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Dating Backwards

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This mofo's got a playlist, by dearest Silvia.

 


 

 

“So you’re shooting with Danny again today?” Erica asks as she brushes his nose with powder. “That was one of your better BJs last time.” 

“I like him. It’s been, like, a month and a half. I thought I might get to shoot with him again sooner.” 

Twenty feet away, there’s a scene going on, but the mikes are directional and aimed towards it, so there’s no way they’ll be able to pick up this conversation. There’s a line of camera crew and equipment people in the way so Stiles can’t even see who’s shooting on the set before him, but it makes no difference. There’s cleanup between the shoots anyway. 

Really, he shouldn’t even be here yet. He’s fifteen minutes early for makeup, but Danny should be here soon anyway. Last time, he was there before Stiles was, and he’d been a little early then too.

“Danny’s a real sweetheart,” Erica says. She sets the powder brush down and scans through her kit for a tinted lip balm, he knows, because he’s been through this about a million times before. “Speaking of—”

CUT!” Finstock yells. “Jesus, I’m getting bored. Give me a reverse cowgirl before I fall asleep. And someone get the sweat off of his face. I feel like I’m in the splash zone.”

“Be right back, babe,” Erica tells him and runs off for mid-scene touch-ups. Stiles adjusts his robe, trying to find the pocket, and digs out his phone. There’s no text from Danny, but he might not be the texting type. They’d exchanged numbers at the last shoot, but only texted about going out with mutual friends, so who knows. 

“You know I don’t like non-essential people on my sets,” Stiles hears. He rolls his eyes. Some of the actors can be such divas. He pulls up Candy Crush to see if he can get past level 147 before Erica gets back. 

“Hey, where’s Erica?” Danny asks, hopping into his seat. 

“Quick break.” Stiles swipes a lemon foursome that doesn’t actually help him any. 

“Who’s shooting right now?”

Stiles looks up, cranes his neck, but he can’t see. He’s lifting up out of his chair a little when a guy comes into view. Forces himself into view, really, because he’s stomping over to them. 

“You. Non-essentials. Get the fuck off my set.”

A year and a half ago, Stiles wouldn’t have thought he’d be threatened by a guy with face blotters and an erection, but it’s a very real thing. And a very freaky thing. Dude is scary. Stiles kind of falls out of his chair and he and Danny retreat into the changing room. 

“Why do I feel like I’ve just narrowly avoided being murdered?” Stiles asks, eyes wide, back against the shut door.

“This was Derek’s shoot? And you were just sitting there? How the hell did you even get in? Dude, I’m pretty sure he usually rings caution tape around his sets.”

Stiles’ eyebrows creep towards his hairline. “Wait, this is a normal thing? He does this every shoot? Dude is an asshole.”

“Nah, he’s just really particular about his scenes. And he makes enough money that he can get away with it. He does good work.” There’s a telling smirk on his face.

“I hope I never have to shoot with him,” Stiles says, taking a seat in the one armchair. “Seems like a total nightmare.”

Danny shrugs, hands in his robe pockets. “You won’t have to, as long as you don’t change your contract and the magnetic poles don’t reverse. Dude’s an alpha, only shoots with other werewolves. They don’t even schedule our shoots on the same days half the time.” 

Stiles lets out a sigh of relief. “See, this is exactly the reason I don’t do crossover stuff. Attitude problems. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Um,” Danny says with a somewhat pitying look, “because the sex is awesome.”

“It can’t be that great.”

Danny quirks his eyebrows, smirking to himself. “Yeah, keep believing that.” He looks very pleased with himself; Stiles rolls his eyes before turning back to his game. His game that he’s going to lose. Again. For the hundredth time. 

 

By the time Stiles has used up all of his lives and resorted to replying to Isaac’s Draw Something from two weeks ago, the door opens. At first, he thinks it’s Erica, but it’s really not. It’s possible his balls retract back into his body. 

“You’re in my way,” the dude, Derek, says. He’s wearing a robe now so it’s not boner central, just rage central. 

Stiles kind of haphazardly gestures to all of the empty space in the room, and Derek rolls his eyes. 

“You’re right in front of the shower, idiot.” 

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, getting up. “Would it kill you to be polite? Seriously, for a guy who just got fucked, you are way tense.” Danny grabs his arm and yanks him out of the way, barely hiding a chuckle, and Stiles is pretty sure he sees Derek’s eyes flash red. 

“Fuck off,” he hisses, which is something Stiles is more than happy to do. 

Gladly, dude,” Stiles throws over his shoulder, a parting shot. 

People are cleaning the set and Erica pulls them aside. She seems more stressed than she was before, when she was prettying him up, and her lips are pursed when she looks over him. 

“I think you look good enough, cutie pie. Don’t want to cover up those freckles, do we?” Stiles rolls his eyes because it’s not a joke, not really, but it kind of is. He doesn’t make a habit of reading the comments on his videos for obvious reasons, but he did once, while drunk and curious. There are only so many times he can read about strangers wanting to jizz on his face before it becomes funny. And then he started visualizing, and that was a lot of penises, okay? Out of his comfort zone. By a lot.

Stiles hops up and goes to make sure his makeup is good for Finstock’s vision. He does a little turn, even.

“We all good, Boss?”

“Do you look like we’re going to need to show proof of your age, you mean? Yes. For the sake of my arrest record, I hope to God they never put you in a school uniform.”

That’s as much as a thumbs up as he ever gets, so Stiles grins, looking around. The set looks nice and clean, no asshole werewolf spooge in sight. Boyd looks like he’s going over camera angles, and when Stiles catches his eye he shakes his head. Busy. Figures. 

Erica doesn’t look at him when he sits back down, taking care of the late-night-studying circles under Danny’s eyes. 

“So is that dude always such a douchebag?” Stiles asks. He would be making another attempt at Candy Crush, but he still has three minutes before his next life. 

“Who, Derek?” she asks. “He’s not that bad. You caught him five hours into a three hour shoot. He had to pick his sister’s kids up, like, forty minutes ago. He’s only about sixty percent of an asshole most of the time.”

Stiles snorts. “How do assholes even make it in this business? If no one wants to work with you...”

“It’s his dick,” Danny says, and Erica shushes him so he won’t move his face.

“It’s not just his dick,” Erica tells him. “Although I’m pretty sure a dildo of it exists somewhere. No, he’s really good at what he does. Really professional. And he’s made people’s careers, you know? That’s how Isaac got his leg up.” 

“Ugh, Isaac boned him? I like Isaac. Sometimes.”

“Actually, he boned Isaac,” Danny says. “He’s a bit of a one-trick pony, if you know what I mean. But I’m serious, check out his technique sometime.”

Stiles lemon-faces. “I don’t watch other people’s videos. I don’t watch my own unless I’m bored and drunkies. Too weird.”

Okay, Meryl Streep.” Stiles sticks his tongue out at her, but she doesn’t see. 

“But really, how do you get dildos made of your dick? I mean, I’m not saying mine is dildo-worthy, but I’m kind of fond of it. Wait, if you fucked yourself with a dildo made of your own dick, would that be, like, double masturbation?”

Danny leans over, puts a hand on Stiles’ knee and looks at him with big brown eyes. “You need to stop.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. Screw him, that’s a legitimate question. 

But his next life on Candy Crush is ready to go, so he’s got bigger priorities.

 

“Scale of one to ten, how unprepared are you for the Philosophy midterm?” Scott asks around a mouth full of nachos. 

“About a six,” Stiles says, “pack of Redbull in the fridge that if any of you touch, it’ll be the last thing you do, so help me.”

“Fuck. I was going to ask you to give me a crash course in Descartes tonight,” Isaac says. At the other end of the couch, Allison is quiet because she doesn’t procrastinate, but she’s nice enough not to gloat about it either. 

“You can have my notes,” Stiles tells him, then finishes off his beer. “Ugh, I just want to sleep.”

“You had a shoot today, right?” Allison asks. She liberates a nacho from the baking sheet on the coffee table. 

Stiles nods. “Yeah, with Danny. Went well, but I’m wiped.”

“He’s good for that,” Isaac says with a little smirk. Allison slaps him, grinning. “Hey, I like Danny! He’s fun. I’m just glad I’m not shooting with him before my midterms.”

“Does anyone think we’re going to survive the week?” Scott asks. “Because I think we’re going to die.”

Allison pops a nacho into her mouth. “I’ll blow whoever finishes studying first.”

“Not fair,” Stiles points because he knows he’s not included in whoever. Which is fine, and he’s very comfortable with that arrangement, but still. It’s the principle of the thing.

“If you study for me, I’ll blow you,” Scott says and Stiles grimaces.

Pass.”

Isaac gives him a little smirk. “He’s very good. You’re missing out.”

No thank you,” Stiles says, a bad taste in his mouth. “We popped zits together. Our dicks are not coming into contact with each others’ bodies. And I’m pretty sure it’s incest.”

“You’re stepbrothers,” Allison corrects. “That’s not incest. It just makes family gatherings a little awkward.”

“I like to keep it within my own species anyway,” Stiles says, not thinking about banging Scott. 

Scott sticks his tongue out. “That’s racist, dude.”

“No, it’s speciesist, and it’s a reasonable fear. I don’t know for sure that there aren’t freaky werewolf things happening to your junk. And I don’t want to get bitten by a fang-happy dude in the heat of the moment.” Everyone’s rolling their eyes, but since two of them are werewolves and the third is banging them, that’s just pure bias. “Also, werewolf jizz. I think that’s all that needs to be said.” 

“It’s not that bad,” Isaac says. 

Stiles covers his ears, shaking his head. “Nope, I don’t want to hear it. You made me watch that one video and that was all I ever needed to see for the rest of my life. I still drink to wipe those images out.” The problem is that Stiles can pretty much read lips so he can see Scott saying abnormal conditions, that was way more than there usually is, so he shuts his eyes and hums Party in the U.S.A. until he knows they’ve given up.

There are battles worth fighting, and one day, they’re going to learn that this isn’t one of them.

 

 


 

 

Derek’s always early. 

That’s basic professionalism. If you’re on time, you’re late, so he tries to show up with a good hour to spare before he’s supposed to go into makeup. It gives him time to run through his lines (however limited they may be) and get into the headspace of his character. Sure, it’s technically pornography, but they’re still people with motivations, and reflecting on those motivations lends a realism to the scene. People can tell. He’s tried to explain that to Laura, who’d laughed too hard for him to get three words out, but it’s completely true.

And that’s not just him talking. That’s the numbers. 

His videos get more views than any other actors’ in his category. 

That’s facts.

So he shows up early and he treats this like a real job, unlike a bunch of the younger guys who are still in the haha look people pay me money to get off! stage. They don’t take it seriously at all, and that’s how shitty porn is made. If he’s going to be a part of the industry, he’s going to at least do it right.

(The reality of the situation is that he doesn’t have other places to be, but if he’s at work, he feels like he’s doing something.)

It’s the dignity of purpose. That’s the point of it.

He comes in quietly, sits in a chair, and pulls up the pdf of his script on his phone. It’s pretty short and he’s read it enough times that this isn’t necessary, but that’s okay. It’s something to do, at least. 

The chair he’s in isn’t as far back as usual, and he realizes belatedly that he must have taken one of the actor’s chairs by mistake. It puts him a bit closer to the scene than he prefers. Professional courtesy keeps his eyes glued down, but when a chorus of moans turns into a yelled, “Oh FUCK!” Derek looks up at the noise.

And he can’t look away.

This guy is getting wrecked. His hair looks a little familiar, actually, but Derek can’t see his face because it’s buried in the sheets. His hands are reaching out in front of him like he’s trying to drag himself away, but Derek can see from the movement of his hips that he’s meeting each thrust. 

“Come on, give it to me,” he says, and Derek can see that the guy behind him is tired. His face is red, a little more red than they like to edit out, and he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He’s wearing out, and Derek knows it’s that more than a dominance play that makes him stop and try barking orders.

“Do it yourself,” the guy pants, and Derek has to at least give him credit for improvising rather than calling for a break. 

Watching, Derek finds himself oddly pleased. It’s good quality stuff like this that’s the reason Derek still does this anymore. Not really on account of the top because, professional as he is, he’s out of his league. No, the guy bottoming is impressive. There are guys (and girls) who do little more than just lay there and say “oh oh oh” because they’re uncreative. It’s lazy. Easy. And it’s completely not the point of good pornography. One person’s not supposed to do all the work, and this guy clearly has an understanding of that.

He’s good. The roll of his hips shouldn’t be called anything but artful because that’s what it is. There’s craft in it, like a trained dancer or something, and shit, Derek could watch this all day. 

The guy’s obviously enjoying it, too. He’s braced himself up on his elbows and he’s grinning

The second Derek recognizes him, they make eye contact. For the first time in a few years, Derek’s mortified. He’s a professional, and he’s proud of that, but watching like this is not professional, not in the least. 

He looks away, back at the guy behind this kid (because he looks barely-legal, fuck), and the scene is going to be over pretty soon. The guy’s got his lip between his teeth and looks like he’s desperately thinking of his grandma to hold off, but Derek can read people well enough to know it’s hopeless.

Derek is not imagining how the kid’s ass must feel. He’s really not. 

But watching his ass is really not helping, so Derek tries to find somewhere safe to look. That fails, because his face definitely doesn’t qualify for safe, but the kid sort of quirks his eyebrows at him.

Derek is going to get fired. 

This is not an okay thing that he’s doing, and courtesy says that if he can’t look somewhere else, he should just leave the fucking room, but he’s not. 

“Oh, fuck, I can’t—” the top says and groans unmistakably. 

Well, looks like they are going to end ahead of schedule.

CUT!” Finstock yells. “Come on, men, we had another position! What are you, fourteen? Have a little stamina, Christ. That’s just sad.” 

“That was a little bit my fault,” the kid says. “Sorry about that.” The guy pulls out of him slow, wincing a little. 

“Well, I know that, Stilinski,” Finstock barks. “Would it kill you to go easy on a newbie?” Stilinski sits up, smirking with the sort of arrogance that comes from unchecked success, and Derek is not looking at any part of his body other than his face. Someone throws him a robe, though, so Derek’s spared. 

“Criticizing me for doing my job well? How very bureaucratic of you,” he says as he gets up and wraps himself in the robe. Now Derek looks down at his phone and buries himself in a Dan Brown rip-off that he doesn’t actually have any investment in. He’s reading the same sentence over and over and listening because he’s apparently a wide-eyed kid again.

“How long before you can get it up again?” Finstock asks the other actor.

“Shit, like, fifteen. Maybe twenty.” 

Finstock sighs heavily. “Alright, everybody take ten. Stilinski, you’ve got a money shot coming up next, so don’t get too distracted.” 

Derek is very, very focused on his script, on these position changes. He’s focused, and he’s not acting like it’s his first fucking time on-set.

“You know, for a guy who’s a total control freak about who he allows in the room, you sure don’t have a problem watching other people.” Derek looks up and this Stilinski kid is standing in front of him, smirking around a water bottle. These days, Derek’s a pretty quick judge of character, and he can tell already that the kid’s insufferable

Derek doesn’t blink. “Professional curiosity,” he says. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I don’t care. It’s not like you can’t watch it online in a couple days anyway. I just think it’s pretty hypocritical of you.” The kid squirts the water into his mouth, face tilting up for it because he knows what it looks like, and Derek’s done. He’s just being an asshole about it now. 

“Fine. Then stick around for the next shoot. See if I care.” 

If Derek’s being childish and there’s no Laura around to hear it, does it still count?

No is the answer to that. 

He’s a mature, responsible, professional adult. 

“Maybe I will,” the kid says. He gives Derek a sidelong look before heading over to Erica. Derek follows him with his eyes, then ends up catching Boyd’s eye.

Boyd’s look is dry and he just shakes his head. Rolling his eyes, Derek returns to his phone and doesn’t think about the weird and stupid thing he just did. Or how he’s apparently losing it.

 

Derek takes a bathroom break a little after they start up again. It’s not strategically-timed. It’s total coincidence that he misses Stilinski coming all over his chest. It just so happened that he missed that little bit even though he could hear from the bathroom because the doors aren’t soundproof, not really. 

Derek’s just not thinking about it. 

 

Erica checks over his beard when he gets back into his chair, trimming a stray hair or two. He doesn’t look at her because she’s smirking and that’s not fair. He’s just having an off day today. That’s it. 

It turns out that not looking at her is actually a bad idea because his eyes roam and he ends up seeing Stilinski on his knees, the other guy jerking off over his face, and—

“You look lovely today,” he tells Erica. One of her eyebrows shoots up and she glances over her shoulder.

“Cute. You know, I could talk—”

“Nope.” He gives her a look. “Don’t even. We’re not going there.”

“I’m just saying, Isaac lives with him,” she says sweetly. “If you ever change your mind, you could just ask him.”

“Not going to happen. I just respect his talents. Professionally. Don’t get any ideas. I mean it. He seems like an asshole anyway.” The effectiveness of his glare is somewhat lessened by the fact that she’s taming his eyebrows with a very small comb.

She shrugs. “I’m not, and I won’t. Unless you end up peacocking for him this afternoon. Then I might get ideas.”

“He’s not going to stick around anyway,” he tells her.

“What makes you so sure?” she asks. “I know Stiles a lot better than you do.”

“That’s a stupid name.”

She snorts. “No, what’s stupid is your refusal to wax these caterpillars so that I have to deal with them.” She yanks a hair from between his brows with her tweezers. The aggression is unnecessary and unsurprising. They have an ongoing argument about his eyebrows that, ultimately, he will always win because they’re on his face, but she hasn’t exactly come to that conclusion yet.

(He’s actually considering relenting because they do this every freaking time and he’s pretty sure the plucking hurts no less than it did the first time, about a million years ago.)

“Still on for tomorrow night?” the kid, Stiles, says, and for a weird second, Derek thinks he’s talking to him, but Erica answers.

“Yep! You bet your cute ass we are,” she says with a leer, and Derek’s not looking, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles do a little wiggle for her. 

Maybe it’s time for a career change. These people are the worst. 

“Who’s your partner today?” she asks Derek, covering his eyes as she spritzes his brows with a tiny bottle of hairspray. 

“Don’t know,” he says, and Erica pulls back to give him an unimpressed look.

She tilts his head back and with gentle fingers holds his eye open for eye drops. “One of these days, you’re actually going to have to pay attention to your co-stars. And stop staying up all night staring at screens. Someone else would think you’d smoked a bowl before coming.” She squeezes a couple drops into his other eye and he blinks a few times. It feels better already, and it’s not the kind of red eyes he’s supposed to have for this anyway.

Insomnia,” he tells her. “And I do pay attention to them. I just don’t need to know their names to be able to do my job. It’s not important.” 

Alright, then,” she says. It’s patronizing and he shouldn’t have to deal with this. 

“We done?”

She pulls away, takes him in. “Sure are, hot stuff. Get ready to make someone see Jesus with your dick.”

“I hate you,” he tells her honestly, but he needs to talk to Finstock about the script. Because it’s one of the worst he’s seen. 

 

Twenty minutes later, Derek’s lost his battle with Finstock and he’s standing off-stage in this cheap suit and the beta he’s doing the scene with is on the bed Stiles had been on. The sheets are different and they moved the bed around a little, but it’s the fact of the thing.

Not that it matters. And it doesn’t matter that he knows Stiles is sitting just off-stage in his street clothes.

But for the first time in a while, Derek’s kind of embarrassed

“And ACTION!” Finstock calls.

Derek takes a breath and walks into the “room” with purpose. He looks at the beta on the bed, sprawled out like he’s sleeping, even though it looks uncomfortable. That’s not a good resting position for someone’s spine, that’s for sure, but it shows off the guy’s ass, and that’s the point, isn’t it? Suffering a little to make something good.

“Daddy’s home,” Derek says confidently. The fact that he manages it is a proof of the power of acting because the line is awful, and the beta is about to “wake up” when there’s a giggle-snort off-stage.

“Jesus Christ, CUT!” Finstock yells. He walks onto the set to look at Stiles, who’s failing at holding back his laughter. 

“I know! I’m sorry, it’s just—” Stiles cackles “Daddy’s home. Please. Oh Lord, I can’t breathe.”

“Yeah, why don’t you go laugh at Greenberg, then? And get the hell off my set, Stilinski.”

That seems to get him. “I’ll be quiet, I swear. Jesus, did anyone approve that line? Does Greenberg answer to anyone? Because he should. After that, he should.”

“Take it up with Peter Hale, why don’t you. Or shut. the hell. up.” Finstock jabs a finger at him before turning back to Derek and the other actor. “From the top, gentlemen. Thanks.”

So Derek does it again, and this time, he hears Stiles’ breath catch in his throat, but he’s not paying attention to that. He’s busy. He’s working. He’s acting.

The beta twists a little, in a way that looks painful for his spine but shows off his ass, and looks at him with fake sleepiness. “‘S late,” he says, smacking his lips. “Coming to bed?” 

The character he’s playing is an assertive alpha, a high-powered lawyer, he imagines, who’s just finished a very long day. His case didn’t go well, and he’s stressed about it, and perhaps he’s trying to regain some control in his life after some sort of professional failure. 

“Come here,” he says, low, crooking a finger.

The beta doesn’t seem to be quite expecting it, almost, but he goes with it, crawls down the bed towards him. Derek slides a hand into his hair and, a little rough, pulls his head back. It puts a little strain on his throat, Derek can see, and his mouth opens with it. 

In the script, this is where they kiss, but Derek isn’t feeling it, so he slips his thumb into the guy’s mouth instead. He likes that, at least that’s what his scent says, and real arousal is always good to work with. When the guy shuts his eyes, he takes that as a good enough sign to go back to the script. 

He pulls the guy up high enough to get to his mouth, knows that his balance depends on Derek holding him up with a hand in his hair and one closed around the back of his neck. Derek doesn’t really kiss him. It’s not really the sort of thing that should be called a kiss. It’s more like he’s fucking into the beta’s mouth, giving him a preview of what’s coming to him with his tongue. 

The guy’s moan is very real. It’s a bit of a pride thing with Derek, getting his costars to actually get into it. It means he’s doing his job well. If they forget they’re acting, then someone watching forgets they’re acting. 

Derek never forgets he’s acting. 

But then, he’s very good at being convincing.

That isn’t pride. It’s numbers. It’s views, comments, subscriptions. It’s fact.

The beta goes for his belt, and Derek releases him so he can get to it better. It’s kind of an obvious thing, this set-up, with the guy on his hands and knees, mouthing at the front of Derek’s pants. The shape of his body, shoulders to waist to hips, is familiarized into abstraction, almost, after years of seeing guys and girls exactly the same way.

Derek settles a hand on the top of his head, not pushing, just keeping him there. His breath is hot and damp through Derek’s slacks, and he’s a little behind, actually. It’s not very professional to be soft on camera, he thinks, so he scrapes through his mind for some arousing image to latch onto. 

It’s not a thing he’s going to acknowledge ever again, but it’s the image of Stiles’ face turned up in a grin and the roll of his hips that does it. 

His character is tired, a minimal effort kind of guy, at least until he gets a little more into the moment, so he doesn’t help the beta unbuckle his belt. Derek does shrug off his jacket, but that’s more because he’s worried the guy will forget about it until it’s awkward. 

He undoes each of Derek’s buttons with this look Derek wants to call good acting, but he’s not entirely sure that’s what it is. Derek makes a living off of his body; he knows he’s hot. It’s his job, but he’s surrounded by attractive people most of the time he’s at work. Everyone is. Apparently, he does it for this guy, though. 

Because he’s a professional, Derek sometimes looks down on other actors who get too into it. The job isn’t about getting paid to have sex. It’s really not. It’s about getting paid to put on a show, to make it look really, really good so that someone else can get off on it. Getting into it isn’t part of that. It makes for difficult camera angles and too few shots and retakes. 

Derek can handle it. Some guys, put a mouth on their dick and they lose all sense of work ethic. They forget to make way for a camera or, if their partner’s good, they have to stop the scene to get themself under control. Derek’s fine.

It’s gotten to the point that he could probably get head for a good couple hours without blowing his load. Admittedly, it would probably hurt, probably a lot, but he could do it, if needed. He’s good at doing things with his hands, touching the other person’s face, looking like it’s great. 

And he has a good gauge for where the other actor is.

This guy is ready for Derek to fuck his mouth, so he does. Makes it look like he needs it, holds the guy’s head where he wants it, and pulls back before he chokes or gags. Because he’s a professional. It’s important to take care of your scene partner. 

He’s running through the script in his head, figuring out what’s next because given how the guy smells, he’s probably not thinking too hard about it. Derek can take the lead. They pair him with newbies for exactly that reason, because he’s good at it. He knows how to say things so people will remember their cues, or so they don’t need to.

“Turn around,” Derek tells the guy, idly watching his dick slip from his mouth. 

He moves quick, presents himself to Derek in a way he’s seen a million times. Derek leans over him, pressing his face between the man’s shoulder blades, scraping his skin red for a few seconds. 

“Been waiting for this all day,” he says.

“Me too.”

There’s a skipped line or two in there, but unless Finstock calls it, he won’t break character. 

Derek pulls back, hands on the guy’s ass. Spanking wasn’t in the script, but he squeezes, feels the muscle beneath his hands. When he spreads the guy’s cheeks, he sees the slick shine of lube. He should be ready to go, but Derek likes to check, just in case. 

In press two fingers, easy enough that he goes for a third, and there’s really no difference. Good. It’s easier when everyone does their job. 

After a moment for the cameras to get a good look, Derek lines himself up. He’s not really as hard as he should be, but it’s not obvious, and it’ll be fine once he’s inside.

In theory, he’s supposed to accept jobs with people he’s attracted to. Except he doesn’t, not always, because if it’s acting, that’s not necessary, is it? He doesn’t have to think they’re the hottest person he’s ever seen or anything. It’s fine. 

But he does need to get a little more into this to be convincing. 

He ducks his head down, fingers wrapped around the base of his cock as he pushes all the way inside, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement. Just a little, enough for his eyes to flick away off-set. Which is a mistake because Stiles is sitting there, one ankle on his knee, his fingers pressed to his lips. 

Derek might hate him. A little bit. 

Letting him sit in was a mistake. Really, he has no idea why he did it because he never lets people watch. They can pay if that’s what they want to do. 

It’s not that he’s nervous, it just takes him out of his head, and for a second, he drops character, grabs the beta’s hips too tight. It’s okay because he likes it, but Derek is not looking off to the side again. He’s very focused. 

They’ll be like this for a few minutes, so he counts the seconds. It’s good for pacing the whole shoot if he keeps track of the time, and there’s no stop clock, so it’s what he has. He changes up his pace every now and then. In another situation, it might be impressive that he can think a different tempo than his body is moving at, but it’s the kind of thing he should probably keep to himself.

When Finstock gives the signal, Derek goes through the motions for the next position. Lets the guy ride him for a while. He’s not sleepy, but his character is, so he doesn’t put much effort into it. He saves that for the last position. 

In the meantime, he reminds himself that he needs to pick up milk on the way home. And maybe a steak or two for this week. And he finished the granola at lunch, didn’t he? Finally, because he tried a different brand and it was not the same.

It’s possible he’s a second or two late for the next switch, and he resolves to make it up. He gets the guy on his back, settles neatly between his legs, but on his right, he can feel this aura of not impressed. He allows himself a look, really quick, and maybe he thrusts into the guy a little too hard. 

Fuck Stiles. Derek is good at what he does. Last week, he had over twenty thousand views on his video in the first twenty-four hours it was up. Fuck Stiles.

“Oh fuck, yeah, give it to me,” the guy beneath him moans, and Derek realizes he’s being more aggressive than his character warrants. But Jesus, he doesn’t care. Because if Stiles wants to be impressed? Then Derek will impress him. Derek will impress him so hard he has to leave so no one sees him come in his pants.

They move up the bed a bit, but Derek doesn’t really realize it until the beta grabs the headboard. Shit, Derek almost hit his head. But he’s not going to give up. He makes up the difference by pulling the guy against him.

The script specified that the cumshot would be in Derek’s mouth, but he’s paying less attention than he should because the guy shoves his hand into his mouth, shooting all over his chest. Might as well just go with it, Derek figures, so he pulls out and jerks off a little too hard. Not what he usually likes, but it gets him to the edge in a few seconds. 

The guy doesn’t blink when Derek’s jizz hits his face, but Derek might bite through his lip. A little. Not deep enough that anyone would notice.

They’re ten minutes ahead of schedule.

It fills Derek with a deep sense of having disappointed someone. Himself, really. 

Sloppy shoot. Sloppy fucking shoot. This is why he doesn’t like people off-stage. Because it trips him up and he makes mistakes that he shouldn’t make. 

Someone hands him a towel and Derek cleans them up, barely manages to restrain himself from throwing it at Stiles’ stupid fucking face. That would just be another layer of unprofessional on this total fuck-up of a day. Christ. 

“Do you need anything else?” he asks Finstock, and it comes out closer to a growl than he’d ever like to admit to himself. 

“Uh, no, I think that’ll edit together just fine.” Finstock’s eyes are a little wide and Derek is not going to punch him. 

Shit.

“I’m out,” he says to no one in particular.

There’s no such thing as an angry shower, but if there was, well. It isn’t the happiest shower of his life. He doesn’t punch the tile, though, so it’s fine. 

He’s not going to stand for this. He’s not going to let some arrogant kid make him lose control. Not fucking likely.