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It's Surrender

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The first porno Stiles ever watched was a how-to on fellatio. He rationalized, at the time, that it was educational. It took him two full days to recognize that the video was about how to give blowjobs therefore maybe he subconsciously wanted to give somebody a blowjob, which probably meant somebody with a penis, like a dude, and then he downloaded some more porn to confirm that yes, that did look like fun.

Now, confronted with an actual penis—although confronted is probably the wrong word because it took him literally an hour to penis-whisper the effing thing out of Derek’s jeans—he’s envying Scott of all people. Scott’s been talking about BJ’s since they were thirteen. Scott’s idea of studying, when he still studied, was 10% reading textbooks and 90% watching amateur blowjob porn on his computer.

Stiles is envious because Scott’s first blowjob was probably like, reclining and relaxing and trying not to come too quickly. (And probably failing on that front, at least.) (That’s a small comfort.)

Derek’s penis is not a small comfort; it’s pretty big. Big when it’s right in front of Stiles’ face, anyway. Objects in immediate vicinity may not be as massive as they appear. He hopes.

This is the problem: Stiles started on a how-to and moved on to another how-to and read websites about giving great head and first-hand experiences and instructions from men and women and givers and receivers and unless he has like nine hands and three mouths there’s no way he can try all those foolproof techniques at the same time. All the information is rattling around in his head and rocketing through his limbs and jamming somewhere around his wrists and fingers and lips and he’s frozen, staring at a penis he can smell and thinking that none of those freaking tutorials mentioned that penises have a smell.

A nice, skin-smelling smell with kind of a soap smell too.

Stiles thinks, Derek washed his penis for me, and that it’s kind of romantic, considering half the time Derek can’t be bothered to change out of a bloodied shirt before dealing with human beings.

“Stiles,” Derek says, in this frustratingly patient and embarrassingly concerned tone.

Stiles can feel the minor avalanche of you don’t have to do this approaching. “Dude, I want to,” he says. “Chill out.”

A smile twitches somewhere on Derek’s face. Kind of eyebrow-ish, which seriously? “I’m pretty chill,” Derek says.

Stiles isn’t sure why he wouldn’t be. They’re on Stiles’ bed and the window’s still open from when Derek climbed in, and it’s that time of year when it’s not quite cold but it almost is so the room feels electric with fresh air and night sounds and Stiles’ dad won’t be home until morning. Also, there is not a single reason why Stiles should be hesitating. Other than the hundreds—possibly thousands—of blowjobs he’s read about and watched and imagined. It’s a traffic jam. Of blowjobs.

“What’s so funny?” Derek asks, pushing up on his elbows and frowning.

“Not you. Oh! Not your. Not you,” Stiles says, trying to recover from a sneak-attack of panicked laughter. It’s probably a pretty dick move to laugh while grasping the base of your kind-of-boyfriend’s wang.

Derek’s frown holds fast.

“Listen, I was thinking about a traffic jam of penises, and then I thought about them like all lined up on an Interstate with wheels and everything. And um, that was a thing, in my head. That was funny.”

After a long, judgy look, Derek says, “This is a bad idea.”

“Why?” Stiles shifts. He’s straddling one of Derek’s legs and he can feel the heat of it against his balls through his pajama pants. He’s been holding onto the base of Derek’s dick for so long it’s starting to feel totally normal, like holding hands. Actually, more normal than holding hands, because he’s definitely never held hands with Derek Hale.

“I haven’t—” Derek’s voice goes soft and he looks away, jaw tense with a scowl. “It’s been a while, all right?”

“Are you nervous?” Stiles asks, mouth dropping open.

“Is this funny to you?” Derek’s fingers twist into the bed sheets.

Stiles doesn’t have super-freaking-human senses so it’s not like he could have known. But once he realizes it all the signs come together like those last few frustrating twists of a Transformer before it looks like a badass robot and not a broken truck.

Derek’s been quiet. It took forever to convince him. He hasn’t been touching Stiles the way they touch when they kiss. He’s hanging onto the bed as if for dear life. His breathing is just a little off, like he’s holding his breath and remembering not to, over and over.

“What are you worried about?” Stiles asks, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut alerting him that he’s probably about to learn something he doesn’t want to hear. Likely involving his non-existent sexual prowess.

“It’s a wolf thing,” Derek says, too quickly.

“Bullshit. You’re a dude right now. You’re—totally just a guy in my bed. No moons, no immediate threats, nobody’s bleeding.”

“I can’t.” Derek takes a breath, and when he exhales, his shoulders slump with it. His mouth forms something so close to a pout that Stiles feels warm and tingly looking at it. Derek’s kind of adorable sometimes. “This isn’t something I can control.”

“Boners? I know, man. Do I ever know.”

“No, this,” Derek says, gesturing at Stiles’ face with one hand. “You. This.”

“I know. Isn’t that? Like, the awesome part?”

“You’ve never...”

“Listen, no, but dude. It’s super self-explanatory. I’m getting there. I really want to. We’re so doing this thing.”

Derek watches him. “No one has ever done that to you.”

“Oh my god!” Stiles snaps. “Why are we speaking in code? No, I’ve never gotten a BJ.”

Derek’s expression softens. Stiles watches him suspiciously, on the lookout for pity or some other bullshit he’ll need to call Derek out on.

“It’s surrender,” Derek says.

“Surrender to awesomeness.”

“Shut up and listen to me.”

“Okay, god,” Stiles says. He nuzzles his cheek at the head of Derek’s dick absently. It’s really soft. “I’m listening.”

“I have to think about control every day. All the time. Do you understand that?”

“In theory.”

Derek’s breath huffs from his nose. “I don’t feel in control when... with this. I feel...”

Stiles brushes his lips at the ridge at the underside of Derek’s dick.

“Exposed,” Derek finishes, after making a low, strangled sound somewhere deep in his throat.

Stiles blinks, realizing he did that. “Oh,” he says. “Bad exposed?”

“Not bad, but you asked me if I was nervous, and I’m not nervous, but it’s not simple either. I’ll show you.”

“Show me, like?”

Derek grins. “Yes, Stiles. I’ll show you.”

The incredible implication there opens a whole floodgate of horniness. Stiles does what he usually does when he’s feeling horny or thoughtful or nervous or bored. He puts something in his mouth.

“Stiles,” Derek says, breathy and soft—like it hurts.

Stiles sucks for a long moment, really pulling at the sleek-blunt head of Derek’s dick. Then he remembers it’s supposed to be more stroking than actually sucking, and that the names for it are misleading with the not so much sucking or blowing or even really concentrating on the head. He opens his mouth and bobs his head down slowly, seeing how much of Derek he can fit.

Derek’s expression goes furrowed, pinched and open-mouthed. He wets his lips and says, “Stiles.” It’s not pained this time, it’s something else. It’s like—begging. It’s all Stiles needs to turn off his doubts. Brain officially melted. Horny autopilot on.

Stiles has trouble processing the full picture of what it’s like to finally give a blowjob. He’s too busy taking it in. And not just Derek’s dick. He notices weird things, like the sensation of pressure at the back of his throat where his body says nope, that penis is not going any farther. He notices the texture of the coarse hair against the blade of his palm when his tentative strokes meet the base of Derek’s dick. He feels how slick everything gets with his spit and how hot Derek’s skin is. He notices Derek’s grip at his free hand—a desperate, trembling-gentle grasp at his wrist. The warm-musky taste. The wet-skin smell. No sight, because it’s too much and he closes his eyes and feels his way, licking and getting his lips wetter until they slide. There’s a tight twinge at his jaw because it turns out it’s pretty unnatural to have your mouth open this wide when you’re not like, at the dentist.

And god, the sound. Derek makes sounds, low ones, long ones, rumbling groans and aching-soft sighs.

Then Derek grasps Stiles’ wrist harder and starts to say something and his dick gets really rigid, rock-freaking-hard, and he comes at Stiles’s throat—spurting and thick—and it’s a lot to swallow.

“You don’t... have... “ Derek trails off.

Stiles opens his eyes and darts his tongue at his bottom lip to catch a dripping trail of spit and semen. “It kind of seemed like the thing to do.”

Derek nods, wide-eyed—so beautifully dazed it makes Stiles laugh again.

“Holy crap,” he says. “That was fun.”

Derek recovers with little more than a blink (werewolves, man), grins, and says, “You think that was fun?”

Stiles doesn’t have time to lament the brevity of Derek’s dazed state or even answer Derek before Derek flips him over onto his back and starts kissing scratchy-wet kisses down his chest and belly and lower and—

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “Oh—oh my god.”


“Humming! Oh man, that. That. Oh my god.”

And fuck, Derek was right. When there’s a mouth on him, on so much of him, Stiles feels blasted open, raw. He can’t—there’s no comfortable, familiar grip. He’s grasping at the sheets instead and trying to hold still so he doesn’t kick or knee Derek. Derek’s mouth and strong, wet hand feel so good it makes him shake, but it’s crazy too, because every second of it is uncertainty, like one of those waterslides in the dark where it’s fun and all but you don’t know where you’re going or what comes next.

“Derek,” he says. It comes out hoarse and high, like a whine. His throat clicks on the hard consonant. “Derek, Derek.”

Screw first-hand accounts; they are inaccurate. Nothing is accurate. The whole universe is just this, right now. This is the best thing. Everything else can go home.

When Stiles comes, dimly aware that it’s too soon—not because he’s embarrassed at going off like a faulty firework, but because it’s interfering with how he wants this to last forever—he cries out. It might be Derek’s name or a prayer or some kind of caveman sound. Stiles doesn’t care.

Stiles barely knows where he is, and blinks with genuine surprise when Derek slides up and tucks next to him, grinning and warm-mouthed and smelling like penis, if Stiles is going to be honest.

“You all right?” Derek asks, looking way too freaking pleased with himself.

Stiles answers with a fumbling, happy kiss.