Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/830846.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Allison_Argent, Lydia_Martin, Scott_McCall,
      Sexual_Fantasy_-_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Blow_Jobs, Rimming, Smut, Riding,
      Roleplay, Hand_Jobs, Power_Play, Power_Dynamics, Dom/sub, Voyeurism, Anal
      Sex, Car_Sex, Road_Head, Exhibitionism
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-05 Completed: 2013-10-27 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 9201
****** What's Your Fantasy? ******
by trespresh
Summary
     Stiles and Derek challenge one another: fantasy for dirty, sexy
     fantasy.
***** Stranger *****
He really shouldn't be here.
All he could think of while he idly stirred the drink in front of him was that
something would go wrong. Things already weren't going the way he'd planned, if
the drunken old man that had been pawing at him earlier was anything to go by.
He should really just finish this drink—was this his third or fourth?—and go
home. Drinking alone at a bar? What would his dad think?
Stiles smiled to himself at the thought and took another sip.
"What's so amusing?"
He looked over to eye the dark haired man that had sunk into the stool next to
his. "Just thinking about what my father would say if he saw me now."
The man turned his head forward so Stiles could only see his profile as he took
a long drink from his own glass. The corner of his mouth twitched up. "I can't
think he'd be too happy. You hardly look old enough to be in here."
Stiles chuckled, "Between you and me," he leaned close, "I'm not. I'm
eighteen."
The other man glanced at him and offered a raised eyebrow.
"Okay fine. I'm seventeen."
His bar mate snorted and threw back the rest of his drink, face twisting.
"Alright. Jailbait. I can get behind that."
Stiles hummed into his own glass, downing what was left before licking at an
ice cube at the bottom. He could feel the other's eyes on him, see his Adam's
Apple bob as he swallowed, and Stiles couldn't help but love the attention. He
sucked a cube into his mouth before taking it from his lips and gliding it
across his collarbone, just to see how far he could take this.
"It's hot in here. Are you hot?" He simpered, enjoying the man's eyes on him.
The other licked his lips distractedly, eyes set on the icy water trailing down
Stiles' v-neck. "Mmm, yeah. Hot."
Stiles smirked and gestured for another drink from the bartender.
"D'you, uh," the man cleared his throat, "d'you want to get out of here?"
The younger man reached for the new drink placed in front of him and sipped at
it thoughtfully. "Ya know, I can't. I've got a boyfriend."
The man grinned, showing perfect, white teeth, and leaned in. "You tease," he
said, a predatory lilt in his voice. "Boyfriend, huh? What's his name?"
The side of Stiles' lip lifted up. "Derek."
"And Derek let you come here all by your lonesome?"
"He doesn't know. Not the brightest guy in the world, ya know?"
The other man's eyes narrowed, despite his small smile. He leaned just a little
bit closer. "Must not be, to let something delicious as you out of his sight."
Stiles tapped his fingers against his glass and bit at his lip. "He hasn't been
paying much attention to me lately. He's got, uh…other things to worry about
right now. Something about the full moon, or whatever."
"Huh. Guy's an idiot," the man snorted, smirk back in place.
Stiles pushed his glass away. He didn't feel much like drinking anymore.
"Come on," the darker man, suddenly very close, murmured in Stiles' ear, "Come
with me. I'll make you feel real special."
Stiles took one last look around the bar before reaching into his pocket,
fishing out money before the man tutted and laid down more than enough.
"I got it," he told Stiles with a wink.
And hey, what the hell. Stiles stood up, took the man's offered hand, and they
left the bar.
                        ______________________________
"Let me go turn a light on," Stiles said in a small voice, stepping into his
own dark house. The door shut behind him.
Stiles let out a small gasp as he was pushed against the wall roughly, the
man's hands firm on his hips.
"Why?" The other whispered in his ear, teeth closing around his earlobe.
Stiles didn't answer. His breath hitched and—he really didn't mean to hike his
leg up around the taller's waist like that. He felt rather than heard a low
chuckle against his neck before a strong hand came up to rest under his thigh,
thumb rubbing small circles into his jean-clad skin. The smaller man's jaw fell
open, and he just let himself feel. The soft lips pressing lightly on his neck,
the scratch of stubble.
But he really shouldn't be here right now.
"Listen, hey," he began, "my boyfriend—oh."
A harsh nip behind his ear cut him off and his eyes slipped closed.
"If you were really concerned about him, you wouldn't be here right now."
And Stiles tightened his leg around the man's hips. He brought his hand up,
fingering the hem of the man's shirt. He took a shallow breath and lifted it
over the other's head to toss it aside, and the man's lips were on his
instantly. Their tongues met feverishly and Stiles couldn't help the way his
stomach flipped. The taller man's hand fell to the back of Stiles' other thigh,
patting it, and Stiles hopped up just enough to wrap both legs around the man's
waist, arms secured around his neck to play idly with the hairs on the nape of
his partner's neck.
And then he was being carried upstairs, the man's heady scent thick in his
throat, filling his senses until all he could think of was oh, god, now please.
The two fell onto Stiles' bed, and the younger groaned and pulled his lips
away.
"You don't know where my bedroom is," he muttered pointedly, and he felt the
man grin against his lips and hum in response.
Stiles opened his mouth to say something else, but then the man placed a peck
on the underside of his jaw before trailing lower. Lips brushed the hollow of
his throat while fingers pushed his shirt up, and all Stiles could do was sit
up to acquiesce the clothing's removal.
That sinful mouth was back again, tongue circling one nipple and then the other
before heading lower to dip into his navel. Stiles buried his fingers into the
dark hair, sucked his lip into his mouth in anticipation, and then the tongue
was flat against the edge of his jeans. He tugged lightly on the other's hair,
urging him on with a small moan.
He hadn't blinked twice before his jeans and boxers were around his ankles and
that very same tongue was licking a thick stripe up the underside of his cock.
Had Stiles been even remotely coherent, he'd have been thoroughly proud with
the long list of expletives falling from his lips. The man grinned up at him
through the adjusting darkness and their eyes met.
Stiles' stomach did that stupid flipping thing again.
"Come on, come on," the smaller man pleaded, fingers pulling hard on the dark
hair again. He attempted to lift his hips to the other's mouth once more, to no
avail, and a frustrated whine burst from him, "Now who's the tease? Come on."
"Bossy little slut, aren't we?" The man's voice held a hint of dark amusement
but his mouth lowered to engulf Stiles' cock anyway.
"Nngh, you h-haven't seen bossy yet," was all Stiles managed before his eyes
closed and the man really set to work on his length.
Stiles groaned, all consonants and shapeless mumbles, feeling the breaths the
man made through his nose against his skin, but he would not lose it.
Not yet, at least.
As if reading the younger's mind, the dark haired man lifted off of Stiles'
cock, smiling at the boy's whimper of loss. He leaned across the teen's body to
open the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed, digging around inside before
pulling out a small bottle.
Stiles snapped open his eyes and he glared at the man. "You don't know where I
keep my lube, either."
The taller only rolled his eyes. This was taking way too long.
Stiles watched as he yanked off his jeans and boxers, and nudged the
highschooler's knees apart. He brought his fingers up to the boy's lips,
commanding, "Suck."
"What? Why? You've got the lube right there."
The man's eyes darkened and his voice dropped an octave, husky as though he'd
swallowed gravel. "I said, suck."
Stiles very nearly came.
He opened his mouth just enough for the other to slip his fingers inside, and
Stiles wrapped his tongue around the digits, holding the other's heated gaze,
and damned if he didn't pout when the fingers were pulled away. The man hitched
Stiles' leg up to rest in the crook of his elbow and leaned down to slip a
finger past that tight ring of muscle. The boy inhaled through his nose,
reveling in the strange, slightly uncomfortable feeling. It had been but a
moment before a second finger was added and Stiles breathed out a whine. He
rolled his hips impatiently because yeah, preparation was great and all but he
was so over all of this. He laced his fingers into the man's hair again.
"Ungh, just fuck me, goddamnit. Now."
The man laughed darkly. "There's that bossiness you promised me."
The elder had Stiles' legs over his shoulders before he could blink, and pushed
in with one smooth thrust. He wasted no time in letting the boy adjust, because
fuckhewassotight and he had asked for it, so a furious pace was set.
Stiles curled his fingers into the man's biceps and rocked his hips up to meet
every thrust with a loud slap, curse after moan after hitched breath filling
the dark room. He tossed his head from side to side, entire body writhing when
the man found his prostate.
"Oh fuck, fuuuck, right there! Nngh, oh god!"
The man's lip curled possessively, leaning forward to lick Stiles' bottom lip
before taking it between his teeth and pulling, snapping his hips forward with
enough vigor to slam the headboard into the wall.
"Scream for me," he commanded, licking Stiles' teeth when the boy's jaw dropped
to oblige.
The man laid one forearm across Stiles' collarbone, succeeding in pinning him
thoroughly, and a feral growl ripped from his throat. And fuck if that wasn't
the sexiest thing Stiles had ever heard. He rolled his eyes up and wondered if
it was possible for the man to rip a hole through his inner walls. Not that
he'd complain.
The older man traced the shell of Stiles' ear with his tongue, down across his
jaw and neck to land just above the boy's nipple, where he bit down and smirked
at the immediate bruising. He could feel the rapid heartbeat beneath his
tongue, each increasingly desperate noise the boy made ringing in his ears, and
refused the urge to draw blood. He was not going to lose it. He was not going
to lose it.
And then Stiles flipped them.
He kneeled over the taken aback man, reached down to grasp the other's pulsing
cock and sinking down on it until their hips met once more. He rocked his hips
with ease, rolling his body into perfect curves and throwing his head back,
mouth open in a drawn-out moan. His hands rested heavily on the man's chest to
keep his leverage, and his face twisted as the man's thrusts upward bounced his
body.
This was just too much.
Stiles' movements jerked and staggered, indicating the impending oblivion, and
he dragged the other man's hand to his cock. With his partner's fist flying
over his length, Stiles didn't stand a chance. His eyes screwed shut and his
jaw dropped in a silent scream as he came, white hot heat shooting through his
body and he couldn't fucking catch his breath. He collapsed against the man's
chest, clenching his muscles while the other thrust one time, two times, three
times more before releasing into the younger body as well.
Sharp gasps, twitching muscles, a few more shallow thrusts and Stiles whimpered
from over-stimulation. He rose delicately off of the other man and fell onto
the bed beside him. Chests heaved, slick with sweat, and Stiles choked out a
laugh while glancing over at his bedmate.
"Hey, man, my boyfriend's gonna be home soon, so you should probably—"
"Shut up, Stiles," Derek laughed, eyes flickering over to the younger man as he
laid an arm out in offering.
The highschooler grinned and took the opportunity to curl into the lycan's
side. "Was I right, or was I right?"
Derek raised his eyebrow in question.
"Didn't I say the whole 'bring home a total stranger' fantasy would be
ridiculously hot?"
The older man smirked, too tired to deny.
"Derek."
"Yes Stiles, yes, God, you were so right."
The smaller man's grin widened. "We should do this more often."
When the wolf simply shrugged noncommittally and didn't answer, Stiles sat up
on his elbow to look down at him. "Oh come on. How can you say no to someone so
delicious as me?"
And Derek outright laughed. "Never mention that. Ever again."
"Only if we can do this more often."
No answer.
"Come on, Derek. I will match you fantasy for fantasy. Deal?"
And how could anyone say no to a proposition like that?
"Fine," Derek agreed, smirking at Stiles' exclamation of victory, "but it's my
turn next."
***** Sir *****
Chapter Summary
     Here is the second chapter, Derek's first fantasy. Authority kink,
     public humiliation, unintended voyeurism (oops).
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
School is the last place Stiles wants to be right now. The teacher’s droning on
about Chemistry (or is he in Algebra?), his ass still hurts like hell from his
‘stranger’ fantasy on Saturday (damn, Derek), and to top it all off, he’s
fighting off a persistent hard-on just thinking about what Derek might have
planned for their next rendezvous (double damn, Derek).
No matter how hard he had begged—and he’d done the best begging of his life,
believe it—Derek would not tell him what his fantasy is, much less when it
would be carried out. Not even a little hint. And Stiles is going insane.
He pulls his backpack strategically into his lap and imagines handcuffs, whips
and chains. A leash and collar, because Derek seems like he might be that kind
of guy. He imagines positions found only in the Kama Sutra, Derek’s hands on
him, rubbing, slapping, pushing, and creating pleasure that makes Stiles want
to cry out.
And, okay. He needs to get out of class. Like, right now.
“Dude. Dude.”
Stiles looks over, his cheeks flushed and his breath shallow, and answers in a
whisper, “W-what?”
Scott looks a mix between disgusted, confused, and deeply amused. “Calm the
fuck down.”
“What…what are you talking about?”
“Advanced smell; it’s grossing me out, dude. Go take care of it.”
Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “Minor detail, there, buddy. I can’t move,” he
hisses.
Scott’s reply is cut off by a kid walking into the classroom, handing the
teacher a pass, and scurrying out of the room. Stiles is only mildly curious as
to why the kid had seemed scared shitless, but it’s put out of his head as the
teacher looks up and directly at him.
“The principal wants to see you, Mr. Stilinski.”

Nonono, oh fuck.

Scott puts his head down on his desk, shoulders shaking in obvious laughter,
and Stiles sincerely wants to hit him. He takes a deep breath and stands,
backpack still positioned almost casually in front of him, and makes his way
out into the hall.
-
The main office is eerily quiet. No ringing phones, no secretaries…nothing. Not
a stitch of movement. Stiles considers turning tail and running, because this
is not right, but instead he crosses the room to a smaller office off to the
side. He hasn’t even raised his hand to knock before a quiet command sounds
from behind the closed door.
“Come in.”
What the fuck? Stiles doesn’t move.
“I said, come in, Stilinski.”
Oh shit. Double and triple shit. He knows that voice. He swings the door open.
“The fuck are you doing here, Derek?”
Derek raises an eyebrow from where he sits behind the desk. “Excuse me? Is that
any way to speak to your principal?”
“I don’t know. My principal isn’t here.”
“You cheeky little—” Derek stands.
“Where is everybody? Oh god, you didn’t kill them, did you?”
Derek rolls his eyes. “You’re such a fucking drama queen. I didn’t kill
anybody. I just…convinced them to take the rest of the day off.”
Stiles watches him warily. “You…convinced them. But how—”
Derek has him pinned to the wall before Stiles can finish his thought. “No more
questions. Understood?”
Stiles blinks up at him and sighs. “Fine, Derek.”
Derek raises his eyebrow dangerously, glowering down at him.
“Uh, fine…Mr. Hale?”
Stiles runs his suddenly dry tongue across his lips when Derek’s eyes flash to
that scalding red. He flushes; the wolf is seriously going to make him do this.
“Yes, sir,” Stiles breathes out, ignoring Derek’s smirk of approval before he
adds, “kinky bastard.”
And then he’s bent over the desk, his cheek pressed against the hard mahogany
and Derek’s hand centered on his back. Stiles hears the clean sound of ripping,
teeth grinding as his shirt is yanked off of him.
“Are you serious?” Stiles sputters, turning his head to glare wide-eyed at the
man above him, “Like, actually serious?! How the fuck am I supposed to go back
to class without a fucking shirt, Derek?”
The breath is knocked out of him when Derek’s hand falls sharply, abruptly,
across his ass, and Stiles presses his forehead against the cool desk and
blinks and gasps and tries to remember how to breathe. Derek alignes their
bodies perfectly as he leans over Stiles’ back to lick at his neck.
“Who says you’re going back to class?”
And then he rolls his hips in this way that makes Stiles see stars, panting
because this is so, so hot and wrong and wow, they shouldn’t be doing this but
here they are anyway. He rolls his own hips back in time to feel Derek’s hard
dick through his jeans and with a whimper, clutches at the sides of the desk
until his knuckles turn white.
By now, Stiles is so hard it’s painful. They really need to get this show on
the road.
“Derek.”
He’s rewarded with another slap on his ass that shouldn’t be as arousing as it
is, and he chokes against the tingle that runs up his spine, arching his back
into Derek’s palm and chewing on his own tongue.
“S-sorry, sir.”
Derek’s low chuckle fills the room and bounces around inside Stiles’ skull. He
stares intently at the dark wood, waiting for something—anything—to happen.
Derek slowly hooks one thumb beneath Stiles’ jeans, past the waistband of his
boxers, while the other hand expertly reaches around to unbutton, caress,
unzip, and tuck his hand inside to wrap around Stiles’ length.
At which Stiles certainly does not scream out in relief.
A few lazy strokes has him gasping and wheezing, and Derek smiles to himself.
For him, this is just too easy. He pulls his hand away, smile widening at
Stiles’ mewl of loss, in favor of yanking down the offending clothing to let
them pool at Stiles’s ankles.
There’s a dull thunk and he turns his head over his shoulder, staring bug-eyed,
because why is Derek kneeling behind him? The wolf’s hands trail up the backs
of his thighs, coming up to rest gently on his ass, and Stiles heart beats just
a little bit faster. He’s not serious—?
But then he feels the other’s warm breath against his skin, fingers spreading
him apart, and Stiles is just about to ask what level of Heaven and/or Hell
Derek came from when he feels that familiar tongue flat against his entrance,
prodding and swirling and wonderful and holy shit he really can’t see straight.
The most embarrassing yelps and cries fall thoughtlessly from his lips because
where the hell did Derek learn to do that with his tongue?
And then Derek pushes in two digits, lapping at the puckered skin stretched
around his scissored finger, and Stiles comes to the ultimate conclusion that
Derek is actually trying to kill him. It was really only a matter of time,
anyway, he figures.
With his eyes closed, Stiles can’t see one of Derek’s hands trail up and over
the desk, pressing a small button on a microphone in the corner to record and
project every soft whimper, every single desperate sob.
With his thoughts distracted, Stiles doesn’t realize that every student and
teacher in the entire school is hearing him beg for Derek to just fuck him
already.
Now the fun begins.
Derek stands quickly, shedding shirt, jeans, and boxers, and lines himself up.
He leans over Stiles’s body again, nips at Stiles’ pulsing jugular.
“What do you want?” He whispers, voice husky and low in Stiles’ ear, finger
still pressing the loudspeaker button.
“You, God, please, just fuck me,” Stiles groans in return, voice thoroughly
wrecked.
Derek pushed just the head of his dick in, hand wrapped around Stiles’ shoulder
hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck you how?”
“Hard, please, so hard, s-sir!”
Well, who is Derek to refuse to a plea like that? He slams his hips roughly to
the willing body below him, not allowing Stiles a moment to adjust because he
knows Stiles neither needs it nor wants it. Derek pounds furiously, growling
and groaning and loves how good this idea was.
There’s no way Stiles is going to last long. He’s doing his best to hold on as
it is, but he’s just too far gone. The sounds tearing from his throat are
jumbled, screams and pleas with no definitive structure; he can’t even remember
which muscles to use to form words, for Christ’s sake.
Derek’s hips crash forward, growing erratic and all the more desperate to bring
them both to the edge, Stiles’ frenzied chanting echoed in his own moans. He
leans over the body beneath him once more to bite at Stiles’ shoulder blade,
hips faltering, and he finally grinds out a final, muffled groan as he shudders
through his orgasm.
He loves the way Stiles comes right after with a loud cry, just from the
feeling of being filled even more.
They pant, chests heaving and muscles fluttering from the aftershocks. Derek
lifts his finger off of the microphone button with a small smile and pulls from
the wrecked body beneath him.
“Stiles?”
Stiles lays his cheek against the cool desk, eyes closed, and hums in
acknowledgement.
“You okay?”
“Mmm, very. ’M great. Never would’ve pegged you for a ‘public place’ kind of
guy,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to glance back at Derek with a sated grin
that Derek returns, inwardly laughing because Stiles truly doesn’t know just
how public they are.
A dull knocking sound and angry yells are heard from outside the main office;
Derek stiffens and hastily begins to pull on his jeans.
“I hate to cut the afterglow short, seriously, but we really need to go,” Derek
tells Stiles softly, punctuating his words with a lick to the small of Stiles’
back.
Stiles stands as well, bending to yank up his own clothing, eyes wide with
paranoia as he takes in the muffled noises from the hallway. “What’s going on
out there?”
Derek eyes him with a smirk, “Probably a few teachers trying to get in. See
what was going on in here.”
“What? But how did they—”
“Here,” Derek cuts him off and hands Stiles his own shirt, “put this on. We
have to get out of here.”
He walks to the window and jerks it open while Stiles stares at him. “Derek?”
“Come on, let’s go. They won’t be slowed down by a locked door for long.”
Stiles follows him out the window.
-
Derek hasn’t driven but two miles from the school before Stiles’ phone buzzes
with a new text.
Dude. Not what I meant when I said to go take care of it.
Stiles stares down at the screen, face red. “I think Scott heard us.”
“Uh, everyone heard us,” Derek chuckles. 
Stiles’ head jerks over to gape at Derek. “What?”
The toothy grin on Derek’s face is unnerving, to say the least. He shrugs
nonchalantly, “You’re Beacon Hills’ newest porn star.”
“I… but, but, what did you—?”
“Loudspeakers,” Derek says almost conversationally, and Stiles makes a small
noise in the back of his throat and dropped his head into his hands.
“Oh, god. I hate you so much.”
“No, you don’t. Relax, no one even knows it was us. Well,” he pauses, “except
for Scott. Who’ll probably tell Allison. And girls talk, y’know, so I’m sure
Lydia will find out. And Jackson.” Another pause. “But besides them…”
Stiles lifts his head to look at the lycan, his eyes blazing with disbelief and
embarrassment despite his small smile. “Oh my god. I’m so getting you back for
that.”
And, well. Derek can’t help but be just a little bit excited.
Chapter End Notes
     All four parts of this are already written, so I just need my ass
     kicked to post all of them quickly hahha whoops..
***** Audience *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles' next challenge. Voyeurism, exhibitionism, road head, scheming
     Stiles and angry Derek.
Chapter Notes
     So this took forever, whoops. The next chapter is written already, I
     just have to switch it all from past-tense to present-tense. I'll try
     to have it up soon!
     Thanks for reading, guys.
So school isn’t the worst place in the world. In fact, looking around the halls
today, Stiles feels positively invincible. He owns this place; he’s no less
than the king of the school. He feels fucking sexy and just a little naughty
pulling into the parking lot this morning, and when he passes the main office,
he falls into an easy strut and a smug smirk settles onto his face.
Clearly he was born to be a sex god.
Well, okay, maybe that’s pushing it. But Jesus, he feels great. If he can get
away with fucking Derek in the principal’s office for everyone to hear, he can
get away with anything.
Anything, indeed.
He’s sitting in the cafeteria with Scott (who talks with him as per usual but
won’t meet his eye) when they approach him.
“Hey Scott. And hello, Stiles.”
Stiles turns his head to look at his best friend, an exasperated sigh escaping
his mouth. “Dude. You told them?”
Scott smiles sheepishly. “I, uh…I have to go.” He picks up his tray and all but
runs from the cafeteria.
Allison and Lydia sit down on either side of Stiles.
“So that was quite the show you put on yesterday,” Allison starts
conversationally.
Stiles licks his teeth and keeps his eyes on his food.
“We want in.”
He chokes and jerks his head up to stare at Lydia, gaping at her words. “Excuse
me?”
“Oh, shut up, not like in-in. We want front row seats.” She’s staring him down
with that wide-eyed, pursed-lipped way of hers, and Stiles feels remarkably
like a cornered animal, shaking in the hungry gaze of a predator. Far less
invincible.
“It’s just—” His head swivels over to stare at Allison as she speaks up, “—the
administration told us that someone broke into the principal’s office and
played a ‘pornographic film’ right next to the microphone. Everyone else
believed them, Stiles. That’s how good you guys were.”
Stiles sits back in his chair to gawk, slack-jawed, at both of them. “You guys
can’t be serious.”
Lydia smacks her lips. “As a heart attack, babe.”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on, Stilinski. It’s not like you’re scared of exhibitionism. You’ve
proved that much.”
He decides not to point out that he’d had no say in the ‘loudspeaker’ incident.
“I’m not scared of being watched. I’m just fucking terrified of how Derek will
react when I ask.”
“So don’t ask.”
“What, just spring it on him?” Yeah, because that’s not a recipe for murder…
Lydia nods, looking impossibly smug, and underneath the overwhelming inkling
that he’s putting the last nail in his coffin, Stiles shivers at the spark of
excitement crawling up his spine.
He takes a deep breath and picks up his fork, an acquiescing smirk twisting his
lips. “So how are we going to do this?”
The girls leers, leaning forward to plan.
-
When Stiles pushes his way through the front doors at the end of the day,
Derek’s there, leaning against his Camaro and looking absurdly sexy. Stiles
licks his lips.
“God, you look hot,” he mutters, seeing Derek smirk even from across the
parking lot.
He tightens his grip on his backpack strap and starts forward. Operation
‘Distraction’ is officially underway. He falls into the passenger seat while
Derek slides behind the wheel and tears out of the lot.
“My house,” Stiles demands, ignoring Derek’s cocked eyebrow and small smirk. He
throws his bag into the backseat and leans over to nip under the wolf’s jaw,
running his hand up the inside of his thigh. “I’ve been thinking about the
principal’s office all day, sir.”
Stiles’ mouth is on his collarbone, now, and Derek really likes where this is
going.
“Yeah?”
“Mmm, yeah. You, behind that desk. Your body. Your tongue.”
Stiles’ hand rests across Derek’s belt. Derek’s grip on the steering wheel
tightens.
“Sounds like you weren’t paying attention in class, Stilinski,” Derek breathes,
only to feel Stiles grin against his neck.
“Oh, no. Not—” his nimble fingers pull the belt open, “—one—” the button is
popped, the zipper is tugged down, “—bit—” his fist closes around Derek’s
length.
Stiles watches the muscles in Derek’s jaw twitch, sees his eyelids flutter in
attempt to stay focused on the road. His knuckles are white around the steering
wheel.
All because of—and for—him. And fuck if Stiles doesn’t take pride in that.
He pumps his hand slowly, flicking his thumb over the head with a lazy calm he
doesn’t really feel. He’s anxious. He needs Derek so far gone that he won’t say
no to anything, and that shit calls for the big guns.
Stiles sits back long enough to click his seatbelt free and rearrange himself,
and dives forward to catch the head of Derek’s dick between his lips. He feels
Derek’s hand on the back of his neck almost immediately.
“If you make me crash my Camaro, S-Stiles…” Derek’s half-assed implied threat
makes Stiles roll his eyes. He waves his hand dismissively because Derek just
stuttered his name, and hums around the heavy weight on his tongue.
Derek’s hips lift off the seat just enough to make Stiles gag, and he pauses to
try to relax his throat, allows Derek’s hand on his neck to push him down until
there’s nothing left to take. He swallows around the length, listening to the
sharp intakes of breath that fills the quiet cab, and sucks back up to hollow
his cheeks around the tip. He loves each sound that falls unbidden from Derek’s
mouth, every growl that bubbles up from deep within his chest to mix flawlessly
with the hominine moans. He loves the flavor of Derek; the subtle piney taste
combined with the raw virility that Derek exudes makes his eyes cross and his
hips jerk of their own accord.
Stiles may not have been born to be a sex god, but he sure fucking lives for
Derek’s dick.
They pull into the Stilinski driveway before long, Derek throwing the car into
‘park’ and dropping his other hand down to hold Stiles’ head steady while he
jerks his hips up hard into the waiting mouth. He slams his head back against
the seat, eyes rolled toward the ceiling, and if he were to look up at the
house, he’d see the two feminine faces watching intently from Stiles’ bedroom
window.
Stiles can always tell when Derek’s close, his hips lurching frantically, the
muscles in his stomach jumping and twitching. Stiles pushes at Derek’s thigh
insistently, pulling off with an unattractive pop, and heaves a breath.
“Stiles, Stiles please, fuck, I’m so fucking…—”
He’s never heard Derek beg before. He’s half tempted to finish Derek off right
now, just to maybe hear him beg some more, but who can give in, in the face of
sweet, sweet revenge?
Stiles surges forward to press his swollen lips to Derek’s, breathing a soft
whine when Derek’s hand curls around the back of his head, and lets the kiss
deepen. He inwardly laughs at Derek’s probable egotistical thrill at tasting
himself in Stiles’ mouth, but lets it slide to instead flick his tongue across
the slightly sharpened teeth.
“Come on,” he mutters lowly, voice hoarse, before rolling away and opening the
passenger door, “inside.”
Derek would follow him into Kate Argent’s torture chamber if it means he’d get
to feel that mouth on him again. He stumbles out of the car, following Stiles
up the walkway and into the darkened house.
Stiles’ back meets the wall like it was meant to be there. That familiar mouth
is on his again, hands gripping his hips.
Stiles is a livewire. (And in hindsight, that really should’ve been Derek’s
first clue.) Stiles’ hands are everywhere, scratching down his back and weaving
through his hair, his lips and tongue dancing in a frenzy that Derek’s never
seen before. Stiles is practically vibrating, and Derek can’t wait to fuck him
blind.
Needless to say, Operation ‘Distraction’ is a success. By the way Derek’s
rolling his hips, grinding their bodies together, Stiles can tell he’ll agree
to anything. The game is won, and Derek hadn’t even known they’ve been playing.
They barely make their way up the stairs, lips never separating, and crash
through Stiles’ bedroom door. Derek holds Stiles’ hands lazily above his head
and ducks to bite at his neck, feeling like nothing can stop him when he feels
the blood pulsing under the skin.
Well. Until there’s a dainty ‘ahem’ from behind them.
Stiles is pretty sure he’s never seen Derek move that fast. One moment, Derek’s
teeth are scraping against his neck, the next, Derek’s crouched in front of him
protectively, those same teeth bared at the intruders. He straightens up after
he recognizes the two girls.
“Derek,” Stiles announces, “you’re looking at my second fantasy.”
Derek’s face scrunches in confusion. “Ew, no. Orgies are not an option.”
Stiles’ arms wrap around his waist from behind, fingers dipping easily below
Derek’s beltline. “They’re just going to watch.”
“No.”
“But, Derek—”
“No.”
“But it’s your own damn fault! Everyone at school literally thinks I’m a porn
star because of your stupid stunt yesterday!”
“Stiles, they’re not watching. That’s fucking weird. That’s like you going to
Scott’s and asking to watch him and Allison.”
“Okay, first off,” Lydia interjects, “stop talking about us like we’re not
here. Second off, drop your little modest act, Hale, you’re not fooling
anyone.”
She matches Derek’s furious glare, completely unfazed. Stiles and Allison keep
quiet, letting the two fiery personalities go head-to-head. Stiles rubs small
circles into Derek’s lower stomach with his thumb and ruts his hips a little,
demonstrating the possibilities.
Come on, Derek. Come on.
“And besides,” Lydia continues, “I have no problem with watching two hot guys
go at it in front of me.”
There’s a second of silence before Stiles grins. “Aw, Lydia. You think I’m
hot?”
Three pairs of irritated eyes turn on him. He shrugs, nonchalantly pushing hand
further down the front of Derek’s jeans. He scrapes his nails lightly over the
base of Derek’s dick, eliciting a quiet, breathy grunt from him.
“Come on, Derek,” he mutters into Derek’s ear, ignoring the curious glances of
the two girls, “don’t you want to show them how loud you can make me scream?”
He bites down on the nape of Derek’s neck at the same time he squeezes his
dick, and Derek’s done for. Stiles doesn’t even realize he’s been moved when he
finds himself on his back on the bed, Derek shirtless and straddling his hips.
(Yeah. Stiles likes it when Derek moves fast.)
On one hand, Derek wants to fuck the kid so hard he won’t be able to sit
comfortably for a week, as a punishment for pulling this one on him. On the
other hand, however, he wants to show these girls exactly what he sees whenever
the clothes come off; he wants them to see how  Stiles looks when his back
arches off the bed, his mouth stretched wide in pleasure, and the way his eyes
will cross just slightly when Derek hits that holyfucksogood spot inside the
smaller body. How he’ll clutch desperately at Derek’s forearms, nails leaving
marks that Derek wishes won’t heal, and how he seems to lose control of the
muscles in his face as they twitch and pull at his features. He wants the girls
to hear each needy plea and soft whimper. He wants them to hear Stiles scream
his name.
He wants to dangle Stiles in front of them, only to pull him out of reach and
growl possessively and never, ever share.
Derek leans over to grab the lube from the bedside drawer while Stiles yanks
off his own shirt. There’s no time for shyness or hesitation, not with the way
Stiles is sprawled beneath him and rocking his hips up against Derek’s. Derek
makes quick work of their jeans and boxers, stroking Stiles’ length while
leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to those still-swollen lips.
Stiles hums, raising his hips off of the bed and into the tight fist. “Just do
it.”
Derek coats his fingers and settles back between the spread legs to slip two
into the tight body, nipping at the inside of Stiles’ thigh. He crooks one
finger, brushing over the small, oversensitive bundle of nerves, and grins when
Stiles whines in the back of his throat.
“More.”
A third finger.
“Fucking—Derek, fuck, more.”
Derek can hear four heartbeats. Stiles’, the one he’s most in-tune with, the
clearest. Allison’s and Lydia’s, both of whose are pulsing away rapidly across
the room, their heavy breathing also echoing inside his head. Lastly, his own;
he can feel the blood throbbing in his ears, can practically taste the raw need
on the back of his tongue.
Stiles’ legs wind around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of Derek’s
back. Derek leans forward, thanking God that Stiles is flexible as he
practically bends him in half. He pulls on Stiles’ lower lip with his teeth and
swallows Stiles’ moan as he pushes in. When their hips meet, Derek stills,
clenching his teeth against the feel of Stiles’ writhing body underneath him.
“Fuck, fucking—move,” Stiles demands, hips rocking in an attempt to fuck
himself on Derek’s dick, but the firm grasp on his waist holds him down.
Derek ignores him. He rests his forehead in the curve of Stiles’ neck and turns
his eyes to the two wide-eyed girls in the corner. His hand wraps around
Stiles’ length, stroking once, twice.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” He murmurs, voice carrying in the quiet room. Stiles
arches into Derek’s touch and whimpers at that precise moment, punctuating his
question perfectly.
He wants to laugh at the twin blushes that paint the girls’ faces, loves the
way their eyes rake over the boy that they can never have.
Then, not waiting for an answer, Derek pulls back and pushes in again, earning
an appreciative hum from Stiles. He rolls his hips expertly, angled perfectly
to press against Stiles’ prostate with every other thrust; Stiles mutters
nonsensical phrases and tightens his legs around Derek’s waist, heels digging
into his back encouragingly while his nails grapple at the toned chest.
Derek lifts his head to Stiles’ ear. “Show them how beautiful you are,” he
growls lowly, stubble rubbing Stiles’ skin raw.
Well. Stiles is nothing if not a people-pleaser.
He throws his head back, pushing into the pillows, accentuating the long, pale
column of his neck. His back raises off the bed once more, spine curling into a
desirable curve, and the way his hips jerk up to meet Derek thrust for thrust
has Derek grinding his teeth around groans, fingers gripping hips hard enough
to bruise.
It’s Allison who first feels the dull pang of intrusion in her stomach,
something tight knotting there like they shouldn’t be watching this, like this
is an extremely intimate moment that they really shouldn’t be present for. She
forces herself to uncross her legs and makes to get up from her chair and make
a stealthy exit, but Lydia’s hand on her arm pulls her back into the seat.
“You’re not leaving yet,” she mutters conversationally, eyes never leaving the
writhing couple on the bed.
Allison settles back into her chair, turning her gaze back to the guys as well.
“Don’t you feel like we’re seriously invading their privacy?” She whispers
back.
“Of course I do,” Lydia breathes, “now be quiet.”
Derek turns his head to them, eyes unfocused, and manages to twist his lips
into a smirk. He can feel the familiar heat pooling in his stomach, his entire
body hotwired to every single move and noise Stiles makes. His senses are
overwhelmed, his hips driving forward of their own accord. He can feel it all
building up higher and higher and it’s all he can do to pry his fingers from
Stiles’ hip, drag them over the taut stomach and wrap them around Stiles’
painfully hard length to stroke in time to his increasingly frantic thrusts.
It’s not long before Stiles seizes up, mouthing Derek’s name wordlessly,
muscles clenching, and it’s all closing in on Derek. He cries out, ducking to
close his teeth around Stiles’ sweat-slick collarbone as he comes. He thrusts
shallowly a few more times, riding the high, before becoming hyperaware of each
breath the two girls take, every movement they make. He wants them gone.
He rubs his thumb in a circle on Stiles’ hip, resting his head against his
shoulder, and pulls out. He collapses onto the bed and smiles when Stiles curls
into his side. They both let out content sighs.
“I, uh…” Allison speaks up softly, afraid to ruin the sudden silence, as she
raises up off of her chair. “I need to go find Scott.”
Stiles cracks an eye open and offers a sated smile. “See you guys at school
tomorrow.”
Allison smiles back, and then she’s out the door, Lydia on her heels with her
phone already up to her ear.
“Jackson? I’m coming over. You better be on your bed, naked, in fifteen
minutes,” is the only thing they hear before the girls close the door behind
them.
Stiles throws an arm across Derek’s waist and chuckles into the damp skin.
“What’s so funny?” Derek asks, and Stiles laughs again.
“Wait ‘til Scott and Jackson find out that they’re getting laid because their
girlfriends were so turned on by watching us fuck.”
Derek barks a soft laugh. “You think the girls’ll tell them?”
“Oh, no, probably not,” Stiles mutters. “But I definitely will.”
***** Hunt *****
Chapter Summary
     Derek's second fantasy. Wolfy Derek and terrified Stiles!
Chapter Notes
     This is the last fantasy - not because I think Derek and Stiles would
     stop challenging each other, but because life got in the way and I
     wasn't able to write any more. Hope you guys have enjoyed though;
     thanks for reading!
The fragile autumn leaves crunch under his worn sneakers as Stiles takes
tentative steps through the darkness. He can feel eyes on him, watching his
every move, but the stars don’t offer enough light for him to get a good look
around. A brisk wind blows through the woods, making the trees creak eerily
around him; he tugs his sweatshirt closer around his body, flipping the hood up
over his head as he rolls his eyes and rubs his hands together.
“It’s fucking freezing out here, and I’m alone. Great fucking idea, Derek,” he
mumbles, watching his words turn into little puffs of white in the chilled air.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when a clawed hand wraps around his waist from
behind, warm breath and sharp teeth on his neck. He shivers at the low voice
echoing in his ear.
“You’re not alone.”
The elongated teeth scrape down the exact path of his jugular and Stiles can’t
manage more than short gasps and pants, all of which freeze on the night air.
Quick as it came, the warmth of the other body is gone without so much as a
whisper of noise.
Stiles spins on his heel. There’s nothing behind him, no sign that anything had
been. His heart beats a little bit faster and his palms begin to sweat.
This shit’s so creepy.
He can feel the eyes on him again as he squints up at the few stars he can see
through the canopy of trees above. A branch behind him rustles and he spins
around again. A low, predatory chuckle reverberates throughout the forest,
bouncing off tree trunks and surrounding him. His head jerks all around, his
eyes wide and straining against the blackness, trying desperately to locate the
source of the ghostly laughter. Trying to focus on anything, really.
“D-Derek?” He breathes, the name turning to smoke and disappearing around him.
The laughter stops. The woods are still for a moment. Not a crackling leaf, not
a breath of wind, no crickets’ chirp. Absolute silence. And then—
“Run.”
Stiles’ feet have never carried him faster. He dodges low branches, hurtles
over roots and logs, a rabbit sprinting for its life from an unbeatable
predator. It seems the trees are alive around him, breathing and panting with
him, screaming at him to move faster, converging in on him. He urges his legs
faster, the pounding blood in his ears the only thing he can hear. He doesn’t
dare to look back, too afraid of what he might see following him. His vision
tunnels ahead and it’s all he can do to keep going, desperately clinging to the
adrenaline coursing in his every cell as his only source of energy. His lungs
are on fire, the icy air doing nothing to put out the blaze, and still he runs.
He ducks behind the trunk of a tree, cursing the full moon for spotlighting him
in the darkness, and wheezes, doubled over, until a loud crack echoes out. He
straightens up, frozen against the tree, and tries to keep his eyes open. He
waits with bated breath.
After all, there’s only so much you can do when the town’s most feared creature
is hunting you.
Another crack rips through the air and Stiles jumps. He slowly inches his way
closer to the edge of the trunk, taking a breath before peeking around to look
out into the woods. There’s nothing there; the trees are no longer crying out
to him, the crickets are chirping away. The forest is the same as it’s ever
been. Just an average autumn night.
Stiles closes his eyes in relief, pulling his head back around to lean fully
against the trunk of the tree again. He smiles lightly, allowing himself to
breathe regularly.
And then he opens his eyes and screams.
Derek grins in his face. His teeth protrude intimidatingly and Stiles finds
himself staring as they glow in the moonlight. The wolf places his clawed hands
on either side of Stiles’ head and presses their bodies flush together,
trapping Stiles against the bark. He leans in close, dragging his nose up the
still-trembling kid’s neck and across his jaw, breathing deeply.
“Caughtcha.”
Stiles gasps, still trying to catch his breath, and curls his hands into
Derek’s shirt to pull them closer. He leans his head back against the tree,
exposing his throat to Derek.
“Fuck you. A hunting fantasy? Jesus Christ. Fuck you, that was terrifying.”
Derek smiles against his skin, licking a strip across his collarbone that
immediately raises goosebumps in the biting air. “Oh, we haven’t gotten to the
fantasy part just yet.”
Derek pulls his head back, staring at the shivering kid with that icy blue
gaze, his brow bulging and curved, all of his features sharply defined and
distinctly animalistic. Stiles wonders if maybe he should be worried. What if
Derek loses himself in the wolf?
…Would this be considered bestiality?
Really, though, fuck it. Stiles doesn’t care. He shivers when Derek slips his
cold hands under the sweatshirt to rest against the taut stomach underneath,
and Stiles lifts his head to meet the pale blue eyes. He nods absently, his
voice scratchy and low when he responds.
“Well go on, then. Finish what you started.”
Derek’s eager to oblige. He’s never had his prey tell him to continue before.
He grasps the back of Stiles’ neck, clawed thumb wrapped around to trace the
protruding Adam’s apple, and he can’t help but love the way it bobs under his
touch. The jolt that runs up his fingers is electric, pulsing with the need to
bury his nails into the tender flesh, watch the blood spill over and paint his
hand crimson.
It would be so easy, after all.
But no. He wants Stiles sinking onto his dick, moaning with pleasure.
Definitely not sinking to the ground, bleeding to death. (Big difference
there.)
He moves his palm from Stiles’ neck, skirting up the skin to curve around his
chin and hold tightly. Their lips meet with fervor, tongues dancing and razor-
sharp teeth pulling. Derek slips both hands down to cup Stiles’ ass and lifts
while Stiles simultaneously jumps. Derek pushes him back against the tree
harder, leaving Stiles suspended between the trunk and his mate, legs secured
vice-like around Derek’s middle as though he’s got any intention of leaving.
Stiles’ arms wind around the werewolf’s neck and Derek raises him higher to lap
at his collarbone while Stiles pushes his jean-clad dick into Derek’s stomach
and moans.
Derek knows they have all night—the full moon isn’t going anywhere for a
while—but the frenzy, the desperation, is swallowing them both and Derek wanted
these clothes off five minutes ago, damnit.
He presses his mate to the tree harder still, effectively pinning him with his
hips, and pulls one hand away to hastily undo his own jeans and yank them down
just enough to expose his dick to the cool air. Gritting his teeth—well, fangs,
really—he does the same to Stiles’ jeans, pulling them down over the curve of
his ass to stop mid-thigh, and holds Stiles’ half-lidded gaze as he sucks his
own fingers into his mouth.
“D-dude,” Stiles breathes, word freezing in the little space between them,
“claws away.”
Derek grins, holding the slippery fingers up and making a show of retracting
the sharp nails. He trails his hand down Stiles’ body with a practiced ease,
sliding his fingers into Stiles’ body as expertly as if it were his own. He
knows the exact angle at which to hit Stiles’ prostate and how to drag his
index finger across it, tantalizingly enough to reduce Stiles to a whimpering
mess in his arms.
He watches the muscles under Stiles’ closed eyes twitch, watches his mouth fall
slack. Derek licks at his bottom lip before claiming his mouth to swallow
Stiles’ protest when he pulls his fingers out. Derek strokes his own dick
lazily before replacing his hand under Stiles’ ass. He lifts him again, spine
tingling as Stiles curls his fingers into the dark hair on the back of Derek’s
head, before easing Stiles’ back down on his length. He waits, breathing
heavily into Stiles’ damp shoulder.
Stiles whines against the burning stretch, back arching into the tree, and he
lifts his hips impatiently. That’s really all the invitation Derek needs. He
wraps one hand around Stiles’ waist, circling his thumb over the skin.
“Hold on,” he mutters, feeling the arms around his neck constrict and dull
nails scratch up his back, and then he moves. He drops his hips at the same
time he lifts Stiles up, and brings Stiles back down again, earning a moan from
Stiles that echoes his own when their hips crash together. They build a rhythm.
The air is still frigid and the friction from their jeans is a just a little
too much, but Stiles is moaning his name over and over into his ear and Derek
wants to never stop. He raises his mate up just slightly so Stiles’ chin rests
against his forehead, and he buries his face into the hollow of Stiles’ neck.
He forces his eyes to stay open enough to watch the bead of sweat that trails
down the pale column and pools just above his collarbone.
Stiles’ skin is pale in the moonlight, deathly so, and Derek’s stunned by how
ethereal he appears. His eyes and hair are strikingly dark against the glowing
pallor. He looks perfect under the full moon, and he doesn’t seem to be
complaining about the effects it has on Derek, either.
Their bodies rock together in easy, perfect synchronization. Stiles’ back
scrapes against the rough bark, his mouth slack and his face holding an
expression that almost resembles pain, but Derek knows better. Derek watches
him with his teeth bared, their proximity so close that his eyes nearly cross
in doing so, and he takes in every detail, studies each tiny facial contortion.
He drums a pattern-less beat into Stiles’ hip. He isn’t entirely sure how the
world is going on as usual around them when all he can think is a steady mantra
of mine.
And then Stiles opens his eyes and holds his gaze.
Derek can feel it coming up on him, can sense temporary bliss coaxing him
lovingly, and he closes his hand around Stiles’ length to pump in time with his
frantic thrusts. Stiles’ breath hitches with each snap of the lycan’s hips, but
his eyes never leave the bright blue intensity of Derek’s.
Finally he freezes, gritting his teeth before moaning Derek’s name one last,
broken time, and comes into Derek’s fist. Derek presses their lips together
sloppily, crying out into Stiles’ mouth, and barely has time for one more
thrust before he’s coming, too, clutching Stiles’ hip so hard he knows he’ll
have to apologize for the bruise he’ll leave.
They breathe against one another, sweating under their clothes despite the
biting chill. Stiles chokes out a laugh, grinning down at Derek’s raised
eyebrow.
“Yeah. You definitely caught me.”
Derek barks a laugh, features transforming back into their hominine normality.
He doesn’t even scowl when Stiles leans in to press a quick peck to his nose.
Stiles unwinds his legs from Derek’s waist and drops to the ground, knees
wobbling at the reintroduction of gravity, before gingerly zipping his jeans
back up while Derek does the same. Stiles offers up a small smile and turns to
place his hands against the tree, back to Derek.
“Hey, does my back look red?”
Derek carefully lifts the sweatshirt and even in the dull light he can see the
angry red scratches littering his mate’s back. He growls noncommittally and
runs his finger down Stiles’ spine, chuckling when Stiles shivers.
Stiles feels lips brush his shoulder before he’s turned around again, Derek’s
hands heavy on his hips.
“Little bit,” Derek tells him huskily, a tiny grin on his face, “sorry.”
“Mmm, don’t be.” Stiles presses a kiss to Derek’s clothed chest, fingers
playing idly with the hem of his shirt. “That was…thrilling. Knowing it was
only you, that I was safe, but still feeling the fear. It was kind of fun.”
Derek smiles above him, kissing his temple. “Adrenaline junkie, now, huh?”
Stiles shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, a sly grin gracing his lips. “All I know is
that this gave me an idea for my next turn.”
As Stiles pulls him closer to tell him his plan, Derek can’t bring himself to
mind that this whole fantasy challenge thing will probably last for a while. He
grins.
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