Which was such a hilariously perfect evocation “my style” that I was immediately determined to make it happen. I was mostly done with that fic when she emailed me a second prompt, about Derek being such a fail!alpha because he is a dude, and how he actually really needs Erica and maybe even Lydia to make his pack function. And I was like THAT FITS IN PERFECTLY WITH SOME THINGS I JUST WROTE, and almost 30 days and 18k words later, there was this thing.
Thanks are due to Verity for both prompts as well as beta-ing its various drafts, and for reassuring me that the jokes were funny, even if I’m still not sure I believe her. Morgan took care of the commas and my usual last-minute extra 1k scene. It’s way too long for Tumblr, so go forth to AO3:
uhm but in the mean time, have a discarded sex scene from a draft no one ever even saw, because it was mostly ill-advised making out? also because I just checked and The Difficult Kind has almost 10,000 hits which what even, who are all you people, I love everyone in this internet:
Derek wants to say something but there aren’t words for it, for this, so he ducks his head against Stiles’ shoulder and kisses him there, the bare branch of his collarbone. Stiles gasps, arches up into it; Derek uses his tongue, his teeth, he kisses Stiles at the hollow of his throat and sucks a mark there, a little one but dark. Stiles is breathing erratically, one hand still in Derek’s hair, the other thrown out to the side, clutching compulsively at the tangle of sheets underneath them. At last he arches up through the hips, his body one long, pleading line, and Derek gives in: he slides himself over, slots his body on top of Stiles’, kisses him on the mouth.
“We can’t stay in bed all day,” Stiles murmurs when Derek sits up, strips off his shirt, already greedy for more of it. His hands come up to Derek’s hips when he says it, though, and his pupils are blown wide open, eyes half closed. “No one said anything about all day,” Derek tells him, leaning back down.
“I need it,” Stiles says, “please, fuck, I missed you so much, just like this, just—“ Derek palming Stiles’ dick through the thin layers of cloth, flannel and cotton, feeling him already rigid and straining. He tugs the pajama pants down enough so that he can see, and then further, to Stiles’ knees, all the way off, pressing his knees apart and crouching between them. “Tell me about it,” Derek suggests, voice coming out more raw than he means it to. Some other time he’ll tease it out, make it long and good, until Stiles is begging. Right now he just— sucks a little bit at the head of Stiles’ cock, listens to noises Stiles makes about it.
He feel crazy and tense, wound up, his own arousal distant as he drinks it all in: Stiles’ scent and his pulse and his need, the way his focus has narrowed right down to the head of his dick, what Derek’s tongue is doing right there.