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Five Days of Dickings

Chapter Text

“Stiles,” Peter purrs as he passes him on the way to make up. “It’s really been too long.”

Stiles shrugs and gives him a cheeky grin. “Gotta spread the love,” he says. “You know how it is.”

“Mm, I’ve seen the schedule,” Peter agrees, leering. Stiles just ducks his head and slips into the makeup room.

It’s far from his first shoot, but it’s still a big deal. Five Dickings in Five Days was the (hopefully interim) title he’d seen on the contract. More like five days of dickings. Whatever, Stiles was into it. The money is great; the fucking is also great. It’s a win-win way to pay for college.

“Hey, buddy,” Scott says, cleaning some of his brushes. “Take off your shirt and sit down and we can start with your face and stuff.”

Scott’s soothing, easy to talk to. He isn’t weird about the fact that he’s doing full-body makeup for porn for a living; he’s just really easy-going. By the time Scott’s done, Stiles is relaxed and loose-limbed, ready to head out on set.

Day one is pretty straight-forward from the call sheet he’d gotten. The set is a big, open space with a fake office set up in the middle of it - large desk, wide-seated office chair, fake computer, the works. Now it’s just lighting techs and boom handlers setting up and testing; cameramen checking their equipment while Peter, dressed in an expensive looking suit, strokes one finger along the edge of the desk.

“You’ve uh, still got some time, if you need a drink or a snack,” someone says behind him, and Stiles turns to see the hottest cameraman he’s ever met. He’s tall and dark-haired, broad-shouldered the way Stiles likes and has frankly ridiculous eyes. His cheeks are flushed a little - probably from the heat of the lights and the weight of the camera he’s hefting.

Stiles licks his lips involuntarily. “Thanks,” he manages to say, eyes lingering on the guy’s soft-looking beard. “I’m Stiles,” he adds, holding out a hand.

He shifts the camera to his other shoulder in order to shake hands. “Derek,” he says with a nod. Derek’s hand is big and warm, calloused a little at the fingertips. Stiles drags his own fingers across his palm as they separate.

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles says, smiling up at Derek through his lashes. They’re of a height, but by now Stiles knows how to play to his strengths. “I’ll see you around,” he says, and decides to take Derek’s advice and grab a drink before they start shooting. He can feel Derek’s eyes lingering on him as he walks away.


The shoot is a classic. Peter leans back in his office chair, legs spread and suit stretched appealingly over his thighs, drags a hand down Stiles's back to cup his ass through his pants, slip his fingers down the seam and between his legs. Stiles leans further into the desk, arching his ass into Peter’s hands.

“If you wanted it so badly you should’ve said something,” he purrs, his other hand stroking along Stiles's cock through his pants. “You’ve been leaking practically since you arrived,” he adds, eyes lidded. Stiles swallows, keeps his gaze down and submissive.

When he doesn’t say anything, Peter slaps him quick and hard across one buttcheek, and Stiles gasps sharply. “Tell me,” Peter says, voice darker than it was a moment ago.

“I— I want you,” Stiles cries, arching into Peter’s hands, fingers clutching at the edge of the desk. “Please,” he adds wetly as Peter strokes his palms down his cheek again, soothing the sting.

Peter hums and drags his hand up Stiles's front, away from his cock, straining against the front of his suit pants, over his belly and up to his nipples, tight and pressing obscenely through the incredibly thin fabric of his shirt.

Derek, camera steady on his shoulder, moves in for the close-up. Stiles can imagine the shot, strains forward and arches his back to give the best angle: nipples pink and pert against the translucent white of his shirt, Peter’s fingers deftly unbuttoning just enough to slip inside and give them a tweak. Stiles cries out, eyes shuttering, and it’s not fake at all.

“Sensitive, are we?” Peter hums. He loosens Stiles's tie and pulls it off, tosses it down on the desk before impatiently unbuttoning the rest of Stiles's shirt, exposing his chest to the cool air of the studio. His hands are back immediately, tracing around his nipples but not actually touching them, and Stiles whines low in his throat.

“Please,” he moans, “Please, more.”

“More what?” Peter asks, but obligingly pulls Stiles onto his lap, his chest to Stiles's back. Stiles straddles one of his thighs, rocking gently against it, helpless. “Ah-ah,” Peter admonishes him as Derek re-adjusts for the shot. “Sluts like you don’t get to come until I say so.”

But that doesn’t stop him from bouncing his leg just a little, giving Stiles a jolt so he cries out again. “You’re not just greedy, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” he says right into the shell of Stiles's ear. Stiles moans and arches his neck for the camera. It’s a mixed shoot, and wolves always want a long stretch of neck, exposed and helpless. Peter isn’t allowed to leave marks, not this early in the five day shoot, but he can fake it well enough; presses his teeth to the skin and probably looks right into the camera lens as if to say, jealous?

“I’d bet you can’t sleep without something in your mouth, something in your ass,” Peter continues. “Greedy, all the time. How often do you wear a plug to the office? Did you think I couldn’t smell the arousal on you?” he continues, tugging Stiles's shirt back and down his arms, reaching for the tie on the desk and swiftly binding Stiles’s hands together behind his back. “Behaviour like that calls for a punishment, don’t you think?”

“Cut!” Finstock calls and Stiles sags back against Peter, panting a little and glad for the break. He’s got stamina, sure, and he’s a professional, but between riding Peter’s thigh and seeing Derek go for the close-up shot of his wet mouth, he’s grateful for the break. “Re-set for the next scene! Greenberg, keep your boom out of the shot, what do you think this is, Ass Bangers 4?”

There’s more, but Stiles tunes him out as Peter stands up and leans Stiles against the desk, heading off to craft services. Stiles takes the moment to close his eyes and breathe deeply, calm his racing heart. It’s easy to get carried away.

“Hey, do you need a drink?” Derek asks. Stiles opens his eyes to see Derek has brought his glass of water over.

“I’d love one, but I’m kind of tied up right now,” Stiles grins, turns a little to waggle his bound hands in Derek’s direction.

Derek swallows, once, and drags his eyes back up to Stiles's face, slow and heated. “I could uh, hold the glass for you,” he offers, eyes dipping back down to Stiles's mouth.

“Please,” Stiles says quietly, and enjoys the shiver Derek tries to hide before he lifts the glass to Stiles's mouth. He’s slow and careful, lets Stiles pause to swallow and drink his fill. “I’m good,” Stiles says eventually. “Thanks, Derek.”

“No problem,” Derek says, faux-casual, and leaves to put the glass away.

They re-set, the desk angled aside slightly for a better view. Stiles kneels on the floor between Peter’s spread legs, hands still bound behind his back and shirt pushed down his shoulders. When Finstock yells action, Peter slowly begins to unbuckle his belt, slip the button of his pants free and drag down the zipper.

Stiles licks his lips and it’s only half-acting. He loves sucking cock.

“Eager little slut,” Peter purrs, pulling his cock free of his pants and giving it a few strokes. He’s already hard, long and flushed, leaking a little. Stiles tries to lean forward for a taste only to have Peter grab him by the hair and tilt his head back.

“Are you hungry for it?” he asks. “You want this in your mouth, down your throat?” He grips himself just below the head and drags the tip of his cock across Stiles's lower lip, his cheek, leaving a salty streak behind that Stiles chases with his tongue.

He moans again, flutters his eyelashes for the camera and pants a little, wet and open-mouthed. “Be good and I might even give you what you really want,” Peter murmurs, boom mic close over his head to pick up the line. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I could keep you here, just like this,” he continues, slowly feeding his dick into Stiles's open mouth. “Let you suck me off during meetings, show off that pretty pink mouth of yours, how hungry it is for my cock.”

He stops when he’s all the way in, balls pressed against Stiles's chin, Stiles's lips stretched wide around Peter’s girth, spit slipping out the sides. Stiles breathes through his nose when Peter pulls back finally, raises his gaze to stare with mute gratitude before Peter thrusts back in again. “You’re so easy for it,” Peter continues, thrusting slowly back and forth, one hand tugging at Stiles's hair, shifting him on his cock like his own personal sex toy. “I could fuck your face all day and it wouldn’t be enough for you. Leave you sore and slick and you’d still only be able to think about how empty your ass is, how much you want a big alpha cock inside you.”

He pulls out all the way, leaving a string of spit and pre-come connecting his dick to Stiles's open mouth, lips red and abused already, throat sore and loving every minute of it. “My own personal slut,” Peter grins, gripping his hair and tilting his head back before slapping his cheek with his wet dick. Stiles pants, eyes closed and mouth open and waits for Peter to use his mouth again, to just take.

When nothing happens, he blinks up at him. “Tell me what you want,” Peter says evenly. He looks almost unaffected, other than his dick, still red, hard, and angry with need.

“I want you to fuck my face,” Stiles complains, voice hoarse from sucking cock.

“Is that what you really want?” Peter asks, running his thumb along Stiles's slick lower lip for the cameras. “Are you sure? You can’t lie to a werewolf, you know,” he adds, flashing his alpha-red eyes.

Stiles gulps, keeping his head tilted so Derek can get a good shot of his throat working, of him licking his lips and flushing a little at having to ask. “I— I want…”

Peter waits, his gaze assessing and patient as Stiles squirms, still half-dressed and kneeling between Peter and the desk, his cock straining against his zipper.

“I want you to knot me,” he says all in one breath, closing his eyes, pretending to be embarrassed, shy.

Leaning down, Peter grips him by the chin and waits for him to open his eyes. “All you had to do was ask,” he says quietly.


There’s another scene break while they both cool down a little, and Derek returns with a full glass of water for Stiles to greedily drink from. “You’re the best,” he says when he’s had his fill. “Seriously, the best. But uh, can I ask another favour?”

Derek shrugs and says, “Sure,” but his hands twitch a little as he sets the glass down, belying his casual tone.

“Can you rub my wrists a little? I have to keep the tie on, but my hands are kind of stiff.”

Derek is behind him in an instant, gently pushing the shirt sleeves aside and massaging the feeling back into his hands, one finger at a time. He works his way up and over the bones of his hands and the flesh of his thumb before digging in under the edges of the tie, loosening it just slightly. “It won’t look any different on camera,” Derek says when Stiles glances over his shoulder at him. “But it should feel better.”

“Thanks, I really owe you one,” Stiles sighs, relaxing into Derek’s touch.

“Back in five!” Finstock yells, startling both of them. “Everyone better have their big boy pants on, because we’re on the last leg! Except you, Stilinski,” he adds after a moment. “You just keep on whatever the fuck it is wardrobe put you in until someone tears it off you.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Stiles calls back dryly. Way to kill the mood.


For the final scene, Stiles is back leaning over the desk as Peter finally unzips his pants and tugs them down and off. He got his shoes and socks off during set-up, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about tripping over himself when it’s time for the actual penetration. Especially with his arms still bound behind his back.

Peter pulls a bottle of lube out of the top desk drawer and slicks up two fingers, not giving him any warning before thrusting them inside and crooking them against his prostate. Stiles can’t help but keen and press his cheek against the cool surface of the desk, thrusting back against Peter’s fingers, his dick hanging hard and untouched.

“M-more,” he pants, spreading his legs further. Peter chuckles.

“I knew you’d be greedy and wet for this,” he says, thrusting his fingers back in and stretching them against the rim. “Hot and wet and greedy for something to fill you up. That plug you wear isn’t anything like the real thing, is it? What you really want,” he says, pulling out to slick up a third finger and thrust them back in, “what you need is to be fucked hard, filled. I bet nothing satisfies you except an alpha’s knot, am I right?”

Stiles mewls a little, panting, open mouthed. “Please,” he begs again. “Please, give it to me, I want it, I need it, I need you in me,” he cries as Peter spanks one cheek and then the other, leaving the skin flushed and pink for Derek to film.

“You’ll take what I give you,” Peter says. “If I could, I’d fill up that mouth of yours at the same time, give you something to suck on.” He says it like a threat, but Stiles whines again, thrusting back against his fingers and forward against only air, unsatisfied.

“Oh, you like that idea?” Peter asks as though it isn’t obvious. “Maybe one day I’ll let you come to a board meeting, pass you around the table, keep both of these greedy holes full and wet,” he muses as though to himself. Stiles whines again, deliberately flexes his hole for the camera.

“For now you’ll ride my knot,” Peter says, unruffled, and hauls Stiles upright, slipping his hand free and turns Stiles to face him, leaning back in his chair. “Come on,” he says, patting his own thigh, dick throbbing red and spearing out of his pants, still fully dressed. “Ride me.”

It’s hard, with his hands bound, but Stiles gets both knees up onto the chair on either side of Peter’s legs, and tries to shift down, clumsy with want and exhaustion. Peter’s cock is already slick and it slides against his crack twice as Stiles whines, unable to actually get it inside him.

“Hmm,” Peter hums, “I suppose I have to do everything after all,” and stills Stiles's hips with one hand, grips his cock and directs it up against his hole with the other. “Take it like a good little slut,” Peter says soothingly, thumb stroking once, twice against Stiles's hip bone as he works himself down onto Peter’s cock.

It’s not the thickest he’s taken, not even close, but it’s long and curved nicely, and it feels like he has to keep sinking down forever before he’s fully seated. He ducks his head down to pant against Peter’s shoulder, quivering at the deep stretch of it, luxuriating for a moment before Peter slaps his butt again, earning another startled cry.

“I asked you to ride me,” he says. “I’ve already done most of the work. I’d have thought a greedy slut like you would be happy to do at least this much.” He raises an eyebrow in challenge as Stiles pulls his head up off his shoulder to glare ineffectually at him. “Show me you deserve my knot.”

Stiles lifts himself up until just the tip of Peter is still inside him before sinking back down slowly; repeats it again, working up speed. His own dick slaps against his stomach as he shifts with each thrust, trying to find the best angle. Peter strokes one hand down his side and back up to his mouth, slips two fingers inside for Stiles to suckle.

“That’s more like it,” he purrs, watching his fingers slip in and out of his mouth, slick with saliva. “You were made to be fucked.” He pulls his fingers free, ignoring Stiles's disappointed whine, and presses them against the rim of Stiles's hole where he’s still thrusting in and out.

“Soon I’ll stretch you out with my knot, fill you up with come and tie you. Send you home leaking in your pants like the slut you are. Every wolf on your way home will know what you did today, how you gave it up for me,” he says, slipping just the tip of his finger in alongside his cock and grinning at Stiles's groan. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For everyone to know just how filthy and easy you are for it.” It’s not a question.

Stiles whines again, helpless, closing his eyes only to cry out when Peter takes one nipple in his mouth and suckles. He’s panting now, his cock leaking steadily, and he looks right to meet Derek’s gaze for just a moment, enough to signal that he’s going to come soon. Derek licks his lips and re-adjusts for the shot.

“I, I—” Stiles stutters, bouncing in Peter’s lap like he just can’t help himself. “I’m—”

Peter growls at that, grabs both hips with his hands and pulls him down hard and fast, keeps him held tight as deep as he can go, Peter’s knot swelling against his prostate. “Come for me,” he growls and Stiles arches his back for the camera, neck curved and comes hard against his own belly, untouched. He groans as Peter ties them together, coming and coming and coming until it’s leaking out and Stiles slumps against Peter’s chest, breathing hard.

Stiles pants, turns his face to the camera. “It’s, it’s so big,” he gasps out, shifting his hips and moaning again at the pressure. “I’m, nnngh, so full.”

Peter pulls his head back to meet his gaze, eyes alpha red again. “And now that you know what the real thing is like, whatever will happen to your plug?” he asks with a low growl.

“Guess I’ll just have to come here when I want something instead,” Stiles says, dropping his gaze again and licking his lips. “Come see you.”

Peter grins, feral and wide. “We might have a new position in the company for you, if you’re willing to apply.”

Stiles smiles, still feigning shy despite the fact that he’s knotted on a werewolf cock, covered in jizz. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“And CUT!” Finstock yells.


When they can finally separate, Derek helps Stiles off Peter’s lap and unbinds his hands, rubbing the feeling back into his wrists and handing him a robe. “Are you okay to get to the showers?” he asks, concerned.

Stiles smiles reassuringly at him, exhausted and happy. “Sure,” he says, but his knees buckle a little when he tries to take a step. Derek catches him by the elbow and keeps him upright.

“How about I help you there, just in case?” he asks dryly, and Stiles laughs a little.

“I— that’d be really nice, actually,” he admits, and stumbles along, bowlegged and kept upright only through Derek’s careful work, all the way to the showers. By the time they get there he’s steadier on his feet and a little more clear-headed. He’s almost ready to ask Derek to join him when Derek lets go and steps back.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, with a half-smile, ducking back down the hall. Stiles leans against the door and watches him go. It’d probably be a bad idea to sleep with someone in the middle of a five-day shoot anyway. After all, tomorrow is supposed to be even more demanding.

Chapter Text

Derek looks pissed when he catches sight of Stiles coming on set, and Stiles only has a minute to try and figure out what he’s done before Derek’s stalking forward.

“Do you know what they can—what they’re going to do?” he snarls.

“No?” Stiles blinks at him, and he doesn’t mean to make it a question, but Derek’s vehemence is making him nervous. “I mean, I’m not stupid, I signed a contract. I have a rough outline of events, other than the surprise move Finstock was all—”

“How am I going to know if you’re not alright?” Derek snaps, cutting him off. That’s… not his job. That is in fact what the studio pays someone who isn’t a cameraman for, usually. Someone has to make sure the performers are safe and comfortable enough to keep shooting.

He doesn’t think Derek would like that answer, so he says, “Can’t you can hear my heartbeat? I won’t be subtle, I promise.”

Derek still looks a little dissatisfied by that, so Stiles says, “Tell you what, you watch my hands. When everything is good, I’ll try to give you a thumbs up.”

Derek’s eyes drop to his hands, study his fingers for a long moment and then he gives a short, sharp nod.

“Good,” Stiles says. “Dude, do you think they have any of those muffins left at catering?”


Scott drags him to make-up eventually, sits him down and gets working. He lets Stiles talk the way he always does, lets Stiles burn off all his nervous energy before kicking him out onto the set.

The twins are waiting for him there, and the set is bare, stripped, grim. “What is this supposed to be?” Stiles asks. “An abandoned train station? This is a little unrealistic.”

“Realism isn’t anywhere near the point today, Bilinski,” Finstock says, and then Stiles gets a look at his co-stars.

They’re pretty unimpressive. Stiles has worked with a lot of people in his time with the studio, but these two doofuses are something else. They look like the children of Matt Damon and a tree stump and Stiles carefully blanks his face before introducing himself.

“I’m Aiden,” the one on the left says. “This is Ethan.” His voice is high, squeaky, almost a little whiny and Stiles is a little disappointed. From the way everyone was acting, Stiles thought he was in for something special.

Almost as if they read his mind, Ethan says, “So you’re in the dark about our special skill?” He grins, big and mean, and Stiles feels his stomach go a little hot with anticipation.

“Can’t imagine I’ll be that impressed,” Stiles says, faking a yawn.

“We’ll see,” Aiden says, smirking and they take their places. Stiles is playing a damsel role, wandering timidly into the den.

He puts on an uncertain, worried face, walks carefully over the cold cement, says “hello?” with a tremble to his voice.

“Look what we have here,” Ethan says, stepping out of the shadows, and that’s it for the script. Stiles fakes a little surprise and shock over the way they rip him out of his clothes, but for the most part, he stays pliant, easy. He’s a plaything here, a mouse for two cats to toy with and they don’t hesitate before getting him on his knees. Ethan gets his pants unbuckled quickly, tilts Stiles’s face where he wants it and thrusts in, carelessly.

Stiles takes it, relaxes his throat and settles firmly on his knees. Ethan’s thrusts are rhythmic, fast but shallow, the way Stiles likes it. They work together, Ethan’s fingers twisting into Stiles’s hair and Stiles licking and sucking when he can, dragging his tongue along the underside of Ethan’s cock every time it withdraws.

Stiles gets lost in the movement for a bit, and doesn’t come back to himself until he feels Aiden’s fingers dig into his scalp, pulling Stiles from Ethan’s cock and onto his own. Where Ethan had been kind, Aiden is harsh, and Stiles has to focus on not gagging, not choking.

It helps when he feels Ethan move behind him, nudging his knees wide. Aiden moves back a step, holding Stiles’s head so that Stiles is forced to move with him, to shift onto all fours. Stiles hears Ethan spit, and then there’s a cool, wet feeling on his hole, dripping down his taint.

It should be gross. He should be grossed out. He doesn’t know if Derek’s even watching, but he crooks his thumb up, folds the rest of his fingers in towards his palm and holds the sign for a minute. It is okay. There’s something here, in the way they’re putting their hands on him that’s making his belly hot and his cock fill. They move in sync, chasing their own pleasures, moving him and tilting him to suit their purposes, and he never thought that would be something he’d be into, but he is.

Ethan gives him two fingers right away, a quick jab inside that makes Stiles hiss and arch away, but he keeps his thumb right where it is, steady and sure. It gives him something to focus on, relaxing and giving into the stretch. Soon, probably a little too soon, Ethan gets him up to three, and then to four.

Stiles pulls off Aiden’s cock to crane his neck at Ethan. “What are you doing back there?” he says. “I didn’t sign up for fisting,” he adds, trying to sound nervous.

“You’re going to want all the prep you can get,” Ethan says, adding more lube to the slick mess already inside him. Stiles has had both their cocks in his mouth by now. He’s not really impressed.

“Gonna love our surprise,” Aiden says, humming a little, pleased. He slaps Stiles’s mouth with his cock, once on the left and once on the right, like a perverted version of a socialite’s kiss.

Stiles can feel the sticky trails of precome it leaves behind on his cheekbones and obligingly opens his mouth again when Aiden presses on his jaw. This time, however, he doesn’t fuck right towards the back of Stiles’s throat, but pushes his cock into the soft plushness of Stiles’s cheek. Stiles feels it bulging out, the cockhead pulling the skin taut where it won’t stretch any further. Aiden runs his fingertips over Stiles’s face, feeling his cock from the outside, teasing himself with light strokes. Stiles could literally be a fucktoy right now, he thinks, and the thought doesn’t repulse him; doesn’t make him any less hard.

“Up,” Ethan says and Aiden releases him, helps him to his feet. Stiles stretches a little, while he can, shakes some feeling back into his hands where they’ve been strained supporting his weight while they adjust the cameras.

He looks up to see Derek watching him, those hot eyes burning into his skin, and he can’t help it, he saunters over to where Ethan’s sitting, swinging his hips, showy. Ethan’s got his knees spread wide, loosely fucking up into his fist and it’s nothing to swing his legs over Ethan’s thighs and slides down onto his dick.

Ethan makes a satisfying grunt as he does, his hands settling on Stiles’s hips, holding tight as Stiles gets all the way down. He’s got a little leverage in this position; enough to push up onto his toes and then let gravity ease him back down. Ethan helps him with minute lifts of his hips, rocking into Stiles’s movement as he rides him, and it’s good, sparking that place inside.

It goes on like that for a bit before he hears Finstock say something in the background. Then he’s being pressed forward, held closer to Ethan’s body so that Aiden can thumb roughly at his rim.

“Ahh,” he sighs out, as Aiden works a finger in. He’s done DP before, and it’s not that big of a deal but it takes some careful concentration to relax his muscles, to stay loose and limp enough to take it.

Ethan settles a hand on the nape of his neck, holds him down for these little punches up, letting his balls smack noisily against Stiles’s skin as Aiden works a second finger in, methodically demanding Stiles let him in.

“More lube,” Stiles mutters low into Ethan’s ear, and he knows the camera won’t pick it up but Ethan does, subtly rolls the bottle towards Aiden’s outstretched hand. The extra slick makes the difference, and Stiles is rocking into it, pressing down onto Ethan’s dick and Aiden’s fingers.

“He’s slutty for it,” Aiden comments and Stiles flushes at the way it’s not directed to him, but to Ethan, as if Stiles can’t hear them, can’t understand.

“Better give it to him then,” Ethan says and with one last press of his fingers, Aiden withdraws. Stiles can hear him slicking his cock, and then he’s back, pressing up against Stiles, guiding his cock to where Stiles is already stretched open.

There’s a moment when Stiles does this where he thinks it’s not going to fit, that he’s not going to be able to take it, that this is the moment where he’s going to rip right in half. But he breathes deep, holds onto Ethan’s shoulders and relaxes, letting Aiden in. It does fit, it always does and after a minute it even starts to feel good.

He sees the camera, sees Derek circling behind the twins to take a close-up of his face, slack with pleasure and sensation. He can barely get the coordination together to press his thumbs up where Derek can see it, but he does. Then Ethan moves, shifts inside of him and it hits something inside Stiles, something that makes him groan, low and throaty.

Aiden snickers, making Stiles flush a little, but he doesn’t care, not really. He knows what looks good on him, and he doesn’t even try to focus his eyes, to do anything but bite his lip raw and red, and rock his hips down on them as best he can.

Ethan takes the first tentative thrust, fucking up, dragging his cock against Aiden’s in a slick, sinuous slide. His hips only just settle back when Aiden’s moving and then they’ve got a rhythm, moving in tandem, fucking against each other inside him. It’s a lot to handle, to focus on, and he lets it haze over him a little, groaning deep when one of them twists at his nipple. The sharp pain gets him to focus a little more, and he leans in to bite at Ethan’s neck, right at the joint of his shoulder.

“Fuck,” Ethan hisses and he loses the beat, fucking up hard in a rough jab that startles a grunt out of Stiles, almost shaking Aiden off of Stiles’s back.

“Can’t handle it?” Aiden says, mocking. “The little human knocking you off your game?”

“Fuck off,” Ethan says.

“Maybe it’s time we pool our resources,” Aiden says. Which—doesn’t really make sense.

Stiles is trying to make sense of that one when he sees Ethan lean up, craning his neck towards Aiden, and he thinks they’re kissing maybe, kissing over his shoulder, and he doesn’t know how he feels about that.

But they aren’t kissing, not really. It’s getting blurry, the scent of magic in the air, and the ground is getting farther away, like Stiles is rising up from it which doesn’t make sense at all.

Then he pulls back to look, the weight on his back completely gone and finds himself speared on a monster cock, held tightly by large, heavy hands, staring down at a fanged werewolf who is neither Aiden nor Ethan, but somehow both.

Surprise, he thinks, almost hysterically and it feels like the whole room has frozen to see what he’s gonna do, see how he’ll react.

He lifts up, tentative, testing, and then slowly, slowly eases back down. He hears the snarl underneath him, and he snarls right back. Not yet, he thinks, vicious. You’re gonna wait for me.

It takes a few more strokes, takes him lifting and shifting around, searching for the right angle before it starts to feel good again, like something he could bear. He tilts his head down again to bite at the shoulder beneath him, signalling that he’s okay to go ahead; that he can take this and more.

The challenge is accepted, because he gets the fucking of his life after that.

He’s held still and pounded, that heavy cock shoved in him again and again, knocking mercilessly into his prostate until he’s gasping, overloaded. He shoots Derek their sign, because he doesn’t want it to end, but it’s a lot and he can feel his eyes watering; can’t stop the choking sobs escaping him with every thrust.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he gasps, and digs his nails in, holds on for dear life.

“Take it,” he hears, “Fucking just—”

“I am,” he grits out, “But if you fucking knot me, I’ll chop your dick off.”

Unbelievably there’s a laugh from behind him somewhere, and Stiles thinks it’s Derek, hopes it is. He clenches down, thinking about Derek smiling at him, amused, enjoying himself and that’s it, he’s shouting into an orgasm, completely untouched.

The twins fuck into him a few more times, enough that he gets sensitive, whining and twisting to angle away from his prostate. But before it becomes too much, they roar and crush him down, holding him to their singular chest as the largest load Stiles has ever felt gets pumped into his ass.

“Fuck,” he sighs out and sags down, boneless and exhausted. There’s the crisp, sharp smell of magic again and he feels the twins separate, leaving him straddling only Ethan.

“You did good,” Ethan says, brushing his sweaty hair away from his face.

“Go fuck yourself with a telephone pole and I’ll tell you how good you do,” Stiles says.

Ethan laughs, and says “You going to help me with this?” and Stiles thinks he’s talking to Aiden at first but then Derek’s touching his shoulders, helping him to sit up, and then stand, easing him off of Ethan’s dick.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, and scrubs his face. Now that the adrenaline’s left him, he feels a little sore, achy with the promise of more ache to come.

Derek doesn’t bother asking him if he wants help this time, just scoops Stiles into his arms and bodily carries Stiles to his dressing room, props Stiles against the wall and flicks on the shower.

“I’m not going to look,” Derek says, grimacing. “But I’d rather stay here until I’m sure you’re not going to fall and brain yourself.”

“Why wouldn’t you look?” Stiles says, stepping into the blessedly hot water. “Are you going to see something more obscene than what you just filmed?”

“Shut up,” Derek says. “Get a move on, I don’t have all day.” But Stiles gets the feeling that he would wait there, leaning against the bathroom wall for as long as Stiles needed. He’s worked in porn a long time and never seen anyone who cares about his work as much as Derek does. It’s strange.

“All right, big guy,” Stiles says, eventually, when he feels almost human again. “Can you hand me a towel?”

He expects Derek to toss him one, maybe with a quip about being a lazybones but Derek does neither. When Stiles draws back the curtain, Derek’s waiting with the towel extended, and he carefully envelopes Stiles in it, briskly rubs the remaining water droplets from Stiles’s skin and then wraps it around him tightly, making Stiles feel bizarrely like he’s just been tucked into bed.

“You’re a strange dude,” he tells Derek, leaning in to press his shoulder briefly to Derek’s. “But thank you.”

“No problem,” Derek says quietly and settles his hand on the nape of Stiles’s neck, guiding him carefully into the main dressing room.

Stiles crosses over to where his bags are, pulls out the loose sweatpants and soft t-shirt he prefers after days like this, when he’s been worked over enough to be tender. He looks up, and Derek’s still standing there, a little awkwardly.

“I got this part,” Stiles says, laughing a little. “I’m good.”

“I know,” Derek says, quickly. “I just thought, I could take your pain, if you wanted.”

At first, Stiles wants to reject the offer. He almost does before the other, more rational part of him kicks in and reminds him that he has three more days of this. He scratches his chin, and then shrugs, says “Okay, yeah, if you want.”

He thinks Derek will just grab his arm, take his pain impersonally, like a doctor taking someone’s pulse, but Derek seems to want him to lie down on the long green couch, to stretch out on his stomach and settle.

Derek leans over him, places his hands on Stiles’s shoulder blades and kneads for a moment, almost like a massage. Then Stiles feels it, the warmth that seeps in under Derek’s hands, spreading across his back and over his entire body. He sighs deeply, the aches seeming to melt away, leaving him a lump on the couch. He hopes Derek doesn’t mind if he falls asleep, just naps for a minute, maybe five.

Right before he’s sucked under into unconsciousness, he feels a soft brush against his temple. But there’s no time to wonder, because the warm blackness takes him over, and bone-tired and content, he sleeps.

Chapter Text

The third day starts with a brief, behind-the-scenes interview for the DVD, and honestly, Stiles is glad to have a little extra time after the day before. He has to get his makeup done by Scott first, but he gets to change into casual clothes, doesn’t even have to change them for the shoot after. First one where he wasn’t in some form of costume.

“Just head out back,” Scott tells him when he’s passed muster. “Derek’s out there with the camera.”

It’s a relief, really, that it’s not Finstock who will be interviewing him. “Thanks,” he says, and rolls the sleeves of the grey henley up to his forearms on his way out to the back. There’s an industrial door propped open with a brick, and he steps through it and into the sunshine, blinking a little to re-adjust to the light.

“Hey,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles turns to see him sitting on an overturned milk crate, his back to a hedge separating the back lot of the studio from the surrounding real estate. “How are you feeling?” He looks a little awkward again, unsure somehow, and Stiles gives him a lopsided smile.

“Not bad,” he says. “A lot better than I would have. Thanks for that again, by the way.”

Derek looks down at his camera like it might know what to say. “Don’t mention it,” he says finally. “Ready for your interview?”

“Sure,” Stiles agrees. If Derek wants to change the subject he’s not going to push and make him uncomfortable. “Where do you want me?”

Derek’s ears go pink at that which is adorable, especially considering the dude films porn for a living. “Uh, let’s swap places,” he says, standing up.

It’s probably a good spot for an interview; quiet, good light. Derek pulls another milk crate over with one foot and sits down so they’re at the same height, sets the camera up on his shoulder.

“It’s day three of the five dickings in five days,” Derek says, sounding resigned. “Has it been as good as it looks?”

“Better,” Stiles says with a wink, slipping into what he thinks of as media-mode. He doesn’t have to do many interviews or behind the scenes talks, but he knows there’s a certain image or expectation he has to live up to; a different version of himself he has to present. “Can’t you tell?”

“Did you have a favorite scene so far?” Derek asks.

Stiles pretends to think about it a bit. “Hm, I mean it’s hard to choose,” he says. “There’s a lot of… talent, and it’s only day three.” He grins a little. “I like it any time I get to come, or to bring someone else off,” he says finally.

There are a few more questions, mostly setting Stiles up to imply all sorts of filthy things about himself and hint at the next few days of shooting.

When they’re done, Derek relaxes a little, sets the camera down in his lap and starts swapping out the memory card. Stiles just leans back against the hedge, enjoys the feeling of the sun on his face and closes his eyes.

“Today will be better,” Derek says quietly. “Easier.”

Stiles hums. “Gotta break it up a little bit if they want me to still be able to walk on the last day.” He blinks his eyes open to find Derek staring at him intently, only to immediately look away.

“I— They wouldn’t let it go that far,” he says after a beat.

“It’s not that bad,” Stiles says, stretching. He stands up and dusts his hands off on the fabric of his jeans. “I’m having a good time, it’s just about pacing myself,” he says.

Derek looks a conflicted but huffs out a sigh. “We should get back on set,” he says. “They’ll be almost done setting up by now.”


The set up is a kind of first time friends with benefits thing, Stiles supposes. Danny, his co-star for the day, seems pretty easygoing and is definitely easy on the eyes, and there’s some token effort put into setting the scene.

The gist of it though, is a big bed covered in white sheets and a fluffy duvet that probably looks softer on camera than it actually is in real life. It’s a pretty nice bedroom set-up, but it’s all just window dressing for the fact that ten seconds after “meeting” Danny on screen, Stiles gets to shyly pull a box of vibrators out from under the bed.

Danny flips it open and pushes aside a few overly-complicated pieces before wrapping his hand around a long green and gold vibrator with a solid-looking handle. “Have you used this one before?” he asks, weighing it in one hand.

Stiles clenches his fist in the duvet and bites his lip. “I mean, I tried but I couldn’t really get the angle just where I wanted it.” He glances back at Danny. “Could you help me out?”

“We can start slow,” Danny says, setting the vibrator aside. He fishes the lube out of the box, then tucks the rest of it back under the bed, out of sight, and just reaches out to gently pull Stiles in for a kiss. It’s slow and wet, and Danny strokes his thumb up into the hinge of Stiles's jaw to tilt his head to go deeper. Stiles groans and lets himself relax and lean into it.

He’s cautious to put his hands on Danny, to settle one tentatively on his shoulder. “You can touch me, you know,” Danny breaks the kiss to say, pressing his forehead against Stiles’. “Anything you want, I mean it,” he adds, and drags Stiles's hand down and dips it under the edge of his own shirt.

“I— I don’t want to screw up,” Stiles says, fiddling with the hem, and Danny kisses him again, soft and gentling before breaking away to pull his shirt up and off entirely, tossing it to the floor.

“You can’t,” he says simply. “We’re just going to have fun.” And with that he reaches out to pull Stiles's shirt off, too, and Stiles just lets him do as he pleases.

He lays back on the bed when Danny presses forward against him until they’re lying together, Danny on top of him, pressing one thigh against the crotch of his jeans and starts mouthing his way down Stiles's chest.

“That’s it,” he says as Stiles writhes under him. “You’re doing so well, just let me take care of everything.” Danny’s voice is soft and easy, and it’s not hard to see why he was cast for this shoot, all dimples and boy next door good looks.

When he unbuttons Stiles's jeans and tugs them down just enough to expose the top of his boxer-briefs, Stiles rolls his hips as if he’s not used to anyone getting up close and personal there. Danny settles him with long strokes down the outside of his thighs before reaching in to pull his cock up and expose the head. He tugs the boxer briefs and jeans down just enough that he can get his mouth around the head and lick at it like he’s got all the time in the world.

“See?” he asks. “Give it up to me and I’ll make sure you feel good.” He jacks Stiles slowly, licks lazily at the slit and the precome that wells up there.

“I, I,” Stiles stutters, “I’ve never—”

“I know,” Danny shushes him before sucking him down deep and pulling back again to just palm his dick like he’s not even concerned with his own erection pressing hard against his zipper.

“Can I, do you—” Stiles catches sight of Derek while he’s writhing on the sheets and flushes involuntarily. It’s one thing to film something over the top filthy in front of the guy but this shoot, even as scripted and staged and fake as it is, feels more intimate and exposed.

“Just let me….” Danny trails off before pulling back entirely in order to tug Stiles's jeans and underwear off together, “Just let me see you,” he says, and lifts Stiles’s legs up so his knees splay open over Danny’s shoulders.

He plays at trying to close his legs or cover himself but Danny just pets his stomach slowly, leans down to lick again at the head of his dick and smiles back up at him. “You’re beautiful, come on, just let me see,” he whispers. “Please?”

And Stiles can’t say no to that. He groans a little and flops back, lets his legs splay open again, and covers his eyes with his forearm as if embarrassed. “Okay,” he says quietly, and in the silence he can hear the snap of the lube, the slick sound of Danny warming it between his fingers before he presses one finger in slow circles around Stiles's hole.

Stiles moans at that, whimpers a little as Danny presses just one finger inside. “It feels so, so different,” he says, working some awe into his voice.

“Do you like it?” Danny asks, pulling out to get more lube, coming back with two fingers and crooking them gently.

“Aaaah,” Stiles arches into the touch and drops his arm to prop himself up on his elbows. “Do that again,” he demands, breathless, and then drops his head back when Danny does.

“Yeah,” Danny murmurs to himself, “I thought you’d like that. I know what you need,” he says, going back in with a third finger as Stiles mewls and pants on the bed. “I’ll make it so good for you,” he promises again and Stiles nods frantically.

“Please,” he agrees, “Anything, just, more?”

Danny grins and grabs the vibrator to slick it up. “Definitely more,” he agrees, and pushes the vibrator inside him in one slick shove as Stiles keens.

“How does that feel?” he asks as Stiles trembles and tries to hold still.

“F-Full,” Stiles stumbles, shifting his hips experimentally. “Aa-aah, and, and good.”

“It’s only going to get better,” Danny grins, still half dressed and looking a little bit more like a shark. He presses a button and Stiles howls as the vibrator buzzes to life.

Danny doesn’t ask, doesn’t check with Stiles before he starts thrusting the vibrator back and forth, pressing in and angling it until Stiles jolts and spasms with almost a scream.

“There it is,” he says, smugly, and holds the vibrator against that spot until Stiles can’t hold back any more.

“I, I, I’m,” Stiles gasps wetly, turns his head to look right at one of the lights until his eyes water so it looks like he’s crying. “I’m,”

“Go ahead,” Danny says, carelessly. “Come for me.”

And Stiles does, spills all over his chest and belly and heaves with sobs as he comes down from it. Danny keeps fucking him with the vibrator through the whole thing until Stiles weakly tries to pull away from it.

“Good boy,” Danny says, turning the vibrator off and tossing it aside on the bed. “Now it’s my turn. You’ll be good for me, right?”

Stiles lolls his head to one side to blink up at Danny who is shucking his jeans off and tossing them aside.

“What?” he asks, weak and wet-eyed.

“I bet you feel so good now,” Danny continues, lifting one of Stiles's legs up over his shoulder. “Loose and relaxed. You’ll feel so good getting the real thing now. Do you want that?” he asks, but he’s already lined up and holding his cockhead against Stiles's hole, just tapping it against the slick give and flex of it rhythmically and Stiles can’t help but press back a little.

“Yeah,” he agrees, breathless. “Yeah, please, I—”

Danny doesn’t wait for more, just thrusts home and groans. “I knew you’d be like this,” he says, hardly taking a moment to breathe before setting up a fast pace, thrusting almost carelessly into Stiles, hitching his other leg up, too, so they’re both over Danny’s shoulders. “So easy for it, for me.”

Stiles keens again, digs the fingers of both hands into the sheets and just lets Danny ride him, press into him again and again with abandon. It feels good, this soon after coming. Danny’s thrusts aren’t concerned with Stiles's pleasure, but nonetheless he hits that spot inside him more often than not, and Stiles starts to get hard again.

“Da-a-anny,” he whines, stuttering through the thrusts.

“Yeah, I could tell you’d be like this. Never had,” Danny pants a little, thrusts gaining force, “never had anyone inside you before but you love it, don’t you? I could just, fu-fuck you forever like this,” he says, getting ragged. “How many times do you think you could come?”

Stiles releases his grip on the sheets in favour of reaching for his dick but only gets in two or three pulls before Danny bats his hand away. “Nuh-uh,” he says, breathless, “you’re going to come on my cock or not at all. Come on, I know you’re slutty for it; for me.”

He grips hard at Stiles's thighs, leans forward and practically bends Stiles in half, and it changes the angle completely, driving him right against Stiles's prostate with every rough thrust of his hips.

Over-stimulated, that’s all it takes; Stiles comes again, less this time but adding to the mess on his chest, and goes limp and pliant, lets Danny use him with abandon.

“I’m your first,” Danny pants aggressively, speeding up, “the first one to do this to you, to make you come without even a hand on you.” Stiles moans again at that, and he can tell Danny is almost ready to come finally. He’s waiting for it now, almost too-sensitive and greedy for the hot rush inside him.

But Danny pulls out at the last minute and drops Stiles's legs, straddles his waist and jerks his own cock four, five times before coming all over Stiles's open, panting mouth, painting his cheeks and neck with hot stripes of come. Stiles catches as much as he can on his tongue and swallows it with a pleased groan, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Good boy,” Danny pants, flopping down next to him. “Now hold still. I like to cuddle.”


Weirdly, Derek is almost more protective and careful after the shoot with Danny than he was after the twins. He doesn’t even ask, just carefully helps Stiles to his feet and herds him along to the showers, one hand on the small of his back.

“I’m good, you know,” Stiles says over the rush of the water. He knows Derek is waiting just outside with a towel again. “I just feel really,” he hums, rinses the conditioner from his hair, settles for, “relaxed.”

When he shuts off the water Derek is already in the doorway with the towel, but today he gently, methodically rubs Stiles's hair dry before wrapping him up in the towel and guiding him back out to the dressing room.

“You—liked that?” Derek asks, cautious and still bristly as Stiles finishes drying off.

“What’s not to like?” Stiles shrugs, stepping into a clean pair of underwear.

Derek frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. “A first time shouldn’t be— it should be more—” he scowls, visibly frustrated and Stiles can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, sure, but you know that wasn’t my first time. You literally have filmed me for a whole two other days of porn before today, and I’ve still got two more left in this shoot.” That doesn’t seem to help, somehow.

“I just… I’d want better for you,” he says finally.

And oh, Stiles gets it. Derek’s a romantic. He wouldn’t have really guessed it based on his looks, but now that he knows it all kind of fits. “Hey,” he says quietly. “My first time wasn’t like that,” well, not exactly anyway, “and I hope yours wasn’t, either. I hope it was whatever you needed it to be.”

The look Derek gives him is assessing and a little bit thoughtful. Stiles steps back to finish pulling on his clothes. “Anyways, I’ll uh, see you tomorrow, big guy,” he says with an awkward wave and stumbles on down the hallway.

Honestly, Stiles hasn’t been this awkward around a crush since the first time he met Lydia.

Chapter Text

One of Stiles's favorite types of shoots is the DILF theme, and today promises to be a good one. They’re generally a little easier. Older guys tend to like to take their time and really work him over, but they’re also happy to do most of the work.

Shooting with Peter was usually like that, mostly taking whatever he could dish out, but this would be his first day shooting with Chris Argent. He’d seen his work before (okay, jerked off to it repeatedly, but whatever, he’s still a college kid with needs) and he’s definitely ready to see if he’s as good as he looks on screen.

Stiles has to give the set guys credit. Everything else had been pretty basic, but they went all out on the make out point set. The fake grass is actually pretty soft, and they’ve put some padding under the picnic blanket and build a bit of a backdrop to look like they’re really outside.

Chris is already there, laughing with one of the sound techs and finishing up a cup of water. “Hello,” he says, voice deep and quiet when he spots Stiles, “I’ve been waiting to meet you.” Stiles shivers a little but shakes hands.

“Me too,” he says, trying to act cool about it. In person his eyes are brighter than Stiles expected, his beard looks softer. It’s not going to be difficult to shoot with him.

Chris gives him a slow once-over from head to toe and Stiles feels it like a hand on his skin. “I’ve heard all about you,” he adds.

“Good things?” Stiles tries not to squeak and Chris chuckles.

“Mm, well, we’ll just have to see if the rumors about you are true. Peter was very… detailed.”

Despite having worked in porn for over a year, Stiles feels himself flush and is only saved by Derek interrupting them. “We’re ready to start,” he says flatly. “If you’re finished here.”

Chris grins at Stiles, completely ignoring Derek; keeps his eyes fixed. “I think we’re just getting started.”


When Chris presses him down against the blanket, he arches against him, pants a little and lets Chris work a hand into his pants and jerk Stiles slow and steady, dragging his beard along the stretch of Stiles's neck.

“Um,” Deputy Parrish stumbles, pointing a flashlight at them, “I’m going to need to see some ID.”

Chris doesn’t stop jerking Stiles off, just lifts his head to grin at Parrish as Stiles writhes beneath him. “Sure thing, officer,” he says cockily. “It’s in my back pocket if you want to grab it.”

Stiles lolls his head to the side, gulping in air and blinks up at Parrish. “Are you going to tell my dad?” he asks tremulously.

Chris licks his lips, gives Stiles's dick another smooth stroke and grins wolfishly at Parrish, who is still frozen with indecision. “I don’t think that will be necessary, do you, Deputy?”

Parrish drags his gaze over Stiles, still gasping wetly for breath beneath Chris and arching up into his hand. “No,” he agrees, dropping the flashlight carelessly to the ground. “I think we can work something out.”

Derek shifts down on Stiles's other side to get the shot as Parrish kneels down on the blanket and drags his thumb along Stiles's lower lip before dipping it inside. “How do you feel about community service?” he asks, letting Stiles suck wantonly at his thumb before pulling it out with a slick pop.

“G-ood,” Stiles manages to stammer before Parrish slides his thumb back into his mouth.

Chris pulls his hand out of Stiles's pants, ignores his whine of dismay around Parrish’s thumb, and moves to unbutton and unzip his jeans, haul them down Stiles's legs and off to be kicked aside so he’s bare from the waist down. He hums. “I want to see all of him. What do you think?” Chris asks Parrish.

“Might as well,” Parrish agrees, almost indifferently, but he pulls his thumb from Stiles's mouth again and straddles his waist before pushing his shirt up his chest, over his arms, and off. Stiles goes limp beneath him, leaves his arms over his head. “He’s very obedient.”

“It’s one of his best qualities,” Chris agrees. “Why don’t you test him out and see for yourself, though?”

Parrish smiles almost shyly over his shoulder at Chris. “I was just thinking of doing that,” he nods, and unzips his fly to pull himself free of his pants. He shifts a little further up Stiles's chest and leans forward until his dick brushes against Stiles's open, panting mouth. “Let’s see how well you handle authority,” he murmurs before thrusting shallowly between Stiles's pink lips.

Stiles suckles when he can, the thrusts too shallow to give him much to work with; licks the tip when Parrish pulls out, looking for more. Behind Parrish, Chris pushes Stiles's right leg up so it’s bent at the knee before pressing inside him with one lubed finger. Stiles moans around a mouthful of cock and brings one arm down to try and pull Parrish closer only to have him pull back.

“He’s not as obedient as I’d hoped,” he says, mock-disappointed. “Guess I’ll have to take things into my own hands.”

“I’ve found that’s for the best,” Chris agrees, thrusting two fingers carelessly in and out of Stiles, slick with lube but avoiding his prostate. “He might need a firm hand.”

Parrish leans forward, takes Stiles’s wrists in one hand and pins them over his head. The new angle puts him up close and personal with Stiles's face. When he thrusts in again, it’s deep, right into his throat. Stiles angles his head to take it better and groans.

“He definitely likes authority,” Parrish says roughly, thrusting in and out of Stiles's mouth like it’s just a convenient hole. “I’m halfway down his throat.”

Stiles can’t quite see Derek like this, too busy taking everything Parrish can give him, but he can feel his gaze on him like a hot touch; can hear him shifting down to get a better shot of Chris slicking himself up and settling between Stiles's splayed thighs.

“Keep his mouth busy so he can’t make too much noise,” Chris says, lining himself up. “We wouldn’t want anyone to interrupt.” And then he slowly, torturously works himself inside. He’s big, and long, and Stiles can’t contain the moan that pours out of him around Parrish’s cock as he luxuriates in slowly being really, truly filled at both ends.

When Chris is finally all the way inside he stops, leans forward a bit to look over Parrish’s shoulder and watch his cock disappear into Stiles's mouth again and again. “Mmm,” he hums, “I like him best like this, when he’s fully occupied.” He pulls back as slowly as possible before grasping Stiles by the hips and working his way back in, hard.

Every thrust is like that, a slow, forceful counterpoint to Parrish’s easy and fast strokes. His brain can’t make sense of the two, can’t work them out into a pattern he can predict, too off-balance. He fairly writhes between them, trying to just take what Parrish gives him, fast and easy, while also trying to thrust back against Chris as best he can. It’s not easy with two larger men pinning him to the picnic blanket.

“I can still hear him,” Chris says, gripping Parrish’s shoulder to change the angle and give himself a better view. “Give it to him deeper.”

Parrish groans at that, leans his head back on Chris’ shoulder and does as he says, forces Stiles to deep-throat him as best he can at this angle. “Good boy,” Chris whispers into Parrish’s ear, and he shudders a little at that. “Seems you need a firm hand, too.”

Chris doesn’t seem to have any trouble multitasking. He directs Parrish through face-fucking Stiles, tells him when to slow down, when to speed up, when to pull back a little so Chris can watch Stiles mouth at just the head before making him take it deep again.

It’s not long before Parrish starts to lose his rhythm. “Pull out and jerk yourself off,” Chris demands. “I want to see you come all over that pretty face. Give me a show.”

Parrish groans like he’s dying but does as he asks, pulls back and starts to jerk himself off. Stiles leaves his hands where they were, opens his mouth and closes his eyes and waits until Parrish groans and comes all over his face, his throat. Stiles licks up what he can and blinks his eyes open.

“Very good. Did you like pleasing me, sweetheart?” Chris asks. Parrish nods sloppily, cheeks red and eyes only half open. “Maybe I’ll even let you please me some more. Get off and give me some room.” Parrish climbs off, tucking himself back into his pants and settles at his side, watches Chris continue to fuck Stiles into madness.

“F-faster,” Stiles moans, thrashing his head from side to side at one particularly forceful thrust. “Please, I want—”

Chris slows down even more at that. “I like to take my time,” he says casually. “Do things right,” he adds with a slow screw of his hips. “If you want to be my boy you’ll need to do as I say,” he says, stern, and gives Stiles a sharp smack on the hip.

Stiles looks to Parrish for help, but the Deputy is watching Chris’s thrusts with intent. “Look at him, covered in come and still begging for more.”

“Are you jealous?” Chris asks, practically ignoring Stiles except for the glacial-slow push inside him. “If you want a turn, you’ll have to earn it.”

Parrish bites his lip and keeps his gaze down. “What do you want me to do?” he asks quietly.

“Hold him still,” Chris says with a shrug, “and maybe I’ll let you finish me off.”

Stiles pouts at that, lifts his head up to glare at Chris even as Parrish pins his shoulders to the ground again. “I wanted you to finish inside me,” he grumbles.

“Only good boys get presents,” Chris says, raising his eyebrows, “and you haven’t been very good, have you?” He presses in hard again, but deliberately avoids Stiles's prostate.

“I, I can be good,” Stiles protests.

“As good as Parrish?” Chris challenges and Stiles nods frantically. “Prove it, then. You don’t get to come until I say so.” And that doesn’t sound so difficult, until Chris looks back up at Parrish. “Why don’t you make him work for it? You want to win, don’t you? You want to impress me?”

Parrish practically scrambles to obey, cheeks still flushed. He lifts Stiles's head and shoulders into his lap so he’s cradled between Parrish’s chest and Chris’ hips, reaches down to grasp Stiles's cock and give it a slow, sure stroke.

Stiles cries out. He’s been untouched this entire time and to suddenly have that contact is overwhelming. “If you want me to come in you, you’ll have to be better than that,” he says to Stiles, and this time his thrust hits right where he wants it, lighting up his nerves and making him shiver and shake with the effort of holding back.

Parrish is nervous at first but grows steadily more confident as Chris praises him for teasing Stiles; thumbing under the head and giving him a twist on the upstroke. Between Parrish jerking him off and Chris giving him the slowest, most thorough fuck of his life, he’s barely holding on, and it shows in his loud cries and trembling hands as he clutches at anything he can grab onto.

At his back he can feel Parrish growing hard again in his uniform pants, pressing against Stiles as he shifts and shakes in Parrish’s arms.

“You’re being so good for me, both of you,” Chris groans. “Such obedient boys, so eager to please.”

“Please, please, let me come, please, daddy, I—” Stiles freezes and Chris stills inside him for a minute. He can feel himself turning bright red, because that… that wasn’t in the script, and suddenly he’s hyper-aware of Derek, frozen next to them on the blanket, the camera still rolling.

Chris thrusts into him again, hard, jolting him back into focus. “That’s right,” he says firmly, “You’d do anything to please daddy, wouldn’t you?”

“I, I would,” Stiles sobs, “I just, please, please, daddy—”

Without warning, Chris pulls out and pushes himself to his feet. “On your knees, both of you,” he orders, and Parrish and Stiles scramble to obey, Parrish clearly tenting his uniform pants and Stiles naked with come already drying on his cheeks. Chris starts to jerk himself off, fast, and it must be so much after such a slow fuck, too much maybe, but he growls out, “Open your mouths and take it,” before he comes forcefully all over both of them.

That’s all Stiles needs, really, and all Parrish needs, too, apparently, as they both groan and come, sinking back down onto the blanket once Chris is done. Stiles paws at Parrish weakly until he leans over and they can kiss the come from each other’s faces, lapping it up and kissing the taste back into the other’s mouth with soft, exhausted moans.


Parrish and Chris stumble off set looking dazed, but Stiles needs a minute to collect himself, and just lays there on the picnic blanket while the boom operators and lighting techs disperse.

“You…” Stiles looks up at the soft rumble of Derek’s voice to see him standing over him without his camera for once. Derek takes a breath. “You did good. That was…” he trails off and swallows. “Best one yet,” he finally says. He looks a little bit sad about it, though, which is strange. Almost resigned.

Stiles can feel his cheeks heating up again and closes his eyes for a moment. “It wasn’t weird?” he asks, a little shy. “I uh, some of that wasn’t in the script.”

Derek offers him a hand up, and a robe to cover up with. He waits while Stiles gets his arms in and the belt done up. “Trust me, they’re not going to have any complaints,” he says quietly, and puts his hand at the small of Stiles's back again to lead him to the showers.

If every shoot were like this, Stiles would probably take more jobs. “It’s easier to shoot when there’s a mutual attraction,” he adds, “even if it’s not something you’d ever pursue outside of, you know, all this.” Stiles gestures at the jizz covered blanket and the fake backdrop.

“You uh,” Derek clears his throat. “You wouldn’t want to date him? Them?”

Stiles laughs, honestly surprised. “Nah. They’re nice guys, and it was fun but it’s just a job. And I don’t think they’d want to date me, either.”

“You’d be surprised,” Derek mutters under his breath, but pulls Stiles a little closer for the rest of the trip to the showers.

Chapter Text

Stiles arrives at the set feeling downright bouncy. A little tired, yeah, in a pleasant way that’s like a deep hum in his bones. He does a little shuffle as he walks onto the set, stretching and yawning.

“Stiles,” Derek says, materializing behind him.

Stiles is actually too mellowed out to jump. He just turns around, grinning at Derek. “Hey! How you doing?” He does the finger guns and everything.

Derek frowns at him. “That’s what I was going to say.”

Stiles beams. “I,” he says, “am going to own today’s shoot. Just you wait.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth curves upwards. “I believe you,” he says, sounding a little surprised at himself.


Erica has her hands on her hips and a considering expression on her face. She runs a finger over Stiles’s cheek, nodding with approval. “No stubble. Good.” She shakes her head. “You wouldn’t believe how people show up to these things. No sense of professionalism at all.”

“Wait,” Stiles says, suddenly nervous. “The dude I’m blowing. He’s actually in on this, right?”

Erica raises both eyebrows and stares at him. “You mean, the werewolf guy? The one who can smell you have a dick?”

“Shut up,” Stiles mutters, shoulders hunched. “It wouldn’t be the first thing on this shoot that nobody bothered to tell me about.”

Erica laughs and drapes an arm around his shoulders. “C’mon, kiddo. I’ll keep you safe from the big bad producers.”


Boyd shakes Stiles's hand when they’re introduced. “You’ve done knotting before, right?”

Stiles scoffs. “Dude, I’m an old hand. Just try me.”

It turns out Boyd also has a nice laugh. He and Erica give off a friendly buzz — they’ve worked before, Erica told him — and it works well with Stiles's well-fucked calm.

“We could just do oral if you’re tired,” Erica says. Stiles waves her off just as Finstock comes marching in, bellowing, “Bilinski! Why aren’t you on your knees and why isn’t Boyd blindfolded!”

“Oh, his name, Finstock remembers, I see what’s this like,” Stiles says, but he gets into position.

They’re filming in an actual bus in the studio’s parking lot — a bus with blocks instead of wheels, but apparently they crop that out in editing. The floors are vaguely sticky, and Stiles wonders whether that’s from previous shoots or just the way the bus was when they bought it. Unpleasant experiences suggest both.

He’s attempting to get the images out of his mind when he hears Erica urging Boyd unto the bus. Erica’s doing the over-sultry voice thing which kind of makes Stiles want to giggle, but also makes him a little hard, conditioned through too many hours of awful porn during his teenage years.

“Mmm, just sit right here,” Erica says, which is Stiles's cue. He shimmies out of his hiding place, knee-walks to Boyd (reasonably quietly, he thinks), and winks at the camera before opening Boyd’s zipper with his teeth.

Boyd’s a nice length, uncut, thick enough that Stiles's jaw is going to be feeling this later. Stiles breathes through his nose and amuses himself by getting into character. If he were pretending to be a girl, what would he do?

He licks Boyd’s cock first, shy, almost hesitant. Makes it look good for the camera, too, getting it wet and shoving the foreskin gently back with his tongue. He retreats and glances at Erica, who helpfully says, “Ooh, love that uncut cock,” as Stiles exhales on the head of Boyd’s cock.

Either Boyd has the same conditioning Stiles has or he’s a pretty good actor, because his cock twitches at that. Or maybe he just likes the sensation.

It’s been a while since Stiles gave a blowjob without using his hands, other than having his face fucked, but that didn’t require any real skill. It’s kind of a challenge. He keeps forgetting and bringing them up — to hold Boyd’s cock, or to grip his thighs, or play with his balls — only to have Finstock below, “Cut! You’re ruining the realism!”

“What the hell is his problem?” Stiles asks after Finnstock calls a break.

Derek’s behind the camera, mostly hidden, but Stiles can see his shoulders shake in quiet laughter. “Have you seen your hands?”

Stiles looks at them. Then he grimaces. “Yeah, okay, not very Erica-like. Maybe I need a manicure.”

Then Finstock gets back on the bus and tells Boyd to grab Stiles's hair.

“Sure, and it’s my hands that would clue him out,” Stiles bitches quietly. Then, not so quietly, “Dude, this shit is attached, ow.”

“Bear that in mind the next time you forget to cover your teeth,” Boyd says with equanimity.

Once Stiles gets the idea to hold his hands behind his back, though, things go more smoothly. Like this, he can get into the rhythm of suck-swallow-retreat-breathe-repeat with minimal choking, focusing on the weight and feel of Boyd’s cock.

Boyd is getting into it too, the muscles in his thighs tensing against Stiles shoulders. He starts groaning out loud. “Aw yeah, you slut. Let me fill that pretty mouth.”

Then he reaches down to touch Stiles's mouth, which is supposed to be the cue to start the actually-a-guy-revelation, but Stiles can get a little single-minded when he’s blowing someone, so he’s still sucking when Boyd rips the blindfold off.

He ends up looking Boyd in the eye, kind of nursing Boyd’s dick in his mouth, both of them slightly round-eyed.

“Keep going!” Finstock hisses from the sidelines.

So Stiles rolls with it when Boyd shrugs and grins and says, “A mouth’s a mouth, right? I don’t care,” hips pumping lazily and then he reaches to fuck Stiles's throat.

Boyd keeps a good rhythm, tilts Stiles’s head an angle that makes it seem like he’s fucking deeper than he really is. Stiles has air and enough of a presence of mind to hollow his cheeks and keep sucking, maintaining eye contact.

“We have enough,” Derek says just as Stiles’s jaw starts hurting for real. “Move it along.”

Boyd pulls Stiles off his dick. Stiles plays up a struggle for a few minutes, breathes, “No, let me,” glances aside to see Erica give him a discreet thumbs up.

“No,” Boyd says, low. His eyes flash gold. “Now I’m gonna knot that tight little hole of yours, boy.”

The whimper Stiles makes in response isn’t entirely fake.


They move somewhere roomier for the fucking. Supposedly it’s the back room of the bus; in actuality it’s one of the other sets in the building, a small room that’s basically all bed, panelled in fake wood. Erica’s lingerie matches the dark green bed linens. Stiles gives her an appreciative once-over.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder and looks at him through heavily-mascaraed eyelashes. “Like what you see?”

“Yeah, who wouldn’t,” Stiles says. She’s gorgeous.

“Are we getting started,” Derek says, sounding slightly constipated.

“Sure.” Stiles rolls over. He could get used to this, shuffling around padded surfaces instead of getting up to walk like a common plebe all the time. “How are we doing this?”

Erica purses her lips. “Normally I’d say he blew you, so now you fuck me while I blow him. But he’s kind of supposed to be the center of attention.”

“Would be a shame not to show you getting fucked, though.” The gaze Boyd levels at Erica is fucking electric. Stiles swallows, uncomfortably realizing it’s going to be a while before he’ll get to come, the way the shoot is progressing.

After the last few days he’d thought it would be a relief to wait, to give himself time. Now, though, he’s just as impatient as ever. He tries beaming Patience, Padawan at his erection while Boyd and Erica try to figure it out.

Or, actually, screw that. “So suppose he fucks me, then makes me blow him ‘till he’s hard enough to fuck you?”

“Hmm,” Erica says, consideringly. “How about other way ‘round? That way you get his knot. Unless you’d rather not.” She sniggers. “Not knot.”

“Sure, that joke didn’t get old after five minutes in the business,” Boyd mutters.

Five minutes later, Stiles is back on his knees with a hand fisted in his hair. This time, though, the hand belongs to Erica, who’s shoving Stiles towards her clit while Boyd eases into her. She’s on her back, with Boyd kneeling between her feet and Stiles on her right side.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, you’re so big,” she moans. Stiles wishes his formative years were spent on better class of porn.

Actually, scratch that. If he had he wouldn’t be appreciating this nearly enough; it’s worth it, even if his cock is aching with neglect.

The way Boyd’s cock is sliding inside Erica, though, that’s gorgeous. Better than mediocre filthy movies, that thing is fucking art. (Heh, fucking art. Stiles has to work not to snigger with his mouth buried in Erica’s pussy.)

So he’s getting a great view of that, besides getting to enjoy both of them all mixed up in one another. Their flavors complement one another as well as their personalities do, Boyd’s deep masculine scent like a baseline note next to Erica’s tangy, almost fruity taste.

From this close he can tell that Erica’s not faking anything — her dialogue’s exaggerated, sure, but she’s shaking minutely under him, muscles jumping with every effortless slide of Boyd’s cock in her, her hand tightening in Stiles’s hair with every gentle suck at her clit.

He can tell she’s close when her thighs drive up-up-up. Stiles shifts a free hand up her stomach and toward her chest, closing blindly around a nipple. He just gives it a few cautious strokes, but then Erica growls, “More, pinch it,” pulling his hair mercilessly until he twists her nipple hard.

She bucks up, grinding her pussy against Stiles’ face and Boyd’s crotch, twisting and yelling until she flops down with a satisfied sigh, smiling at Boyd as he pulls out and jerks off on her breasts.

They’re seriously great breasts. Stiles decides to ad-lib, licking Boyd’s come off her pointy nipples. Erica squirms and giggles, settling her hands over his shoulders.

“He looks pretty with his face full of jizz,” Boyd says. “Almost pretty as you.”

“Damn, you sweet talker.” Erica’s voice has gone low and honeyed. “Pretty enough to get you going again? I remember you making a promise to knot that tight little ass.”

Stiles may or may not whimper. Erica and Boyd trade smirks. Stiles looks up to see Erica mouth Can we keep him? at Boyd, who looks fond and unmoved.

“Come on, boy,” Boyd says. “Get me hard so I can fuck you.”

Boyd’s still pretty hard, actually, but Stiles doesn’t point it out. He’s conserving his strength right now, considering how to put his mouth to the best use.

Going down on Boyd is easier now, with his come and Erica’s juices slicking everything up. His cock feels even bigger than before, though, opening Stiles’ mouth up wide.

“Look at that mouth,” says Erica, “doesn’t it look good all stretched around your cock? Don’t you think his tight little hole would look even better?”

“You think it looks good?” Boyd withdraws slightly from Stiles’ mouth, taking his own erection in hand, angling it towards the camera. “Baby, imagine how good it feels.” He turns to Stiles, who’s making some undignified noises (his erection hasn’t had nearly enough attention this week, okay?) and soothingly says, “Don’t worry, you’ll get it soon enough.”

True to his word, Boyd pushes Stiles back, rolling the head of his cock against Stiles’s closed lips. Then he pushes him down on all fours with a hand to the back of Stiles’s neck.

“Be good,” Boyd says. He’s rubbing Stiles’s back, long comforting strokes. They did most of the prep in advance, while they set up the new location, so it will look to the audience like Boyd’s going inside him unlubricated except for a little spit.

Even with prep, it’s not easy going. Boyd grunts, working the head of his cock into Stiles’s ass. “Fuck, baby, I’d hardly believe you’re the slut you are, you’re so tight.”

Stiles buries his head in the pillow, panting, too busy trying to relax and open up to make any snappy comeback. Boyd’s hands wrap around his hipbones, drawing Stiles towards him, pushing in slow and inexorable.

Boyd’s thick, unforgiving girth fills him inside, and Erica fills his field of vision as she slips in front of him. He can hear the grin in her voice. “Better keep that mouth occupied, kid. I don’t want you getting ideas.” She spreads her lips from him, glossy and slick from before, sighing when Stiles laps at her pussy.

To be honest, the job Stiles is doing on her at the moment is kind of sloppy. He’s a little preoccupied. Boyd’s picking up the rhythm, driving into him hard, knocking the breath out of him with every thrust. Erica runs with it, though, using Stiles’s entire face as a sex toy, rubbing up against him, completely mindless of his need for air.

He gets just enough presence of mind to slip a couple fingers in her when Boyd curses and starts swelling inside him. Stiles’s yelp is muffled in Erica’s folds. “It’s okay, baby,” she croons to him. “You’re being such a nice little slut for us, taking it so well. Nobody minds if you cry a little.”

Stiles is about to reply to that — he can get with the scene and everything but fuck it, he’s not crying — when Boyd re-angles and Stiles starts really feeling the knot.

He may be changing his mind about the crying thing.

Erica lets him go, enough for Stiles to raise his head and gasp, “What, I can’t,” mindful to flash Derek their signal. He may be getting a little overwhelmed, but fuck it, nothing’s going to ruin Stiles’s perfect record thus far. Definitely not a little knot.

Little, though, is kind of the wrong word to use. Boyd’s cock was impressive enough on his own merit; the base of it swelling, holding his come tightly closed inside Stiles, feels like taking an entire fist.

Erica’s petting his face, though, and Boyd’s running his hands down Stiles’s flanks, making a low rumbling sound. “You’re doing it,” Erica says. “Pretty slut, pretty boy, you look so good taking his cock. If you can stand it, maybe I’ll let you fuck me after, hmm?”

Boyd laughs breathlessly. “Don’t listen to her, kid. That’s how I got in this mess.”

Stiles rests his forehead against Erica’s thigh. Her skin is soft, strong muscles moving underneath. Between her and Boyd he feels slight, endlessly movable, a squishy human just there to be toyed with by the big bad wolves.

Erica makes some gesture at Boyd and he picks Stiles up, effortlessly, letting Erica slide underneath him and laying Stiles back over her. He’s still thrusting minutely, just enough to keep his knot rubbing against Stiles’ sweet spot. Stiles shudders feverishly. It’s so warm between them.

“Shh,” Boyd whispers in one ear. “We got you,” Erica whispers in the other.

Stiles comes like a tidal wave.


It’s a while before Boyd softens enough to slip out of him. The scene’s been wrapped up, Erica is lounging against the headboard in a fuzzy rope, and Boyd is eyeing Stiles with concern. “You okay?”

Stiles tries to wave it off airily. The gestures comes off a little more wobbly than he meant for it to be. “Sure. Just give me a minute to regrow my bones.”

“You’ve had a hard couple of days, kid,” Erica says.

Alright, that does it. “I know for a fact,” Stiles says, jabbing a finger in her general direction, “that both of you are younger than me. Quit it with the ‘kid’ and ‘baby’ already, the camera’s off.”

Boyd actually tousles Stiles’s hair. “It’s that twink vibe you have.”

“Twink vibe, my ass,” Stiles mutters crossly, then jumps when Boyd swats said ass.

Suddenly Derek is looming over them. “Alright, everyone, hit the showers.”

Erica and Boyd vanish. Stiles attempts to follow and ends up face-planting back into the bed. “Help,” he moans weakly. “I think I’m fused to the sheets.”

Something warm and wet rubs right between his shoulderblades. Stiles twitches, then arches slightly into the touch. “Yes,” he says, low and dazed. “You have about a month to stop doing that.”

He’s expecting Derek to give him the towel at that, but Derek keeps rubbing. He moves in little circles, not touching anywhere that could be considered remotely sexual, focusing on Stiles’s back and his shoulders, lingering at the nape of his neck.

“You worked well together.”

Derek’s voice startles Stiles; he hasn’t realizes how near he was to falling asleep. He covers with a weak laugh. “Yeah, they have a good, uh, dynamic. I guess I play into it well.”

“They’d be interested in filming with you again.” Derek’s tone is completely neutral.

“I guess.” Stiles mulls over the thought and grimaces. “Although, damn, I don’t know how often I’d be able to take a knot like that. Hard work.” He pauses, then sniggers, because where’s the fun in doing porn when you can’t have a twelve-year-old’s sense of humor?

Derek’s hand stills over his shoulder, so briefly Stiles might have imagined it, then resumes moving. “Erica’s talking to Boyd about it right now. They’re going to make you an offer.”

Some weird uneasiness settles in the bottom of Stiles’s stomach. “I guess I’ll hear them out. A job’s a job, you know?”

“I know.” From this close up, Stiles can tell that Derek’s muscles are tensing, that he’s preparing to get up.

On impulse, Stiles turns around. “Do you think I shouldn’t?”

Derek’s face might as well have been carved of stone. “Shouldn’t what?”

“Work with them?” Stiles rolls his shoulders. He’s still feeling loose and liquid, the way he always does after a good fucking, but Derek’s stiffness seems to be catching. “I mean. They’re nice and all, but.”

“But?” The single syllable hangs in the air. Derek’s face is unmoving, but Stiles thinks he sees something in his eyes, and that’s enough for him to go on with.

Stiles swallows. “But, I don’t know. Maybe you’re saying I should work with someone else.” Stiles doesn’t have a stitch of clothes on him and he’s still covered in lube and various bodily fluids. Alongside all that, saying a single sentence shouldn’t be what makes him feel naked.

Derek’s expression shutters. “I hear they’re very professional.” He hands Stiles the towel. “I’ll go get you a robe.”

Stiles stares at Derek as he goes. He’s done with the shoot, now. By all accounts, it’s a pretty solid achievement. Stiles should be proud. He shouldn’t feel like he’s lost something, especially when he can’t quite figure out what it even was.

Chapter Text

It’s the last of Stiles’s obligations to Five Dickings in Five Days. He’s got the exit interview with Derek today, and then that’s it, he’s done. He’s done, and he gets to collect a whole hell of a paycheck, enough that he can be very picky about what his next project is going to be.

He’s not going to lie and say he’s not looking forward to that.

He’s cheerful then, when he comes into the studio. The receptionist directs him to a back lounge, a small, private room with a few couches.

He pushes the door open to find Derek on a ladder, fiddling with the lights, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Hey, good looking,” Stiles says softly, not looking to startle him.

Derek jerks his head up and stares at Stiles for a moment, then grunts hello. Stiles would be offended if he couldn’t tell by now what it meant when Derek ducks his head and his ears flush pink.

Still, he obligingly goes to sit where Derek evidently wants him, lets him fuss around until he’s happy with what the camera sees.

“So,” Derek says, when he’s finally recording. “Everything’s come to an end.”

“All good things must,” Stiles says, and smirks a little.

“Did you have fun?”

“Oh, so much fun,” Stiles says, letting his smirk bloom out into a real grin. He doesn’t have to work that hard to seem sincere. This week has been fun, more fun than he ever expected it to be. Work has always been work, something he’s good at without much effort but this project has been different, enjoyable. “Definitely the most fun I’ve had in a while,” he says, and means it.

Derek asks him a few more questions, makes him pick his favorite co-star, (Boyd), his favorite position (riding) and whether he’d do it again.

That gives Stiles a moment’s pause, and then he says, “Depends on who’d be coming back to shoot with me,” and he knows the audience will take that to reference his costars but he knows exactly what he means, and from the flush on Derek’s ears, he thinks Derek does too.

“That’s a wrap,” Derek says, eventually. He shuts the camera off, stands up to start breaking down the makeshift set.

“Awesome,” Stiles says, and shifts his weight from one foot to another. “Guess I should go pick up my check and get busy… not having sex tonight, for once.” He laughs kind of awkwardly and Derek looks up, quirks his lips in what almost appears to be a smile. “Unless,” Stiles says, and the words rush out of him without time to stop and rephrase, “Unless you want to take a whirl?”

He regrets it almost instantly. The smile drops off Derek’s face, and he stiffens right up, his shoulders hunching up to his ears.

“No,” Derek says. “I’ll pass on that. Thanks.”

Stiles flees the scene. He berates himself all the way to the car. Of course Derek doesn’t want him. Derek just watched him get banged thoroughly and completely for the past five days. He’s probably disgusted by Stiles, was covering it with his innate niceness. Derek was just trying to do his job, and Stiles was sexually harassing him, like the slut everyone always tells him he is.

So what, he tells himself. There are a million Dereks in the world. He just has to find the one who doesn’t mind his partner being a little well-used.

He goes to the bar with his friends to celebrate, buys a round with his new hard earned cash, but the victory seems slightly hollow now, a little less shiny.


Five Dickings in Five Days does better than anyone expects.

Both he and the film get nominated for AVN Awards, and sales are through the roof. He shows up to the award show alone, smiles and waves to the camera and quietly gets drunk. He doesn’t win his category, but the film wins for Best Movie. Finstock drags him up there along with Danny, Boyd, the twins and Peter, and a miscellaneous assortment of crew. Derek’s not there, he can’t help but notice. Which is fine. Stiles wouldn’t have wanted to face him anyway.

He gets out as soon as he can, waits impatiently for the valet to bring his car up so he can hurry up and get back to his apartment, back into his pajamas to sulk. He’s about to go looking for his car himself when Finstock grabs his elbow, yells “Bilinski!” in his ear.

“Jesus Christ, Coach,” Stiles says, rubbing his eardrum.

“Sorry,” Finstock says. “I might have had a few too many of those purple things. Anyway, I just wanted to say congratulations. You did good work and I’m glad I got to work on this thing with you.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Gee, thanks Coach. That’s actually nice of you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Finstock says. “So nice I’m not even going to scream about the copyright violation involved in this highlight reel you made Derek make.”

“What?” Stiles says. “You lost me.”

Finstock presses a DVD into Stiles’s hand, says, “Don’t play stupid, kid. I found this in the editing room. I know your game and I’m letting it go. Accept the win.” Then he turns around, heads back inside the auditorium.

Stiles holds the DVD in his lap the whole ride home, traces the sharp edges, taps it impatiently at every red light. When he gets home, he’s delayed again by trying to remember how to hook up his DVD player, but he eventually gets it going and hits play.

Finstock wasn’t entirely accurate when he called it a highlight reel. It’s more than that, Stiles thinks numbly, watching the images on the screen. It’s a love letter, almost. Stiles doesn’t even recognize most of the footage, as if it wasn’t even in the final cut, like this is from the unused scraps. His co-stars are almost exclusively either off-frame or cropped out, giving the illusion that this is just Stiles, just a solo video, focused on him.

It’s too much to take, he thinks, as the camera zooms in, hovering uncomfortably close on one of the takes. Stiles has been watching himself on camera for close to five years, but never like this, never so gentle, tender, caring.

All this from a guy who turned him down.

That’s the thought he wakes up with, after he turned the TV off and stumbled to bed, wide-eyed and shocky. Derek turned him down, rejected him clearly and cleanly, so where does he get off making videos like this? And just what was he going to do with it?

There’s only one person who can answer that, and with a considerable amount of rising indignation, Stiles goes and finds him.

He knows he’s got a little crazy-eye when he storms into Derek’s editing room. “Just where do you get off,” he starts, waving the DVD at Derek.

Derek jerks in alarm and then blanches when he sees what Stiles has in his hand. “Where did you get that?” he asks, weakly.

“Finstock gave it to me,” Stiles says. “Accused me of getting you to make me a highlight reel. But I didn’t ask you to make this, did I?”

“No,” Derek says, shortly. “You didn’t.”

“Damn right I didn’t. You rejected me.”

“I know.”

“So what, is this a joke? Are you mocking me? Oh, lets play games with the poor little porn star, act like you care about him, touch him, take his pain, but run at the first sign he might reciprocate. Because it’s always like this, isn’t it,” and Stiles waves the DVD for emphasis. “You want to watch, you want to look, but you don’t want it for real. It’d ruin the illusion.” He can feel his eyes burn, like tears are going to come next, and he’s abruptly tired. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Derek, doesn’t want to give him that too. He tosses the DVD on the counter and turns to leave, done with all of this.

Only Derek is grabbing his wrist, yanking him back. “Stiles no,” he says urgently. “God, no, that’s—you’re wrong.”

“You rejected me,” Stiles says again, this time completely unable to keep the hurt out of his voice.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I did. I didn’t want to take a whirl or whatever it was you offered. God, Stiles, I don’t want the illusion, I want you.” His grip on Stiles’s wrist slides up to Stiles’s shoulders and rests there, like he wants to shake Stiles.

“What are you saying,” Stiles says, shaky. “What—you’re like, in love with me or something?” He tries to make it sound scornful, mean, mocking but it comes out uncertain and shaky.

“I could be,” Derek says, and he gives Stiles plenty of time to react as he dips down to cup Stiles’s face in his hands and kiss him.

Stiles has been kissed more times than he can count, more times than he thinks anyone can count. He’s kissed people who knew what they were doing, who could have taught seminars on how to kiss. Stiles makes love on camera for a living—he knows his way around a kiss.

All of that ends up being bullshit. Derek kisses him like he does everything else—shy, tender, determined. Stiles doesn’t have any resistance against it, can’t do anything but sink into it, let Derek take his weight. Derek winds an arm around his back and supports him, never breaking away, never letting up. He kisses Stiles like he’s trying to explain something and Stiles goes breathless with it, weak-kneed.

When Derek finally lets him go, Stiles stares at him, gaping. “You want me,” he says, trying it out.

“Maybe,” Derek says, but he ducks his head and his ears turn a little pink, just at the tips.

“Oh my God,” Stiles says. “You want me so bad.” He’s delighted and not even trying to fight it anymore. “Derek, we’re going to be so good, you don’t even know.

“Yeah?” Derek says, raising his head.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Five dickings is gonna be nothing compared to what’s in your future.”

Derek smirks at him. “But Mr. Stilinski, it’s my first time,” he says, batting his eyelashes.

His boyfriend is an asshole.

Chapter Text

“You gonna eat that?” Stiles asks, already reaching his fork across the table.

“Yes,” Derek says, slapping his wrist away. “Get your own.”

“Don’t be mean,” Stiles says, and kicks him under the table.

“Are we all set here?” The waiter says, appearing in front of them.

“All set,” Derek says sweetly, and hands over his plate, the last bite of cheesecake sitting untouched.

“You’re a butthole,” Stiles informs him, crossing his arms across his chest. Just for that, he doesn’t even pretend to reach for his wallet when the check comes. Derek snatches it quickly anyway, pays eagerly, like Stiles is somehow doing him a favor by being there.

Stiles will cure him of that eventually.

They walk outside to an unseasonably cool breeze. Stiles has a moment to wish he had grabbed a hoodie before Derek’s hauling him in close, winding an arm around him, sharing his body heat.

It’s nice, Stiles thinks, and shifts closer.

They get to Stiles’s house quickly, the summer sun setting in an explosion of colors behind the trees.

“Okay,” Derek says, at his front steps. “I’ll call you when I get home?”

“Or,” Stiles drawls, and he leans back on the doorframe, cocks a hip and says low, seductive, “you could come in?”

“Has that ever in your entire life worked on someone?” Derek says, incredulously, and Stiles breaks character to laugh, has to reach up and kiss him silly.

Derek kisses him back, always does, and Stiles’s back hits the door with a thud that Stiles barely feels. Derek has him pinned in the best way, held tight but not restrained, held like something precious, something good.

A minute, maybe an hour later, Stiles doesn’t know, they break apart long enough to catch their breath. “Seriously,” Stiles says, “Come inside, stay over tonight.”

“Yeah?” Derek says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Stiles decides. “There might be crumbs on my sheets, but whatever, right?”

“Whatever,” Derek says, and follows him in.

Stiles doesn’t know what he was expecting from Derek, has never really been able to predict him. What he gets is a soft Derek, one that lingers, slow-moving and worshipful. He strips Stiles out of his shirt, and Stiles colors a little at the rumble of approval, the leisurely way Derek maps out his skin.

“Tell me we’re going to get more naked soon,” Stiles says, moving restlessly under him.

“We’ll get there,” Derek promises, and Stiles believes him, relaxes into it.

They do get naked eventually, and Stiles gets greedy with it, rubbing all over Derek like a cat. Derek grabs his knee eventually, stills him and gets a hand underneath him enough to flip him onto his stomach.

“Oof,” Stiles says, but goes with it, spreads his legs, pillows his face on his folded arms and waits.

Derek presses a kiss to the small of his back, sucks a small light hickey there, a mark Stiles knows is going to rise up from his jeans. It feels good that Derek wants him like that, and he arches into it, purrs approvingly.

Derek spreads him then, dragging his tongue down Stiles’s crack, and the sensation makes him swear as he realizes where this is going. “Derek,” he groans.

“Trust me,” Derek says, and then he’s pressing a kiss right there, at the tender, sensitive center of Stiles. He’s not entirely sure he’s gonna survive this. He’s even less sure once Derek touches him with his tongue, lightly skimming over the skin of his hole, and then harder, pressing inside.

“Fuck,” he bites into his arm, trying to keep from humping back into Derek’s face. Derek hums a little, and the vibration almost makes him lose the battle anyway.

It’s filthy, the way Derek eats him out, filthy and good in a way Stiles doesn’t usually experience. There’s no posing for angles, no shifting to get the best view. It’s just Derek going to town on him, dedicated fiercely to pulling Stiles apart.

He’s almost there, Stiles thinks, wild with it, but it’s not quite enough, the stretch of Derek’s tongue fitting inside him isn’t quite enough, and he hears himself beg for it, plead in a whine he’s never heard out of himself before.

“I got you,” Derek says, reassuring, and then he’s guiding Stiles up on all fours, lets Stiles get his weight back under him before letting go of his hips. Stiles doesn’t know what he’s doing at first and then he hears the twist of a cap and and the soft squelch of lube.

“Did you sniff that out?” Stiles asks shakily, wiping the sweat from his temple with the back of his hand.

“You have a nightstand next to your bed,” Derek says. “Didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to solve that mystery.”

Stiles laughs, loud and happy for a few beats, and he feels Derek squeeze his hip in a tight, fond clutch before pressing a finger inside of him. “Fuuuuuuck,” he says, letting his head hang down, concentrating on holding himself up.

Derek licks around his finger, tracing where he’s keeping Stiles open and Stiles shouts, shoving backwards. He stills immediately, makes an apologetic noise.

“Don’t—” Derek says. “Do it.”

So Stiles rocks back, tentatively at first and then faster, fucking himself on Derek’s finger and tongue. Derek gives him another, lets him adjust to that stretch without rushing, seemingly content to stay right there forever.

Stiles isn’t content with that, and he gives up on being patient, letting Derek control things. He shoves back one last time, and then he twists around, catches Derek off guard and knocks him flat on his back on the bed.

“Hi,” Derek says, blinking up at him.

“Hi,” Stiles says back, and sits on his dick.

It’s the first time they’ve done this, the first time Stiles has gotten it inside, hot and hard like he wants it, has been wanting it since the first day of Dickings when Derek had smiled and extended his hand.

It was worth the wait, he thinks, and rises up on his knees, and fucks right back down on it.

“Look at me,” Derek says, and tilts Stiles chin up until they’re smiling at each other like two idiots. Derek twines their fingers together and Stiles presses their hands down, presses Derek into the mattress and rides him for all he’s worth.

Derek is making gratifying noises, little hiccuping grunts that spur Stiles into going faster, clenching down where he’s still so wet. “Stiles,” Derek moans and it’s so sweet, Stiles has to press a kiss to the tip of his nose, one on each cheek.

“Are you going to knot me?” Stiles asks, quiet. Derek doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, Stiles has met werewolves that don’t like to give it to just anyone. Derek’s dick is perfect as it is, and Stiles could spend a lifetime astride it and never get enough.

“I don’t think I could stop it,” Derek admits, and that makes something burst in Stiles, makes him groan out a jagged noise as he comes, striping Derek’s chest with it, hot and messy.

“Sorry,” he gasps, tries to collect himself enough to finish Derek off, but Derek’s twisting them, laying Stiles back in the pillows and pushing back in. Stiles can feel the knot swelling bigger with every thrust. He can’t wait, has to angle his hips up and cling to Derek, loops his arms around Derek’s neck and howls for it until Derek gives it to him, locks inside of him so tight and sweet.

“You okay?” Derek asks eventually, when they’ve gotten their breath back and their heartbeats have slowed a little.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He wriggles backwards until Derek puts his arms around him, sighs with contentment. “I’m great.” It’s nice to not be anticipating the knot going down, wondering when he’s going to get free. The house is quiet, no film crew moving around, no Finstock barking orders. They’ve got nowhere to be.

“You need anything,” Derek asks, like he’s still trying to take care of Stiles.

“No,” Stiles says. “I’ve got everything I need.” He sighs and tucks his nose in against Derek’s throat, inhales the scent of him. “Tomorrow I’ll make you pancakes and,” he yawns, “we can sleep in and watch tv. I want you to stay,” he adds, sleepy and sated.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, and Stiles doesn’t know if he means the pancakes or if he’s agreeing to stay, maybe forever, but he knows he’ll enjoy finding out.