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teen wolf fic: Parked
Title: Parked
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,100
Summary: The back of the jeep isn't really big enough for this kind of thing.
Notes: Written for Blow Job Friday. This has no plot whatsoever. Stiles is over 18, but past underage shenanigans are implied.
Parked
The back of the jeep isn't really big enough for this kind of thing. Stiles' legs are cramped, starting to go numb in places, his feet jammed against the wheel well and his knees bent at awkward angles, and Derek has to hunch over, his head bumping the roof when he leans up to pull off his shirt. The air is heavy and humid, thick with the smell of sweat and skin, and Stiles can't quite breathe, can't get comfortable. Derek hauls him up a little, hitting his elbow on the seat as he curls his hand around Stiles' arm; Stiles ends up almost sitting, his back against the window and the roll bar biting into his shoulder blade.
Derek kisses Stiles, slow and wet and dirty, then slides his lips over the line of Stiles' jaw, sets his teeth to the skin below Stiles' ear, one hand resting at the hollow of Stiles' throat, the other tugging on Stiles' belt. His fingers catch in the buckle, rough and impatient; he growls against Stiles' neck as he works it open, and Stiles runs his hands up Derek's arms, digs his nails into Derek's shoulders.
"Hey, we should -- I don't know," Stiles says. He is eighteen now, has been for a few weeks, and it's pretty dark outside, black sky and heavy clouds and barely any moon at all, but they're still out in the open, just parked on the side of the road, and the back of the jeep is made mostly of windows. His dad knows about the werewolves and the hunters and the weird, supernatural things that sometimes turn up in the woods, but he doesn't know about this, and Stiles doesn't want him to find out because of a public indecency arrest. "Maybe not here."
"We can go back to my place," Derek says, but he rubs his hand over the front of Stiles' jeans, his thumb slowly tracing the hard line of Stiles' dick, and Stiles arches into it, bites the inside of his cheek.
"Cheater."
Derek smiles a little, his mouth just curving at the corners, then pops the button on Stiles' jeans. "You want me to stop?"
"No," Stiles admits, his voice hitching as Derek palms him again, easy pressure from the heel of his hand. They've been doing this for months -- in Stiles' bedroom when his dad isn't home, in the crappy apartment Derek shares with Isaac, in the dusty shadows of the railway station, in quiet, sunny clearings in the woods, dead leaves in Derek's hair and wet, sticky dirt between Stiles' fingers -- but Stiles can't get enough of it, always wants more more more, loves the way Derek's hands feel on his skin, the dark noises Derek makes when he comes.
Derek kisses Stiles again, hooks his fingers in Stiles' waistband, drags Stiles' jeans and boxers down to his knees. The jeep groans softly as Derek shifts around, as he slides down Stiles' body, folds himself into the narrow space between Stiles' legs; he runs his hands up Stiles' thighs, nosing at the hair under Stiles' navel as he spreads Stiles open as much as his jeans will allow, then leans down and breathes Stiles in, all damp heat and slow puffs of air, quick brushes of lips and the rough scrape of stubble in the crease of Stiles' hip.
"Fuck," Stiles says, threading his fingers in Derek's hair, tugging a little as Derek sucks a warm, wet mark into the inside of his thigh. He twists under Derek's weight, trying to get Derek's mouth where he wants it, but Derek just huffs, an amused sound that flutters against Stiles' skin, then moves in closer, curving his hands over Stiles' hips, holding him still.
He draws a slow, open kiss up the length of Stiles' dick, flicking his tongue over all the spots that make Stiles gasp and twitch, letting the head rest on the well of his lip until Stiles curses and tugs on his hair again. He takes Stiles in all at once, slick heat that makes Stiles' toes curl; Stiles moans and tips his head back against the foggy window, condensation catching in his hair, running down to pool at the back of his neck. He wants to push up into Derek's mouth, chase the wet drag of Derek's lips and the soft curls of Derek's tongue, but he can't really move, not with Derek's hands pinning his hips, Derek's thumbs pressing bruises into his skin.
"Jesus, your mouth." Stiles' legs are shaking, sharp tremors running up his calves, hiding in the hollows of his knees. "You -- fuck."
Derek pulls off for a moment, his eyes narrow and dark, his mouth flushed and shiny and red, and Stiles can't look, it's like a punch to the gut, and he's already so close. He stares up at the roof of the jeep, making a choked noise in the back of his throat when Derek finally sucks him in again, too deep, too deep; everything is wet and messy and perfect, and Stiles runs his hand over Derek's jaw, brushes his thumb along the stretch of Derek's lips, the hollow of Derek's cheeks.
Stiles comes with a shout, his back arching and his head thumping against the window, his hand sliding to the back of Derek's neck, his thighs shaking as Derek swallows, licks him clean.
"Get up here," Stiles says, tugging on Derek's arm, kissing Derek long and slow as he fumbles with Derek's belt, his stupidly tight jeans. Everything is awkward for a minute, because there just isn't enough room, and Stiles' wrist won't turn the right way in the little bit of space that they have, but Stiles gets them settled, sliding down a little so Derek can stretch out on top of him, pressing bites and kisses to Derek's jaw and neck as he strokes Derek's dick, as Derek fucks into his hand, as Derek comes all over Stiles' stomach and the bottom of his sweaty shirt.
A car passes them, tires squealing as rounds the curve just up the road. Stiles starts to sit up, but Derek weighs a ton, and he has his arm wrapped around Stiles' shoulder, his knee hooked over Stiles' leg.
"We should probably go."
"In a minute," Derek says. He noses at the collar of Stiles' shirt, starts working a hickey into the hollow of Stiles' throat.
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,100
Summary: The back of the jeep isn't really big enough for this kind of thing.
Notes: Written for Blow Job Friday. This has no plot whatsoever. Stiles is over 18, but past underage shenanigans are implied.
The back of the jeep isn't really big enough for this kind of thing. Stiles' legs are cramped, starting to go numb in places, his feet jammed against the wheel well and his knees bent at awkward angles, and Derek has to hunch over, his head bumping the roof when he leans up to pull off his shirt. The air is heavy and humid, thick with the smell of sweat and skin, and Stiles can't quite breathe, can't get comfortable. Derek hauls him up a little, hitting his elbow on the seat as he curls his hand around Stiles' arm; Stiles ends up almost sitting, his back against the window and the roll bar biting into his shoulder blade.
Derek kisses Stiles, slow and wet and dirty, then slides his lips over the line of Stiles' jaw, sets his teeth to the skin below Stiles' ear, one hand resting at the hollow of Stiles' throat, the other tugging on Stiles' belt. His fingers catch in the buckle, rough and impatient; he growls against Stiles' neck as he works it open, and Stiles runs his hands up Derek's arms, digs his nails into Derek's shoulders.
"Hey, we should -- I don't know," Stiles says. He is eighteen now, has been for a few weeks, and it's pretty dark outside, black sky and heavy clouds and barely any moon at all, but they're still out in the open, just parked on the side of the road, and the back of the jeep is made mostly of windows. His dad knows about the werewolves and the hunters and the weird, supernatural things that sometimes turn up in the woods, but he doesn't know about this, and Stiles doesn't want him to find out because of a public indecency arrest. "Maybe not here."
"We can go back to my place," Derek says, but he rubs his hand over the front of Stiles' jeans, his thumb slowly tracing the hard line of Stiles' dick, and Stiles arches into it, bites the inside of his cheek.
"Cheater."
Derek smiles a little, his mouth just curving at the corners, then pops the button on Stiles' jeans. "You want me to stop?"
"No," Stiles admits, his voice hitching as Derek palms him again, easy pressure from the heel of his hand. They've been doing this for months -- in Stiles' bedroom when his dad isn't home, in the crappy apartment Derek shares with Isaac, in the dusty shadows of the railway station, in quiet, sunny clearings in the woods, dead leaves in Derek's hair and wet, sticky dirt between Stiles' fingers -- but Stiles can't get enough of it, always wants more more more, loves the way Derek's hands feel on his skin, the dark noises Derek makes when he comes.
Derek kisses Stiles again, hooks his fingers in Stiles' waistband, drags Stiles' jeans and boxers down to his knees. The jeep groans softly as Derek shifts around, as he slides down Stiles' body, folds himself into the narrow space between Stiles' legs; he runs his hands up Stiles' thighs, nosing at the hair under Stiles' navel as he spreads Stiles open as much as his jeans will allow, then leans down and breathes Stiles in, all damp heat and slow puffs of air, quick brushes of lips and the rough scrape of stubble in the crease of Stiles' hip.
"Fuck," Stiles says, threading his fingers in Derek's hair, tugging a little as Derek sucks a warm, wet mark into the inside of his thigh. He twists under Derek's weight, trying to get Derek's mouth where he wants it, but Derek just huffs, an amused sound that flutters against Stiles' skin, then moves in closer, curving his hands over Stiles' hips, holding him still.
He draws a slow, open kiss up the length of Stiles' dick, flicking his tongue over all the spots that make Stiles gasp and twitch, letting the head rest on the well of his lip until Stiles curses and tugs on his hair again. He takes Stiles in all at once, slick heat that makes Stiles' toes curl; Stiles moans and tips his head back against the foggy window, condensation catching in his hair, running down to pool at the back of his neck. He wants to push up into Derek's mouth, chase the wet drag of Derek's lips and the soft curls of Derek's tongue, but he can't really move, not with Derek's hands pinning his hips, Derek's thumbs pressing bruises into his skin.
"Jesus, your mouth." Stiles' legs are shaking, sharp tremors running up his calves, hiding in the hollows of his knees. "You -- fuck."
Derek pulls off for a moment, his eyes narrow and dark, his mouth flushed and shiny and red, and Stiles can't look, it's like a punch to the gut, and he's already so close. He stares up at the roof of the jeep, making a choked noise in the back of his throat when Derek finally sucks him in again, too deep, too deep; everything is wet and messy and perfect, and Stiles runs his hand over Derek's jaw, brushes his thumb along the stretch of Derek's lips, the hollow of Derek's cheeks.
Stiles comes with a shout, his back arching and his head thumping against the window, his hand sliding to the back of Derek's neck, his thighs shaking as Derek swallows, licks him clean.
"Get up here," Stiles says, tugging on Derek's arm, kissing Derek long and slow as he fumbles with Derek's belt, his stupidly tight jeans. Everything is awkward for a minute, because there just isn't enough room, and Stiles' wrist won't turn the right way in the little bit of space that they have, but Stiles gets them settled, sliding down a little so Derek can stretch out on top of him, pressing bites and kisses to Derek's jaw and neck as he strokes Derek's dick, as Derek fucks into his hand, as Derek comes all over Stiles' stomach and the bottom of his sweaty shirt.
A car passes them, tires squealing as rounds the curve just up the road. Stiles starts to sit up, but Derek weighs a ton, and he has his arm wrapped around Stiles' shoulder, his knee hooked over Stiles' leg.
"We should probably go."
"In a minute," Derek says. He noses at the collar of Stiles' shirt, starts working a hickey into the hollow of Stiles' throat.