Bittersweet (Between My Teeth)

[nominally a sequel to thisthough you don’t need really a lot of context for it, as it is mostly just sex. Some of it while Derek is wolfed out and all of it while they’re both seventeen, so, uh, mind that if you’re squicked.]

They kiss for a long time, pressed together to keep from falling down. Stiles’ hands find Derek’s ass, tighten and tug and pull him up, flush: Derek makes a small, startled noise and Stiles moves in to kiss it away and it’s only then that they both notice the fangs.

It’s just a tiny cut, shallow on Stiles’ lower lip, but Derek watches the blood bead up under the pool’s soft yellow sodium lights and feels his stomach twist and twist itself, his whole body trying to curl up with shame. “I should have known,” he says, instead of I’m sorry, and then, “shit, shit, I mean, I’m sorry, I should have known, I—”

"Does this happen a lot?" Stiles asks, serious, his eyes wide and warm and somber. "Do you— when you— ?"

"I don’t, really," Derek says, shame-faced still. "I mean I haven’t really done a lot, so I don’t really, um, know." He’d been hoping to save that conversation for another time, or let his fumble-fingered lack of skill betray it silently.

"I’m not your first," Stiles says. Derek knows perfectly well not to pry but in the warm summer air, covered over by the astringent reek of chlorine Stiles’ scent is faint enough to be only barely legible anyway: not panicked or furious at all, the last buzzy hum of want still vibrating just at the edges of him. 

"Not my first kiss," Derek says, which is true. 

"But you— you look—" Derek wants to shake his head but he knows what he looks like, a little bit, that he’s grown into himself this summer the way everyone always promised he would. It’s confusing, to go from being a gawky teenage boy to someone women look at twice in the supermarket, smile at consideringly while he gets gas or drops the little ones off at soccer. He understands that he’s attractive in theory but it’s been hard to translate that into any kind of practice.

"I look like a wolf," Derek says. The fangs have mostly retracted but he finds them again, lets them descend, wrinkles his forehead for good measure. His control is so good when he concentrates. 

"Is that— is that why you don’t?"

"Kind of hard to explain," Derek says, ruefully. He could have— other packs have come to visit, this summer and last, there were girls to kiss and boys to kiss and he kissed them, some of them, but that was it, that was all he wanted from them. He looks at Stiles’ bare chest and feels the wild part of him rise up begging.

"But I know," Stiles says, drawing in closer. "And you— it’s because you like it, right?"

"I forget myself," Derek says, looking down again, blushing everywhere. "It’s not hard to keep a handle on, usually, but I get excited and I—"

Fuck,” Stiles breathes, too close, somehow, when did he get so close. “Fuck, Jesus, Derek, that’s so— that’s so hot. You just. From kissing. From kissing me.”

"Oh," Derek says. It’s different, when Stiles says it like that. "Yeah. From kissing you."

And then they’re kissing again, Stiles pushing him back, this time, towards the edge of the pool, until the concrete is hard against Derek’s back, scraping tough along his tender skin. Now that he’s remembered Derek can mostly keep it in check, but it’s not like Stiles seems to mind: if anything, he’s more agressive, wilder, mouth open and slick and swollen, hands everywhere, everywhere at once. “Up,” he mutters, “up, up, wanna touch you, don’t want to make you come in the pool.”

Derek allows himself a little secret smile at the thought of it, what it will be like taking Charlie and Sara to swim practice from now on, how he’s always going to remember this: Stiles moonlit and gasping, wrapping one hand around his dick and kissing his shoulder, his collarbone, down the long slope of his chest.

"I’m not— I haven’t done this so much, either," Stiles says, grinning up, wicked and lovely. "But don’t, um, hold back on my account, okay? I want to know." He’s so serious. "I want to know how I make you feel."

Derek wants to puts his hands on Stiles’ head but he doesn’t dare, feels claws threatening even as he tries desperately to hold them back. It’s no use, when Stiles sucks him down: his nails scrape hard against the cement and he throws his head back and howls

"Yeah," Stiles says, hoarse already. "Fucking— perfect, like that, okay, okay," going back to it, fingers tight on Derek’s hips, like he doesn’t have a brutal predator in his grip. He’s exactly like he always is: trusting, open. His mouth makes a lot of good, wet noise, and he’s moaning in the back of his throat, arousal so thick Derek can’t help smelling it, even with everything.

It forms a feedback loop, so that everything’s too much too fast: Derek’s own desire and Stiles’ heady scent and the more he wants the more Stiles gives him. He gives up on trying to hold off his orgasm and concentrates on his face until he can’t concentrate on that anymore, until he’s bucking his hips up and coming down Stiles’ throat, digging his own clawtips into his thighs just to have something to hang onto.

Stiles drags himself out of the pool and takes his dick in hand, jerking off unselfconsciously, eyes closed, head thrown back. Derek reaches out and then stops, watches mournfully as each claw retracts itself, unbearably slow. My mouth, he thinks, and then thinks of the fangs. It takes him too long, so long that Stiles comes while he’s still working through it. I want that, he thinks, I want to make that happen, but how, how.

"Sorry," he says, when it seems like Stiles will hear him. "That I couldn’t. Um. Help."

Fuck,” Stiles says weakly. “That’s— whatever, Derek, it’s fine.”

"I wanted to," he says, because he wants Stiles to know that, even if it’s so raw to say out loud that he wants to hide himself, after. "But I just— you know. Couldn’t."

"Kind of my fault," Stiles says cheerfully. "I asked you to, so. Next time me first, I guess, that’ll help, right?"

Derek gets so caught on next time that he doesn’t really process it, the rest of the question. It’s too late to do everything, to have everything he wants but he’s calm enough, now, his claws are in and his dick is soft and he wants to kiss Stiles so he does, drawing him close, letting himself be gentle, for a little while.


It doesn’t take long to figure it out: they find time together, in the Jeep or the Camaro’s cramped backseat, in Stiles’ bed while the Sheriff is pulling a late shift, sometimes just in the woods, when there’s nowhere else to go and they have to, they just have to. Derek jerks Stiles off, slow, careful, teaching himself to associate the low tight pull of his dick straining as something human, Stiles’ scent as an anchor.

Then Stiles experiments, he touches Derek everywhere with his hands, his mouth, easy and unafraid. Derek almost always ends up claw-deep in something by the end of it, a pillow or tree trunk or, on one truly unfortunate occasion, one of the twins’ stuffed wolves. His control gets better and worse, depending on the moon, on the wind, on how many times that day Stiles has caught his eye at school and bitten his bottom lip, smiled, blushed, looked away. 

It’s good. It’s so good that Derek can’t even imagine wanting anything else, ever: he loves shivering under Stiles’ touch, loves when he shoves their dicks together, needy and desperate, when he goes so slow that Derek gives it up and begs. He’s so dazed, usually, that he can’t even find room for self-doubt; he spends the first semester of senior year walking around in a Stiles-induced haze.

So he startles, just a little, when Stiles says “can I ask you something?” looking up through his lashes one lazy Tuesday afternoon while they’re messing around on his bed. 

"Sure," Derek says, "sure, of course." His hand, which has been cupping Stiles’ cock over his jeans, settles there awkwardly for a moment before he removes it gingerly, frowning down at his fingers. Stiles usually doesn’t want to talk too much, before.

"You don’t have to," Stiles says, which is a weird way to start. "If you— I just— I was wondering. About. Um. Your mouth."

"My mouth?"

"If you could." Stiles gestures at his crotch and blushes darkly. "With your mouth."

"Oh," Derek says. "Oh."

"You really don’t have to." Stiles takes Derek’s hand in his, guides it back to his dick, wraps his fingers around Derek’s and squeezes. "This is— it’s always really good."

"I didn’t think you wanted me to," Derek says, hurried, the words falling out of his mouth before he can stop them. He’s been kind of— hoping they’d never have to have this conversation, but he hates the look on Stiles’ face, hates it. And it’s not like he doesn’t want to. He wants to. He really, really does.

"Why— why?"

"Teeth," Derek says simply. And then: "fangs."

Stiles laughs. It’s such a shocked, genuine laugh that Derek can’t help it: he laughs too, relieved to see Stiles looking open again, sweet and determined, like always.

"Oh god, I really hadn’t thought about it," he says, at last. "I mean, I know I love— doing that, to you, but I didn’t know if you would—  if you even wanted to— I thought you just didn’t, maybe, so it didn’t occur to me— shit, wow. Okay."

"I want to," Derek says. "A lot. But. You know."

"Hmmm." Stiles flips onto his back, tucks his hands under his head, and stares up at the ceiling contemplatively. "Maybe you’ll hate it," he offers hopefully. "Or, not hate but. But not like it. Not enough."

"Don’t think so," Derek says, curling up at his side. "The smell of you— what you do to me— I mean, you have to know. How hard I come apart, when you touch me."

"But this is you touching me.”

"Yeah." Derek tries to find a way to explain it. "But you know how you— like it, when I wolf out?"

"Mmm," Stiles says, pressing a quick kiss to Derek’s mouth. "Yeah. Yeah."

"Because you know that I— that I like it." Stiles nods seriously. "Well that’s— it makes me— when I can make you. That I make you feel good. I like that. I want to do that."

"That wasn’t really a sentence," Stiles says, and rolls over to cover Derek’s mouth with his own, kissing him long and slow and filthy, rolling their hips together with intent. "But that’s fine, because I’ve decided we have better uses for your mouth today, okay?"

"You sure?" Derek knows the razor edges of his own teeth so well: too well, maybe. He can feel them, tucked up tight at the roof of his mouth. 

"If you need to stop, stop," Stiles says. "But otherwise." He reaches down, unzips his own fly, reaches in to take his dick out. "I’d like it, if you tried."

He starts out tentative, purses his lips and kisses gently at the head of Stiles’ dick , flicks his tongue out against the slit, licks up the sides, down at the base. Stiles makes a lot of encouraging noises which is good, that’s good. 

"I’m going to," Derek says eventually. "I’m going to— okay."

"Derek." Stiles puts his fingers under his chin, tilts his head up so they can look at each other for a long, quiet moment. Stiles’ eyes are dark and his cheeks are red, the flush staining down his neck, his chest. He looks gorgeous like this, perfectly, stunningly wrecked, not asking just— trusting.

So Derek  wraps one hand tight around the base and sucks Stiles into his mouth and then it’s— Stiles everywhere, the musk salt scent of him that Derek knows so well. He concentrates on that, on the slightly alien feeling of having something that big in his mouth, warm and pulsing, someone’s body heavy on his tongue. He concentrates on Stiles’ reactions, on what he likes, how his hips shift and jerk and thrust, on what he can with his mouth, his hands. He pulls off gasping and rubs Stiles’ dick against the outside of one cheek: he wants to be covered in it, in this.

“‘M not gonna last,” Stiles says hazily, somewhere above him. “Too good, too much, please.”

Stiles has never held back, not once, so Derek doesn’t, now, he gives him everything he can. He knows it, feels the final rush of blood surging in Stiles’ dick in his mouth, that last impossible tightening before release. He sucks it all down, greedy, tells the wolf that it can wait, that the only way to have this is to wait. He pulls off panting and rolls away to give in to it: teeth, claws, fur, his whole body exhausted. Stiles, used to it, makes him come before he can put his claws back in. 

"I think I might be in love with you," Derek says eventually, muffled by the arm thrown over his face.

"Good," Stiles says. "Good. I mean, me too."


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