Words Don't Come Easy
Title: Words Don't Come Easy
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 2x04
Word Count: 2500
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: This isn't even the weirdest thing he's had to do recently.
AN: Written for the 'Uniforms/Military' square for Kink Bingo.
The uniform Stiles is wearing belongs to a deputy, because stealing one from his dad seemed to cross some special line of wrong. This isn't even the weirdest thing he's had to do recently. Life's supposed to start when you leave high school but so far it seems to be more of the same.
Stiles drives a hundred miles in a borrowed - stolen - police car, while impersonating a police officer. Because, yet again, their werewolf business is leaking over into normal, boring, everyday business, and Derek is in trouble, again. This isn't Stiles's plan, it's Lydia's, because Lydia makes the best plans. She prepares for everything, with a narrow, ruthless sort of focus. Stiles has never seen one of her plans go wrong but he suspects no one would ever find the bodies.
Sure, this plan had sounded completely insane to start with, but it's working, it's working amazingly well. Though he's a little too aware of the unloaded gun in his holster, he keeps knocking it with his arm, and it's more than a touch disturbing, even though he's spent the last two years around werewolves and lizard monsters and witches that can kill you with a look. Maybe that's why people believe it? Stiles may look like he's barely out of high school (because he is,) but he's already seen more horrible things than he knows what to do with at night.
And if Stiles enjoys it a little too much - pressing Derek down against the warm metal of the police car and catching his hands behind his back in silver bracelets - well he figures he's owed that at least. No, quite frankly he's owed so much more than that, but this will do for a down payment. Derek plays it so well, gives a little grunt when he hits the car (as if he couldn't throw off Stiles like he weighed nothing at all.) He even hisses a little when Stiles snaps the left cuff tight, and Stiles is half fucking terrified someone's going to call him on it. Because he's eighteen and he looks it. But mostly everyone just watches like they never expected anything else to happen. Clearly the sight of Derek getting arrested is satisfying enough that they decide to waive all those pesky questions.
Stiles lays a hand on Derek's head and pushes him into the car and, yes, fine, he's definitely enjoying having the excuse to shove Derek around. Fake authority is awesome. He's enjoying it in a way people with super-senses will hopefully ignore in favour of being grateful for their timely rescue. Though Stiles suspects that's asking a little too much. Derek views gratitude in the same way most people view unexploded bombs, with suspicion and dread. He'll probably just glare at him until some point in the future, where the opportunity to save Stiles's life will present itself, and thus all will be right in the world of Hale.
Derek stares at him through the grill for twenty miles, eyes dark. Stiles doesn't get so much as a thank you. In fact he's pretty sure that Derek's pissed at him, if he's reading the expression right - some days Derek just looks like that for no reason at all. But, yeah, this one is focused, and that's a whole world of bullshit, because Stiles works his ass off for Derek and his home for wayward and abandoned werewolves, and they spend far too much time giving him the stink eye.
"I'm pretty sure this is the fifth - no sixth - time I've broken the law for you in the last year alone, and I'm now old enough to actually go to jail, for jail time. So a little appreciation would be nice," Stiles complains into the mirror. "Maybe, just once, one of you could break out a 'good job, Stiles.' Or at least acknowledge in some way that I'm prepared to drop everything at a moment's notice and drive a hundred miles to save your ass. Which, by the way, I'm no longer entirely sure you deserve."
He glares, and he's had a long time to perfect his 'you throw a lot of bullshit my way and I'm sick of it,' glare.
"I should just leave you all to fend for yourselves."
It sounds pretty sincere, but he doesn't mean it, at all. He could no more leave them than he could cut off his arm and dump it by the side of the road. But there's a tearing crunch from the back, that has him twisting over the seat and banging on the metal.
"I swear to God, if you break something back there I'm not -"
"Stop the car," Derek says roughly.
Stiles hates how quickly he obeys the command. Feet moving almost without his consent. The car jerks to a stop, and he glares at Derek through the grill.
Derek nods his head towards the door.
"Let me out."
Stiles exhales and thumps the wheel with the edge of his hand, then shoves the door open and goes all the way around. Derek's sliding out the moment the door's open, and the handcuffs don't even stop him. He has some sort of insane wolf-balance or something, and Stiles is digging the keys out of his pocket, and complaining again about how no one even cares about the crazy shit he has to do for all of them when he's only human.
"I do not get extra lives, or werewolf healing powers, and yet somehow I'm still throwing myself into danger for you guys. I'm doing this because someone has to. Someone with some common sense, and yes, I am the only person in the pack with common sense, thank you very much. And I'm still doing it two years later. Mostly because I'm stupid and I care about all of you. Which suggests I'm horribly brain damaged or something. But I'm still doing it, even though you don't appreciate it. So don't you ever forget that," Stiles grumbles the last part to Derek's face, which is a lot closer than he remembers it being.
Derek doesn't even need hands to be intimidating, he just take a step forward, until Stiles's ass hits the car.
"What?" Stiles will not lean back to give Derek space to glare into, he won't. "Oh my God, what? Was my rescue dissatisfying, did it bruise your delicate werewolf ego? Seriously?"
Derek stares at him, in a way that looks threatening but doesn't really tell him anything. Then he slowly drops to his knees in the mud. Which brings all of Stiles's thoughts to a shuddering, destructive halt and immediately replaces them with new thoughts, terrible, terrible thoughts that leave all the air punched out of him.
"What - what are you doing?"
"You wanted appreciation." It comes out gravel-rough, hard like an insult.
Stiles is genuinely angry at that, because they do not get to play with him. He'll take a lot from them, but this is not something Derek gets to poke at, or use against him.
"That is not funny, you don't get to use crap like this against me. That is such a dick move and I can't believe you would actually go there."
Derek says his name, soft, all the way back in his throat, it sounds a little bit like please, though it still sounds a lot like 'shut up' too.
"No, Derek, you can't just -"
Derek growls and Stiles has had two years to learn all the different types, and this one is definitely 'why are you still talking.' Derek leans forward, cuffed hands shifting into the space where his shirt has ridden up, and he digs his teeth into Stiles's belt -
Oh, holy fuck.
The keys end up in the mud.
Stiles doesn't move for a long second, but he eventually lays a hand in Derek's hair. It's soft, and the ends prickle his fingers and it's ever so slightly surreal the way Derek doesn't say anything at all. He just shuts his eyes, briefly, and then settles into Stiles's hand. Stiles tips Derek's head back and Derek lets him do it. He just relaxes under the push, and fuck, how does Derek manage to look so good from every angle? And what must this look like. With him dressed like this and Derek handcuffed. He still doesn't look old enough to be a cop. It would be an abuse of power under any circumstances, not that Stiles has any power over Derek, or ever has had. Life-saving adventures aside. He's already imagining it though, because how could he not? How could he not think about the slide of Derek's mouth, about the slick warmth of it. How completely fucking obscene it would look watching it open around his cock. What the hell is he supposed to do?
"Derek," Stiles says, because he can't say anything else.
But Derek grunts like he asked a question, and it sounds a lot like an answer.
"Tell me you won't kill me for this," Stiles says breathlessly. Because they've always had a relationship that's half physical confrontation and half innuendo, but that's a long way from putting Derek on his knees. He can't even think that in the safety of his own head without his heart jumping like he's said it out loud.
"Do it."
It's like it's a command, and he's unzipping his pants and shoving his boxers down. Whole body going tight when he realises that this is real, this is really fucking happening. Derek's still just kneeling there, eyebrows drawn together, mouth firm, looking for all the world like he's still in charge here. And of course he's going to make Stiles say it.
"Open your mouth." The fake authority may have gone to his head, more than a little, because the words don't tremble at all. Derek doesn't seem to mind because he exhales, loud and a little rough, and lets his mouth fall open. Stiles knows damn well Derek could snap his way out of the cuffs any time he wanted to, but he doesn't. Maybe Stiles isn't the only one who's getting off on this, and isn't that a fucking crazy idea.
He's so obviously hard in his own hand, incriminating, and he nearly chokes on a mix of embarrassment and eagerness when he presses in, where Derek is wet and body-warm. Stiles stops breathing completely when Derek just spread his knees a little and leans in, mouth working down in slow, easy movements. He's done this before, and it makes something in Stiles clench and shudder, because he'd never pictured it before and now it's all he can think about. Derek on his knees. His hand slides back into Derek's hair like it can't go anywhere else. Every single nerve in his body focuses right there and it's almost too much already. But he can't look away.
"You can't just do this to me," Stiles says, voice thick and almost angry. But his other hand is on Derek's shoulder, fingers gripping the ball of it where it's pulled behind him, holding him still. He wants to push, wants to open Derek up and Derek knows it, he has to know it. Stiles wants to watch it happen and he's fighting really hard not to. Because this is two years worth of sexual tension unraveling in one instant, and there's no way he can even pretend to be cool about this, at all. Because he's always, always wanted this.
There's heat and suction and Stiles has to brace himself against the car while all the air just falls out of him. Fighting not to just fist his hand in Derek's hair. It's not a fight he's going to win. But Derek just lets him do it, lets him push in sharply, tug on his hair and there are no words for what that looks like. Derek makes a rough, impatient noise, and Stiles knows that Derek's giving him permission to treat him however he wants. But there's no way Stiles can even think about doing that without coming immediately.
He'd always thought Derek would be in charge, that Derek would be the one taking whatever he wanted. Every time Stiles has thought about this he was the one of his knees, he's always been the one who was pinned, and held down, and used. His body's still catching up to the fact that he's one who's fucking Derek's mouth.
By the side of the road, while dressed as a police officer.
Stiles is making noises, breathless and strangled and embarrassing and he's not trying to hold in a single one of them. He knows he's being too rough - and werewolf or not that's just bad manners. But if Derek didn't want this there'd be fangs - and it's so unfair that the thought just makes something low in his stomach twist and then clench, claw like an animal. Derek's eyes drop half shut, and then open and lock on his own, and it's the filthiest, meanest look Stiles has ever gotten in his entire life. He gives a shaky groan and tightens his fingers in Derek's insane hair, sliding in deep and not even apologising for it. Derek just moves to let him, mouth stretched open, handcuffs clinking gently, and this is officially the hottest thing that has ever happened to Stiles, ever. And that includes the time last Halloween when he got really drunk and fell asleep on the couch, only to wake up to find Erica going down on Lydia.
"Oh my God, your mouth, how are you even this - you're going to kill me."
Derek growls, a quiet rumble of intent, and Stiles is incapable of holding back under that. He loses it completely. He makes a noise like he's dying, fingers so tight in Derek's hair that there's no way it doesn't hurt. He says Derek's name, more than once, helpless, slurred and accusing, and pushes all the way in. Derek just swallows around him, eyes shut, mouth red and open. Stiles isn't even sure how he stays standing for it. He registers the hard edge of the car window against his back, and Derek's stubble against his thumb, like distant things.
When he slips out of Derek's mouth he makes a mournful little noise, and Derek's lower lip is wet and soft and not angry at all. Stiles can't stop petting Derek's hair, which is kind of weird and intimate, which they're clearly not, even with the - Stiles makes himself stop, dragging his pants back up, and he gets them fastened but leaves the belt to hang, fingers still mostly useless.
"You have no idea what you fucking do to me, do you?" Stiles says shakily, and he doesn't mean to sound so gutted, but he's pretty sure all his defenses just crumbled away. He refuses to look at Derek, just crouches on weak legs and finds the keys in the mud, cleans them off with his fingers. He's trying to breathe like he can pretend he's fine again. When he's clearly not fine, he can't even remember how to be fine. He feels cracked straight down the middle.
When he straightens Derek's already standing, already watching him, and then he's pressing Stiles against the car and kissing him. Stiles fists his hand in Derek's shirt, keys pushed into his skin and kisses him back.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 2x04
Word Count: 2500
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: This isn't even the weirdest thing he's had to do recently.
AN: Written for the 'Uniforms/Military' square for Kink Bingo.
The uniform Stiles is wearing belongs to a deputy, because stealing one from his dad seemed to cross some special line of wrong. This isn't even the weirdest thing he's had to do recently. Life's supposed to start when you leave high school but so far it seems to be more of the same.
Stiles drives a hundred miles in a borrowed - stolen - police car, while impersonating a police officer. Because, yet again, their werewolf business is leaking over into normal, boring, everyday business, and Derek is in trouble, again. This isn't Stiles's plan, it's Lydia's, because Lydia makes the best plans. She prepares for everything, with a narrow, ruthless sort of focus. Stiles has never seen one of her plans go wrong but he suspects no one would ever find the bodies.
Sure, this plan had sounded completely insane to start with, but it's working, it's working amazingly well. Though he's a little too aware of the unloaded gun in his holster, he keeps knocking it with his arm, and it's more than a touch disturbing, even though he's spent the last two years around werewolves and lizard monsters and witches that can kill you with a look. Maybe that's why people believe it? Stiles may look like he's barely out of high school (because he is,) but he's already seen more horrible things than he knows what to do with at night.
And if Stiles enjoys it a little too much - pressing Derek down against the warm metal of the police car and catching his hands behind his back in silver bracelets - well he figures he's owed that at least. No, quite frankly he's owed so much more than that, but this will do for a down payment. Derek plays it so well, gives a little grunt when he hits the car (as if he couldn't throw off Stiles like he weighed nothing at all.) He even hisses a little when Stiles snaps the left cuff tight, and Stiles is half fucking terrified someone's going to call him on it. Because he's eighteen and he looks it. But mostly everyone just watches like they never expected anything else to happen. Clearly the sight of Derek getting arrested is satisfying enough that they decide to waive all those pesky questions.
Stiles lays a hand on Derek's head and pushes him into the car and, yes, fine, he's definitely enjoying having the excuse to shove Derek around. Fake authority is awesome. He's enjoying it in a way people with super-senses will hopefully ignore in favour of being grateful for their timely rescue. Though Stiles suspects that's asking a little too much. Derek views gratitude in the same way most people view unexploded bombs, with suspicion and dread. He'll probably just glare at him until some point in the future, where the opportunity to save Stiles's life will present itself, and thus all will be right in the world of Hale.
Derek stares at him through the grill for twenty miles, eyes dark. Stiles doesn't get so much as a thank you. In fact he's pretty sure that Derek's pissed at him, if he's reading the expression right - some days Derek just looks like that for no reason at all. But, yeah, this one is focused, and that's a whole world of bullshit, because Stiles works his ass off for Derek and his home for wayward and abandoned werewolves, and they spend far too much time giving him the stink eye.
"I'm pretty sure this is the fifth - no sixth - time I've broken the law for you in the last year alone, and I'm now old enough to actually go to jail, for jail time. So a little appreciation would be nice," Stiles complains into the mirror. "Maybe, just once, one of you could break out a 'good job, Stiles.' Or at least acknowledge in some way that I'm prepared to drop everything at a moment's notice and drive a hundred miles to save your ass. Which, by the way, I'm no longer entirely sure you deserve."
He glares, and he's had a long time to perfect his 'you throw a lot of bullshit my way and I'm sick of it,' glare.
"I should just leave you all to fend for yourselves."
It sounds pretty sincere, but he doesn't mean it, at all. He could no more leave them than he could cut off his arm and dump it by the side of the road. But there's a tearing crunch from the back, that has him twisting over the seat and banging on the metal.
"I swear to God, if you break something back there I'm not -"
"Stop the car," Derek says roughly.
Stiles hates how quickly he obeys the command. Feet moving almost without his consent. The car jerks to a stop, and he glares at Derek through the grill.
Derek nods his head towards the door.
"Let me out."
Stiles exhales and thumps the wheel with the edge of his hand, then shoves the door open and goes all the way around. Derek's sliding out the moment the door's open, and the handcuffs don't even stop him. He has some sort of insane wolf-balance or something, and Stiles is digging the keys out of his pocket, and complaining again about how no one even cares about the crazy shit he has to do for all of them when he's only human.
"I do not get extra lives, or werewolf healing powers, and yet somehow I'm still throwing myself into danger for you guys. I'm doing this because someone has to. Someone with some common sense, and yes, I am the only person in the pack with common sense, thank you very much. And I'm still doing it two years later. Mostly because I'm stupid and I care about all of you. Which suggests I'm horribly brain damaged or something. But I'm still doing it, even though you don't appreciate it. So don't you ever forget that," Stiles grumbles the last part to Derek's face, which is a lot closer than he remembers it being.
Derek doesn't even need hands to be intimidating, he just take a step forward, until Stiles's ass hits the car.
"What?" Stiles will not lean back to give Derek space to glare into, he won't. "Oh my God, what? Was my rescue dissatisfying, did it bruise your delicate werewolf ego? Seriously?"
Derek stares at him, in a way that looks threatening but doesn't really tell him anything. Then he slowly drops to his knees in the mud. Which brings all of Stiles's thoughts to a shuddering, destructive halt and immediately replaces them with new thoughts, terrible, terrible thoughts that leave all the air punched out of him.
"What - what are you doing?"
"You wanted appreciation." It comes out gravel-rough, hard like an insult.
Stiles is genuinely angry at that, because they do not get to play with him. He'll take a lot from them, but this is not something Derek gets to poke at, or use against him.
"That is not funny, you don't get to use crap like this against me. That is such a dick move and I can't believe you would actually go there."
Derek says his name, soft, all the way back in his throat, it sounds a little bit like please, though it still sounds a lot like 'shut up' too.
"No, Derek, you can't just -"
Derek growls and Stiles has had two years to learn all the different types, and this one is definitely 'why are you still talking.' Derek leans forward, cuffed hands shifting into the space where his shirt has ridden up, and he digs his teeth into Stiles's belt -
Oh, holy fuck.
The keys end up in the mud.
Stiles doesn't move for a long second, but he eventually lays a hand in Derek's hair. It's soft, and the ends prickle his fingers and it's ever so slightly surreal the way Derek doesn't say anything at all. He just shuts his eyes, briefly, and then settles into Stiles's hand. Stiles tips Derek's head back and Derek lets him do it. He just relaxes under the push, and fuck, how does Derek manage to look so good from every angle? And what must this look like. With him dressed like this and Derek handcuffed. He still doesn't look old enough to be a cop. It would be an abuse of power under any circumstances, not that Stiles has any power over Derek, or ever has had. Life-saving adventures aside. He's already imagining it though, because how could he not? How could he not think about the slide of Derek's mouth, about the slick warmth of it. How completely fucking obscene it would look watching it open around his cock. What the hell is he supposed to do?
"Derek," Stiles says, because he can't say anything else.
But Derek grunts like he asked a question, and it sounds a lot like an answer.
"Tell me you won't kill me for this," Stiles says breathlessly. Because they've always had a relationship that's half physical confrontation and half innuendo, but that's a long way from putting Derek on his knees. He can't even think that in the safety of his own head without his heart jumping like he's said it out loud.
"Do it."
It's like it's a command, and he's unzipping his pants and shoving his boxers down. Whole body going tight when he realises that this is real, this is really fucking happening. Derek's still just kneeling there, eyebrows drawn together, mouth firm, looking for all the world like he's still in charge here. And of course he's going to make Stiles say it.
"Open your mouth." The fake authority may have gone to his head, more than a little, because the words don't tremble at all. Derek doesn't seem to mind because he exhales, loud and a little rough, and lets his mouth fall open. Stiles knows damn well Derek could snap his way out of the cuffs any time he wanted to, but he doesn't. Maybe Stiles isn't the only one who's getting off on this, and isn't that a fucking crazy idea.
He's so obviously hard in his own hand, incriminating, and he nearly chokes on a mix of embarrassment and eagerness when he presses in, where Derek is wet and body-warm. Stiles stops breathing completely when Derek just spread his knees a little and leans in, mouth working down in slow, easy movements. He's done this before, and it makes something in Stiles clench and shudder, because he'd never pictured it before and now it's all he can think about. Derek on his knees. His hand slides back into Derek's hair like it can't go anywhere else. Every single nerve in his body focuses right there and it's almost too much already. But he can't look away.
"You can't just do this to me," Stiles says, voice thick and almost angry. But his other hand is on Derek's shoulder, fingers gripping the ball of it where it's pulled behind him, holding him still. He wants to push, wants to open Derek up and Derek knows it, he has to know it. Stiles wants to watch it happen and he's fighting really hard not to. Because this is two years worth of sexual tension unraveling in one instant, and there's no way he can even pretend to be cool about this, at all. Because he's always, always wanted this.
There's heat and suction and Stiles has to brace himself against the car while all the air just falls out of him. Fighting not to just fist his hand in Derek's hair. It's not a fight he's going to win. But Derek just lets him do it, lets him push in sharply, tug on his hair and there are no words for what that looks like. Derek makes a rough, impatient noise, and Stiles knows that Derek's giving him permission to treat him however he wants. But there's no way Stiles can even think about doing that without coming immediately.
He'd always thought Derek would be in charge, that Derek would be the one taking whatever he wanted. Every time Stiles has thought about this he was the one of his knees, he's always been the one who was pinned, and held down, and used. His body's still catching up to the fact that he's one who's fucking Derek's mouth.
By the side of the road, while dressed as a police officer.
Stiles is making noises, breathless and strangled and embarrassing and he's not trying to hold in a single one of them. He knows he's being too rough - and werewolf or not that's just bad manners. But if Derek didn't want this there'd be fangs - and it's so unfair that the thought just makes something low in his stomach twist and then clench, claw like an animal. Derek's eyes drop half shut, and then open and lock on his own, and it's the filthiest, meanest look Stiles has ever gotten in his entire life. He gives a shaky groan and tightens his fingers in Derek's insane hair, sliding in deep and not even apologising for it. Derek just moves to let him, mouth stretched open, handcuffs clinking gently, and this is officially the hottest thing that has ever happened to Stiles, ever. And that includes the time last Halloween when he got really drunk and fell asleep on the couch, only to wake up to find Erica going down on Lydia.
"Oh my God, your mouth, how are you even this - you're going to kill me."
Derek growls, a quiet rumble of intent, and Stiles is incapable of holding back under that. He loses it completely. He makes a noise like he's dying, fingers so tight in Derek's hair that there's no way it doesn't hurt. He says Derek's name, more than once, helpless, slurred and accusing, and pushes all the way in. Derek just swallows around him, eyes shut, mouth red and open. Stiles isn't even sure how he stays standing for it. He registers the hard edge of the car window against his back, and Derek's stubble against his thumb, like distant things.
When he slips out of Derek's mouth he makes a mournful little noise, and Derek's lower lip is wet and soft and not angry at all. Stiles can't stop petting Derek's hair, which is kind of weird and intimate, which they're clearly not, even with the - Stiles makes himself stop, dragging his pants back up, and he gets them fastened but leaves the belt to hang, fingers still mostly useless.
"You have no idea what you fucking do to me, do you?" Stiles says shakily, and he doesn't mean to sound so gutted, but he's pretty sure all his defenses just crumbled away. He refuses to look at Derek, just crouches on weak legs and finds the keys in the mud, cleans them off with his fingers. He's trying to breathe like he can pretend he's fine again. When he's clearly not fine, he can't even remember how to be fine. He feels cracked straight down the middle.
When he straightens Derek's already standing, already watching him, and then he's pressing Stiles against the car and kissing him. Stiles fists his hand in Derek's shirt, keys pushed into his skin and kisses him back.