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Exceeds Expectations

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Sex with Derek is… not what Stiles expected.

Based on their previous interactions—and, okay, several months of pent-up X-rated fantasies—Stiles sort of expected a lot of growly, bitey, take-me-hard-against-the-wall sex. Shove-my-face-in-the-bed-and-fuck-me sex. Forceful-enough-to-rattle-the-windows sex. And he is down for that, oh my God. Stiles is down for trying pretty much every kinky, filthy, taboo, squirm-inducing sex act known to man, and probably a few no one’s attempted yet. Stiles is inventive and horny as fuck, Derek is hot—yeah. There are gonna be some sex bruises. Bring it on.

Only it turns out that’s not how it goes at all.

Their first time together, Stiles is too desperate and overwhelmed and—fine—nervous to take much initiative. Which is fine because he trusts Derek to handle things, and by things Stiles means orgasms. There’s a lot of almost quiet frottage as foreplay, and then Derek props himself on one arm and strokes their cocks together in one big hand and Stiles comes in about twelve seconds. Derek basically crumples in on himself when he orgasms a minute later, when Stiles is still too brain-dead to do anything but watch dazedly and lick his lips. Not to fall into a romance novel cliché or anything, but it’s fucking beautiful.

Afterward, there’s cuddling. Stiles sort of figured he’d be little spoon in that scenario—pretty much anyone would be little spoon next to Derek—but he’s wrong about that too. They clean up halfheartedly with a handful of Kleenex and then Stiles lies on his back with Derek curled on his side next to him, one arm slung over Stiles’s hips.

Stiles figures it’s a first-time thing and settles in to enjoy it, absently running the fingers of his left hand through Derek’s hair. It’s not like he doesn’t know Derek’s particular emotional vulnerabilities. And even if it wasn’t what he was expecting, he wouldn’t trade that firsthand knowledge of how fucking sweet Derek can be for anything in the world. They’ll have plenty of time for rough, dirty sex. Stiles falls asleep with Derek’s breath a steady lullaby across his collarbone.

The thing is, though, the rough, dirty sex never really makes an appearance. Derek never really asks for anything, and his focus on Stiles’s pleasure is basically life-changing. Stiles is probably actually getting dumber from the mind-blowing orgasms Derek inflicts on him on a regular basis.

But it’s not really fair, is it? That Stiles is getting the best (okay, only, but let’s be real, Derek’s ruined him for anyone else) sex of his life and Derek’s just… getting off? Stiles has to Do Something. If Derek won’t ask for what he wants—

Stiles pauses midthought and chews that over. Maybe the problem is that Derek doesn’t want to ask. Maybe he wants to be told.

Actually, the more Stiles thinks about it, the more sense it makes. Derek always seems the most into it when Stiles is giving him directions, though so far he’s been too shy and/or had too little brain-mouth coordination to ask for much other than “harder,” “faster,” and “there!”

Maybe he’s been a little shy about it, which isn’t like him, but he knows enough about Derek’s romantic history to make him cautious. Still. An experiment or two couldn’t hurt, in the name of better sex science. Stiles sits down in his desk chair and spins around a couple times and comes up with a Plan.


Of course, implementing the plan is not so easy. First he has to wait until he and Derek get some actual alone time (rare, though becoming more frequent as the supernatural goings-on taper off). Then he has to wait until the mood strikes.

Who’s he kidding, Stiles is basically always in the mood and Derek seems happy enough to oblige him. So when the door to the newer, softer Derek’s newer, softer apartment closes behind him, he gives Derek his best come-hither look from under his eyelashes—he’s seen it in the mirror and he’s still surprised it works—and waits for his inevitable kiss.

God, Derek’s easy.

Just before their lips meet, Stiles turns his head and brushes his mouth over Derek’s ear instead. Yeah, he hasn’t missed how much Derek likes that. Stiles should do it more often. “So here’s what’s gonna happen,” Stiles murmurs. Derek stiffens against him as Stiles slides his hand down Derek’s chest to fiddle with his belt. “I’m going to suck your dick,” Stiles continues conversationally, sliding down Derek’s zipper. He tugs the denim down with him as he gets on his knees, but he watches Derek’s face the whole time, even though he could be looking at Derek’s dick. Stiles doesn’t know if Derek has a thing about panty lines or whatever, but going commando is his SOP. “And you’re going to stop being so polite about it and fuck my mouth.”

Derek’s eyes flash blue, which has never happened before in almost three weeks of sexytimes. Stiles is a fucking genius. “Okay?”

Derek’s breath stutters as Stiles presses his face to the crease of his thigh and breathes in. He’s already half-hard and Stiles hasn’t even touched him. Not that Stiles isn’t. “What…?”

Stiles scrapes his nails gently down the back of Derek’s hairy thigh. “Don’t worry, I’ll pinch your ass if I need a break.” Then he finds Derek’s hand and puts it on the side of his neck so it’s cupping his jaw.

Derek swallows audibly and traces Stiles’s lower lip with his thumb, but otherwise he doesn’t move or speak.

Maybe this is too fast. “We don’t have to,” Stiles says. He’ll be sort of disappointed, but he needs to give Derek an out. “We can watch a movie. Play Risk. I can blow you on the bed—”

“Here is fine,” Derek says, sounding strangled, and yeah, he’s all the way hard now, with his free hand wrapped around the base of his dick.

Oh. Good. Stiles smirks and flutters his eyelashes. “Hurry up and put your dick in my mouth, then. I want to see how fast I can make you lose it.”

And then he opens his mouth and waits.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek groans, and the next second he’s shoving his cock down Stiles’s throat.

Oral fixation is maybe not a strong enough phrase to describe how much Stiles loves giving head. It’s 13 percent knowing how much Derek enjoys it and 87 percent the way it makes Stiles feel, the slightly salty taste, the way the world goes quiet, the slide of soft skin past his lips and over his tongue. Right now it’s also 50 percent the gobsmacked, out-of-control expression Derek is staring at him with, lips slightly parted, as he thrusts in and out of Stiles’s mouth. Yeah, Stiles is 150 percent turned-on—he’s leaking in his boxers and he knows Derek can smell it too.  He shifts his knees farther apart and closes his eyes, flickers his tongue along the underside of Derek’s shaft. It’s almost perfect.

Stiles thinks they can do better. He doesn’t even have to pinch Derek’s butt to be allowed to move back, because Derek’s still not using the hand on Stiles’s face the way God intended.

Stiles licks his lips and makes sure to catch the drop of precome beading at the head of Derek’s dick too, though. He’s all about positive reinforcement. Still, if he’s going to get what he really wants, he’s going to have to up his game. “Is that all you got?”

Bingo. Derek bites off a curse that’s almost a whine and uses his left hand to force Stiles’s mouth open again.

From that point on it’s rough and fast and dirty and everything Stiles dreamed of. Derek guides him on and off his dick almost ruthlessly, until Stiles’s face is wet with spit and precome and the occasional tear at suppressing his gag reflex. Derek is wild above him, breathing hard, his jaw locked tight. Stiles’s dick throbs in his pants, and he curses himself for the lack of foresight, because he’s not stopping until Derek comes, and Stiles might break before he does.

“God, Stiles,” Derek grits out, throat working. His dick is leaking steadily now, and Stiles knows it won’t be much longer.

With a sharp pinch, he pulls back, gets his hand around Derek’s erection to keep stroking him. “Decision time,” Stiles says, flicking his tongue out again.

Derek pants.

Stiles pushes his foreskin back and rubs his thumb over the exposed head. “You wanna come in my mouth or on my face?”

Derek’s hips stutter and he licks his lips before running his thumb over Stiles’s again. “In your mouth,” he rasps.

Stiles lets the corners of said mouth quirk. “Liar,” he says fondly, and takes Derek back down.

It doesn’t take him long to break Derek like this. He keeps one hand wrapped firmly around the shaft to jerk him off and bobs his head quickly, sloppy, no finesse. With the other hand he cups Derek’s balls and presses firmly on his perineum, waits—


“Come on,” Stiles says hoarsely, about half a second away from his own orgasm. “Fucking come, Derek.”

Derek does.

Stiles catches the first shot on his tongue before drawing back, keeping his face tilted toward Derek as the next spurts of come land on his cheeks, his chin, his open mouth. Even the slightest accidental brush of Derek’s come-slippery dick sends a jolt of electricity right to Stiles’s cock, holy God, he needs to come right now. He moves his mostly clean hand to the front of his jeans—fuck, he doesn’t even have time to take them off, all he’s gonna have to do is give himself a little pressure and—

Derek sweeps his fingers over the mess on Stiles’s face and into his mouth and that’s it, game over. Stiles comes so hard his vision grays out and he sways into Derek’s upper thigh, breathing like he’s just run a marathon.

“Holy fuck,” he says when he can words again.

“I thought you were too nervous to get bossy about sex,” Derek admits. His voice sounds hollow, like he’s actually somewhere else. Stiles would be proud that he did that to Derek except apparently he also did that to himself and feeling anything other than fucked-out right now is pretty much impossible.

“I’d have gotten over it sooner if you told me you wanted me to,” Stiles points out. “Fuck, I’m never going to shut up now.” Finally he tries to stand up, but his knees protest vehemently. “Next time, though, we’re gonna do this in a bed, or with a pillow.” At least Derek has carpet in this apartment.

Derek hauls him up by his elbows and holds him there until the circulation returns to Stiles’s calves. “You need a shower,” he says with a slight flush.

“Oh, now you’re bashful again.” Stiles huffs, but it’s mostly for show. “Fine, yes, I agree about the shower.” His face is starting to itch, never mind the discomfort of his wet boxers. “You’re coming too; I need you to hold me up.”

Derek nods agreeably and herds him toward the bathroom.

“After, we’re going to have a discussion about how you want me to boss you around in bed,” Stiles continues as he shuts the bathroom door behind them and yanks at the hem of Derek’s shirt. “And then we’re going to do a practical demonstration.”

Derek’s dick twitches, and Stiles grins to himself.

This is more like it.