a little birdy told me in french (sterek)

daunt replied to your post: “where allison, derek, and lydia all have conversations in french like…”:

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“Talk to me like one of your French girls,” Stiles sighs, falling dramatically across Derek on the couch. Shifting under the added weight, Derek spares Stiles a skeptical glance, then returns his attention to his book with a snort.

It takes all of two minutes before the prickly sensation of Stiles glaring at him is enough to make him look down at the kid in his lap.

“Can I help you?” he asks. Stiles wiggles around a bit, frowning.

“You think Scott and I haven’t noticed, but we totally have,” Stiles accuses, going limp and sliding to the floor by Derek’s feet, expression pitiful. “You know, you can admit it: Ever since Lydia found out you can speak all kinds of languages - like some kind of werewolf wizard of tongues - she’s made you a part of her little ‘Better Than You’ club with Allison, and now you think you’re just too cool for us.” He flicks at Derek’s toes, tries to remain mournful even in the face of Derek’s fluffy blue socks. “Whatever, we get it. Tossed out in the cold because we took Spanish instead of French.”

Derek kicks his foot at Stiles, feeling his limb twitch involuntarily as the pads of Stiles’ fingers dip inside his sock to caress his ankle. They’re warm from the fireplace and rough from the callouses and Derek remains silent as Stiles slips the sock off entirely to drag a nail along his arch.

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Once Stiles figures out that he’s interested in Derek he can’t be around him without getting ridiculously aroused. It’s a problem. 

So, his temporary solution is to just get off before he has to see Derek to try and satiate his stupid libido.

That’s how Derek ends up finding Stiles jerking off in the front seat of the jeep, pants around his knees. He has his eyes closed so it makes it easy for Derek to lean through the open window and ask softly

“What are you doing?”

Stiles jumps a foot and startles, Derek gets a pretty good view of Stiles dick, which Derek probably thinks is a nice looking dick. Pretty much everything about how Stiles looks right now is nice, flushed cheeks, red wet lips, and his t-shirt pushed up his chest. 

Stiles covers himself up,“this is for your own good, Derek.” 

“Well, thanks for taking one for the team,” Derek says. Stiles hastily tries to explain why he’s playing with himself in the woods a few miles away from Derek’s house. 

Derek gets hung up on the part where Stiles said ‘feelings’ and how, “Like, my foreplay is years long antagonism, my kink strong emotional intimacy.”

Derek leans closer and Stiles tells him, “this is a preventative measure.”

“For what?”

“Well…ironically for trying not to embarrass myself with how obvious it is I want you.” 

“You’re doing a great job,” Derek tells him. “Now, keep going.” 

After staring long and hard at Derek Stiles does, tentatively starts to jerk himself. He gets about three strokes in when Derek licks and bites at Stiles’ ear, and Stiles is coming hard.

yes want

Ugh, mostly I would want this because Derek would be forced to LOOK AFTER HIMSELF because if he doesn’t, Stiles gets hurt too and suddenly, for the first time in his life he realizes putting himself first and keeping himself safe can be what protects others.

yes but also masturbating

Derek falls asleep the way he usually does - completely against his will. He’s face-down on one of the four Mythos and Magicka encyclopedia’s he managed to “borrow” from the Beacon Hills Public Library. It’s a good thing rustic tomes of magical significance are useless to the majority of the population, because Derek finds a lot of them in the gardening sections of libraries and used book stores.

He starts having that dream again, the one he expected.

He’s running to Stiles from across the warehouse; he’s watching the sword cut through Stiles like he’s made of paper. Derek feels it stick between his ribs, coughs feebly as his lungs fill up with his own blood. Stiles’ eyes go so wide he can see where they curve back into the sockets.

The witch twists and then starts lifting him.

A 90 pound woman who, by all appearances, probably remembers the start of the Boer Wars manages to lift the sword high enough that Stiles’ feet dangle. And Scott is screaming and Derek is bleeding and he can’t feel the floor and Stiles is reaching down the length of the sword, cutting his palms on the edge of the the blade.

Derek feels his own palms split, hears the echoes of Lydia just shrieking, just shrieking -

He wakes up with his mouth open in a silent scream, his throat too dry to make anything louder than a mournful squeak. Derek’s hands are flat against his ribs, as if he’s holding his guts in. Wouldn’t be a first.

Derek doesn’t have a scar, but Stiles does. He’s had peeks of it since Stiles got out of the hospital; when his bandages were changed, when Scott helped him put on a t-shirt for the first time since he was skewered.

It’s been a grey three months of breathing tubes and wilting flowers, aching wrists from taking the pain and a lot of bathroom crying on the part of everyone. No one’s had it easy. No one.

But….

Well, Derek doesn’t want to say it’s been the hardest on him, but living your life normally isn’t exactly possible when you’re nerve endings are preternaturally connected with a nineteen-year-old in an induced coma.

Every ache, every twinge, every fever dream and laboured breath has driven its way through Derek’s body. He’s exhausted even when he’s asleep and now that Stiles is out of the hospital it isn’t getting any better.

Derek shuffles his way to the bathroom and prays to God that he actually has to pee this time. Stiles has a habit of holding it in until he’s about to burst and Derek never knows for sure if he actually has to go or if Stiles is just being lazy.

It’s weird. He’s standing alone in his bathroom, scrunching his toes against the cold tile and rubbing sleep from his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater, but there’s this awareness. Stiles is out there, awake and alive. Derek’s eyes won’t adjust and he knows that Stiles is looking at his computer screen. It’s almost three in the morning. Derek sighs, washes his hands with extra hot water and hopes that tells Stiles he’s awake too. They never talk about the connection, ignore all the mirroring they do when they’re near each other.

No one talks about Derek saving Stiles’ life. If it wasn’t for his werewolf healing worming its way over the physical connection the witch created, Stiles would be sleeping at Beacon Hills Crematorium and Cemetery right now. Derek doesn’t like thinking about it.

He’s looking through the medicine cabinet for those sleeping pills Deaton gave him when he feels it. This sudden, erratic drop in his stomach and his breath goes out of him. He panics for half a second, trying to remember where his phone is so he can call Scott when -

Oh.

It’s like phantom hands running over his chest, down and down and down and when the feeling reaches his dick he keels forward because the hand isn’t so phantom anymore. “Oh shit,” he whimpers. Derek tries to will himself to not feel this, to not get hard but it’s so real.

And it’s Stiles.

Derek turns the faucet onto hot and watches the steam rise, but he hesitates before he dips his fingers into the stream.

This hasn’t happened before. Derek feels everything Stiles feels, and this is the first time Stiles has jerked off since he almost died. Derek could burn his own hands, could make Stiles stop - but that wouldn’t be fair. Stiles needs this.

Yeah, he needs this. He needs it so bad. It isn’t about Derek. No…. It’s…. He’s helping.

It’s when he senses the lightest brush against his ass that he loses it. Derek tries to catch himself on the edge of the sink, but he gives up and drops hard to his knees. The sensation stops and there’s a couple heartbeats where Derek is hard and alone and holding his breath before the hand starts again, slower this time.

Derek can’t handle slow. He needs this faster.

He pops the button on the jeans he fell asleep in and tugs them down below his hips before giving up on getting them any further. His hand hovers over his cock for a breath before he goes for it, massages the head the way he likes it. There’s a sudden dull throb at the back of his head and Derek laughs at the image of Stiles knocking his head against the wall, pausing to make sure his Dad didn’t hear.

Derek bites his own lip like a warning and Stiles gets back to it, the same languid strokes. Derek imagines his hands, those fingers - that mouth. He moans a little and wonders if Stiles feels it in his chest, if it takes up the space that fucking sword left.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about anything that isn’t this, right here and now.

He wishes Stiles were with him, but he wouldn’t know what to do if he was. Where to start?

Derek feels the fingers ghost over his ass again and the thought of Stiles sprawled out on his bed, touching himself, feeling Derek right along with him - it’s too much. Derek gets the distinct mental image of eyelids, the inside of them. Lips forming the words, “Oh holy shit, Derek.”

And that’s it. He’s coming on his bathroom floor with his face pressed against the cabinets.

Oh holy shit, Derek is right.

Afterwards…. Well, he feels kind of silly. He’s all alone in his big loft, kneeling with his dick out and he’s made a huge mess on his jeans. His whole body is shaky in a way he’s never felt before and he forces himself to get off the floor and take off his pants. He thinks of taking a shower, but it’s late and he’s so tired now… Derek never gets sleepy after sex. He usually gets so nervous that he basically vibrates.

But now he just wants to get a snack and lay down on the couch, which is exactly what he does. Derek puts on a re-run of a basketball game he’s already watched and starts to doze off, doing his best not to feel ashamed of himself.

His phone vibrates in between the cushions and he fishes it out, half-asleep. It’s from Stiles, and it takes Derek a minute to actually realize it’s the second of three messages.

‘next time be here for cuddles’ Stiles said right after the incident in the bathroom. And then, ‘i mean unless that was uncool’ with ‘im sorry’ at the end.

Derek doesn’t know if he’s out of his mind, if he’s exhausted or thankful or just in love, but he says ‘cuddle you tomorrow’ and smiles like a goof when Stiles sends ‘im holding you to it’.

ficlet - totally not safe for the work

Darcy’s head was bent so far backwards she was staring at the headboard, her knees hitched over Steve’s shoulders. She panted out each breath as his hands dug into the sheets on either side of her hips. The sheer force of him plowing into her made the mattress creak and groan almost louder than he was doing.

When she’d last had the opportunity to look at his face directly (maybe about five minutes passed, she wasn’t quite sure, time had suspended itself at the first hard snap of his hips), he’d been biting down on his lower lip as he worked himself into her. Now she would have had no idea as to where his feelings were if it weren’t for the breathless way he was choking out her name with every stutter of his thighs into hers. She went to lift her hands above her head to brace them against the sturdy headboard (made of angle iron, welded by Tony himself to withstand that “super serum pounding you’ll be getting every night, courtesy of my dear old dad,”), when she found her wrist grabbed in Steve’s fingers.

“Don’t,” he whispered harshly, not letting up with the consistent pace of him thrusting into her. She jerked her chin down, staring at him. His hair was all in his face, his cheeks flushed rosy red, and there was a cheeky grin running up one side of his mouth. “C’mere,” he murmured, pressing down tighter on her until her knees nearly hit her chest. She wasn’t so flexible as he imagined, and she whimpered from the strain along the backs of her thighs.

“Steve,” she whined at him. He was just close enough he could brush a kiss across her lips, his pounding slowing down into something lazier, more languorous.

“Gotta ask you,” he panted, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

“Seriously?” she asked, fighting the iron grip around her wrist. “Questions, now? Right now?”

“Right now,” he said seriously, but he was still all grins, and he gave a hitch of his hips, causing her to inhale sharply and then moan out the breath.

“Bastard,” she growled when she was of the mind to be speaking again.

“Rather’d that be husband-bastard, Doll,” he said, and it took a moment for everything to line up in her brain and light up. Her jaw dropped as he continued his easy push-pull, into her, like he hadn’t just dropped that bomb onto her mid-coitus. “What?!” she shrieked, trying to come up on her elbows but not being able to shove him off of her as she was more pretzel than girl at that very moment. He paused in the rock of his body into hers, his cheeks blushing harder.

“Uh… was hoping you’d… you’d, uh, you’d marry me?” he asked, letting her wrist go, his hand running through his messy hair. He looked sheepish, and if he hadn’t been half-way into her she would have smacked him or kissed him, probably both.

As it was she flung her arm across her eyes and shoved up with her hips, taking him in deeper.

“Jesus Christ, Steven Grant Rogers,” she said and then bit her lip with a thwarted moan. “I want to say no just to serve you right for your shitty timing, but fuck me…” she trailed off, not meaning it literally, but Steve took up the charge anyway as he was generally the sort to give her whatever she asked for.

She cried out when he resumed his determined thrusting, although he trapped her hand with his and she felt the sharp cool slide of a ring around her finger where it rested across her face.

Well the man could rub his belly and pat his head at the same time, she thought in the giddy back of her mind.

His lips brushed her cheek as he pressed her harder into the mattress, and he murmured breathlessly,

“Merry Christmas, Doll.” ===================== Merry christmas you fancy bitches I love you.

LOLOLOL.  *applause*  Yeah… I’m with family (peeking over my shoulder at inopportune moments) for the next several days and not even going to ATTEMPT an image set for this.  *more applause*  “more pretzel than girl”  HEE…  Love you, too, Miin!  *samooch*

NSFW ShieldShock Fanfiction from the incomparable @awwheartno 

definitely a ShieldShock MERRY Christmas ;)

Smoke is Just the Air Remembering Fire | 4/4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Just like he always did before, Stiles falls into a sex coma minutes after Derek cleans them both off with a damp washcloth. On his stomach, half sprawled across Derek’s chest, he’s a comforting, familiar weight pinning him to the bed. Derek doesn’t dare sleep, lest he miss a moment of looking at his beauty, doesn’t dare lose a second of marveling at how his lashes ever-so-delicately rest against his skin, or the perfect curves of his slightly-parted lips and the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Part of him is terrified that if he sleeps, he’ll wake to find his bed empty, to find Stiles gone, even though he knows Stiles wouldn’t leave like that. But so many years of missing him, of living without him, of bearing that echoing emptiness in his heart, makes Derek fearful. So he stays awake and basks in his beauty, in the spicy warmth of his scent, of their scent.

Read Chapter 4 on Ao3

need fic where derek gets drunk/stoned for the first time and has an existential crisis to scott about how torn he is between wanting to bone stiles and wanting to help him with his homework and tuck him in. 

“No you don’t understand, Scott…” he’d say with the most deranged look in his eyes “I just want to pet his hair and watch him sleep.”

And scott would be a little bit alarmed like, “okay, Derek.”

“No no…but also I want him to pet my hair. While I suck his dick. I want to suck his dick.”

“Have you ever…” Derek trails off, fingering the edge of his sweater idly. His face is quiet and Scott smiles at him, encouraging him to go on. Derek barely catches it, his gaze flickering from the younger wolf’s face back to the hem of his sweater. He tries again, rushing the words out as if it’ll be less momentous to say them quickly and the severity of his situation won’t seem quite as daunting.

“Have you ever imagined Stiles giving you a blow job?”

It takes Scott a moment to wrap his head around what had mostly sounded like crowded syllables and anguish and when he does he can’t do much about the disbelieving scoff of a laugh that echoes in the back of his throat.

“Wow.” The word sounds underwhelming on the tip of his tongue. Of all the things he had ever imagined him and Derek talking about, well this certainly hadn’t been one of them.

Scott looks at Derek a little apologetically, smiles soft and earnest while he says, “I, uh, no. I haven’t. But there’s nothing wrong with it, you know, if you have. I’m sure Stiles would be kind of flattered actually-“

“It’s his stupid mouth” Derek moans, cutting Scott short before he can allow his vote of understanding and support to over compensate too heavily. “He’s always sucking on things, licking his lips. Bloody oral fixation, he’s like a softcore porn film come to life. And his hands.”

Before Scott can even think of something to offer the conversation (or a subject change) Derek’s despair comes full circle. He breathes out a heavy sigh, conceding, “but after everything with the nogitsune I just,” he pauses, shifts in his seat to turn his body towards Scott’s though he doesn’t look him in the eye. “I just wanna look after him, you know? Tuck him in, make sure he sleeps for more than a couple hours for once, maybe brush my fingers through his hair.”

Scott nods, “Sure. Pack mentality, we look after one another.” He quells the part of him that feels the instinct to flee, not wanting to discuss his best friend’s pseudo sex life with Derek, with anyone, though the line of conversation is veering into safer, more comfortable territory.

Derek folds in on himself once more, slouching down in his seat as he comments, “and then in the morning I could suck his dick and he could comb his fingers through my hair. Maybe tug a little, yeah, yeah, that’d be good. He deserves that,” and veers right on out again.

He bites his lip and Scott lays his hands over his face, wishing he could unsee the expression on Derek’s face. The expression that clearly speaks of the many filthy things he’s imagining between himself and Stiles. 

He’s never getting Derek stoned again.

"I bet he has a really nice dick, too." Derek smiles to himself and nods his head. "I could look after him, and his dick.”

 #Derek is the captain of the lacrosse team #Derek drives an expensive car that his father let him pick out and drive home on his 16th birthday#Derek has the best fucking hair in school and he makes sure of this every morning#Derek is done living up to his perfect family’s perfect expectations #It’s his mother’s lecture on family traditions #and the importance of a solid foundation in their personal history that finally sends him over the edge #He collars a sophomore that he knows sells Adderall to some of the guys on the team during finals #and asks for some weed #demands #whatever #The guy tries saying no but the other schools don’t call him the Beacon Hills Enforcer for nothing and he finally caves #he says it’ll have to be after school and at his house because he’s not doing a trade in public#and when he names his price his heartbeat hammers in his chest but Derek nods and walks #It’s his father’s money #what does he care? #he checks the address the guy had typed into his phone #against what is clearly the sheriff’s house in front of him but goes to the door anyway #the guy #’Don’t you even want to know my name? It’s Stiles by the way.’ #and what the fuck kind of name is that? but he follows /Stiles/ up to his room #Stiles rolls a joint for him while Derek watches the way he nervously licks his lips and darts glances at him through long eyelashes #It’s the deft way his fingers roll the paper that decide it for him though #so when Stiles reaches out with the joint in his hand #Derek pulls him off his chair by his wrist until he’s kneeling between his splayed legs #he twists the joint out of his fingers and places Stiles hand very deliberately on the the growing bulge in his jeans #Stile’s eyes go wide but his long fingers move to the button and Derek flops back on the bed and lets Stiles blow him while he lights up #The head rush of the pot makes him go off faster than usual and he holds his last lungful of smoke in until Stiles swallows #before he brings their lips together and shares the smoke between them #he licks the last of his cum off the corner of Stiles mouth and leans back so Stiles can exhale #and thinks that fucking a guy, this guy, might be the best ‘fuck you’ to his parents he’s ever thought of

Summary:

He pulls open the door without knocking and gets half a step inside the loft before he notices. Derek—lying on his bed—face down—naked.

-0-

Stiles gets an eyeful. Things go downhill from there.

ShieldShock Fanfiction Story Recommendation - Read Figure Drawing by @melifair.  It’s amazing!