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"Don't laugh," Derek says. His body language is a mess of contradictions--arms crossed, jaw set tightly, knees gently parted, cock straining against the tight pink lace.
"I'm not laughing. I'm smiling. Smiling means happy," Stiles says. "How could I--I mean seriously, how I could not be happy." He gestures broadly, at the whole picture Derek makes, all of him. "This. Is perfect."
"You're objectifying me," Derek says, unconvincingly grumpy.
"As hard as I can," Stiles agrees. He kisses his way from Derek's twitching ankle up his calf, to the roughness of his knee to the softer skin at his thigh, where the muscle is rock hard under the gentle fuzz of black hair and warm skin. If Stiles had a tail, it would be wagging. Like a full body, butt-swinging wag. As it is, his cock hangs full between his legs, aching and trailing a silky thread of pre-come that glistens like a spiderweb.
It only took four months of subtle hints and one late-night, under-the-covers confession and some very careful Googling and the purchase of a P.O. Box so his dad wouldn't find out for Stiles to successfully purchase a pink lace thong in Derek's size, cut specifically for a guy, because apparently Stiles' wildest fantasies have already been accommodated by enterprising online purveyors of lingerie.
Derek put it on with all the glares that Stiles expected, and refused to look at himself in the mirror to see how gorgeous he looked. Stiles started to feel discouraged and maybe like he was being selfish or something, until Derek's cock expanded like one of those pellets you soak in water except instead of turning into a sponge dinosaur it turned into this work of fucking art, encased in delicate lace and pinned against Derek's body. There's a small wet spot on the lace, at the tip, and Derek's chest is rising and falling rapidly, and Stiles is the happiest boy in the world.
Stiles noses at the lace first, where it's barely covering Derek's generous balls. He looks up, arching his back to thrust his hips uselessly at air. The lack of friction is torture. Awesome torture. He's so turned on right now. He hopes Derek can smell it. He doesn't care if every werewolf in their zip code can smell it.
"Oh," Derek says.
"Yeah it's like, the texture, oh my god," Stiles says, letting his lips scrape against the lace and the dark hairs that have escaped the mesh and swirls of the fabric. "Derek."
Derek's arms uncross and his hands find the sheets and--and Stiles's head--oh god, and Derek pets him shakily, encouraging him. Fuck. Yes.
Stiles starts licking, getting the lace wet over Derek’s balls. He whines, frustrated and delighted by the barrier between his tongue and lips and Derek's private skin. He discovered, a long time ago, by pure accident, that Derek loves it when he uses nothing but his mouth. Stiles figures there's something animal-y about it and he isn't going to question it because there's something great about being on his hands and knees and just licking and sniffing and sucking and kissing. It makes him feel free and a little bit silly and a lot horny and it makes Derek make the best noises that have ever been made.
He follows the elastic rim of the thong, licking the crease of Derek's thigh up to the sharpness of his hip, and then across his belly where the hair is thicker and Derek’s skin is taut and very pale. His chin rubs against the ridge of Derek's erection. Derek groans and cups the back of Stiles' head, holding him. It's not even a hold as much as a suggestion, as if Derek, despite all of his strength, can't bring himself to demand that Stiles do what he's doing, do more of it.
This is why Stiles eventually forced himself to get over his mortification about telling Derek that he wanted him to wear lingerie. Derek has basically zero capacity to express what he wants. So Stiles has no choice but to stumble headlong into his own fantasies and budding kinks, hoping some of them intersect with Derek’s, that they can map out some of the things Derek’s never allowed himself to have. It started really small, like... hugging small. But the map has broadened to include things like Stiles sucking and biting livid marks on Derek’s skin to see how fast they disappear, and Stiles using slippery fingers to find the gland in Derek that makes him hum and hold his breath and come like it’s agonizing. Those things.
Outside, in what Stiles likes to call the real world, Derek is anything but gentle or careful. But here, in the privacy of Stiles’ favorite world, on those nights and long days when they have the luxury of disappearing into each other, Derek is too gentle, too careful. It’s like Derek thinks being turned on and wanting is a bad thing, like he thinks he doesn’t deserve to feel good. Stiles is going to admit every stupid crazy thing he’s ever wanted--he’s going to gingerly touch and lick and kiss every part of Derek’s body--if it means breaking him of that disastrous, depressing inclination.
And sure, sometimes that’ll involve lacy tidbits that whittle down to a braided bit of pink that disappears into the tight, dark crease of Derek’s ass.
“Fuck,” Stiles says, licking harder, trying to chase the thinning fabric. “Derek, spread your legs, I can’t reach, I--” He’s frantic with it now, blind with want as if that pale pink lace is a big red cape dangled in front of a rabid bull.
Derek makes a noise that might be a laugh and draws his knees up. “There, pup,” he says fondly, as he opens himself to Stiles’ eager mouth.
Stiles has no problem showing Derek that the best course of action is to let yourself get intoxicated with horniness until all lingering doubts and insecurities have left the planet.
Part of it is probably being a teenager, but Derek’s a freaking werewolf, so it’s not like he’s a stranger to instinct and desire and stuff. They’re constantly almost getting murdered, so in the grand scheme of things, being a little bit of a freak in bed isn’t that big of a deal. It’s probably therapeutic. Even the guidance counselor gently suggested “self love” a few months ago when Stiles got detention for yelling about the Spanish-American War in physics class, and to Stiles, desperately rimming his boyfriend is a form of self love. It’s so good. The little thong string is tight and hard and contrasts with the texture of Derek’s soft-giving-tight skin and Stiles might actually asphyxiate via licking and he doesn’t even care, not one single bit.
“I need--Stiles,” Derek says, running his fingers along Stiles’ head, massaging and finding his ear and trembling all over him like little pitter-patters of rain. Stiles knows he isn’t going to get a break-though like please suck me off and do that thing I love with your fingers at the same time, but it’s clear enough in the rhythm of Derek’s begging touches.
Stiles redirects, wiping his wet mouth off on Derek’s thigh, before mouthing at Derek’s cock over the lace, getting it wetter, until the pink turns more of a vibrant, saturated color. Derek’s cock is pink too, blood-flushed and angry, his foreskin catching on the fabric. It’s such a mess, such a gorgeous mess.
“Give it to me,” Stiles says, letting his voice reach that whine that feels like it’s coming out of his gut--the whine that makes Derek’s body jolt.
Derek uses two hands to free his cock from the lace. It rides up against his balls and jams against the side of his cock, and looks a little painful and tight, but Derek doesn’t seem to mind. He takes Stiles’ cheek gently, thumbs at his lip to open his mouth, and feeds Stiles his cock with reverent, exquisite gentleness.
“There, pup,” Derek says. “There.” He’s so tender it hurts, makes Stiles’ eyes prick up with tears he’s too far gone to question. This is how they are; they’re a collision.
This part requires concentration, so Stiles closes his eyes and licks and suckles gently while his forefinger finds the wet mess of Derek’s hole and slips past the clutch of him. Derek spasms, and Stiles doesn’t stop; he moves with tiny thrusts, eased by spit, only penetrating enough to give Derek the fullness he likes when Stiles is trying to swallow his cock--a feat that Stiles has not mastered, though not for lack of practice.
Derek kind of snaps. When Stiles opens his eyes, Derek’s head has fallen back and his hands are back in the sheets, twisting them, and he’s gone, lost in what Stiles is giving and taking. Stiles hums while he blows him, and curls his finger, and suckles so hard it’s dizzying. It’s when he drapes his free hand against Derek’s shivering stomach that Derek comes, covering his mouth at the last second. He noises into his fingers like he’s sobbing, and Stiles swallows every bitter drop of him.
The next part is like getting swept up in a wave, like not knowing where gravity is tugging him, like the sky and the ground switched places and whee, Stiles is flying a little. He finds himself cradled against Derek, too big to be cradled really, but cradled anyway, with Derek’s big hand on his cock, stroking him off slowly, making it take longer than it needs to. Tormenting him.
Kissing him.
Stiles likes kissing. And lingerie. And Derek. And handjobs. He likes everything.
“You smell happy,” Derek says, nosing at Stiles’ cheek between kisses. Derek after an orgasm is everything Stiles could want from a big, warm puppy who also happens to be fantastic at stroking a guy off.
“I am,” Stiles says, sliding his arms around Derek to hang onto him as the real wave crashes, the toes-to-balls shock of it, and then the shaking ache-ache-ache as he spurts all over their bellies and Derek’s fingers.
Being with Derek like this feels like being scraped raw. Everything is more sensitive. Derek seems to understand, because he never asks questions or moves or does anything but rub Stiles’ back slowly when Stiles hides his face against Derek’s throat, breathing through the shaky aftershocks.
His tears are quiet, and happy-raw-exposed, and there’s lace scraping his hip nicely, and Derek holds him, all of him.