Work Header

Bite Marks and Bendy Straws

Work Text:




That mouth.

That fucking mouth.

Derek can’t stop staring at it. At the moment it’s got two different bendy straws hanging out of it, one orange and one green, and Stiles is pretending they’re fangs. He’s making growling noises, and he brings his absurdly long fingers up to make claws.


Derek fixes him with a stare that he hopes says Stiles, you’re a fucking idiot, instead of Stiles, you’re fucking gorgeous.

It’s his mouth.

Stiles grins, his mouth stretching wide, sending the straws askew. The orange one drops onto the table. The green one spins around and somehow stabs him in the eye.


His fucking eyes.

His eyes are too gold to be called something as ordinary as brown. They’re the color of old wood in late afternoon sunlight. They’re whiskey, or honey, or dark amber. Whatever they are, they’re beautiful.

Derek huffs at Stiles, annoyed at his own…poetry? Whatever you call this silent rhapsodising over Stiles who, despite his mouth and his hands and his eyes, is really just a gangly sixteen-year-old kid with the motor skills of a sleep-deprived toddler. “What are you even trying to do?”

“My wolf impression,” Stiles says with a grin, then ducks behind Scott as Derek bares his teeth.

Pack meetings are getting more and more ludicrous.

Derek does his best to keep his gaze off Stiles’s distracting mouth for the rest of the evening.




He can’t remember the first time he was attracted to Stiles. It feels like it should have been dramatic, but Derek guesses it crept up on him somehow. The first time he met Stiles he hardly noticed him; at that time he’d been fixated on Scott, the newly turned werewolf. Stiles was, for a long time, nothing but Scott’s annoying, excitable friend.

Okay, he’s still that, but now he’s something more as well.

Derek wants him.

He wants that mouth to shut the fuck up for once. He wants to see it wet and slack with pleasure. He wants to own it, and use it. He wants to violate it. Then, when he’s done, he wants to press soft kisses against it, and whisper in Stiles’s ear how fucking sweet he is.




A list of things Derek wants to put in Stiles’s mouth:

  1.      his fingers
  2.      his tongue
  3.      his dick
  4.      his dick again. repeatedly.




It’s driving Derek insane. How can this not be intentional? And how can anyone else not notice? Stiles is always putting something in his mouth, every damned second of the day. He’s obviously got an oral fixation. Or Derek does. But no, Stiles is the one with the problem. Normal people aren’t like this. They aren’t always tapping straws along their plush bottom lip, and following the path of the bright-colored plastic with the point of their tongue, then tightening their lips and sucking the straw in, and smiling around it, and then starting the whole damn sequence again with whatever next finds its way into their long, slender hands.  

Stiles’s fucking mouth is going to be the death of Derek.




A list of things that should be banned from all future pack meetings:

1. bendy straws

2. twizzlers

3. pens

4. chupa chups




Whose brilliant idea was it to give Stiles a sundae? Because it’s a hot summer afternoon and Stiles is working against the clock to get the thing eaten before it melts. Spoon to mouth, lick, slurp, moan, repeat. Derek can’t take his eyes off him. And when a dollop of ice cream slides off his bottom lip and Stiles swipes it back up with his tongue, then Derek’s gone. He’s just fucking gone.

Stiles looks up and catches his gaze.

“What?” he asks around his spoon. He wipes his mouth with his fingers. “Did I make a mess?”

Derek glowers at him.

“Seriously, have I got sundae on my face?” He pops the spoon out of his mouth and licks the corners of his lips. “Did I get it?”

Holy mother of god. He cannot be this oblivious.

Stiles swipes his tongue over his top lip next, and Derek feels an all too familiar thrill of blatant want as he stares. Stiles’s tongue leaves his mouth shiny and wet, and Derek wants nothing more than to lunge forward, shove Stiles up against the nearest wall, and hold him there while he licks the taste of the sundae off that pretty fucking mouth.

“Did I get it?” Stiles asks loudly, looking around at the others since it’s obvious he’s not getting an answer from Derek.

Scott squints at him. “Yeah, you’re good, bro.”

Stiles wipes his mouth with his shirt. Derek has never been more jealous of a piece of clothing in his life.

Stiles grins his ridiculous grin, stretching his mouth wide and plumping his cheeks up, and then goes back to his sundae.

Lick, slurp, moan, repeat.

Lick, slurp, moan, repeat.

Fuck Derek’s life, seriously.




A list of reasons Derek can’t just shove Stiles up against a wall and then down onto his knees:

1. Stiles is 16

2. his dad is the sheriff

3. bullets hurt

4. Stiles is 16

5. STILES IS 16!!!!!




When Stiles gets nervous, he jiggles his leg and bites his lip. His teeth leave white indentations in the soft pillow of his bottom lip that Derek wants to smooth away with his thumb. Stiles is a bundle of restless energy. He’s in constant motion. Derek feels like it’s the sort of thing that should annoy him, but it doesn’t. Instead, it fascinates him. He wonders what it would feel like to harness some of that energy, to channel it into something pleasurable. He wants to know what it would feel like to hold Stiles underneath him, and make him twitch and shudder as he takes a dick for the first time. He imagines those long, coltish legs hooked around his hips.

He imagines those long fingers digging into his shoulders.

He imagines those dark gold eyes, wide with shock.

That mouth twisting, that bottom lip wet and trembling.

Derek would feed on that mouth for hours.




One night, Stiles crashes on Derek’s couch, and somehow ends up sprawled on his stomach, one leg stretched out behind him, and one foot braced on the floor. His shirt’s ridden up, showing his pale skin, dotted with moles, and the curve of his spine. He’s got his head pillowed on one bent arm, and the thumb of his other hand is jammed in his mouth.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

He’s sucking his thumb.

Derek stares at him blankly for a moment, because there is no way that he should find the sight of a teenage boy sucking his thumb this fucking hot. He should be laughing and taking a photo of this moment, not filing every detail away for later, when he can jerk off to the memory.

When he piles all of Stiles’s limbs back onto the couch, Derek tries to pretend that he’s just doing it to stop him sliding off the couch. Not because he wants to feel Stiles’s warm skin against his palms, and wishes he had the courage to slip his own thumb between those lips and into that warm suckling mouth.

Derek is a bad, bad person who is definitely going to hell.





“Happy birthday to me!” Stiles crows when the singing stops, and leans forward over the birthday cake that Lydia bought. He purses his lips, and blows, and the candles gutter and go out.

“Did you make a wish?” Scott asks, showing off his goofy, good-natured grin.

“Of course, dude!” Stiles reaches out and plucks a candle out. He sucks the frosting off the bottom of it, and Derek does his best to suppress an urgent moan. “Woot! Seventeen today!”

Fuck it, Derek thinks, staring at the white smudge of frosting on Stiles’s bottom lip, close enough.




A list of reasons Derek can use to get Stiles alone:

1. Hey, Stiles, can you look at my computer? I think it’s broken. WTF?


2. ???

3. ???




Derek does nothing.




A list of reasons to not like Stiles’s mouth (a.k.a. shit that Stiles says):

  1.      Can my spirit animal be a pterodactyl?
  2.      Do you think I’m attractive to gay guys?
  3.      If I was a chameleon, I’d just stay green the whole time, so nobody would know I was a chameleon. They’d just think I was an ordinary lizard. That’d probably be the best disguise, right?  
  4.      Derek, when you, um, you know, is there knotting involved?




It’s a yellow bendy straw that does it in the end.

Somehow, Derek has ended up at Stiles’s house for a movie marathon. Not that he can watch the movie while Stiles has that fucking straw pressed between his lips. Stiles finished the soda a while ago, but he’s still got the straw in his mouth. He’s alternating between chewing on it and sucking gently on the end while he stares raptly at the movie. Everyone apart from Stiles, Scott and Isaac has already given up on the movie marathon and gone home. Isaac’s been asleep since the Battle of Hoth, stretched out on the floor, and Scott can barely keep his eyes open.

Stiles is wide-eyed as Luke and Vader fight. The straw in his mouth flicks back and forth, and stills, briefly, as Vader delivers the line, and then it’s flicking wildly again, and Derek has to curl his hands into fists to stop from reaching out over Scott and ripping the damn straw out of Stiles’s mouth.

Instead, he glares at the screen until the credits roll.

Stiles leaps to his feet, startling Scott. “Oh, man, that was great. Okay, I need the bathroom, then Return of the Jedi!”

He’s still got the straw in his mouth as he heads for the bathroom, humming the Imperial March ominously.

Scott wilts back into the couch.

“Go home, Scott,” Derek mutters, and nudges Isaac with his foot. “Isaac. Go home.”

They stagger out. Derek has the empty pizza boxes stacked by the time Stiles gets back.

“Hey.” His doe-eyes widen. “Where’d everyone go?”

The yellow bendy straw flips back and forth like a metronome.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Derek glares at him, eyes narrowed, and silently dares him to keep doing it.

The straw stills, wavers, and Stiles blinks.


“You,” Derek growls, stepping forward and closing the space between them. “And this!” He reaches up and grabs the end of the straw, and wrenches it free. A thin glistening string of spit breaks.

“What?” Stiles squeaks.

Derek flings the straw to the floor, which is not as dramatic a gesture as he’d intended given that it weighs about the same as air. Then he’s crowding up against Stiles, and pushing him back against the wall, and Stiles huffs out a surprised breath, but goes with it. He always goes with it. He doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t whimper and back down either, and Derek finds that absolutely intriguing.

“Why does everything,” Derek grinds out between his teeth, “end up in your fucking mouth?”

Stiles’s mouth drops open. He swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, and, as if he’s realized for the first time what he’s doing, draws in a sharp little gasp of air. He meets Derek’s gaze. He’s breathing heavily, and his heart is racing. He’s suddenly still, suddenly quiet.

Derek leans in closer, lifting his jaw to catch the scent of him.

“Derek,” Stiles says, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Derek unclenches a fist from Stiles’s shirt and raises his hand. He aligns his fingers against the hinge of Stiles’s jaw. Holds his gaze. Slides his thumb against Stiles’s plump bottom lip, like he’s dreamed of doing for months now.

Stiles’s eyes slide half closed, his lashes trembling. He opens his mouth and sucks Derek’s thumb in.

A sudden rush of lust burns through Derek. Stiles’s mouth is hot and wet, and the scrape of his teeth across the pad of his thumb sends a shiver through him. His dick is hard, pressing almost painfully against his jeans, and he can smell Stiles’s arousal too: sweet and urgent and heady.

Stiles pulls back suddenly, eyes wide, pupils blown. “Derek…”


Shit shit shit.

Siltes is seventeen.

Stiles digs his teeth into his bottom lip, leaving bite marks.

Bite marks.

Derek wants to lick them until they’ve smoothed out again, except he’s just stuck his thumb in a seventeen-year-old kid’s mouth, and there is no way in hell that’s okay. He’s freaked him out, probably. It’s possible to be turned on and freaked out at the same time when you’re a teenager. Nobody knows that better than Derek.

“I’m sorry,” he grinds out, taking a step back. “Stiles, I’m really sorry.”

Stiles releases his lip. His teeth have left little indentations on the plump flesh. “Derek,” he says, squirming a little. His eyes are impossibly wide. “My dad’s on night shift.”

For a second Derek thinks it’s a typical Stiles non sequitur, then Stiles is grabbing him by the hand and dragging him up the stairs towards his bedroom, and oh… oh, okay, they’re doing this.

This is a thing that is actually happening.



A list of reasons to love Stiles’s mouth (a.k.a. shit that Stiles says):

  1.      “Oh, fuck, Jesus, yeah! Derek! Holy shit!”
  2.       “What are you even? Dude, are you even real? Look at you!”
  3.      “Can I lick it?”




Derek buys a box of bendy straws the next time he’s picking up groceries. Because reasons. And somehow if Popsicles, and hotdogs and an entire bunch of bananas also end up in his cart, well, nobody needs to know why, do they?

Stiles needs to keep up his stamina.

And Derek likes to watch him do it.

Derek’s still a bad, bad person, but it turns out he can live with it.