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Being in a relationship is the mothership of awesome, okay?
It is, and, yeah, Stiles laughs it off sometimes because there are people (he’s not going to share names, maybe just one name—okay, no, stilinski men are honourable men, damn it) who keeps poking fun at him because from what they imitate, he sounds like a total asshole who gets all breathless and sweaty, and apparently he gets this condition where heart eyes shoots out from his ass.
Yeah, he denies the last one, but it doesn’t make it any less true though.
He’s setting his foot down. Yeah, you see this converse on his feet? There, it’s on the ground.
Now, it’s a literal metaphor.
Stiles is all for monogamy, the no sharing and caring kind of bullshit that the care bears back from the 90’s teaches you. Fuck that shit, and thank god those have finally stopped in production, they freak the shit out of him okay?
There were rainbows on their tummy pouches that shone a holier light than Jesus.
It’s… weird.
Anyway, right, back to monogamy.
Stiles is a selfish motherfucker, yeah, he’s just hitting town with the truck of let’s get it real up in this nitty gritty business, he doesn’t have time for bullshit. So, yeah, he’s also kind of a bend over backwards kind of traditionalist with his lover when he’s in a relationship.
Okay, maybe not that kind of traditional where he doesn’t put out on the first date, oh please. What are we? Back to the ages of cooties? No, he’s the man of putting out, sort of.
It’s just the kind where Stiles will touch his dates at third base but there’s no inserting, or thrusting, or any freaky shit going on for him. He’s still a virgin, thank you, and it’s by choice. It’s just…he doesn’t like being reciprocated.
He’s a lover, and just a total selfless giver (c’mon, you can lie better, stilinski), so maybe it cancels out on the whole selfish she-bang, right? Or maybe not. Semantics.
So, yes, he puts out fairly commonly. It’s just your typical spit for lube hand job for the dudes, and ugh, he hates this word—cunnilingus, for the dudettes. Yeah, well he has fun dabbling around with different people every few weeks, but it gets boring.
He kind of secretly is a romantic, okay? Maybe not the rom-com type of romantic, but, he likes to hold hands with someone, instead of giving sloppy mouth to mouth with a different sized clit at the back of his jeep. Or, he wants a man to kiss him in the rain, so he can totally pretend to be Allie, from The Notebook, you know that big scene when Noah lifts her up and they do some sort of twirling shit.
Yeah, cupid really shot a terribly misaimed arrow at him.
Either that or he really needs to stop hanging out with Lydia so much. For a person that small, she has a lot of evil manipulative skills under her Gucci and Prada, it still baffles him sometimes.
Well, just so happens, that Lydia (he loves her, truly, and well, just for humanity’s sake, he sticks around with her and it balances shit out) manages to fix him up with Beacon Hills High own bad boy A.K.A Hottie McJock Tight Pants.
That’s not his real name, by the way, just in case you got confused.
Derek Hale, that’s his name, but everyone calls him Hale. Except Stiles.
He’s unique.
Back to the point, relationships—awesome, because he’s been with the dude for about, say, four-ish, five months.
It’s been mostly platonic, well mostly on his part, but he’s done really raunchy stuff for Derek. He gave him his first prostate orgasm just a month ago. It was an experiment, he was curious and before he knows it, lube is being thrown at his face and his thumb is doing some sort of African voodoo dance circles in Derek’s ass.
It also kind of proves that he might be more bisexual for the man-lovin’ than the ladies, or maybe Derek just have magical ass powers that turns him gayer than Danny, who let’s be honest now. He blatantly drools and mouths ‘shove your dick in my face’ over Whittemore’s cock when they’re in the locker room.
It is only slightly pathetic, because well, he used to do that on Derek. Like he said, the dude totally has a magical ass power that turns even the most unwilling of heterosexuals. It’s a thing. He might conclude studies in the near future to test that hypothesis.
Anyway, Derek. He gets all sated, and awfully happy after his orgasms, also he makes this chest rumbling sound, almost like a purr. He also has the tendency to rub his face all over Stiles’ neck like the dude discovered his long lost cat heritage after he blows his load on Stiles’ stomach.
It’s really adorable though, he even got it on video once, but Derek made him delete it immediately when he’s come to his senses. You know, when he stops connecting with the roots of his part feline nature.
“Stiles, delete that.” He grumbles, and nips on the thin skin behind his ears.
Well, he makes a fair argument, totally. It’s not just the hormones doing the walk. So he deletes it, stays upset for about five seconds before Derek huffs, rolls on top of him and presses dry little kisses on his face.
Then, hormones went at it again.
So, he’s in a really committed relationship (in a teenager pyramid of a love life), emotionally and maybe even, sex wise-ally. Except, they aren’t exactly having sex.
Because—
He has his reasons. That may be totally valid, and goes soul-painfully deep, like maybe he wants to wait for after marriage? Doing the whole celibate thing, keeping up with the hippie love that’s dying in this generation, or he could also be religious.
You can’t judge a book by its cover.
Oh, who is he lying?
Stiles is terrified about sex. Don’t get him wrong, he loves all kinds of sex except for the penetrating kind. On him. Not because he’s an anal virgin, well, he is. But that’s not the point. He’s just… got messed up parts for a boy.
Are you doing the math in your head? No?
Okay, fine, Stiles has a vagina.
There he said it. Finally it’s out to the world. Well, not really, all of this is still in his head, but still.
He admits it. The vagina thing.
Yeah, life sucks.
He’s got a class A, way out of his league, hottie that wears leather like it’s a part of his skin who bathes in expensive cologne that makes his head spin whenever he tries to inhale his neck like he wants to breathe in his soul, also, because life just likes to shit on him, Derek’s popular.
Not in the mean girls way popular, like in the, he gets fairly good grades even though he ditches half of the classes while having the ability to pull off looking like he tours with Adam Lambert, pre-glitter and eye-shadow.
He has groupies, and The Hale Club (totally legit, by the way, the principal allowed for it to be an after-school sort of thing to keep the lady hormones in check) who shoves their ass and pussies in his face all the damn time to the point he doesn’t even flinch anymore.
He’s like a badass leather stud that knows how to give a mean throw in Lacrosse popular.
Yeah, his vagina is a life sucker and it can very well go suck his dick. Metaphorically. Because Stiles doesn’t have a dick.
Oh man, pity party all up in this shindig yo.
-
Shit hits the fan the first week of summer break, because c’mon, it’s him. Stiles. The only person in the planet to ever give themself a really bad wedgie because there are circumstances in life (Satan) who actually wants to destroy all good and fun things in his life.
“It’s okay,” Derek says slowly, and his eyes soften, like he’s almost terrified of intimidating him and he might go galloping away into the forest.
Well, he did that once, but that’s only because there was a rat snuffling into long overdue Chinese takes outs hiding in the backseat of his jeep.
He’s allowed to trout away (a very manly, all sweat and shirt tearing trout) while screeching (shouting, in a deep manfully way) out of his jeep and about two miles into the dark acres of the forest. Common sense doesn’t actually exist when the fight or flight thing happens to him.
Then, he sees a snake and shits himself.
The whole life sucks thing? There’s no competition because Stiles will always come out victorious.
Anyway, Derek is drawing circles on his arm and it’s kind of putting Stiles in a mild trance.
His mom used to that when he was little, rub little circles on his back or lightly scratches his head whenever she wants to put him down for a nap. It’s soothing, and he misses it, since his mom doesn’t do it anymore because the whole where she uh, died, happened and his dad isn’t a touchy feely person, so yeah.
It’s nice, he’s soaking it all up. He’s calm and not fidgeting around whenever he and Derek get the house to themselves.
Not his fault that Derek is packing both in the trunk, junk and has a four—coming six—pack going on at his mid-section. He’s allowed to be nervous, and twitchy, it’s an only-for-Derek thing.
“I know about your asexuality. It’s okay.” Derek says, in a therapist-like voice, all warm and tender, making you feel good about your flaws that Stiles almost misses the fact that his boyfriend just told him that he doesn’t have sexual desires, or something. He needs to research on asexuality.
He probably missed it since he got really invested in the term hermaphrodite and all the forums that argue that Lady Gaga is a prime example. He’s sixteen, and he’s curious about life and the genitalia parts of this generation’s queen of pop, he’s allowed to.
“You don’t need to feel pressured in, you know, pleasuring me. Sex-wise.” He continues, and Derek’s eyebrows are really going to town with the whole waggling situation. “I get it.”
Stiles falls off the couch when he tries to reply, yeah, he’s graceful as fuck and eventually he squeaks out, “Woahhh—hold on just a sec, just what? No seriously, what the fuck man?”
“What?” Derek asks, and he’s looking at Stiles really intently like he’s confused.
Stiles pulls his weight onto the couch again, rubbing his ass a little because it’s throbbing slightly from impact. “I’m not asexual. I’m like… b-sexual.” He tells and there’s a split moment where he hears exactly what he just said and quickly backtracks. “I mean, like, I’m totally it for all the sexin’. Go sex! I love sex. Sex is good.”
He’s babbling, and Derek really likes to tell him on it. Wonderful boyfriend he is, so great.
“You’re doing that thing where you act like a dumbass.” Derek teases, and then oh, his hand reaches out to his arm like hailing him with his saving grace, and starts doing those circles thing again.
“Can you just—stop, with the circles and the arm thing? It’s making me want to fall asleep on your face.” Stiles hisses out, but it sounds really more like a whine, not too over the top where he needs to shove his head into a pillow case.
Derek snatches his hand away so suddenly like Stiles’ arm is a heated stove, and wow, okay, that stinks. “I mean you can put your hand there. I didn’t say that there isn’t a party happening on my arm. Put it there, yeah, stick it there.”
Derek rolls his eyes, fondly, and places his hand right at the same spot, fingers curling into place. “Do you even hear yourself half the time?”
Stiles is offended by that, so he scoffs, and if a little spit just so happens to land on Derek’s face because of it, he doesn’t feel one bit guilty. He deserves it.
“Of course I do,” Stiles justifies while narrowing his eyes at Derek, hoping that he’s somewhat transmitting fiery threats of danger through his eyes.
“What the hell are you doing, Stiles?” Derek groans, hiding a small down-curved smile into his shoulder. “Your eyes are going batshit.”
“M’ trying to set your hair on fire,” Stiles seethes, and he’s straining really hard now, tears are brimming in his eyes that are starting to sharpen into salty tangy pain.
He tries to half-blink it away but it doesn’t work, and it feels like he’s about to die from a self-induced no blinking death but he knows if he gives in now, it’ll diminish all his hard work to create the treacherous flames of evil.
“Stop that. You look like you’re about to pop a vein.”
He finally relents, not because Derek tells him to, and blinks. Like fifty times. Derek gives up and throws himself into a fit of laughter. He doesn’t even have any decency to not sound like a hyena.
“Fuck you,” Stiles shoves him on the chest, gently, because he’s not cool with abuse, even though they are both dominant males in the relationship. Heh. Okay, fine, he’s leaning more towards the submissive type, but that’s not because he has a vagina, okay?
It’s just, Derek has the whole alpha-matrix eyebrows going on down to a tee. He can’t be that, no way josé. Unless his puberty finally gets the idea to kick start and decides to grow a hideous beard that reaches his shoulders, but he kind of figures that Derek would beat him at that too.
His beard would probably be outrageously fuzzy, with little insects living in it that helps him with chores whenever he grunts out a tune. It’d just be his luck.
Yeah, so back to topic, Stiles is no está bien with abuse.
God, he really needs to cut down on the Adderall.
“Also, I’m not asexual. I mean it. No. Just, no.”
Derek is still laughing, actually he’s kind of taking in large gulps of air only for it release into a small fit of giggle snorts. Yeah, the dude snorts, he’s so not the cool guy everyone thinks he is. “Yeah, yeah, B-sexual, right?”
“Hey,” Stiles scowls. “I’ll have you know that you are an object of sexual lust in my dreams. You are the apple in which the Adam in me have defiled, multiple of times, may I remind you. Orally and prostate-ally. You are the pain that stirs in my loins whenever I think of your fat, juicy, throbbing co—mmpphhh.”
Derek’s hand whips out of nowhere and lands on Stiles’ mouth. “I think you’re quite done with that sentence.”
No, he’s not.
Derek hasn’t heard the last word. He needs Derek to understand, to accept, that he has thoughts of building a shrine for his majestic cock, crazy pubic hair included, because hey it’s part of the deal too. The whole caveman, never shaved once in his life deal, Stiles digs it.
Yeah, Derek needs to know all this. It’s a life or death thing.
But, apparently, Derek thinks otherwise because his hand is still clamped right up against his lips, which are starting to turn slightly numb. It’s probably because he’s doing some sort of intense lip cardio to achieve ultimate freedom. Either that or Derek’s palm sweat has anaesthetic abilities.
He’s going with the latter. It sounds cooler.
Stiles decides to stick his tongue out anyway,
“Stiles,” Derek groans, it’s bordering a little on the hysterical side, but other than that, he doesn’t even look slightly put off that there’s slobber slowly accumulating in his palm. Or that Stiles’ tongue is just doing weird twister techniques that could probably put him in the Olympics.
Also, let it be known that if anyone has your icky salivating goo all up in their grill and does give two shits, it’s probably true love.
Derek finally pulls away five minutes later, unwillingly, only because Stiles gives up with the tonguing. There’s only so much one can do before it becomes boring, uncomfortable and starts tasting too much of flesh salts. Then he starts making animal noises and hopes someone overhears and dials 911.
Or you know, animal control. Either or is fine.
Derek completely loses it when he imitates a dong-cow. It’s a crossbreed between donkey and cows. It’s relatively cool. He thinks this is his calling for the future, making animalistic noises of cross-bred animals. There may be an opening for him in Hollywood after all.
“Oh, for the love of—Stiles, stop! You sound like a donkey getting castrated.” Derek chokes out, and then he’s hastily wiping the entire leftover spittle residue that has mostly dried up to little whitish saliva stains and now, oh man, it’s all on his couch. Flaky and smells too much like his gums.
What a gentleman.
Stiles pouts, in the manliest way he can, of course. “Well, you were the one who shoved your fist of Zeus into my face.”
“You were talking about my dick,” Derek deadpans. “Descriptively.”
“To prove that I’m not asexual!” Stiles argues back, and if his hair is any longer, he’d totally have done a Bieber flip at that moment.
He is, after all, a diva.
“Well, I just thought—“ Derek stutters and his face crumbles, like he just found out that someone have murdered all fancy hopes and dreams in ever achieving to be the only guy who owns the tightest pair of pants in this town.
Which he does, by the way, god.
His poor testicles, which are fine as hell even with all that blood restriction, but ouch. He can relate. Well, not really, but he’s watched a lot of YouTube videos in his spare time where dudes get their junk whacked by messed up shit that he feels second degree pain in his vagina.
“You just— I’ve never even— you never let me touch you. Not once.”
Stiles gets defensive. “Yes, you have, like, uh, two days ago? You felt me up, like there was naked skin to skin touching under my shirt. Or have you forgotten?”
Derek sighs wistfully. “Not like that and you know what I mean, Stiles.”
“I—“Stiles starts and he has about ten thousand reasons on the tip of his tongue that he have used on countless of dates who always shrugs away happily, because hey, free orgasms for them and they don’t need any repayment! Boo-fucking-yeah!
He’s also given Derek about a quarter of them too. Like how he loves giving pleasure to him instead of receiving, telling him it’s more than enough, that there’s always next time, but seventy percent of the time, the conversation ends whenever Stiles leans in and shudders out a breathily moan at Derek’s ear.
He usually comes immediately after that, and then the rest is put to rest.
“Ugh, fine,” Stiles grumbles out. “No more lying. No more any of the shit I used to pull. Because you’re my dude and I’m your dude. The ass to my dumb, right? So, okay. Totally. I’m gonna be a man of my word. Yep, that’s what, I, Stiles, am gonna do. To speak the truth. Like a man. Because that’s what I am.”
“Stiles,” Derek growls, and it sounds almost like his sex-voice that Stiles flails and blurts out.
“Dude, I have a vagina!”
Derek falls off the couch this time.
Stiles cocks a brow at him, pursing his lips. “Man, not to be an imperialist of being a dick or anything since this is totally a big v moment, and then there’s the whole ‘imitation is the greatest form of flattery’ cheez, but, uh, I don’t feel flattered in the least.”
“Low blow, babe.” Derek finally wheezes out, wincing when he palms his ass with little pained grunts. “You caught me on surprise. Don’t even try to push the blame on me.”
“B-luh,” Stiles fumbles and grins cheekily at Derek.
Okay, see, Derek has a thing with pet names. He’s not even going to try beating around the bush with it, therefore, it means that Stiles has a thing for his thing. That doesn’t even make any sense. What he means is that if he gets called ‘babe’, ‘hon’ or ‘lovebug’ once a day, he has a meltdown.
Not the serious kind, duh.
The fun kind where he has to shove his t-shirt over his head, wiggle his toes and then dance to Abba on maximum volume in the living hall like the teenage dirt bag of love hormones he is.
Stiles is just seconds away from breaking out to song of ‘dancing queen’ when he realizes that Derek is staring at him like he just grown a second head.
“Oh! Um, sorry? About…that?” He kind of makes a gesture at Derek, who’s still sitting on the floor.
He hopes it sounds like a top twenty apology in his track record, knows that he’s lying to himself since there was one time he went down on his knees and kissed Lydia’s hundred and fifty dollars pedicured toenails, and that was just grazing past a ten.
“I’m a blurter?” Stiles explains quickly, because it sounds reasonable enough in his head. Or maybe Derek is suffering from a mild concussion when he fell, and his ass absorbed a little too much impact in a short span of seconds that it’s diffusing into other places.
He may need the soothing aid of Stiles voice to guide him slowly into the light. Okay, maybe not.
It’s just, Stiles panics. He panics, blurts, and then his mind goes into ultimate overdrive.
It’s like a devil’s given talent.
Derek is still staring at him, right eye twitching.
“Okay, um, I blurt when under duress? Or is it in duress? I need to pay more attention in English.” Stiles informs and Derek’s left eyebrow starts to slowly twitch and rise. Well, at least he didn’t fall and break those talented eyebrows. That’d be a waste.
“Also, the whole vaginal thing and me having it? Totally cool if you’re not cool with it. I could totally order a strap-on? If that’s what you’re into? I mean, who needs real flesh when you could have something that’s fake plastic and phallic, that’s probably made in China, up your ass, right? Ha—Ha? Haha?”
There’s a long stretch of silence that hangs in the air like death does under a roof. It makes Stiles want to cringe and curl into his bed because this is by far the most awkward conversation to happen in the past decade. He’s gotten the sex talk by his dad about ten times, so Stiles will swear to that.
Maybe Guinness world records (N.E.R.D edition) might slot him in there, right next to ‘Dude who can’t find his hands in the dark’, which would most probably end up it being his best friend, Scott.
The dude’s charming but he’s dumb as a mule, and that’d be an insult. To the mules.
“Got it,” Derek says calmly, pushing himself off the floor and straightening his shirt out. “You blurt. Compulsively.”
Stiles sighs and rubs his face like maybe if he does it just hard enough, the humiliation might slide right off. “Yeah, okay, double got it. Uh, well, the front door’s not locked. Just lemme close my eyes before you slam the door on my ass.”
Derek huffs loudly, plops himself down next to Stiles and takes hold of one of his hands. “I’m not leaving. You’re running into that headspace where you assume everyone is out to get at you, so you have no right to pull a bambi look. I hate it.”
“I’m so not!” Stiles squawks indignantly, trying to hide a big shit eating grin that’s about to sprout on his face. Oh, fuck it, there it goes. It’s like he has no control over his body at all. “I just, thanks man, for not running off. I promise you I’m not a freak of nature.”
Stiles twines his fingers with Derek’s, tightening his grip and Derek squeezes tightly one time like he’s saying ‘No problemo, mi amigo’, obviously, without the Spanish intent but Stiles can dream.
And if Derek has a moustache and wears a sombrero when he says that, who could blame him?