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Tied Up In Knots

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So it turns out that Stiles is really flexible.

Derek doesn’t know this when they start dating. He doesn’t know this when they start having sex, the night of Stiles’ eighteenth birthday. He doesn’t know this until they’re been dating for almost five months, and they’re having an ungodly terrible graduation party for Isaac in his loft.

Okay, it’s not that terrible. His yardstick of terrible has been adjusted following Lydia’s graduation party, which had been like living through an episode of My Super Sweet 16, so by comparison Isaac’s is relatively tame. But there are still half a dozen people in the loft that Derek doesn’t know, Isaac’s food choices had consisted of ‘candy, candy, candy, chocolate, hot wings’, and they’re on hour number three of country music and repetition number twelve of She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.

Isaac is in heaven.

Derek’s in the kitchen, scarfing down a turkey-avocado sandwich in secret and talking himself out of making another ten-minute bathroom trip, because it would be his seventh and there’s only so many time he can duck in there before Stiles will start loudly quizzing him about his bowel movements. Or just call him out on being antisocial. But on the other hand, it’s so much quieter in the bathroom, and scents of the newcomers haven’t set hold in there they way they have in the living room.

Then he hears the living room start to chant Stiles’ name, which definitely pulls him from his thoughts. Those idiots have better not have gotten their hands on a keg stand.

Derek swallow the rest of his sandwich in one bite, which goes down a bit painfully, but it’s worth it because he makes it out of the kitchen in time to see that everyone has gathered in a circle around Stiles, who is almost finished removing his pants.

Derek already not a fan of this, despite the fact that there’s no alcohol in sight.

“Do the side one!” Scott says excitedly, catching Stiles’ pants when Stiles throws them. Stiles’ sneakers are also at his feet.

Stiles grins as he stands there in his Batman boxers, looks around at the assembled crowd, and then without warning he sinks into a perfect sidesplit. No easing. No stretching. He just plops right down, legs at one hundred and eighty degrees and flush against the floor.

Derek’s jaw drops.

He can’t even do that.

There are cheers from the rest of the party, but then Scott yells, “No, no, wait! Stiles, do the next part!”

Stiles obliges, and leans his body all the way to the left, his torso following the long line of his leg, and grasps the toes of his foot. Then Stiles proceeds to lift his leg up.

It’s only about an inch. But still.

“I can do that!” Erica insists, toeing off her shoes. Isaac is scrambling with the zipper on his own shorts, and several others are already halfway to the floor, legs spread wide.

Neither Erica nor Isaac make it to the floor, though they come the closest of anyone.

Erica glares at Stiles. “What the hell, Stilinski?”

"He’s always been able to do that,” Scott says enthusiastically, as Stiles uses his shoulder for balance while he pulls on his jeans. “He doesn’t practice or anything!”

“Just talented like that,” Stiles says smugly, zipping up his jeans.

Derek stares a bit longer, until Stiles catches him and leers at him. Derek heads for the bathroom.


“That was some party trick last night,” Derek says, the morning after.

Stiles stretches contentedly, sheets pooling low at his hips. “Uh-huh. You have no idea how disappointed Scott was when he learned that flexibility wasn’t included in the werewolf package of strength, speed and super-senses. Heh. Probably ‘cause it’d ruin the alliteration, huh?”

“We’re flexible,” Derek protests.

Stiles flaps a hand at him lazily. “Yeah, but not like me. I’ve seen you stretch, dude, and you’re all right, but I’ve got like double joints in all my joints. Except my fingers.” He pauses to frown at said fingers, pushing each one backwards individually as if checking the validity of his own claim. “These are ten stiff puppies right here.”

“I never knew,” Derek says, after a pause. “How come you didn’t—”

He stops, unsure of how to phrase it.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him. “I thought you’d… noticed. I mean, do you think most humans can sandwich themselves together for as long as I did last night?”

Derek blinks. “I. Yes?”

“Uh-uh,” Stiles says, smirking. “Not even in porn, man. Why do you think they cut to a different camera angle every minute and a half?”

Derek huffs. “I honestly never thought about it, Stiles. I just—I thought—I didn’t know. It’s not like I have anything to compare it to.”

That makes Stiles grin, so bright it’s almost blinding, and Derek’s heart squeezes in the best way possible.

“You’re adorable,” Stiles declares. “Which is lucky, because otherwise I think I’d be offended that you never realized exactly how special I am.”

“I think another demonstration is in order,” Derek says, “so I can fully appreciate what I have, now.”

Stiles smirks and pushes himself to his hands and knees, prowling closer. “I’ll show you appreciation.”


At the end of the summer, Stiles leaves for a tiny liberal arts college in Oregon full of people who are just as smart and bizarre as he is. Case in point: by the end of his first month there, he’s been recruited by the contortionist club. What kind of school has a contortionist club?

“The coolest school,” Stiles enthuses, practically vibrating in his seat. “Oh my God, Derek, you should see what these people can do. It’s like they’re living optical illusions.”

Derek’s quickly scrolling through images on Google. He can’t decide whether he’s going to come down on the side of ‘sexy’ or ‘grotesque’. Maybe ‘grotesque’, generally, but ‘sexy’ when it comes to Stiles. Stiles makes a lot of things sexy when they shouldn’t be.

“You’re really going to do this?” he asks, looking from the image results to Stiles’ face on the other half of his screen.

“I’m gonna try,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Just—it’d be cool, you know? Like, right now I’ve already got one or two tricks, but think how cool it would be to turn myself into an actual human pretzel? Plus, they have a troupe that goes on tour for spring break. If I get good enough, I could join. How awesome would that be?”

“I’m sure your father will be thrilled to hear that he sent you to college and you still somehow managed to join the circus,” Derek says dryly.

“You could be my adoring fan!” Stiles says brightly. “My groupie. My stalker, that would be fun—oh! Oh! Or you could be my bodyguard, and protect the poor, helpless contortionist from the evil people stalking the night.”

“Why don’t you work on learning to stretch, first?” Derek suggests.

Stiles bounces happily. “Oh, man, this is gonna be so great. I’m gonna be awesome.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, as Stiles launches into a non-sequential oral history of contortionism.




Stiles takes to his new passion with his usual hurricane-level force, and talks about nothing else whenever they Skype. He’s apparently a frontbender, not a backbender, which isn’t unusual for male contortionists. He’s doing stretches every day, now, meets up with the club twice a week, and is becoming fast friends with everyone in the group. He also loves demonstrating what he’s learning when he and Derek Skype, though that mostly consists of Stiles stripping and pulling his limbs into the same rote positions while yelling, “Look, look, look! It’s almost an inch more than last week!”

After about three weeks of that, they start him on The Well-Rounded Contortionist Training Plan, which is not just limited to stretching.


"I’m dying,” Stiles moans, apparently unable to even lift his head up from his desk. With his head all the way down, Derek can see that his dorm room is a disaster.

He smirks. “What’re they making you do?”

Everything. All that awful… calisthenics whatever you have to for like… ten minutes before lacrosse… only for so much longer. And gymnastics… tumbling… acro stuff things. And they want me to learn some basic pole dancing too.” Stiles pauses, and then reluctantly adds, “Okay, so that actually sounds pretty hot. Except for the part where I have to move.”

“It’ll get better,” Derek promises. “Besides. The fact that you’re sore is good. This is good pain.”

“There’s no such thing,” Stiles mutters darkly.

“It means you’re building muscle,” Derek says knowledgeably.

Ugh,” says Stiles.

“Are you going to pick yourself up, or are we actually going to talk like this?” Derek asks.

“Mrmph,” Stiles replies.

All right, then.

“I ‘splained frontbending and backbending to Scott today,” Stiles mumbles eventually. Derek can just barely see the corner of his mouth curve upward. “How you can only do one or the other. He says maybe it’s like Avatar—like, there’s one person out there who can master all the bending, and the rest of us are just stuck bending one element-direction thing. Scott has the best ideas, man.”

“There probably is someone who can do both,” Derek says idly, thinking about it.

Stiles groans. “Oh my God, you’d have to stretch like six hours a day. Not worth it. I like frontbending just fine.”

“You want to stick with it?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I have this personality defect where I’m really bad at letting go of things, even when they’re absolutely awful,” Stiles mutters and lifts his head just enough that he can roll his eyes up to stare at the camera. “You might be familiar with it.”

“You shower me with affection,” Derek deadpans. “Really, I’m blushing.”

Stiles puts his head back down. “Your eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, your hair is as dark as a blackboard, you’re really divine, I… the rest doesn’t fit, sorry bro. But you rock.” He starts humming a sleepy, half-hearted version of Hedwig’s Theme.

“You should go to bed,” Derek advises. “And invest in Icy Hot.”

“Huh-uh,” Stiles says.


“No. I mean yes. But, tell me about your day. Talk to me. I always talk.”

Derek persuades him to set the laptop up on his bed and get underneath the covers before he tells Stiles about the last few days, carrying on long after Stiles has fallen asleep.


It’s only another three weeks later that Stiles opens their Skype session with a rapturous, “Derek, I get it now.”

Derek raises his eyebrows.

Stiles flaps his hands, wide-eyed and breathless. “Your—fitness thing. You. Working out three hours a day. I totally get it now. It’s amazing. Like, the actual work part sucks, but I feel so—it’s like—oh my God, man, it’s so awesome. I can do all these awesome things, and I’m like hyperaware of everything, like even when I’m just like picking up a book or walking to class. I mean. Like. Dude. My body.” Pause. “Bodies. So cool.”

And the thing is, Derek does get it. He gets it so much that he’s actually stunned into silence for a second or two before he manages to regroup.

“So, I take it your training is going well?” he asks.

Stiles beams. “Yes! Wait until you see the pictures Sari’s going to put on Facebook tonight, from our session tonight. I look like a frickin’ badass.”

“I’ll send you a tub of protein powder and a blender,” Derek says, with a smirk.

“Eugh! Blech, no way!” Stiles says immediately, making the exact same revolted face that he had after sipping Derek’s breakfast shake once. It may or may not be Derek’s favorite expression of all time. “That’s that even the type of workout that I do. I need to be lithe and limber. Plus. Eugh. Trust me, you’re all the Incredible Hulk my body will ever need.”

Derek bursts out laughing. “Oh I am, am I?”

“Damn straight,” Stiles says stoutly, looking at him with a soft smile of his own.


When Stiles comes home for Christmas, Derek is quick to suggest that they workout together. Stiles agrees readily, since he’s auditioning for the school’s contortionist troupe when he gets back and he wants to keep in-shape over break.

Derek immediately heads for the weights, while Stiles goes for the mats below the row of mirrors.

It lasts until Derek glances over during his fifth free weight rep, and sees Stiles bent over, legs spread, and where some people would struggle to touch the floor Stiles has both hands planted firmly on the floor behind his heels and his head between his legs. His ass sticks straight up in the air.

Stiles grins at Derek upside-down, face flushed.

Derek tries to go back to his reps, but has no idea what number he was on.

He was almost done, anyway. Probably.

He switches over to the incline bench, but has gotten no further than his second rep when he hears a familiar, “Oof!” and looks over to see Stiles staring at him from a heap of limbs on the ground, pupils dilated.

God, he looks hot.

“This… isn’t going to work,” Derek says slowly.

“No,” Stiles agrees. “Wanna go shower?”

“God yes.”


At New Years, the pack comes over to the loft for a quiet, minimally-alcoholic evening (Derek had tried to argue for no alcohol, but Lydia had threatened to throw her own bash with unlimited vodka, and Derek had quickly relented to allow champagne and wine). By popular demand, Stiles strips out of his jeans and demonstrates what he’s learned at school.

Unlike with the splits, Stiles actually does do some warm-ups this time. Derek appreciates it. It gives him time to prepare himself. After a few minutes of obscene stretching, he finally pulls one leg over the back of his neck, and then carefully pulls the other leg on top of that. Trembling with the effort, Stiles looks around at the assembled werewolves and grins triumphantly.

“Awesome!” says Scott, taking pictures on his phone.

“How long can you hold it?” Erica asks interestedly.

“Not long,” Stiles admits, voice strained already. His face is getting red. “I’m getting better.”

“If we tip you, would you roll?” Jackson asks.

Stiles’ eyes go wide. “Uh—”

But it’s too late. Isaac gives him a solid push and they all learn that Stiles does not, in fact, roll.

“Fuckers!” Stiles howls indignantly, untangling himself, but everyone else is laughing.


“Erica is jealous of my mad skillz,” Stiles says happily, practically bouncing onto the couch next to Derek. “Did you see her face last night?

“I think most people are jealous of your mad skillz,” Derek replies easily. He glances at the page number he’s on in his book, commits it to memory, and then closes it with a snap. “It’s not everyone who can put their legs behind their head.”

Stiles beams.

“Granted, it’s not the most useful skill in the world…”

“Oh, like glowing eyes are handy in a tight spot,” Stiles retorts.

“They don’t glow,” Derek says stiffly.

“That’s my whole point!” Stiles says, flailing his limbs emphatically. “If they did glow, they’d be useful! Like little werewolf headlights. But they don’t. They just turn weird colors that give you away to hunters.”

“It’s intimidating,” Derek growls, letting his eyes flash crimson and his canines lengthen.  

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh. Also, I can go on tour and make money off my talent. You? Not so much. So there. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”

Derek nudges him with a shoulder, and Stiles tries to nudge him back but mostly ends up just bouncing off. With a huff, Stiles settles against his side and fingers the turned-down book sitting in Derek’s lap.

“Whatcha reading?”

“The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Caring and Feeding for Your Contortionist.”

“Did you get to the chapter on feeding yet?” Stiles asks hopefully. “’Cause it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry, which means you’re slacking.”

“I did read it. It emphasizes the importance of making your contortionist get up and get his own damn lunch,” Derek says.

Stiles harrumphs, lies comfortably against him for a few more seconds, then heaves himself off the couch. Derek sets the book on the coffee table and follows him into the kitchen moments later, because screw it, he’s hungry too.

Derek retrieves the chickpea-pesto mash he’d made a few nights ago from the fridge, as well as half an onion and a tomato. Stiles is neck-deep in his and Isaac’s personal cupboard, the only place in Derek’s apartment where processed foods are allowed. Bread, at least, is one thing they can agree on: thick multigrain loaves from an organic bakery downtown.

Stiles comes to stand next to him around the bread, jar of Nutella and a banana in hand.

“It’s got a banana,” Stiles says defensively, as if sensing Derek’s silent judgment.

"Healthy ingredients don’t cancel out unhealthy ingredient, Stiles,” Derek says, while pointedly slathering chickpea-pesto onto his bread. “Also, bananas aren’t that healthy.”

“Shut up, they’re a fruit.”

Derek doesn’t reply.

“Got any oil? I wanna deep fry this bad boy,” Stiles says, like the little shit that he is.

“No,” Derek says flatly.

Stiles snickers and goes back to slicing his banana.

“Stiles,” Derek says, after a pause. “Do you—when we tried to workout together, the other day.”

Stiles grins and waggles his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Do you want… Would you like it if I started working on flexibility, too? Would you like that better?”

Stiles frowns. “Would I like that better? Better than what?”

“Than the whole…” Derek glances down at himself. “Incredible Hulk thing.”

“What? No! Okay, first of all, you like being stupidly muscular, and you like weightlifting and rowing and shit. So. You should do what makes you happy, you enormous idiot. Second of all, there is no way in hell you are taking this away from me. You can’t. Flexibility is my thing—it’s the one thing that I can actually beat you crazy werewolves at! You—”

Derek smacks him on the back of the head.

“Yeah, I know, I beat you guys at brains too,” Stiles agrees. “But, like, physically!”

“I got it, Stiles,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “You’re a very special snowflake. It was just a suggestion.”

Stiles frowns. “Wait, do you want to study contortion?”

“Not really,” Derek says, when what he means is not even a little bit. He needs the feeling of push and power and abuse in his exercise, and contortionism is basically the total opposite of that. And yes, he does like being stupidly muscular. Unlike his innate wolf strength, which comes from magic, he actually earned those muscles.

“All right, then,” Stiles says decisively, and takes a bite of his sandwich.

A Nutella-covered banana slice drips out the bottom and lands on the floor with a splat.


When Stiles gets back to school, he auditions for the contortionist troupe and makes it. Just barely. He’s only in one act, a trio of contortionists that are going twist themselves to a pre-choreographed routine that is apparently set to extremely creepy violin music. Stiles promises Derek that at least one of their performances will be recorded and put on Facebook.

Shortly thereafter, Derek gets a text message informing him that Stiles can now deep-throat his own cock.

Then, right before Stiles leaves for spring break, he sends Derek a very blurry but generally flesh-colored picture with the text: So I can now give myself a rim job. Tried to take a photo, but it turns out that it’s not easy to take a selfie when you’ve got your tongue up your own ass.

And that’s all well and good, until sometime in mid-April when Derek gets the text message that says, Sooo auto-anal is a thing you can do. Did not know. Wonder if my flexibility applies to my dick?

That is when Derek is officially admitting to himself that he possibly no longer likes this contortion business.

It’s not that he doesn’t think it’s hot. He does. He absolutely does. He’s pretty sure Stiles could be masturbating in a bathtub of mayonnaise, periodically sucking globs of it into his mouth, and Derek would find it hot as long as Stiles was enjoying himself. Stiles’ body has been changing, his musculature becoming more prominent, and that’s hot. The crimson leotard that Stiles had worn for his spring break performances—that had definitely been hot.

And most importantly, it makes Stiles happy. Stiles loves his friends, he loved touring, and he loves contortion so much that he’s actually spending multiple hours a day working on it. Derek would have to be the biggest asshole in the world to hate something that made Stiles so happy.

But. Well. Derek’s feeling a little… replaced?

He tells himself that he’s being stupid, that it’s no different than Stiles owning sex toys—but it is. The reason you prefer a human mouth to a Fleshlight is because a Fleshlight doesn’t have a tongue, it doesn’t have the heat and pulse and creativity of a mouth. Stiles has all that, and therefore no reason to prefer Derek’s mouth to his own. Or Derek’s tongue. Or, knowing Stiles, in a few weeks, his dick.

He’s being stupid. Really. He is.


When Stiles comes up on Skype, he’s looking glum. It’s not that unusual—school has really been piling up on him this semester, with him devoting more time to contortion—but it still sends a frizzle of fear down Derek’s spine that this is it. He feels it every time they Skype, lately, even though he tells himself that it’s stupid and that he knows Stiles would never break up with him.

Not over Skype, anyway. Stiles would have the decency to do it in person. Probably. He can be an idiot about very random things.

“So, bad news,” Stiles says gloomily.

“Yeah?” Derek asks, as his brain freezes on this can’t be happening.

Stiles sighs gustily. “Remember when I told you about auto-anal? I was all excited that that was a thing?”

Derek nods slowly.                                                 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, making a face. “So, first of all, it turns out that in addition to my fingers, I am also not double-jointed in my dick. That thing is one stiff puppy.”

Derek cracks a grin despite himself. “I know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “But, number two, even if you get your dick flexible, auto-anal is not all it’s cracked up to be. Like, you can’t even come, because you have to stay half-hard and anytime you get too hard you’re basically breaking your dick in half. So, I’ve been bending my dick for two weeks and no matter how much more flexible it gets, auto-anal is never going to be awesome.”

Derek thinks he’s being a bad boyfriend by feeling relieved, but… yeah, he feels relieved. Stiles may have replaced his mouth and his tongue, but he can’t replace his dick.

“That sounds… painful,” Derek says, which is what he’s been thinking about when he hasn’t been thinking about Stiles replacing him. “Not at all fun.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “I mean, the websites sort of warn you? But I thought, ‘Oh, no, I’m so flexible and gifted, it’ll be different for me!’ But no, not so much.”

“There’s always dildos,” Derek says, because he knows for a fact that dildos will never compare to his dick.

On the screen, Stiles has brightened. “Oh, yeah, that reminds me! Have you heard of Bad Dragon?”

“…No,” Derek says.

“It’s this website of super-kinky sex toys,” Stiles informs him, fingers moving on his keyboard, eyes tracking his screen. “They totally have a werewolf dildo—it’s named David, FYI, so awesome—and it has a knot. And you can get this thing called a cumtube, where you can pump loads of fake cum into yourself.”

“Oh,” says Derek.

“I sent you the link so you can check it out,” Stiles says, as the IM window blips on Derek’s screen. “Also, just verifying here, your dick is like two inches in diameter when it’s hard? Or more? Look at the dimensions of the sizes and let me know.”

“Sure,” Derek agrees stupidly, clicking on the link.

“You’re the best,” Stiles says, grinning brightly.

“Uh-huh,” Derek says.

A dildo can’t really replace his dick. Not really. Even if it does have a knot and a cumtube and according to the website about twelve other things you can customize to your liking.


By the time Stiles starts his final exams, Derek has watched Stiles fuck himself with David the Werewolf Dildo enough times that he’s almost certain Stiles is going to break up with him when he gets home. Stiles fucking loves that dildo—to say nothing of how much he enjoys rimming himself and sucking himself off. It’s obscene, and there’s definitely no need for Derek.

But he doesn’t.

Stiles gets home on a Friday. These are the texts Derek gets:

6:46 a.m. ugh 7 am finals shuld be illgal I hate evrythng


9:43 a.m. On the road! See you tonight!

1:04 p.m. ugh long drive is long, cannot wait to get home and nap

6:12 p.m. Home, taking a nap, text you when I wake up.

10:00 a.m. Uhhhh guess who just woke up?? Oops! Sorry dude. Guess I was really tired. Out to breakfast w/Dad then I’m coming over!

But instead of coming over and breaking up with him, Stiles practically launches himself at Derek the moment the door opens, limbs wrapping around him in a tight, starfish-style hug. Derek is momentarily overwhelmed by the solid, strong feel of Stiles around him, his scent rushing into his nostrils, the sound of his heartbeat loud and present instead of a barely-audible blip through the laptop microphone. It isn’t until someone passes by in the outside hallway that Derek realizes the front door is open.

They have sex four times that day. Stiles bends himself into impossible positions, but never once does his mouth touch his own body. David the Werewolf Dildo is nowhere to be seen.

It continues like that. They have sex constantly, they go on dates, they fall asleep together, they argue over the legitimacy of buffalo falafel, and as the weeks go by Stiles spends less and less time on his stretches. He doesn’t seem upset about his quickly draining flexibility, either. But Derek still feels the nasty loom of an impending breakup, despite it all, and it’s almost a month before he finally manages to bring it up.

“You’re not doing your… stretches… as much,” he says tentatively, after a post-coital nap and some lazy kissing. It’s a good time to ask. Stiles is loose-limbed and happy, and his head is on Derek’s chest so there’s no eye contact.

"Nope,” Stiles agrees sleepily. “It’s summer. Break time.”

“But you thought it was fun,” Derek says, frowning. He tries to think of the last time he took a vacation from his exercise routine that wasn’t injury-induced, and he can’t, because exercise is his vacation. “You said, earlier in the year, that you—you liked how it made your body feel.”

Stiles makes a face. “Sure. I’ll probably join up again in the fall. But. It’s summer. Too much work.”

Derek frowns. “You’re lazy.”

“M’not lazy,” Stiles grumbles. “I just need to be motivated by friends and deprived of your sexual prowess for a few weeks.”

 “My what?”

“You honestly thought it took me two days to realize I could learn to suck my own dick? Fuck no. I was just waiting until it made me sound less like a lovesick teenager, learning contortionism because I missed my boyfriend.”

“You—really?” Derek asks slowly.

“Also, the people in the club were really cool, and I wanted to make all your werewolves jealous,” Stiles says.

The last few months are replaying in Derek’s mind, in a very different light. Stiles had been missing him.

Derek is an idiot.

“What’s that face?” Stiles asks without even looking up, lifting a hand and grabbing at Derek’s face. “You’ve got a face going on.”

“I do not,” Derek grunts, shoving Stiles’ hand away.

“Is it the betrayed look? Because you thought I was a gym bunny like you but I’m not?”

“I don’t have a betrayed look.”

“Yeah you do. What do you think your face was doing when I sided with Isaac in the Great Processed Foods War of 2012?”

Derek scowls and doesn’t reply.

“For the record,” Stiles adds a few minutes later, “doing all that stuff to myself? Nowhere near as good as when you do it.”

“Even David the Werewolf Dildo?” Derek asks, just to be sure.

“The fake cum is kind of gross,” Stiles admits. “And cold. Unless you microwave it beforehand, and let me tell you, there’s nothing quite as fun as walking down the hall of your dorm room with an industrial-sized bottle clearly labeled CUM LUBE in hand.”


“That’s a smug face,” Stiles announces, grabbing at Derek’s face again. “I can feel it. Stop it. Smug is not a good look on anyone, Derek.”