Tag: unf

scoutsxhonor:

Scott’s going to notice, Scott is totally going to notice. Stiles banters with everyone, that’s his thing, the banter, the slight ramble when he’s nervous, but he and Derek have been—touching, just a little bit, glancing, teasing, and Scott is totally going to notice. 

It’s just that he forgets sometimes, when they’re in supernatural danger situations and Derek is being a dick about something. Which is how he ends up with his fingers wrapped around Derek’s wrist and one hand up to be punched and his mouth still running, Christ he has to learn when to quit, and he flashes helplessly back to it: the day he helped Derek drag the couch up into the loft this summer, both of them grimy and exhausted by the time they slid it into place, dust streaked with sweat over the broad curve of Derek’s forearms.

“Gonna shower,” he’d said after, stripping off his shirt, raising an eyebrow, which Stiles knew by then meant you can come. The water was tepid and trickling, just enough to scrub off under but watching Derek touch himself was one of Stiles’ favorite things and he was hard and leaking by the time he pushed Derek down onto the bed, both of them still damp but not quite so dirty. 

Derek closed his eyes like he always did, arched up into the touch. Stiles had worried at first that Derek didn’t— like him, want him, that was why he closed his eyes to it, but Derek’s fingers curled at the back of Stiles’ neck, tight at the nape, told a different story. He was learning, he thought with lazy satisfaction, learning about fucking, learning about fucking Derek, even if they only ever— if there wasn’t much Derek would let him do. 

Which he would get worked up about at home alone, in bed, thinking about Derek’s mouth and the scrape of his stubble, how good it would feel against tender skin and then the lush wet promise of his tongue and— anyway all of those protests disappeared each and every time Derek reached down between them and rubbed his dick against Stiles’ and let them both fuck into his fist. 

Stiles had been watching Derek’s arms work all morning; he pulled one hand from where it was bracing him on the bed and got it up between them, tightened it around Derek’s wrist to hang on. He loved the flex and feel of it, Derek working them together, tugging and pulling, panting with effort, his mouth falling open when Stiles let himself make the soft, startled noises he was learning that Derek liked best. 

He came first, hard, a surprise to himself: he hadn’t even really been paying attention to the burn and build. He watched Derek, then, after, his broad palm and his thick, wet dick, the dark hair of his chest and belly, arms and legs, the sharp, delicate line of his jaw, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He pulled his knees up when he came, legs spreading, jerking and vulnerable; Stiles leaned down and kissed the side of his neck, the branch of his collarbone, which they’d never done before. He was pretty sure it was allowed.

Now his fingers still don’t fit around Derek’s wrist and he remembers it, every minute of it, he looks up and meets Derek’s eye and knows Derek remembers it too. Maybe Scott will take the arousal for anticipation, Stiles thinks, in the second before Derek’s fist connects.