspected
of murder, and is in the process of getting arrested, and Stiles is the one
circling around to Derek’s back, pulling thick forearms back and hooking cuffs
onto broad, masculine wrists.
And wow, is this an inappropriate time to pop a boner or what?
He leads Derek out to a cruiser, one hand curled around a massive bicep and the
other hooked over the chain of the cuffs, but all he can see is the way those
wrists look, held captive.
Derek doesn’t stay at the station long. The dead girl is his sister Laura, the
same Laura that Stiles remembers from school, and also she was killed by an
animal, which Derek is actually not, so they let him go.
Stiles catches up with him on his way out.
"Hey, Derek," he says. He reaches out to catch Derek by the wrist without
thinking. Derek freezes, then turns to face him, eyes going straight to where
Stiles is gripping his wrist. Stiles snatches his hand away like it’s been
scalded and shoves it into his pocket. Derek's arm slowly falls back to his
side.
"Uh, hey. I’m sorry for your loss," Stiles says. He shuffles on his feet and
avoids Derek’s pointed stare. "Laura was, I remember her from high school and
she was always really cool. Didn’t take shit from nobody, smart as hell, could
kick the lacrosse team’s collective ass with one hand tied behind her back. But
she was still really friendly to everyone, too.
"I really looked up to her and it’s, well, I lost my mom and that gutted me,
but if my dad died and I was alone, I’d- Crap. I’m fucking this up."
Stiles risks a glance at Derek’s face. It’s stonily impassive. Time to wrap up
this one man humiliation show.
"I’m sorry for your loss," Stiles says, meeting Derek’s eyes. "And I’m sorry
for your shitty welcome back to town. And y’know, if you need anything, just
call and I’ll-we’ll-somebody’ll help.”
Derek nods perfunctorily. And then he turns to go, walking out of the station
and probably out of Stiles’ life entirely.
And all the while, Stiles watches his hands clenching and flexing and thinks
about how they’d looked in those handcuffs.
Chapter End Notes
     jfc 40 chapters what even
***** Okaeri *****
Chapter Summary
     owlphallacies prompted: Something with a LOT of cuddling and making
     out or Derek fingering himself/getting fingered or something with a
     remote-controlled vibrator.
Derek is so lost in the feeling of his sphincter stretching around his fingers
that he doesn’t even register Stiles coming home until he’s climbing onto the
bed and leaning over Derek to kiss him hello.
"Don’t stop," Stiles says against his lips when Derek slides his fingers out,
so he pushes them back in, his toes curling. Stiles slides a hand down Derek’s
chest and belly, skirting around his leaking cock to press down on the backs of
Derek’s fingers and Derek moans into Stiles’ mouth, chasing Stiles’ tongue with
his own.
They kiss, slow and wet and lazy, as Derek pushes his fingers in and out.
Stiles’ hands meander over Derek’s face and chest, pausing to tease pert
nipples, or trace the line of a collarbone, or just cup the curve of a deltoid.
They never slip lower than Derek’s waist except to touch the back of Derek’s
hand, and then only briefly, a short press before trailing back up the length
of Derek’s arm.
Stiles wedges an arm under Derek’s shoulders, cradling him like something off
the cover of a romance novel, and Derek curls into him, following his mouth for
more kisses as he rocks into his fingers. He brings his knees up higher and
reaches deeper, massaging his prostate.
Stiles kisses him deeply, licking into his mouth even when he gets distracted
by the rising pleasure and catching Derek’s moans between his teeth.
Derek swipes the palm of his other hand between his cheeks and over the taint,
slicking it with lube before he takes his cock in hand. Stiles licks the
resulting hiss right off his teeth and pulls Derek closer with the arm around
his shoulders as he strokes himself. 
The kisses are still languid for all that Derek’s hand is moving fast and firm
over his cock, and when Derek comes, Stiles’ tongue slides slow like molasses
over Derek’s, his mouth open to swallow Derek’s cry whole.
Stiles pets Derek through his orgasm, smoothing away the tremors with his hands
and lips.
When Derek’s body has finally relaxed into the afterglow he says, “Welcome
home,” and Stiles kisses the tip of his nose, smiling incandescently.
***** Derek Screwed pt 1 *****
Chapter Summary
     So I have this pet spider, and I catch other spiders to feed to it,
     and sometimes when it’s not hungry, it just ties them up and leaves
     them hanging until it’s feeling peckish. Ergo, werespider!Stiles and
     beta!Derek. So if you’re deathly afraid of spiders, you might wanna
     skip on by this one.
"Don’t go beyond the southwestern boundary line," Derek’s mother always says.
Derek repeats the mantra to himself now as he tries to claw at the sticky cords
of the massive cobweb he’d landed in when the forest floor had abruptly fallen
out from under him. There’s a weird residue on them though, and it sticks in
chunks to his fingers like clay, blunting the sharp edges of his claws. Derek
paws at the tangled web a few times and gives up, sagging into the sticky
hammock.
"HELLO!" He shouts up at the sky. "CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?" Because the hole is
wide but shallow, maybe only ten or twelve feet deep, and the southwestern
boundary line borders a chunk of suburb, for Luna’s sake. The nearest house,
the Sheriff’s house, in fact, is barely a hundred yards away. 
Derek doesn’t know what a werespider's trap is doing this close to human
habitation, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He breathes
in deep and howls from the diaphragm, not from the chest, just like his mom
taught him.
There’s a rush of wings flapping as all the nearby birds take off. The forest
goes silent. Derek strains his hearing in the direction of the Sheriff’s house.
It’s too far away for him to hear if anyone’s moving around inside, but he can
just make out the shrill ring of a telephone. It cuts off after a ring and a
half, which gives Derek a little hope.
Derek waits, listening hopefully, but unless the person who picked up the phone
is particularly stealthy, they stay inside, leaving Derek hanging. Literally.
He squirms, trying to pull his way free of the mass of webbing, but only
manages to tangle himself further.
"Dammit!" he shouts up at the distant sky. A few of the returning birds chirp
down at him.
A while passes. With his watch arm trapped at an odd angle, Derek has to track
time by the passage of the sun, which he’s never been very good at, but he
waits patiently for maybe half an hour. The quiet and inactivity eventually
make him drowsy and, by degrees, he loses the fight against sleep.
&&&
"Dude. Dude, wake up."
Derek grunts. He tries to pull his blankets up over his head, but he’s gotten
all tangled up in them.
"Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty. I will kiss you. And I promise you won’t like
it.”
Derek grudgingly opens his eyes to see a massive werespider peering at him
point blank with eight large round eyes set in a white-furred, mandibled face.
He’ll spend the rest of his life denying that he shrieks bloody murder at the
sight.
Derek instinctively starts struggling, fur exploding out of his face as he
wolfs out in sheer panic, and he howls desperately for his pack in the face of
a superior predator. The werespider blessedly backs away and watches him from a
slightly less pants-wettingly terrifying proximity. By the time Derek has
calmed down, it's lounging on its back, weaving a complex cat’s cradle
involving multiple threads of spider silk and five of its limbs. 
"Are you going to kill me?" Derek asks, trying for calm and failing utterly.
"Nah," the spider says, lazily waving an unoccupied limb longer than Derek is
tall. "I’ve got an in with the Sheriff, but not one that’ll let me get away
with first degree murder. Though maybe I could squeak by on the fact that
you’re trespassing."
"I was patrolling the edge of the Hale territory."
"Dude." The were!spider looks away from its cat’s cradle to pin Derek with a
distinctly unimpressed look. "Do not even. I know your mom told you not to come
out this far. I know because your mom told me when she called my house to
apologize.”
"Let me go. They’ll be missing me by now," Derek tries. He may not be thrashing
around anymore, but his instincts are still screaming at him to run away from
an unbeatable threat.
The spider laughs, which looks distinctly weird considering the whole mandible
thing. “Naw. When you howled I got up to help you out, but your mom called
before I could and told me to let you stew in your own terrible decisions for a
while. Though she probably didn’t expect you to take a nap. A+ survival
instincts there, buddy.”
Derek scowls, but he can feel his face heating up. “I was up late studying for
an exam, okay,” Derek grouses.
"Yeah?" the werespider asks, turning over and pulling itself closer. It hooks
its claws into the thick string binding Derek and begins cutting and
unraveling. "What subject?"
"The CPA exam."
The werespider pauses in its work. It doesn’t blink in surprise, but only
because it doesn’t have eyelids. “You’re an accountant?”
Derek huffs and rolls his eyes. He gets that reaction a lot. “So what?”
"Oh," it says, and focuses its attention back on the mess of web Derek’s
tangled in. Its many legs are making quick work of it. "No, that’s cool. You
just look like—. Crap, you must get this from everyone."
Derek shrugs, now that he has enough freedom to actually move his shoulders. He
is used to people assuming he’s a model, but it’s sort of novel for someone to
notice.
The werespider peels away the last few threads binding Derek and lifts him up
onto its back like he weighs no more than a pillow. Strangely, Derek’s
instincts barely register the show of strength as a threat. He grips the wiry
white hairs as they climb out of the hole and lets himself be lifted back down
to the ground. 
The werespider steps back and sort of... folds into itself in a way that makes
Derek’s eyes cross, a creature big enough to easily catch a horse somehow
collapsing in on itself until it settles into the shape of a guy Derek’s
height, with pale skin and broad shoulders and a tapering waist and crap he’s
naked. Derek averts his eyes and politely strips off his jacket, holding it out
to the guy, who laughs and grabs a pair of boxers draped over a tree branch
before taking Derek’s jacket.
It fits snugly around the guy's shoulders in such a way that makes Derek’s
jeans fit a little snugly in the crotch.
"I’m Stiles," the werespider says. "Stiles Stilinski."
I’m screwed, Derek thinks. Royally screwed.
He says, “I’m Derek. Derek screwed,” and then claps his hands over his blushing
face as Stiles bursts out laughing.
***** Welcome to Beacon Hills pt 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     lielabell requested: WtNV/TW Stiles getting his hair cut. 
Readers, I’ve been seeing your posts on Twitter about Deputy Stilinski getting
his hair cut, so I decided to do a little investigating of my own, and readers,
I am appalled. The Deputy’s hair wasn’t cut so much as shorn, clipped from his
beautiful skull with no more care to appearance than a sheep farmer might pay
to his shorn sheep. All that cute brown scruff, the perfect length to run one’s
fingers through, gone! Who is responsible for this? Who inflicted this terrible
and unrefined hairstyle upon our dear Deputy? 
Readers, I’ve just received a text from Vernon Boyd, (you know, the third?),
and he says that Deputy Stilinski did it himself on his lunch break after his
presentation at the local elementary school. Apparently one of the kids had the
audacity to put gum in the Deputy’s hair! I hope that child is grounded and
subject to thorough academic discipline. That is not how a proper citizen of
Beacon Hills treats their law enforcement officers.
On the other hand, after some observation of our Deputy and his new hairstyle,
I must admit that the new cut brings a kind of boyish youth to his features.
And so low-maintenance. Readers, I think I’m a little bit jealous of our dear
Deputy’s new hairstyle. Do you think he’d cut my hair, too?
No, the Deputy is probably far too busy with important police work to waste his
time giving out haircuts. 
Oh well, Beacon Hills. This has been a report.
&&&
Omg Alli that hot creepy Hale is glaring at me again
another stalker to add to your collection. and aren’t you supposed to be too
busy doing important police work to text me?
One stalker is not a collection
two stalkers is.
I have a collection of stalkers now
congratulations!
&&&
(“So many stalkers,” Stiles brags. “So many stalkers.”
His dad drops his forehead into his hand in response.)
***** Both. Both is good. *****
Chapter Summary
     lielabell prompted: Derek getting his nipples played with? Or double
     penetration? OR STILES AND DEREK AND A DOUBLE SIDED DILDO.
Stiles slides home on a sigh, his balls tucked up against Derek’s taint. Derek,
meanwhile, stretches like a cat, rubbing his pierced nipples against the
mattress as best he can with his hands tied to the headboard. Stiles reaches
under him to flick one of the titanium rings and the muscles in Derek’s sides
twitch. Maybe he should get a chain to string between them, something pretty
and decorative to emphasize the breadth of Derek’s chest and also so Stiles can
lead him around by his sensitive nipples.
Derek’s hips rock back against him and Stiles stills them with a touch.
Squeezing more lube onto his fingers, he reaches down to knead Derek’s rim,
testing the edge until a single finger slips in alongside his cock. Derek
breathes out sharply through his nose and bears down, accepting the intrusion.
Stiles works his finger progressively deeper until he’s fucking it in and out
alongside his stationary cock. He slides his finger around until it’s under his
cock and homes in on Derek’s prostate with his fingertip. Some judicious
rubbing earns Stiles a choked whimper and a little more give in Derek’s rim,
and Stiles slides a second finger in alongside his cock and the first.
Derek hisses at the stretch when Stiles hooks his fingers on Derek’s rim and
gently pulls down, but doesn’t fight the third finger. Stiles takes some time
working them in and out until it feels less like he’s got his dick and three
fingers caught in a finger trap before slowly bunching his fingers together,
simulating something thicker.
Derek does twitch away at that, and Stiles goes back to holding his three
fingers flat, scissoring them until Derek relaxes and loosens. The bunched
fingers go in easier, and Stiles rubs the small of Derek’s back, hand slipping
in the sweat gathered on Derek’s skin as he works them in and out alongside his
cock.
With his other hand, he shakily squeezes lube onto one end of the double dildo
lying on the bed next to him, smearing it roughly over the soft, flexible toy.
Then, with one hand holding Derek open, he works the tip in.
The toy’s material compresses, but it’s wider around than Stiles’ fingers were,
and the tightness of Derek’s rim around Stiles’ cock feels like a garotte. He
hisses and thumbs at Derek’s hole, trying to find some give before his dick
pops off.
Derek is perfectly still beneath him, his knuckes white around the bars of the
headboard.
Stiles kneads Derek’s back and sides, palming down over the sweat-slippery skin
to tease the stiff nubs of Derek’s nipples. By degrees, the punishing tightness
eases. He works the dildo in one inch at a time, dribbling lube everywhere, and
Derek starts breathing out fragile little “oh, oh"s as he adjusts.
Derek’s hole looks obscene, stretched around Stiles’ cock and the dildo, red
and taut like a rubber band at full extension. Like if Stiles stuck a single
finger in alongside, it’d snap. Stiles leans down carefully to press kisses
onto Derek’s back and slides a hand around to fondle Derek’s cock, gone soft
with pain. He toys with the foreskin and just listens, focusing on the cadence
of Derek’s breathing.
It takes a long time for the tension to leak out of Derek’s body, relaxing the
rigid line of his back into a softer curve. Derek’s chest sinks onto the
mattress and his body opens.
He’s gorgeous to watch from this angle, the deceptive width of his hips
narrowing to a delicate waist and then building up to the breadth of his
shoulders, the blades bunched toward the spine from his extended arms. The nape
of his neck is especially beautiful, bared and vulnerable.
Stiles finally starts working his hips into a slow rhythm, thrusting the dildo
in counterpoint, in-out, out-in, and Derek’s rib cage contracts as he sighs out
a breathy moan. His hands flex on the bars, forearms rippling and cording.
Stiles reminds himself to go on Wikipedia and memorize the muscles so that next
time, he can think their names as they flex and relax.
When his cock and the dildo are moving smoothly, he thrusts them in tandem,
both in, both out. Derek cries out as he writhes; his torso bows toward the
mattress, then arches up and back against the combined intrusion, pushing
greedily back for more. The long stretch of his back and arms resembles some
kind of abstractly-worded poetry. Stiles pulls back and watches Derek try to
follow, the restraints that bind him to the headboard squeezing the heels of
his palms.
The double dildo is long, eighteen inches from end to end, and when Stiles
slides the other end between his legs, it buts up against his own hole with a
few inches to spare. He slicks his fingers and gives himself a cursory
stretching before forcing the end in. Naturally, it burns, too big and too dry,
but the pain is a good distraction from the heat and pressure of Derek’s ass. 
Stiles gives a few experimental thrusts, adjusting the angle of the toy in his
ass so that it’s braced against the wall of his colon instead of curving up and
in. Too bad he didn’t think ahead and buy a strap-on.
When he’s reasonably sure the dildo won’t slide right out of Derek’s ass and
into his own, he starts thrusting in earnest, resting his hands on Derek’s hips
and watching the way the slap of his hips against Derek’s ass cheeks makes the
muscle bounce and jiggle. Derek meets him stroke for stroke, pulling on his
restraints as he tries to get the two cocks deeper.
The sounds he makes, a litany of choked “oh"s and "yes"s is interspersed with
hitching moans that edge higher in pitch until Derek is whining and whimpering
beneath Stiles, his heavy cock swaying beneath him like a pendulum keeping the
rhythm of their fucking. Stiles doesn’t touch it. He goes after Derek’s nipples
instead, draping his weight over Derek’s back and reaching under to pluck and
rub the sensitive nubs. He toys with the rings, turning them and tugging
gently, and Derek warbles like a bird under his hands. 
Stiles straightens up and slams his cocks in to the hilt, then keeps pushing,
forcing Derek further up the bed so he can get his elbows under him. It makes
his shoulders look even broader, his waist dainty by comparison. Stiles puts
his hands in that dip and lays into Derek, fucking him fast and brutal.
Derek flattens his chest against the bed, as best he can while still up on his
knees, and keens, gripping the headboard like he’ll fall off the earth if he
lets go. His spine is one long slope, and Stiles watches through hooded eyes as
a drop of sweat slips down it. It pools in the center of his back and Stiles
darts down to taste it, licking up wet salt and Derek.
He can feel himself getting close, can feel orgasm rushing to meet him, but he
holds back as best he can, biting his tongue, thinking about cold things,
thinking about Allison’s psychopathic relatives, thinking about fire. He slumps
down onto Derek and sets his teeth into a ridge of muscle. When he bites down,
Derek jolts with a strangled shout. He moves his mouth and bites down harder,
and Derek freezes, clenches, and comes, sobbing with the intensity.
Stiles ruts twice into the almost painful clutch of Derek’s ass and follows him
over into white oblivion. 
***** Emergency measures *****
Chapter Summary
     curlyfryking prompted: An alpha heals faster when he’s having sex and
     stiles is very willing to help Derek heal faster.
"Take your clothes off," Stiles snaps as he shoves his jeans and boxers to the
ground. He forgot to take off his shoes beforehand, so he has to bend down and
untie them before staggering out of the whole mess. Derek is staring wide-eyed,
sitting on the bed with his thighs pressed tight together and his hands
clutching his shirt to his chest. Stiles advances toward the bed, dick chubbing
up between his thighs, and Derek shrinks backward.
"Jesus christ, Stiles," Derek cries, "It was a hairline fracture!"
With tender hands, Stiles lifts Derek’s right leg, supporting the knee and
ankle. He brushes his lips over where the fracture was, about halfway down the
shin bone, before Derek’s werewolf healing fixed it right up, then trails
butterfly kisses down to the ankle and along the instep to take the big toe
into his mouth. He gives it a thorough tongue bath and watches Derek’s eyes
darken and the grip on his shirt relax.
"Better safe than sorry," he says huskily, his lips moving against the thick
pad of the toe. "I’d hate for anyone to think I didn’t take care of my
werewolf."
Derek’s foot twitches and trembles and he throws the shirt aside in favor of
reaching for Stiles.
***** Take *****
Chapter Summary
     torches4all asked for: Derek just really wants Stiles to get
     aggressive and fuck him on the kitchen table or something, but Stiles
     is still too insecure to think Derek would want that so he always
     controls himself. So Derek tries everything he can think of to tempt
     him, but it takes a few attempts until Stiles’s self-control finally
     snaps. Bonus Points if this includes jealous!Stiles and a little
     exhibition.
Chapter Notes
     TW: Non-negotiated D/s
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles watches Derek putter through Stiles’ brand new actual grown-up
apartment, shuffling the stuff that they’d just put wherever was convenient
while they were unpacking Stiles’ moving boxes, and realizes that he’s seen
Derek bend over more times in the last month since they started having sex than
in the years they’ve known each other. Literally, it seems like every time
Stiles glances at Derek, the guy’s bent over with his ass sticking out and
pointing straight at Stiles. At first, he’d thought it was a Baader-Meinhof
phenomenon triggered by them finally escalating their whatever-the-hell
relationship to sex, Stiles finally noticing Derek’s fine ass waving around in
his face while he wasn’t before. But after about two weeks of increasingly
displayed buttocks, he’d charted the data, interrogated their mutual friends,
made up a whole spreadsheet and series of graphs and, holy god, Derek actually
did start showing off his ass to Stiles just a little before they tumbled into
the sack together.
In fact, he’s doing it again, leaning over the kitchen island to put a pair of
scissors into one of the drawers on the other side as one does. Except
obviously he can’t quite reach, so he lifts himself fully onto the island and
yep, there it is, Derek sprawled belly-down on the kitchen island, his ass
jutting out all impudent and jutt-y, his toes dangling just above the floor. 
Stiles makes outraged claw-hands at the tableau. His knuckles pop with the
vehemence of his WTF-ness because Stiles knows, okay, he knows that Derek’s ass
is damn fuckin' fine and there’s really no need for Derek to show it off all
the freaking time. Especially when they’ve already had sex twice since waking
up five hours ago. Stiles’ dick does not actually run on Energizer batteries,
no matter what jokes Isaac likes to make, the asshole.
Stiles turns away from the display to sublimate his frustration into
rearranging stuff. He completely misses the equally frustrated look Derek
shoots him over his shoulder.
Blessedly, Derek never shows off his ass when they’ve got company, except for
those few instances where it genuinely is coincidental. And if Stiles hadn’t
just had the whole pack plus related persons over just yesterday helping him
move his crap from his dad’s house and garage to his new place, he’d invite
them over again today.
But no, it’s just him and Derek and Derek’s Butt, which, again, is aimed in his
direction. Stiles glances out it and wonders what would happen if he just
kinda…reached out and…slapped it. Like, ka-smack.
He focuses back on the bookshelves. Derek would probably disembowel him.
Through his nostrils. Messily.
Derek and his ass leave mid-afternoon, and then the next day Stiles has work
and comes home to see that Derek has invited himself over, his ass swaying
side-to-side like a pendulum as he shifts his weight from leg to leg while
ordering delivery.
It’s simultaneously hypnotic and frustrating. Stiles feels the overwhelming
urge to put his hands on Derek’s hips and still them by force. He wants it so
bad that he can see himself doing it, stepping up behind Derek and hooking his
fingers into Derek’s belt loops, stopping that teasing sway and dragging him
back to meet Stiles’ groin, grinding into the crease of his ass…
Stiles shakes himself out of it and goes back to doing, well, whatever it was
he was doing before he got hypnotized by Derek’s butt. Fantasies are all well
and good, but Derek would probably claw Stiles’ head off his shoulders before
letting him fuck him.
But then again… Nah. Derek wouldn’t—or would he? Probably not, right? 
That night, Stiles pins Derek down and rides him hard, but that niggling
thought lingers through the sex and the afterglow and well into the next
morning. What if?, he thinks, What if?
Derek’s got a few days of late shifts, so Stiles doesn’t really see him until
Friday night, when Derek lets himself in with the key Stiles is pretty sure he
stole. He basically tumbles them straight into bed, which is nice, because
Stiles likes sex, especially sex with Derek, and has missed it in the few days
that Derek’s been off living his own life. Stiles immediately recoils from that
thought because him and Derek, they’re not dating, per se. They just harass
each other and sometimes crash at each others’ places and generally have a lot
of sex. They don't miss each other, especially not Derek.
The next morning, Stiles gets an eyeful of butt-crack as Derek picks up their
clothes, and okay, Stiles can be obtuse, even deliberately so sometimes, but
he’s not actually stupid. Derek is trying to do something, or make Stiles do
something, and while he’s usually not shy about bossing Stiles around, for some
reason, this time, he’s choosing not to use his freaking words. And if what
Stiles suspects is true, if Derek really is open to catching, wants to catch,
then Stiles absolutely needs to hear it in words. Because Stiles is insecure
and Derek is Derek and this relationship is not actually a particularly healthy
relationship and before Derek started putting his ass out there all the time,
Stiles had literally never thought about the possibility of getting his dick in
there.
Stiles looks away from Derek’s ass and buries his face in his pillow with an
irritated grunt.
He hears Derek sigh. Except it’s not even a sigh, it’s just this resigned
little exhale through his nose, the one Stiles still vividly remembers from the
days when they started getting invested enough in each other that Derek could
be genuinely disappointed in Stiles and Stiles would actually care. 
Well, he sure as shit cares now. He pops upright and snaps, “Okay, what
the hell is that about?”
"What the hell is what about, Stiles?” Derek asks. His tone is flat, but Stiles
can hear the thread of disappointment as clear as fucking day.
"Don’t ‘what’ me, asshole. You’re disappointed and I want to know why."
Derek sighs again. “You didn’t do anything.”
Stiles grits his teeth. “Bullshit. I did something.”
And then Derek has the temerity to fucking roll his eyes. “It’s fine. I get it.
You’re not interested.”
"Interested in what?" Stiles asks sharply.
Derek huffs in frustration and says, “In my ass.”
And that’s just a load of poppycock. Stiles is deeply invested in Derek’s ass.
He says as much to Derek.
Apparently, that’s the last straw, because Derek throws the clothes he’d picked
up back onto the floor and snarls, “Not deeply invested enough to fuck it.”
Stiles blinks.
"Oh my god," he says. "You actually do want to catch!”
"Of fucking course I want to catch," Derek shouts. "You’re the one who doesn’t
want to pitch!"
"Well you should’ve fucking said something, asshole!" Stiles shouts back.
Derek is red in the face and throat, the cords in his neck standing out as he
yells, “That would’ve defeated the fucking purpose! I just wanted you to walk
over and make me take it!”
Stiles reels back, mouth sagging open in shock. “You. You wanted me to make you
take it?”
Derek’s nostrils flare. He curls in on himself, hands coming forward like he
wants to cover his nudity.
"You want me to make you take it," Stiles repeats. "You want me to make you
take it.”
He slides off the bed and stalks intently toward Derek, who’s doing his best to
make like a pill bug while remaining vertical. He takes a step back when Stiles
pushes right into his personal space, then another and another as Stiles just
keeps going, walking Derek backward until Derek’s back thumps against the
bedroom wall.
Stiles braces his hands over Derek’s shoulders and uses every last millimeter
of his height to loom. Derek curls into himself like a wilting violet, giving
Stiles an extra inch to look down from.
He leans in until he can feel Derek’s rapid breathing against his face. “You.
Want me. To make you take it," he says darkly.
Derek, eyes low and turned away, nods. The flush in his face has spread down to
his chest and his untouched cock is already fully hard. He looks ashamed of
himself for wanting it, and somehow very small. Stiles realizes he’s going to
have to have a thorough discussion with Derek about sex and kinks and kink
negotiation if their something-resembling-a-relationship is going to continue.
He pulls back, and there’s a brief flash of disappointment on Derek’s face
before Stiles slides his hand into Derek’s hair and grips. Derek’s eyelids
flutter and his body follows Stiles’ hold as he pulls away from the wall, sweet
and easy like Derek never usually is. He drags Derek back over to the bed by
the hair, and when Derek’s knees hit the side, he cups the back of his head in
one hand and pushes it down, shoving his face into the mess of sheets.
Derek grunts and braces his weight on the bed, but stays bent over, his knees
locked and ass high in the air. Stiles slips a finger between his asscheeks and
feels the warm knot of muscle purse against the pad of his finger.
The lube is still out from last night, but Stiles ignores it for now, slipping
the tip of his finger in dry. Derek gasps but rocks back into it, sliding down
to the second knuckle. Stiles pushes his finger in the rest of the way and
Derek jerks like he’s been stung.
He doesn’t seem to be in pain though, if the way he’s wiggling his hips is any
indication, so Stiles fucks his finger in and out of him, poking around for his
prostate. It’s hard to get it under his finger, not because it’s particularly
hard to find, but because Derek won’t stop squirming.
Stiles slaps Derek’s asscheek with his other hand and says, “Hold still,” and
just like that, Derek goes stone still.
Stiles stares. This isn’t just Derek wanting to catch. This is Derek wanting
to sub. Badly. How the hell did he not pick up on this at all? Seriously, who
the hell misses a subby streak this wide? (Well, aside from Stiles.)
He slicks up his fingers before shoving two in. Derek’s hole is tight, but only
briefly, relaxing easily. Stiles presses in a third. Same. When he goes for
four, the tightness lingers for a few thrusts before easing.
Stiles feels the hot edge of jealousy cut into his gut. He works Derek’s hole
hard, wondering who else has been getting in there to make his ass so loose.
Derek takes the rough handling and turns his ass up for more, his knees shaking
under him. He keeps making these huffing noises, his shoulders tight and
knuckles pale where he’s gripping the sheets. Stiles reaches under him and
discovers that his cock is harder than Stiles has ever felt it. He swipes a
finger over the slit to check for pre-come, and just like that, Derek comes,
shuddering and grunting and spewing thick jizz all over Stiles’ fingers.
Holy god. Holy god.
Stiles finger fucks him through it with almost clinically detached interest,
and then keeps finger fucking him past it, to the point where Derek’s knees
literally go out from under him and he collapses against the side of the bed,
Stiles’ fingers slipping free. He immediately tries to get back up again,
pulling at the fitted sheet with trembling hands, but he can’t quite make it
back up, like all his strength has been drained away.
Stiles’ nostrils flare. He ruthlessly squeezes the base of his dick, strangling
the oncoming orgasm. When he feels safe that he’s not going to blow his load at
the slightest touch, he reaches down and grabs Derek by the hips. Energized by
pure lust, he hauls him up and shoves him face-first onto the bed, climbing
between the splayed legs that stick out over the edge past the knee.
Derek presses his face into the covers and braces himself as Stiles slides on a
condom and slicks up his cock. He presses the tip against Derek’s hole, feeling
it purse and twitch, and pushes in, bottoming out on one stroke.
Derek arches up off the bed, curling into himself. He makes this high-pitched
sound, a nasal whimper, that Stiles has never heard before in all the years
they’ve known each other, and Stiles is suddenly and deeply grateful that the
condom is blocking out some of the sensation, because if he’d gone in bare, the
feel of Derek around him and that one noise would’ve been more than enough to
send him pirouetting over the edge into orgasm.
As such, Stiles has a sliver of stamina left. He takes deep breaths, thinks of
cold things, of Gerard Argent and the way he’d become a human fountain of
putrid black vomit, of Jennifer’s Darach face, of Jennifer’s human face and her
girl bits all over Derek… His fingers grip Derek’s hips, pinning them to the
bed with the force of his weight, and he slams his cock into the wet, welcoming
hole.
Derek makes a choked noise and scrambles for something to brace himself against
as Stiles pounds into him. Stiles watches, grimly smug. Bet she never saw him
like this, all flushed and desperate. Bet she never got him to make that
pleading moan. Bet Derek never stuffed the sheets in his mouth for her.
Derek goes to worm a hand under him and Stiles yanks it away, slamming it down
onto the bed up near his shoulder. Derek yips like a puppy and Stiles has the
fleeting thought of putting a collar on him.
"On your knees," he growls, and pulls at Derek until his hips are up off the
mattress. His cock swings fat and heavy beneath him, Stiles’ fingers discover,
already primed for a second orgasm. "You’ll take what I give you and
be glad for it.”
"Yes, sir," Derek whimpers.
Stiles has a moment of feeling like an asshole, doing this without having
discussed it all first. But Derek wants this so bad, and Stiles wants so bad to
give it to him, and Derek looks and feels so good, begging and desperate for
his cock, that for now, Stiles just can’t care that much.
He fucks Derek like he’s trying to force his dick up into Derek’s throat, and
Derek, Derek meets him thrust for thrust, like that’s exactly what he wants,
too. And god, that’s hot, that’s mind-blowingly hot, so hot that Stiles just
has to get closer and feel the heat of Derek with his mouth. He drops his hands
from Derek’s hips onto the bed, hunching down over his back, and presses his
face into the valley of Derek’s bowed spine.
His back feels feverish, even against Stiles’ flushed face, and he smells like
salty sweat and that indefinable Derek-musk, the one that Stiles sometimes
buries his face into his bed linens to find.
In the privacy of his mind, he admits to himself that he wants that smell in
his sheets always. He wants a dented pillow next to his, strewn with short
black hairs and smelling of musk and shampoo. A dip in the mattress parallel to
his own, unique to one body. A nightstand, cluttered with books and chargers
for someone else’s electronics.
Stiles bites back a sob and slams home one last time, coming so hard he almost
chokes on his own tongue. 
He feels raw when he surfaces, like the fresh new skin that grows into a bad
abrasion. Gripping the condom, he pulls out and ties it off, dropping it
negligently over the side of the bed.
Derek doesn’t move an inch. He’s still hard, panting and sweating and waiting
for Stiles’ next command, but Stiles just eases him over onto his side, then
onto his back.
Stiles doesn’t know what his face is showing, but it makes Derek’s eyes widen. 
He curls up on the bed, draped over Derek’s thighs, and makes love to Derek’s
cock with his mouth and hands until he shudders and spills into Stiles’ mouth,
crying out like the sound is ripped from his throat.
They settle into the afterglow, and when Stiles tentatively folds their fingers
together, Derek grips him back, hand trembling but sure.
Chapter End Notes
     fyi derek's butt is so loose because when he's not with stiles, he's
     fingering himself or fucking himself with a dildo imagining that it's
     stiles doing it to him instead of himself, so there's nobody else.
     though it's a while before he admits it because stiles is a goddamn
     machine when he's jealous.
***** Ridiculous *****
Chapter Summary
     I just think that Derek would be the kind of guy who doesn't stop
     pining even though he's already got what he's been pining for. Also,
     who says that pining always has to be yearn-y and painful?
Sometime during Stiles’ sophomore year of high school, a few weeks after Scott
got bit, he pulls out a sheet of binder paper, and between rounds of Six
Degrees of Hitler, writes words that describe Derek Hale. ‘Creeper’ is the
first one, and the second one, and the third, too, because Stiles feels it
deserves the emphasis. In fact, ‘creeper’ becomes the third-most common word on
the list, followed by ‘ridiculously good-looking’ and ‘scowly’.
The list gets longer over the years, gains variation as Stiles gets to know him
better and Derek becomes a real boy. ‘Guilty’, Stiles writes. ‘Afraid’.
‘Regretful’.
'Wry', Stiles adds one day during senior year. 'In possession of an actual
sense of humor'. 'Nice eyes'.
The pack gets together for a graduation party, the Sheriff turning a blind eye
to the booze, and the next morning Stiles wakes up hungover with ‘nice smile :
)’ added to the list.
Somehow, Stiles ends up spending most of his pre-college summer with Derek. The
list gains a whole page, front and back, in those three months. ‘Funny’.
‘Quiet’. ‘Thoughtful’. ‘Creeper’. ‘Well-read’. ‘Quirky’.
'Warm'. 'Nice smile'. 'Generous'. 'Caring'. 'Loyal'.
'Creeper', he writes to balance out the sap. And then, tentatively, 'Pining'.
He crosses it out, scribbles over it so it can’t be used against him in a court
of law.
He leaves the list at home when he goes to college, but a month in, after Derek
consistently calls him every Saturday afternoon, he starts a new one. He puts
‘creeper’ first for old time’s sake, and when he writes ‘pining’ next, he
leaves it.
Their love story, or at least their getting-together story, unfolds like a
romcom in slow motion, complete with annoying friends, misunderstandings, late-
night phone calls, and pizza. And pining. Lots of pining. Enough pining that,
by the time Stiles gives in and pops the question, he can recognize Derek’s
pining-face from thirty yards.
'Such a piner', Stiles adds to his multi-page list. His engagement ring clacks
against the desk as he holds the paper down. 'Pines like a mofo'. 'Pines like
it's going out of style'. 'Pines with the force of the Canadian wilderness'.
And 'creeper', because that still hasn't stopped being true.
The first word Stiles adds to the list after their wedding is ‘ridiculous’.
Because Derek is. Ridiculous, that is. He’s 1000% ridiculous, ingredients
include: ridiculousness, pining, and creeperness.
He’s so ridiculous that Stiles takes to just covering his ridiculous face with
whatever is handy: towel, magazine, his own hands, his dad's hands, on one
particularly ridiculous occasion. He's just so ridiculous.
Because he’ll sit there, on their couch, in their house, Stiles’ engagement and
wedding rings on his finger, Stiles’ feet on his lap, and he’ll pine at Stiles
from three feet away. Or Stiles will wake up and Derek’s face will be on the
pillow next to his, turned toward Stiles and (creepily) watching Stiles sleep
and he’ll be pining. So obviously Stiles has no choice but to lift his feet off
Derek’s lap to shove them in his face, or to squirm over and drop his whole
chest onto Derek’s head, smothering his ridiculous pining face under the giddy
thump of his heart as Derek struggles half-heartedly, (because Derek likes it,
he fucking loves it, the ridiculous creeper), and Stiles will cradle Derek’s
ridiculous pining head to his bosom and bitch about how ridiculous Derek is and
ask what he did in his past lives to deserve someone so ridiculous and squish
Derek’s cheeks while calling him his 'ridiculously good-looking ridiculous
piner, oh my god squeeee'.
And then Derek will smile his ridiculous smile, so even though ‘ridiculous’
becomes the most common word on the list, Stiles has to write ‘nice smile’
after it most of the time, so it becomes the second-most common word. (And then
he writes ‘creeper’ because it’s still true, oh my god, don’t you dare deny it,
you ridiculous creeper.)
***** Better Homes and Gardens *****
Chapter Summary
     Well, if Derek's not around to use the loft, Stiles might as well
     take advantage.
Chapter Notes
     There's some hand-wavey timeline stuff going on in this one,
     especially as to where it fits into canon. Apologies in advance.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
There’s no bloodstain in the concrete where Boyd died. There’s a big one where
Derek was shish kebab’d on a rusty pipe for a while, and a constellation of
splotches where Kali was shish kebab’d with a lot of big shards of glass, but
nothing to mark where Boyd died. All his blood left with the water, when they
finally pumped it out.
There’s bloodstains on the bedsheets. Faint, mostly washed out, but there.
Stiles throws them out and buys a whole new set, splurging on the thousand
thread count ones. He sleeps on them sometimes, when the thought of dark dreams
keeps him up and when the afternoon light slants in and lights up the whole
loft in soft gold hues.
Out of boredom, he washes the windows. Gets a ladder and one of those squeegee
mops and scrubs away years of grime from the inside. For the outside, he fills
up a supersoaker with soapy water and shoots down at the panes from the roof.
While the soapy water is streaking down, he hooks up a long-ass hose to the
indoor faucet, runs it up the stairs and out onto the roof, and uses his thumb
to amplify the pressure and wash the soap away.
The light that slants in during the afternoons is a lot brighter after that.
But instead of deterring him, it makes him even more desperate for the light.
He replaces the broken skylight with some frosted panes he finds stacked in a
shadowy corner. They look new, like they were bought not too long ago.
Stiles washes the new skylight inside and out, then has to go back and patch it
some more when it leaks.
The loft is glaringly bright during the day. Stiles loves it. He brings his
low-slung chair to the loft and sets it in front of the windows, basking in the
afternoon light like a cat.
It doesn’t stop the dreams of confining darkness Stiles has when he falls
asleep at night, but the dreamless naps in the afternoon keep him a few steps
ahead of long-term sleep deprivation.
One of Beacon Hills’ plant nurseries is going out of business, and on a whim,
Stiles buys up some of their hardier plants. He tells the owner that he’s
making a rooftop garden for a friend whose younger siblings recently died, and
the man gives Stiles a hefty discount on dirt and tools and pots. Stiles tries
to absorb all the instructions and advice the guy throws at him, but after
about half an hour of listening non-stop, he throws in the towel and invites
the guy over and they set up the garden together. It’s a pain and a half to
haul everything up the spiral staircase, but when it’s all put together, the
plants forming a leafy perimeter around the edge of the roof, Stiles and the
nursery's owner decide that it was worth it.
The first thing Stiles does after that is tear out the stupid intruder alarm
thing. It'd gone off when the nursery owner had opened the doors to the service
elevator, startling them both and sending Stiles into a flurry of embarassed
apologies on behalf of his friend's rampant paranoia.
A full moon goes by, the first since the eclipse, and Stiles wonders who’s
paying the bills, since the utilities still work and no landlords have come
knocking asking for rent.
Winter arrives in full force, so Stiles buys a few cheap rugs to put something
between his feet and the icy concrete floor, arranging them around the bed and
the sitting area. He spends a lot of time talking to the nursery owner and
checking the plants for damage. His patch-job on the skylight starts leaking
again.
He’s not sleeping as well, now that the nights are longer and the afternoons
are too overcast for him to get his daily dose of sunbathing, so he brings his
dad in on the project, and over one mercifully dry week, they replace the whole
skylight with the stack of new panes, building a whole new frame and caulking
the living hell out of it. It doesn’t leak after that.
Stiles’ dad brings the department’s powerwasher and they get the bloodstains
out. It leaves the concrete cleaner in those places than everywhere else, but
better too clean than bloody. Stiles’ dad also noses around the brick wall,
which is so ridiculously against California building codes that it’s sort of
amazing, but neither of them want to put the effort into taking it down, so
they leave it.
Christmas season is the animal clinic’s best time for adoptions, but there’s
these two strays, half-wild, mangy things that nobody seems to want, according
to Scott and Isaac. The two of them make noises about convincing Melissa to
adopt them, but Melissa is already trying to support two teenagers on a nurse’s
salary with her ex-husband lurking around.
Stiles suggests pooling their cash for supplies and food and using Derek’s
place, since Derek isn’t exactly around to care.
The first thing one of the dogs does is shit on one of Stiles’ rugs. Scott and
Isaac immediately werewolf-growl the dog into submission, and the three of them
decide to train the dogs to a litter box. With Scott’s alpha-mojo backing it
up, the dogs take to the routine pretty quick, which is pretty convenient.
Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about what he’d come to think of as his space
becoming a public space, now that Scott and Isaac and Allison are in and out
all the time to help with the dogs. But the werewolves do help Stiles’ dad take
the brick wall down and replace it with something that will actually survive an
earthquake, so there’s that. Melissa starts visiting too, when she gets sick of
dealing with the ex, and then she starts cooking there, because Scott and Isaac
and Allison fucking love the dogs, even though they’re legally Stiles’, and
tend to lose track of when they're supposed to be home for dinner. They end up
redoing the whole kitchen, two werewolves and a hunter and a spark and their
respective parents. And Lydia, who designs and decorates and hooks them up with
suppliers and carpenters and plumbers. She even buys a set of high-end pots and
pans to replace the Walmart-quality set, then a collection of actually-matching
rugs to replace Stiles’ cheap thrift store ones. And then she makes them redo
the bathroom, too.
The twins don’t ever come over, glancing at Stiles whenever the subject comes
up. He’s been in a good mood lately, now that the bad dreams have abated, but
not good enough to let them into the home of the guy whose life they helped
ruin. (Peter only ever shows up the once. He stays away after his first and
only visit, during which Stiles trapped him in a small circle of mountain ash,
piled garden-grown wolfsbane and paper and chemical flammables around him, then
fiddled with a lighter for ten thoughtful minutes.)
Allison and Stiles are lounging on the bed, companionably bitching about
homework, when Derek and Cora walk in one day mid-March. Their faces are
priceless as they look around at all the changes.
"Welcome home," Stiles calls. Derek’s eyes zero in on him, and like he
can smell Stiles’ role in all this, he stomps over to start bitching.
"Yeah, missed you too, buddy," he says, and pulls his phone out in time to snap
a picture of Derek’s face when the dogs plow into him.
Chapter End Notes
     This is probably the closest I'll ever get to the pack mom!Stiles fic
     trope.
***** Oral presentation *****
Chapter Summary
     reclininghorizontally prompted: The pack doesn’t know about Stiles/
     Derek and walks into Derek’s unannounced to hear what sounds like
     Derek masturbating upstairs. Everyone is really embarrassed and
     uncomfortable but Erica thinks Stiles, who isn’t with them, would
     love to hear this so she calls him. They hear his phone ring from
     Derek’s bedroom. Turns out Stiles is quiet during sex, but takes
     great pride and joy in making Derek make a racket.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Oh, FUCK,” Scott hears as he reaches for the door to Derek’s building. “Oh, oh
fuck yesssss.”
He barely reacts beyond a tired sigh. This doesn’t even rank in the top fifteen
most gross things he’s overheard since his alpha hearing kicked in. In fact, a
guy jerking it with a… a vibrator, (probably, if Scott is hearing the buzz
right), is pretty tame. The fact that it’s Derek jerking it makes it a little
grosser, but at least he has proof that the guy is getting some relief instead
of keeping it all bottled up, because that just can’t be healthy.
"Yeah, yeah yeahyeahyeahYEAH oh FUCK!”
Scott slumps back to his bike and stuffs his helmet back on his head. It blocks
out most of the sound, but the volume somehow keeps picking up anyway, and he
seriously considers calling Allison or Isaac when a long, whining
“OOOHHHHHHHH” gets in through the padding.
Stupid alpha hearing. Derek can have the fucking thing back if he wants it so
bad. He glares at his phone and wishes that actually calling Isaac or Allison
was an option. The last time he’d tried it, Allison had picked up Isaac’s phone
and answered it in her breathy mid-sex voice. His hearing had already been
acute enough to pick up on Isaac’s heavy breathing in the background.
"OHHH, FUCK YES FUCK FUCK YEAH RIGHT THERE OH FUCK RIGHT THERE RIGHT THERE OH
MY GOD, FUCK!”
Scott rips his helmet off and Derek’s voice is even louder without it, because
he’s actually screaming. Derek Hale, screaming masturbator.
“YEAH, YEAH RIGHT THERE, FUCK, JUST LIKE THAT, OH FUCK OH FUCKKKKK!”
Scott jogs away until the sound of traffic drowns out the sounds of Derek’s
enthusiastic cries and mopes at his phone for a while. After a few half-hearted
rounds of Plants Vs Zombies, he jogs back. It’s blessedly quiet, but Scott
takes pains to make a racket on his way up. He starts smelling sex about
halfway up, the heady, hot scent of sweat and jizz and pleasure, and
immediately starts breathing through his mouth, stuffing his sleeve in when he
realizes that he can taste the smell on his tongue.
The door and windows are all wide open when Scott gets to the landing, which
helps dissipate the scent. It's not completely gone, but at least it's decently
tolerable.
"Oh!"
Scott looks over at the couch to see Stiles slouched on the cushions. He looks
a little flushed and sweaty, like he ran here or something. Which would make
sense, since Scott didn’t see his Jeep out front. 
"Dude, you’re early," Stiles says.
Scott glances at his watch. He is, but by like, two minutes. He shrugs. “Did
you just get here?”
"Nah," Stiles says, casually waving a hand. "I’ve been here for a while.
Hanging out."
There’s no blip in his heartbeat, but Scott is starting to get a sneaking
suspicion…
Derek strides out of the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed and hair still
fluffy from being dried with a towel. He’s moving funny, all loose in the
shoulders and swoopy in the hips, sort of like Allison after they’d—
"AW, NOOOO," Scott wails. He levels an accusing finger at Stiles. "YOU DIDN’T."
Stiles puts on his best trollface and holds up his two fists, thumbs up. “Bitch
I might’ve done!”
Chapter End Notes
     Scott's just jealous that he's suddenly the one not getting any.
***** That awkward moment when pt 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Actual awkward teenager Derek Hale.
Derek sits down on his bed to stare at his phone, then hops back up to pace
around his room some more.
"This is such a bad idea,” he mutters to himself. “He’s my boss’ boss’ boss’
boss’ boss. He’s so far above me in the food chain that even Peter answers to
him. And he’s almost twenty years older than me.”
"Ugh," he grunts, throwing himself face-down onto his bed. "This is such a bad
idea. Laura will mock me forever.”
He rolls onto his side to peer at his phone. “But he left me his number. That
means he’s interested, right?” 
He flops over onto his back and stares up at the featureless ceiling. “But what
if he gave me his number because he wants to apologize? What if it’s a pity
number,” he moans, desolate. He scrubs his hands over his face. “What if it’s a
pity number and he gave it to me so he can turn me down gently instead of
firing me for hitting on him?”
"Oh my god," Derek gasps. "What if I get fired? What if I get him fired? What
if I get us both fired?”
He scrambles upright. “Oh shit, what if Peter finds out? What if Mom finds
out?”
"What if Laura murders you because it’s two in the morning on a work day and
you won’t shut the fuck up so she can sleep!" Laura bellows through their
shared wall, pounding her fist on it a few times.
Derek pouts in her general direction and bets that Stiles would be a much more
considerate housemate. Then he smothers himself with his pillow for daring to
imagine it.
***** I can't be the only one with overwhelming feelings re: wet Stiles *****
Chapter Summary
     Fanboy!Derek. Because.
Derek loves being in fandom. He loves digging through fanfiction, trawling
through tumblr, occasionally poking his all-but-dead livejournal account with a
long stick. He’s not much of an author, but he has pirated DVD rips and
Photoshop is his bitch. Not a day goes by that he isn’t putting together an
artsy photomanip with heavily symbolic song lyrics or coming up with captions
for an AU gifset.
But there’s loving fandom and then there’s Stiles Stilinski dripping wet. And
Derek just cannot deal with that. That is beyond his threshold of dealing with.
There are no withs for Derek to deal, it is just that offensive. Even Derek’s
dick stands up in outrage when confronted with it. Then Derek has to manually
soothe it with his hand(s) until it spurts all that righteous anger out of its
system.
Derek just hopes that, when he goes to Comic Con next month and actually has a
chance to meet Stiles Stilinski, his dick will be able to control its temper.
***** Stilinski & Stilinski *****
Chapter Summary
     Everyone knows that if you get between the Stilinski twins, you're
     fucked.
     And as Derek discovers, sometimes even literally.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Being sandwiched between the Stilinski twins is like being the wire connecting
the positive and negative terminals of a battery; the power that flows between
the twins, that spark of energy that they share that gets magnified
exponentially just by them being in physical contact, flows through his shifter
body like he was designed for it. The boost in power makes Derek feel like an
alpha again, minus the instincts that come with the power, but after, when the
twins finally let him crawl out of bed, he feels achy down to the very marrow
of his bones, like how he imagines humans feel after a long, violent struggle.
&&&
Derek asks Deaton about them once, because he’s met his fair share of twins
before, and normal twins have different names and different personalities and
different scents, unlike the Stileses, who are perfectly identical in how they
look, dress, act, and move. (And that’s not even bringing up the weird shit,
like how one Stiles got beat all to hell by Gerard Argent, but the next
morning, both of them had identical but less severe bruising, like they’d
divvied up the wound between them.)
Deaton drums his fingers on his exam table as he considers how to answer as
unhelpfully as possible.
"I’m sure you’re familiar with the idea that nothing is impossible, merely
improbable?" he eventually says.
Derek nods.
"Yes, well. Mr. Stilinski is one of those improbable things."
Figures. Count on Deaton to answer a question with an abstract concept.
"Are they going to attract trouble?"
Deaton hums and drums his fingers on the table. “No more trouble than any
teenage boy in his position would attract.”
Derek folds his arms over his chest. “Why do you talk about them like they’re
one person?”
Deaton crooks an eyebrow at him. “Why do you talk about him like he’s two
people?”
&&&
Sometimes Derek wonders what life would be like if there were only one Stiles.
If he didn’t have to suffer with two equally devious and flawlessly in sync
twins constantly steamrolling him. Maybe he’d actually get to order his own
preferred toppings for his pizzas. Maybe he’d be too dead to order pizza at
all.
Maybe he’d be the one taking charge during sex instead of trembling like a
newborn colt as one Stiles pushes his cock into Derek’s ass alongside his
twin’s, stretching and filling Derek with their cocks and their spark to the
point where he feels like he’s going to explode from the pressure building
under his skin.
Then again, he thinks as one Stiles slow-fucks him while the other does the
dishes and waits his turn, maybe not.
&&&
When he finally drums up the courage to ask the twins’ father about them, the
man says, “For a long time, I thought I knew. Now I know better.”
And then he looks at the nearest Stiles with the same look that Cora sometimes
gets when she looks at him, like she’s seeing someone else in his face.
&&&
Derek is already fucked out when Stiles pushes into him, his twin’s jizz and
traces of his own from his first go-around streaking his cock as he pumps in
and out of Derek’s loose hole. The other Stiles sits up near Derek’s face, his
butt settling into the dip that his twin only just vacated, and Derek gets to
work sucking his cock clean, too.
By the time the Stiles fucking him gets close to his second orgasm of the
night, the Stiles he’s sucking is hard again, ready for his own second round.
Derek’s jaw aches. After three orgasms, his cock, exhausted from the blowjob
the twins had given him together and the non-stop fucking, can’t quite get past
half-hard, but his ass sings an operatic aria of pleasure and he shudders with
a prostate orgasm as Stiles fills his ass with fresh come.
The air is saturated with the scent of Stileses and Derek and sex and sweat,
thick enough to make Derek’s head spin. The twins switch off again and Derek is
filled one more time. Come squeezes out of his hole to drip down his aching
balls, dragged out by the flared head of Stiles’ cock. He laps the other twin’s
cock clean, Stiles gasping as Derek’s tongue rasps over the sensitive flesh,
and his whole head feels stuffed with the scent and taste of themthemthem.
The Stiles not fucking him wrings one last orgasm from his cock, a paltry few
drops of liquid oozing out onto long fingers, and the clench of his ass sets
the other Stiles off, spilling into Derek’s guts, adding to the lake they’ve
already pumped into him. He pulls out and Derek whines, not liking the
emptiness after hours without it. Fingers slide into him, holding him open, and
Derek feels come leak out around them to drip down over his balls, then over
his ass cheek when they turn him on his side to sandwich him between them.
His body buzzes, overwhelmed by shared power and the aftershocks of pleasure,
and overfull with satiation and Stiles. It fills in the dark, yawning chasm of
guilt that’s been carved into Derek over the years, and for a while, until
morning comes, he gets to be whole again.
Chapter End Notes
     Brosephs and Brosephines, I'm capping this story out at 50 chapters
     because it's getting really long. Check out Volume 2 of this
     stunningly ridiculous collection: They_See_Me_Tumbln'
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