Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/490589.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Age_Difference, Loss_of_Virginity, Voyeurism, Sex_Toys,
      Knotting, Dirty_Talk, Unsafe_Sex, Scent_Marking, Marking, Size_Kink,
      Awkward_Sexual_Situations, Comeplay, Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-19 Words: 5859
****** Gordian Knot (Of Sex) ******
by tourdefierce
Summary
     Losing his virginity was hard enough when Lydia Martin was his sole
     focus. Now there are werewolves involved and this is way crazier. For
     one, there are a lot more dicks involved. (To be fair, in some of his
     fantasies, Lydia Martin had an impressive rubber cock.) Either way,
     Stiles doesn't know why he thought getting rid of his pesky virginity
     was going to be easier with Derek involved—the guy is practically
     allergic to doing anything the easy way and that includes Stiles.
     Being done. Because he's easy. What.
Notes
     The document is named All Lola's Fault and it is. lolafeist is the
     reason I started reading Teen Wolf fic, caved into watching the
     series in three days and now am apparently in fandom. So, blame her
     for this. I needed to work out all my werewolf clichés, although I
     doubt I will stop here, but I figured I would at least try to get it
     out of my system. Thank you to hardticket and leashy_bebes for the
     trusty beta, as they are the best comma wranglers in the world and
     put up with so much from me. ♥ All remaining mistakes are my own
     fiddling. Also, this fic operates on the guise that since Derek has
     become the Alpha, his fully shifted form is more wolfy than what
     we've seen on the show, although not like Peter!Alpha wolfy—some
     happy medium. Canon, what canon?
     ETA: An anon has commented about adding a dub-con warning or a
     stronger warning for the nature of the knotting. If you want more
     information about this, skip to the end notes.
See the end of the work for more notes
It doesn't happened like this.
Not for lack of trying on Stiles' part because, bitch please, he's been pulling
out all the stops over here. If you've never spent weeks on end fucking
yourself with a dildo purchased from the shadiest and creepiest sex-shop in the
world, the window open and all the lights on, making as much noise as possible
without cluing your dad in that you're a) probably into anal sex, b) interested
in older men who happen to also be violent, sexy werewolves and c) are totally
into a and b colliding, in any way shape or form, as soon as possible—well, if
you've never done those things, then you don't know what it's like to have
blueballs and zero shame, okay? Because Stiles has become a champion and Derek
keeps doing that broody stare that goes on for hours and hours and Stiles has
been able to hear him breathing for so long and he's not even equipped with
super-ears.
Finally, after what feels like years but is actually only four months (teenage
angst is wack, yo) Derek upgrades creepily lurking outside Stiles window to
sitting in Stiles computer chair and staring.
It's still creepy.
It's also still incredibly hot.
"Are you—" but Stiles doesn't finish his sentence because his cock couldn't
possibly be that patient. It's impossible. So, he's tripping out of his boxers
and falling back onto his bed, fist around his cock and moaning like a
shameless slut because he is. He wants to sit up and ask what the hell is this
but he's too horny and afraid that if he opens his big mouth too much, Derek
will go back out to the sill and that would just make Stiles cry.
In the chair, Derek licks his lips, eyes glowing and Stiles pulls on his cock
like a madman. Derek does this thing—probably some Alpha ego thing but
still—where he fills up a room. He's all broad shoulders and hidden abdominal
muscles, hair a little wild like he ran here and like always he smells of pine,
dark earth and that male smell that Stiles swears they should bottle because
he's pretty sure it turned him gay.
It's something he's been meaning to ask Danny.
It takes Stiles a few pathetic strokes before he's coming, eyes wide and stupid
with pleasure, arching off the bed and spilling all over his fist. He stares
right back at Derek, giving as good as he's getting, and it's a trillion times
better than porn.
And Derek is fully clothed.
Dude.
"Holy shit," Stiles chokes out, blinking and trembling on his bed. He wonders
if he looks good like this, sated but still shaking with arousal that just
won't leave him, not with Derek here—Stiles wonders if he looks like easy prey.
He fucking hopes so.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, leaning up to look at the way his
cock twitches against his belly, ready for round two, even though his come is
messily streaked all over his belly and chest. When he opens his eyes again,
Derek is leaning forward and he's...
He's taking great big gulps of air, controlled and measured, unlike Stiles'
frantic panting, but his nostrils are still flaring in a way that either says,
'Doom is near' or 'I like the smell of teenage boy'. Stiles will take both as
long as he gets the second one.
Derek is definitely inhaling.
"Are you smelling—"
Derek's eyes flash. "Your come smells stronger, better, up here."
"Are you fucking serious? Derek, you cannot just say shit like that! My dick is
going to explode," Stiles screeches, flailing his hand and flopping back on the
bed because Derek's matter-of-fact voice just chattin' about the smell of
Stiles' come is too much.
In Stiles' chair, Derek just hums, sniffing and staring until Stiles just falls
asleep, come drying on his skin, Crazy-Eyes McGee over there just continuing
with the aggressive eye-contact he's so fond of.
                                    <3<3<3
It doesn't happen like this either.
It's another month of Stiles waking up in the morning, cock already hard and
his mind chasing away the faint memories of his dreams—mostly of Derek, let's
be transparent here—when he opens his eyes and Derek is totally real and
hanging out in Stiles' chair.
Continuing to stare and why, seriously why, is that so hot?
"You could help," Stiles bitches out, halfway into a pillow. "Not that I really
mind the stare-sex, I mean, I feel thoroughly eye-fucked."
That gets him a growl, snarly-lipped and everything but Derek is still just
sitting there, leather jacket on, knees spread and Stiles could be imagining
the bulge in his jeans but most likely not because Stiles' vision is kind of
whiting out. There is so much thigh muscle there. Even the rounded bits of
Derek's knees look full and really smooth... like nice breasts.
Did he eat yesterday or is the amount of orgasms not only chafing his dick but
killing his brain cells?
"Eye sex is awesome, it's the most sex I've ever had but you know, I'd like to
move on with my life. We could be actually fucking and my dick would really
like that," Stiles says but it's hard to talk about having sex with Derek
because it makes him grind his crotch, wet with sticky pre-come, against his
mattress. "I'm feeling a little pathetic here, not terribly pathetic because
I've deduced that you aren't an elaborate hallucination but my dick kind of
hurts from all the jerking and I'm ready to get rid of my v-card, Derek. I
can't—fuck, I'm going to come."
He does, gasping and aggro-screaming out all his sexual frustration because
come the fuck on! He's got to be the only teenager in the world having this
much sex and not actually being touched by another person. Sure, it's every
damn day and most days again before bed or right after school or hell, Stiles
has jerked it pretty much everywhere their little make-shift pack has been.
It's soul-crushing. The woods? Oh hell yes. Hale house's burnt skeleton? Name
the room and his naked dick has been there. The jeep? His insurance doesn't
want to know. Boy’s locker room at school? It's like Stiles is starring in his
own classic gay porno. The list goes on and Stiles is having problems
remembering a time when he didn't jerk off with Derek's slightly terrifying
gaze driving him to an orgasm that left him really, really wanting.
"I hate you," Stiles mumbles, hips still humping the mattress like a chemically
imbalanced dog. "You are the worst. Fuck."
"You think too much."
Stiles barely has a moment to recognize that Derek is not sitting in his
special chair and right—wow, right there.
"What—"
Derek is pressed all along his back. God. Fuck. So impossibly hot and heavy,
his head hanging down to speak into Stiles' ear, hands and knees boxing him in
with the hot press of just a ridiculous amount of muscle. So hot. Mind
numbingly hot. And yeah, that is Derek's his crotch—his fucking cock, which
hello ego boost because it is most definitely hard—and yep, oh fuck, there is
grinding.
Stiles opens his mouth in a gasp but the pathetic sound that is grinding out of
his lungs, punching out of him is something to think on later. When he regains
cognitive function. Right now, there is only the heady feel of Derek and his
cock, like a motherfucking brand, kneading into Stiles' ass and forcing his
sensitive, newly confused dick into the mattress.
The head of his dick is going to chafe on his own semen.
"You smell," Derek growls, cut off by his own need to do some more sniffing.
His nose is there underneath Stiles' ear, down his neck and across his
shoulders before stopping at the back
"Yeah? What do I smell like, sourwolf?" He's a little bitter and a whole lot
horny but his balls are heavy and full again and his dick is weeping precome
and probably metaphorically weeping tears because getting this hard so soon is
down-right painful. He may be seventeen but some things aren't supposed to be
possible. He's got like a super-human dick over here—it's like werewolf
healing, except for hard-ons.
Derek does this growly-purr thing that Stiles can feel more than hear and then
he says, "Like a bitch in heat. If you were a wolf, you'd be wet for me—bitch
hole gaping and waiting for me to fuck you full of my scent, of my cock and
knot you until you swell with my come. You smell like heat and stupidity and
want."
Stiles is trying to breathe or be offended but he can't because Derek's mouth
is still talking and filth, that is just, utter fucking filth that pornos can't
even touch and Derek is dragging his cock up, forcing Stile's cheeks wide with
it and just, rutting against Stiles' hole through his underwear.
Stiles comes.
"You bastard," he's wheezing out but Derek is ignoring him. He's flipped over
and claws, very werewolfy claws, are ripping off his boxers and Derek is
suddenly dick-out, holyfuckinghell, and is coming all over Stiles belly and
newly bared crotch.
Stiles stares down as Derek's cock jerks in his hand, spearing out of his jeans
like the eleven inch monster that it is. There is a swell, Stiles can see it
and Derek is clamping his clawed hand on it, gritting his teeth as he bares
them, growling. Stiles is a little too distracted by the mind-numbing pleasure
of Derek's come streaking and smearing and pooling and fuck, it just keeps
coming out, coating Stiles—he's too distracted by the actual sex that he's
pretty sure he's having to be scared by the way that Derek is half changed and
that their dicks are way too close to claws.
(Also, his limp, post-sex penis looks really small next to Derek's and it's
giving Stiles a complex.)
Derek puts his fangs away in time for Stiles to make out with him in a post-
coital haze but it's a near thing. Stiles was a second away from getting a
mouthful of fangs. When they finally break apart, Stiles looks down at Derek's
still hard dick and says, "That's not going to fit."
It's a fact and Derek grins, feral and predatory and wow—Stiles needs to
seriously re-evaluate his life choices over here because that should not be as
hot as it is.
"My ass can't take that," Stiles says firmly. "You're massive. You're a
behemoth. You're gargantuan. You’re inhuman and it's going to break me. My
virgin ass can't take something that big. It's hard for me to say this but
we're going to need a plan B."
Derek licks his teeth. "We'll just have to practice."
                                    <3<3<3
This is how it happens.
Stiles is a seventeen year old virgin about to lose his ass-virginity on an
eleven inch werewolf cock.
They've moved out of the no-touching phase of their relationship, although all
the time Derek spends lurking in public places means that that phase will never
truly leave them. Since then, Stiles has actually been able to touch Derek and
be touched, which is something of a revelation considering the amount of time
they spent not touching. Stiles is starting to actually forgive Scott for being
so crazy for Allison for those first few months of sexy-times because it's all
Stiles can think about, even when they are all in mortal peril (often!) Stiles'
dick is still trying to run the show.
Lately, Derek has been leaving him presents, not just heated glares after hours
of make-out sessions that end with him whinging and humping Derek's leg until
he comes, but dildos. (The lines that Derek draws are a little complicated.
Stiles doesn't understand them but he's not really feeling up to complaining.
As far as Stiles understands these lines, they're more than a little blurry and
not straight at all.)
They start out small, hardly anything to lube up, and a month later (Derek is
probably the devil), they've worked up to something a little bit closer to
Derek's monster cock. It isn't as big as Derek's in width but the length is
about the same. When Stiles begs, Derek twisting the toy up inside of him and
feeling the slick lube drip out of him, Derek's mouth open and branding all
over Stiles' body—he begs to be fucked by something bigger and Derek laughs,
low and rough and Stiles comes because he's a masochist.
"Still want you tight," Derek says after, jerking off over Stiles' mouth. "Want
you to cry on it." He makes a mess out of Stiles' face, come smearing on his
lips and dripping down his chin. Hell, he thinks he has come in his ears. Can
he get pregnant from that?
Later, after Derek has licked all his come off and practically rolled around in
Stiles' semen he says, "Won't need to do this anymore."
"Do what?"
"Mark you like this," Derek says, nibbling his ear and rubbing his come-covered
fingers all over his neck and hair. Apparently, Derek likes the short and soft
prickle of Stiles' hair on the palm of his hand. This is nice in the cuddling
sense—not so much nice when Derek's hands are streaked with come and rubbing
all over Stiles' body like it's fucking finger-paint. Stiles has been caught
more than once going to shower, his dad eying his come-sticky hair and judging
him. It was kind of the same look Derek gave him when Stiles complained that
the internet was lacking sufficient werewolf porn that was realistic. Didn't at
least one werewolf go into the porn industry? The law of large numbers is on
his side, even if Derek's face isn't.
"I doubt it," Stiles replies because it's true. Derek is like a dog peeing on a
tree. "You're weird."
Derek just purrs. "You'll leak my seed all day and everyone who comes near you
will know that I'm breeding you, fucking your heat on my cock and swelling you
to bear my pups like a bitch. My bitch and my mate, full of my come—but not
like this, not spread on your skin but leaking from your loose hole."
Derek's Soliloquies of Dirty Talk are something to be marveled at. They are the
most he ever says at one time and the result is that even when Derek is
explaining death and destruction, Stiles gets an erection when he speaks longer
than like three sentences. It's a pavlovian response.
Stiles is going to need so much therapy.
When he comes home on Friday, he's expecting another dildo, a weekend of more
practice yoga for his ass hole, but what he gets is a naked werewolf pouncing
on him in the foyer of his house. In hindsight, he's glad Derek waited until he
got past the porch.
Muscle memory has his legs around Derek's waist before he can process the
tongue in his mouth. They make out, hot and heavy and Stiles doesn't even
pretend he's not squirming against Derek's perfect body and already hard enough
to cut diamonds with his dick.
"You smell," Derek bitches.
Before this, Stiles would have taken offense, but now, he knows that this
particular growl means that Stiles smells like horny teenager. This growl and
insult is much preferable than the other growl and insult that means, You-
Smell-Like-Someone-Else because that one involves sulking and irrational
werewolf rage and the complete inability by both of them to communicate their
manpain. It's a problem they're not really working on because they're too busy
trying to have sex.
"Scott wouldn't stop talking about blowjobs," Stiles gasps out as Derek goes to
town on a hickey that feels like it will never come out of his skin—a Derek
stain. "And I couldn't, I mean, I just—I kept thinking about your knot."
Derek growls then and Stiles can't talk because they're making out again. There
is too much teeth because Derek's fangs have grown a little but Stiles doesn't
give a shit. He can't stop biting Derek's lips, hands pulling at Derek's hair
as he gets slammed up against the wall with the force of Derek's hips.
Apparently, werewolves are never too old to dry-hump. Thank god.
Derek sucks on Stiles' tongue, shooting pleasure everywhere even though sucking
on someone's tongue is weird and not supposed to be sexy but when Derek pulls
back, he's snarling, "My knot?"
Stiles sighs and scratches his fingernails down Derek's neck. "Yeah, in my
mouth," he stutters, eyes fighting to stay open as Derek's flash. "What it
would feel like if you knotted my mouth—splitting my lips and fuck. Then I
couldn't stop thinking about my ass and your dick—just, I really need to get
fucked, Derek."
"You do."
They're kissing again. It's raw and Stiles is making noises again that put all
the twinks in all the hours of porn he's ever seen to shame.
They get naked on their way up the stairs, throwing clothes everywhere between
Stiles getting slammed up against a lot of walls because Derek is kind of a
control freak and more than a little psycho. Whatever. It's hot.
Stiles has never been more grateful for the county next to theirs being
absolutely horrid at police investigations because that's where his dad is this
weekend, which means Stiles can lose all the v-cards he wants this weekend and
he can do it in the living room if he damn well pleases.
He has a list somewhere, a sex-bucket list in the style of werewolf because
Stiles is pretty sure that their life expectancy is pretty low, all things
considered. He needs to get some while the getting is good. (He's ignoring the
bit where he's afraid that this isn't real—that Derek is just messing with him,
taking advantage of him or maybe it's just normal to act this way about someone
when it comes to sex. Stiles doesn't think so but he's ignoring all these
feelings. They're annoying and they make his dick limp when he gets moody and
sad.) Frantic and seventeen is how he's playing this, Derek eagerly willing to
defile him in all the ways he asks for. The great thing about Derek being the
most socially awkward wolf in the world is that Stiles doesn't even have to ask
nicely.
Before Stiles can contemplate the possibility of Derek actually knotting in his
mouth, they're in the bedroom and Stiles is writhing on the bed, one leg
splayed out. Derek has two fingers twisting inside of him, Stiles' bent leg
twitching sporadically between them in his attempt not to come all over
himself.
"Take it," Derek whisper-growls, which is a totally new voice for Stiles to
catalogue and really not threatening at all. Stiles is going to call it his Den
Voice, because he reads way too many books on werewolf lore and doesn't give a
fuck if they're true or not. Those books are better than the pamphlets Derek
brought. They had clinical diagrams and Stiles got spunk all over them.
"Iam," Stiles gasps. "Just, give me another."
Derek's hands are massive and his fingers are thick, not nearly as thick as his
cock but Stiles is ignoring that because the promise of Derek's dick is hanging
between them, hovering and looming like the rest of Derek, swinging between
them and occasionally pressing to smear precome over the backs of Stiles'
thighs.
The third fingers twists and slides, making a complete mockery of Stiles'
prostate and leaves him pulling on Derek's ears, his shoulders—any part of him
that Stiles can get a hold of with his shaking hands. He is frighteningly close
to coming.
"Derek, fuck, Derek."
He leans forward, crushing Stiles' still flailing legs to his chest and the
burn of Derek's fingers matches the burn of Stiles' thighs as they kiss. It's
sloppy because Stiles is way too eager and his brain is probably melting out of
his ears because he has Derek's fingers in his ass.
"Shut up," Derek growls but then he's sucking a hickey high on Stiles' neck,
like that's going to keep Stiles' quiet.
"Don't—don't be a dick with the marking you shit! My dad—"
Derek's not listening to him. He's sucking hard with devastatingly sharp teeth
and twisting his fingers like drilling Stiles into the mattress with his hand
is the only thing in the world. It basically is.
"Derek," Stiles whines, trying to figure out where his words went because he
needs to remind Derek that there is more ahead. There is much, much, much more
ahead.
"We don't have to."
Stiles slaps Derek, his coordination a little off and mostly just palm-smacking
the top of Derek's head and then gripping his hair because hello fingers, will
you just step off the prostate for like three seconds? Fuck.
"Are you kidding me?"
Stiles bares his teeth and Derek butts into Stiles' hand with his head. It's
practically a nuzzle.
"Just, I'm going to fuck you," Derek says, like he's reassuring Stiles. "But I
could shift."
"Goddammit, Derek. What the hell?"
Derek's fingers still and Stiles is staring into red-rimmed eyes and long,
shiny teeth. "I'm too big and I don't want to hurt you—not while I'm fucking
you," he says, because they both know that Derek generally has no problems
putting Stiles through some amount of pain during their non-sexual interactions
because Derek is a moody cunt and Stiles talks a lot.
"But if I shift," Derek says, "my wolf is smaller."
Stiles blinks. "Are you seriously offering to fuck me as a wolf because that
dick is less monstrous?"
Derek's face is that careful blank, a little bit anger, a little wildness that
just ghosts his face. Stiles wants to shake him.
"Listen to me," Stiles says, tugging on Derek's ear. "Are you listening?"
Derek snarls.
"I'll take that as a yes, you overgrown mutt. It's not one or the other okay?
I'm going to take this cock, this huge and freaky cock and you're going to do
your knot thing and it's going to be fantastic, do you understand? And then
later, hopefully tonight but you know, if you've broken me, then probably
tomorrow, we'll let your pencil-dick self to go to town, fur and all. We'll
cover all the bases, okay? There are no take-backs," Stiles says very sternly.
Derek stares, non-blinking, his body incredibly still for having three fingers
deep inside Stiles' ass.
It should make Stiles' dick soft but it doesn't because Derek has probably
brainwashed him to think that his complete social ridiculousness is sexy and
not offensive or horridly awkward.
"I'm going to breed you now," Derek says, clearly decided.
Stiles doesn't hide his sigh of relief because Derek can probably smell it
anyway. Instead he says, "You are such a fucking creeper, you fucking pervert."
But he mostly doesn't mean it because Derek's fingers are gone and the
incredibly intimidating thickness of his dick is there, sliding between his
cheeks and like a fucking homing beacon, it's there, nestled at his hole.
It hurts.
Like, seriously hurts. It's in and in and in and holyfuck it's like being
fucked by a yardstick.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles grits out because his body is on fire and he's
clamping down and it's really not helping. He can hear Derek, growling and
thrashing, his muscles fighting underneath his fingers, probably trying not to
shift. "Derek—"
Stiles is coiled tight, head almost up against Derek's neck in his body's
attempt to push Derek out of his body because freakish dick is freakishly big.
"Stiles, relax," it's a command, which usually makes Stiles want to do the
opposite but there are human fingers stroking his sides
"I'm going to fuck you. Relax."
"Yeah, okay, yeah," Stiles says but Derek is moving before he gives consent
really. The first drive is all precarious control and the second is even less
steady, Derek's face twisting and snarling and Stiles lets his body unfold, his
fingers gripping Derek's neck as he leans down to bury his face in Stiles' neck
and his hips—
Whatever gentle fuck Derek was striving for in the first two thrusts
disintegrates and he's drilling into Stiles. It fucking hurts. There is nothing
more to it. It's painful and hard and there is literally a dick splitting
Stiles open and not really in good way. All the monstercock porn that Stiles
has been watching was a total lie. This hurts so fucking bad.
But it's hard to really care that much. It's definitely on his radar, each
thrust painful but Derek's mouth is hot, biting and sucking on his neck and
he's making enough pleasurable, animal noises to make the total flaccid
business of Stiles cock give a little into half-hardness.
The pain starts to ebb away a little and long, hard thrusts have eased into
smaller but just as frantic and forceful thrusts that bring Derek's unnaturally
hard abs into contact with Stiles' dick. There is something about rubbing his
dick-head against the soft stone of Derek's belly that really gets Stiles
going.
"Derek," Stiles moans, shifting a little and Derek growls. "Just—"
But whatever he's going to say is lost because Derek is pulling out, leaving
Stiles to cry out but his body is being flipped, his knees underneath him and
Derek is back, sliding back into him and holyfuckyesyesyes.
"Jesusfuck," Stiles shouts but whatever complaint he has about a little fucking
warning is vanished by Derek's cock hitting Stiles prostate like a fucking pro.
"There, there, there you sonofabitch. You're a genius. Fuck."
Derek isn't listening. He's giving Stiles the dicking of his life and Stiles
has a feeling it just happens to coincide with his prostate. The stretch still
burns because Derek's shoving in hard, the hard swell of his knot breeching
Stiles on every thrust. But the angle is so much better, giving Stiles leverage
to move around so that Derek is rabbiting into his prostate all the time. It's
like that weird vibrating prostate milker that Derek brought him a couple of
weeks ago but like ten times bigger and better because Derek is there, biting
his neck like a vampire and panting like the mouth-breather he is, all over
Stiles' neck.
It's really good.
Stiles is totally going to come.
Except—Derek roars, growling and snarling and biting hard enough to break
Stiles' skin at his neck. Stiles barely has time to think you better be 100%
human before he's otherwise distracted by the shoving of Derek's knot that has
started to swell into his hole.
It pops in, fucking audibly and Stiles swears.
"You mother fucker," Stiles yells and holyfuck, it's really big. It's colossal.
He's totally going to tear something and bleed to death. He just knows it.
Death by werecock. He's going to be just another body buried underneath the
Hale house in a totally sketchy grave. Death by dicking is not how Stiles'
wants to go. He has plans, okay? Really detailed and spermy-plans that involve
blowjobs and having sex in Derek's car, riding on his lap like all the high-
school movies and like, going to college and shit. He can't die now. Of
dicking. That's embarrassing.
Stiles wants to scream but the war of painpainpain is now definitely being
fought by the fact that Stiles can feel Derek coming—like, he can feel—
"Derek," Stiles moans, feeling the hot press and pulse of Derek's dick spurting
come inside of him at a volume so high that it's actually like a fire-hydrant
against his prostate. "Holy fuck, Derek. Your come, Jesus Christ. You couldn't
just wait like two fucking seconds, I swear, Derek, I was so close to coming
and it was starting to feel so good and you just went and blew—"
"Had to," Derek says, teeth finally pulling out of Stiles' skin and licking at
the blood there. That shouldn't feel good. Stiles needs to remind himself to
punish Derek for that later—much later. For now, he's rubbing his face all over
the back of Stiles' neck and his hands are definitely doing that placating
thing that Stiles hates. He's not a baby, obviously, so Derek can just stop
with the hushing and gruff cooing. (Admittedly, the gruff cooing is kind of
attractive. Whatever. Not the time.)
"You had to come when I was just starting to enjoy your freakish cock in my
ass, because let me tell you, I'm so pissed at you right now. You suck at sex,
buddy. This is supposed to be awesome for both of us and now you're just doing
your thing, coming a fucking ocean of werewolf jizz inside of me and I've yet
to come. This sucks," Stiles pouts, rambling and looking down at his dick.
It's hard now, staring back at him in disappointment.
Stiles is totally going to have to make it up to her. Maybe buy her a
Fleshlite.
Derek hums. "You don't smell angry," he says and then there is movement. Stiles
is whimpering and trying not to die because ouch, Derek is moving him so that
they're both on their sides and it pulls at the knot which feels the size of a
goddamn grapefruit but that's just not physically possible.
Right?
"You're an asshole and I hate you and your dick," Stiles whines.
Derek hums again, rubs his face against Stiles' neck and starts to lick him.
Stiles squirms, his cock still hard and twitching against his leg. "That's not
an apology," he says.
"I'm not sorry."
Stiles is about to pitch a serious fit but then Derek's fingers are thumbing
his nipples. "You smell good, like heat and you keep clinging to my knot like
you want more," Derek whisper-growls again and that kind of does Stiles' head
in. "You smell like a claimed bitch."
Again, that's not supposed to make Stiles dick jump.
"I smell like someone who has yet to come," Stiles yells, elbowing Derek in the
side. "Because you're a selfish fuck."
Derek hums again and there is more licking, biting and general wolf-behavior
that keeps Stiles' dick hard and leaking sluggishly. He wants to open up his
mouth and bitch more but now Derek is speaking, low and against his skin.
"You feel tight, full up of my come and greedy for my knot," he says, one hand
wandering down to rub against Stiles' belly. "You're swelling here, bursting
with seed—such a good mate, breeding good and brimming for my pups. If you were
a wolf, you'd feel tender here," Derek pinches Stiles' nipple until Stiles
jerks, feeling the pressure of the knot with his struggle.
"You'd get wet for me here, your teats begging to be suckled," Derek just keeps
going and Stiles is pushing into his hands, regardless of the way it felt in
his ass. This is ridiculous. Derek makes him such a ridiculous thing. "You'd
let me breed you over and over—need my cock to fill you up or you'd die from
want. You smell like that, Stiles. You smell like you'd die if I didn't fuck
you full."
Stiles wants to feel shame for finding this remotely attractive but his stomach
is a bit distended and wow, maybe it's all in his mind, or there really is some
sort of werewolf voodoo going on. His nipples are on fire, his stomach bumping
against his cock and the ever-present pulse of Derek's cock is still there,
deep inside his ass.
"Derek," Stiles whines and he pushes the hand on his stomach lower. It doesn't
curl around his cock, just sort of palms it like he's crawling around in the
dark. "Derek, you are being such a cruel bastard right now. I will revoke ass-
pounding privileges if you're not—"
"You'd never deny me."
It's the whisper-growl, it's Stiles' new Derek-shaped weakness because he can't
do anything but relax, flop back into Derek's chest and wait. It isn't a
command, it's complete trust—it's that stupid Den Voice that makes Stiles think
about blanket forts and spooning. Whatever fucked up submission Derek was
craving is apparently satisfied because there's his hand, tugging at Stiles'
balls and then stroking up Stiles' cock.
That's all it takes.
Stiles comes, thrashing against the knot in his ass and hearing the squelch of
it all as he just keeps coming. It's the longest orgasm of his life, which is
pretty impressive, considering him and Derek have been running the jerk-off
Olympics for the past six months.
When he's finally done, Derek is still purring and gnawing on his neck like a
puppy with a chew-toy, still sluggishly jizzing inside of his ass. Stiles
reaches up and pulls on his ear.
"Knock it off. How long is your—" Stiles gestured to the situation between his
legs. His dick twitches because she knows when she's being talked about.
Stiles' dick is awesome like that.
"My knot."
"Yeah," Stiles sighs, letting Derek continue to pet his stomach with come-
covered hands.
"About two hours."
Stiles blinks his eyes open and tries to claw through the fog of pleasure,
brought on by amazing orgasms and virginity losing and Derek's muscles.
Two hours.
Two hours skewered on a werewolf cock.
"Are you fucking joking right now?"
Derek just growls.
"Two hours! Derek, this is something you say," Stiles says, reaching back and
trying to hit Derek in any place that he can reach. "It would have been
appropriate to say, 'Stiles, when I shove my cock inside of you and come faster
than a teenager, you're going to be stuck with my grumpy-ass, sniffing your
neck speaking about werewolf tendencies that you could have gone your whole
life without listening to—yeah, all that is going to last like two hours.'
Derek. You are a dick. You are an asshole. You're awful. Nobody likes you."
Stiles huffs. Derek doesn't say anything and finally, Stiles elbows him as
Derek continues to caress Stiles' stomach and sides.
"Did you even bring rations? I'm fucking hungry."
"Here," Derek says long-suffering and annoyed. "Eat this."
Then he shoves his fingers in Stiles' mouth—fingers covered in Stiles' own
come.
And that, well, that is how Stiles loses his v-card, outs himself to Scott
(round three is Saturday morning and apparently, knotting smells so strongly
that Scott smells him from three blocks up) and spends his entire weekend with
a werewolf cock plugging up any and all of his available bodily holes like he
is a leaky dam.
Being part of the pack is rough, yo but being Derek's boyfriend (probably?
Mate? It sounds stupid when he says it out loud and he's certainly not going to
call himself that in front of Derek) definitely has some wicked perks.
Even if that means Stiles has to buy out all the lube and Icy-Hot in the local
drug store and never look Scott or his father in the eye again.
End Notes
     Dub-con warning about knotting:
     1. Stiles is indeed underage, so all of this is technically dubious
     content.
     2. Stiles does not understand the full nature of the knotting. He
     consents to the knotting but he doesn't know for how long and Derek
     doesn't tell him. So Stiles doesn't understand the fullest extent of
     the sexual act.
     If either of those facts bothers you, I suggest that you do not read
     this fic.
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