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Stiles is sitting in English class when the thought first occurs to him. They’ve been talking about the ending of Jane Eyre, and Rochester’s fate, and the concept of disability as punishment, and his mind jumps to Derek ordering him to cut off his arm, and he wonders idly whether the arm would have grown back or, more likely, just healed over the stump immediately, and huh, he thinks with a sudden thrill, huh, there’s no way Derek Hale is circumcised.

He’s always been fascinated by uncircumcised guys, even before he was sexually aware, and these days his porn folder contains a healthy proportion of videos starring uncut dudes. That image suddenly attaching itself to a mental picture of Derek, though, is a whole other ball of wax. He shifts in his hard seat and tries not to look anybody in the eye; God, being a teenager is embarrassing.

Across the room, Scott rolls his eyes at him, and Stiles gives him a frustrated grimace in return. Werewolf senses suck.

“So, you’re into burned-up blind guys now?” Scott says as they emerge into the loud hallway.

“Totally,” Stiles says, nodding.

The image of Derek’s cock sticks with him throughout the day, keeps popping up at inopportune moments. Derek is uncut, he thinks, standing at the urinal, and then awesome, perfect, he has to think about rotting zombies to get soft enough to pee. Derek is uncut, his brain volunteers when he tries to answer a question in economics, and he stammers so much that Coach calls on Greenberg instead.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Isaac says at the lunch table.

“Uhhh,” says Stiles, as Derek’s uncut dick floats across his mind’s eye.

All in all, Stiles has to talk himself down from a boner four different times before the day is over — Derek is uncut, he thinks, putting on his lacrosse gear in the locker room — and his balls are aching by the end of it.

“Pick up the pace, Bolinski!” yells Coach Finstock. “One of these days I’m going to sub in my grandmother for you! At least she has hair on her chest!”

“Thanks for that image, Coach,” Stiles says with total sincerity, and focuses on the mental picture until his boner subsides enough to get him through the rest of practice.

 

It’s only a temporary reprieve. By the time he’s showered off and driving home, he’s in a bad state again. Even the vibrations of the Jeep through his seat are almost too much to handle.

He shifts his weight uncomfortably at a red light and gives the woman in the next car an awkward, guilty, two-fingered wave. She stares at him like he’s a sex offender, which, if he doesn’t get home in the next five minutes, he legitimately might become.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters to himself as he limps up the stairs. He’s shimmying out of his jeans before he’s even all the way into the room, reaching over his head to pull his t-shirt off one-handed. He collapses unceremoniously on the bed, and the springs creak in protest.

“God, finally,” he moans, getting his hands around his dick before he’s even finished shaking his boxers off his foot. It feels so fucking fantastic that he gives up on the boxers — now tangled in some kind of inscrutable knot around his ankle — and just lets them be. They’re not hurting anything.

He’s started off fast and frantic, and he has to ease himself back from it, reach for the lotion before the friction gets painful. When he first started jerking off he’d been paranoid about hiding the tissues and hand lotion, keeping them all the way across the room like that would fool people into thinking he was using them for innocent purposes. These days, he keeps them right next to his bed, and feels no shame about it at all.

Stiles is an Olympic-level masturbator by now, but he’d be lying if he said he’d never wrenched a shoulder or strained his back while doing it; injury’s a risk of the sport. He consciously forces himself to relax, rolling his head to loosen the muscles in his neck and easing his grip on his cock.

He read somewhere that you’re not supposed to jerk it too hard, or you’ll ruin your dick for normal sex. Unfortunately, Stiles is pretty terrible at self-control, and when he’s rough with himself it’s so much easier to come.

Maybe he can blame it on circumcision, he thinks. Guys with foreskins are supposed to be more sensitive. But how much more sensitive? He probably couldn’t make someone come — make Derek come — by just, like, breathing on the head of his cock, could he? God, it’s hot to imagine, though.

It’s probably not normal to be turned on by premature ejaculation, but Stiles’s grip is clenching tighter anyway as he pictures Derek blowing his load all over himself with just a touch. He wonders how long it would take to get Derek off using nothing but his tongue, and has to curl up slightly around his dick, with a throb that goes right through his abs. His hand gives a warning twinge like it’s going to cramp up.

“Ugh,” Stiles says, sitting up to get more lotion, and then flops back down on the bed so he can fuck up into his hand. His other hand steals further down to play with his asshole. It’s a recent addition to his masturbatory repertoire; Stiles likes to try new things.

It adds a level of weird, unfair resentment to still being a virgin, because Stiles feels like he would take full advantage of the opportunity. He’d be creative. He’s got a lot of things he’s ready to try out if someone would give him a chance. Having sex is totally wasted on someone like Scott, who would probably never ask Allison to put anything in his butt.

Although on the other hand, Allison seems like she might come up with that on her own, and Scott would probably — ew, Stiles really needs to stop thinking about Scott’s butt right now.

He concentrates on his own butt, which he’s just managed to get a fingertip inside. It’s a good thing he’s practiced this alone, because it’s not half as easy as porn makes it look; Stiles’s asshole seems fairly convinced that it should keep things out, and it’s taken practice to be able to fuck himself open without an hour of tender loving care and controlled breathing.

Derek’s cock could be inside here, he thinks helplessly, and works another finger in on the rush of excitement. He’s still picturing it, fantasizing about it, when he jerks himself to orgasm: Derek fucking him, Derek’s cock, Derek’s awesome healing-empowered werewolf foreskin.

 

Unfortunately, the relief of jerking off also means that he’s got the vivid sense memory of two slippery fingers buried knuckle-deep in his own ass fresh in his mind when he has to sit through Derek’s latest crisis summit later that night. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and tries to remember what question he’s just been asked.

“What? Yeah, definitely,” he says, trying to sound confident, and thinks, Derek could put his uncut cock in me right now and he probably wouldn’t even have to use lube.

“The amount of research on alpha packs you’ve done is ‘yeah, definitely’?” Isaac says, smirking. Isaac is a jerk.

“I meant, yeah, I’ve definitely been — doing that,” Stiles says. “Research! Lots of research.” All kinds of research, his brain volunteers, supplying the memory of his search results for “uncut gay anal”, and his eyes slide unwillingly towards Derek. His brain is a jerk.

Derek’s nostrils flare and Stiles covers his face with his hands.

“I really need to go,” Stiles says into his hands. “Because of — my dad.”

“Okay,” Derek says flatly. Stiles makes a break for it as quickly as he dares.

 

He’s in his pajamas, fucking around on his laptop, by the time Derek sneaks through his window that night. He really should have been expecting a visit — Derek had let him get away much too easily — but he’s not, and he’s so absorbed in what he’s looking at that he nearly drops dead when Derek announces his presence by dropping a heavy hand on Stiles’s shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, dude,” he yelps, jumping in his seat and putting a hand to his wildly pounding heart.

Jerking my big uncut cock?’” Derek reads out loud, leaning over his shoulder. Stiles slams his laptop shut and feels his face go hot.

“I’m pretty sure reading someone’s internet activities over their shoulder is a violation of the Geneva Conventions,” he says.

“What’s the internet?” Derek says, perfectly deadpan. Stiles gives him the side-eye. Sometimes it seems like Derek tells a lot of jokes that are only intended to be funny to Derek.

Stiles opens his mouth to change the subject, and accidentally instead says, “So, are you uncut?”

Derek backs off two whole steps and blinks at him like he just sprouted antennae. Cringing, Stiles shields his head with his arms.

“Uh, scratch that,” he says.

“Yeah,” Derek says, and then clears his throat a little awkwardly. “I mean, yes, I’m not — circumcised.”

“Oh man, really?” Stiles says, much more eagerly than he intends to, sitting back up and dropping his arms. “That’s so — can I see?”

Derek looks trapped, but he’s not leaving. Besides, he answered the question, and Stiles is feeling the false confidence of his own growing boner.

“Let me see it,” he breathes, muscles taut in his shoulders, leaning forward almost unconsciously.

It’s difficult to believe that Derek will follow an order, but he does, after only a moment’s pause: pops the button of his jeans, unzips his fly, and takes out —

“Oh, you’re hard,” Stiles says, with disappointment, and sits up straighter.

“Um,” Derek says, freezing in place. Stiles waves away his reaction, shaking his head.

“No, no, it’s good, bring it here, I just wanted to see — when it’s hard it looks the same as — God, that’s beautiful,” he says reverently, as Derek slowly approaches.

Derek’s eyes dart from Stiles to the window, uncertain, and he says, “You’re sending some mixed messages here.”

“I want to suck your dick,” Stiles says, slipping from his desk chair to kneel on the rug at Derek’s feet. Derek shivers a little, holding onto his cock at the base like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

“Okay,” he says.

Derek’s cock doesn’t look that different from Stiles’s right now, the swollen head completely revealed, but when Stiles reaches out and tugs on it the skin slides in a totally unfamiliar way. He has to adjust his grip, unused to it.

Remembering his earlier fantasy, he feels a rush of curiosity and tries breathing on the head, opening his mouth wide so he can exhale hot and slow. Derek doesn’t come, unsurprisingly; but Stiles is delighted to see that his dick does twitch in reaction, jumping in Stiles’s hand like it has a mind of its own.

He tries tugging his fist forward as far as he can, pulling the skin over the edge of Derek’s glans, watching it disappear and slowly re-emerge. After only a few pulls, Derek hisses out loud, and his hips jerk twice, fucking into Stiles’s hand like he can’t help himself.

Stiles spares a glance up, expecting Derek’s eyes to be closed. Instead, his gaze is avid, sharp, taking in every detail like it might be snatched away. It’s kind of intense, and Stiles looks back at Derek’s dick.

“Hey,” he says to it, lovingly, like it might have missed him in the two seconds he wasn’t giving it his full attention.

Getting his mouth around Derek’s cock is paradigm-shifting. All of Stiles’s virginal plans for the day he finally got his hands on some real live cock fly out of his head, and he just sucks, gracelessly, trying to get as much of it in his mouth as he can, making loud, embarrassing noises. He thinks he’s drooling.

Judging from the grunts above him, Derek has got no complaints about technique. Derek’s hands are cupping Stiles’s face, fingers probing, testing at his jawline as it works.

Stiles makes an outraged, possessive noise when Derek forcibly tugs his head back and pulls out of his mouth. His cock looks delicious, all shiny wet and pink, and Stiles licks his lips, wanting to get back on that. Derek thumbs his lower lip and then jerks his head towards the bed.

“Get on the bed, face-down,” he says hoarsely. Stiles scrambles to obey, kicking the blankets all the way off as he climbs up.

“Naked, right? I definitely feel like I should be naked.” He doesn’t wait for Derek’s permission, struggling out of his pajamas like they’re on fire. When he’s done he lies down, pillows his head on his arms, and waits to see what Derek will do. Anything but leaving is fine with Stiles.

There’s a pause and a rustle of clothes, which Stiles prays is Derek joining the naked party. He feels twitchy, restless, and he really hopes he isn’t going to accidentally elbow Derek in the face or anything. Be cool, Stilinski, he tells himself. Ice cold.

When Derek finally touches him, it’s with flat palms, which he sweeps down Stiles’s back, coming to rest on his bare ass. He squeezes Stiles's buttcheeks, exposing his asshole, and then there’s more silence.

Stiles can’t resist craning his neck back to see what Derek’s doing back there, which turns out to be just staring, gazing at Stiles’s exposed ass like it’s Renaissance art. It's incredibly weird; there's no good reason for it to be making Stiles harder. He turns his hot face back into his arms and squirms against the bed.

Long seconds tick by before Derek's hand finally moves, his thumb slipping into Stiles’s crack to brush against his hole. Apparently that's enough progress for now, though, because he stays there another agonizing minute, just thumbing the rim gently, barely any pressure at all, coaxing, until it can't help but give in.

"Has anyone ever touched you here?" he asks.

"No," Stiles says, muffled by his arms, voice a little rough from the blowjob. He feels strung out, like he does when he pulls an all-nighter, or runs suicides for lacrosse. His head is a balloon on a string.

Derek’s hand goes away again, and Stiles can hear the pump of the lotion bottle he keeps so shamelessly displayed. When the thumb returns, it feels slick.

There's a smile in Derek's voice now. "Have you ever touched yourself here?

"Yeah," Stiles admits.

"I knew it," Derek says, voice hoarse, thumb pressing into him with purpose. It sinks right in, his hole still soft and welcoming from getting fingered earlier that night. "I could smell it. I could see it in your walk. Not just tonight, either.”

He breathes heavily against Stiles’s shoulder and bites it a little. There’s a rush of humiliation trying to push its way to the front of Stiles’s mind, but Derek’s voice is appreciative, warm, like Stiles did something good. “So many nights I spent pretending I didn't know you'd had your greedy little fingers stuffed inside yourself five minutes before I saw you."

Derek fucks his thumb into Stiles, leans forward to tell him, low, "You smell like sex, Stiles. You smell like you touch yourself all the time."

“You talk a fucking lot in bed,” Stiles tells him shakily.

“Can I fuck you?” Derek asks, sliding his thumb in and out of Stiles’s ass.

“Ugh,” Stiles says, completely tapped out on clever comebacks, “please.”

Derek must realize that Stiles is still relaxed from earlier, because he doesn’t bother prepping much before rubbing his slick cockhead against his hole and pressing in with little, jerky movements. Stiles tries to breathe deeply, and with a pleased sound, Derek slips inside him.

I’m getting fucked, Stiles thinks, unnecessarily. I have Derek’s cock inside my ass.

Derek sinks into him slowly, steady and relentless. It feels like whole minutes go by before he’s finally all the way in and Stiles can feel hair prickling against his ass.

“Oh my god, safe sex,” Stiles blurts out, jerking his head up suddenly, and Derek presses his shoulders back down with a displeased noise.

“Can’t carry diseases,” he says, and his voice doesn’t sound entirely human, a reminder that he’s not, that Stiles is getting fucked by a fantasy monster of the night — which is somehow not as hard to process as the thought that he’s getting fucked at all.

“Okay, okay, carry on,” Stiles says into the pillow, and then he moans in displeasure when Derek pulls all the way out. “Ugh, come back!”

“We can — I can get a condom if you want, I didn’t —” Derek says, sounding a little crazed, which is fantastic and makes Stiles feel much better. At least he isn't the only one losing his mind here.

“Get your cock back inside me and put your come in my ass,” he tells Derek, with authority. Derek makes a strangled noise and reaches for the lotion again, coats himself quickly before pushing all the way back into Stiles like it’s where he belongs.

This is now, technically, the second time Derek’s been inside Stiles, and it’s much less confusing already. Stiles thinks he could really get used to this.

Derek only pulls out a little bit before fucking back in, with short, shallow thrusts that feel fucking amazing, sliding inside Stiles like a piston, like their bodies were molded and cast for each other. His cock has not only beauty, but talent. Stiles is thinking about writing a poem for it. It’s sad to think of all the people in the world who will never get to know it.

As Derek picks up some force, Stiles worms a hand under his body and nearly screams into the pillow when he finally touches his cock. He feels like little bits of his brain are flying away and he can’t even care.

With a surprised-sounding, choked noise, Derek stills behind him, pressed as deep as he can go. He’s coming, Stiles realizes, with a delicious thrill that makes him buck his hips hard, goading Derek into one last series of unraveling thrusts.

“I can —” Derek says, pulling out, but before he can do anything at all, Stiles is shooting his load all over his sheets from nothing more than the weird, electrifying feeling of come slipping out of his ass. His vision greys out around the edges and he’s temporarily lost to the world.

 

In the afterglow, once Derek has brought him a washcloth and he’s gotten the full range of his hearing back, Stiles finally gets time to appreciate Derek’s foreskin the way it deserves.

“God, I love your cock,” he tells Derek, gazing tenderly at it. His head is pillowed on Derek’s hairy thigh. “Why do you have hair on your legs and none on your chest? Where does the hair go when you stop wolfing out? If you can’t circumcise a werewolf, does that mean your arm would have grown back if I cut it off, like a lizard?”

Derek just continues petting his head, and doesn’t answer.

“Are we dating now?” Stiles asks, quietly, still staring at Derek’s flaccid, uncut cock where it rests unthreateningly in a bed of dark curls. Derek’s hand pauses on his head, and Stiles can’t resist glancing up to see his expression.

“Was that a question for me, or my cock?” Derek asks. He seems to be shooting for dry humor, but his voice comes out kind of guarded, like he’s really not sure. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Stiles tells himself, and holds the eye contact.

“You,” Stiles says.

“Yeah,” Derek says, and the corner of his mouth turns up. “Okay.”