FIC: Teen Wolf -- Don't Want to Waste It

[the_deep_magic]

Title: Don’t Want to Waste It
Author: the_deep_magic
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: always-a-girl!Derek(Dara)/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,445
Warnings: genderswap, het, dirty talk, oral fixation
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; I just play with them.
Summary: Stiles is doing it on purpose this time, and everyone in the room, werewolf or not, knows it.  Except Scott.  Occasionally, Dara thinks, there are benefits to being Scott.
A/N: For this prompt on the kink meme.  I get nervous writing genderswap, but I could not resist the idea of Stiles + cunnilingus.  You’ll get no apologies from me (though I accidentally schmooped a little on the porn).  One day I will stop abusing song lyrics and come up with my own titles, but gold star if you guess the song.

Dara Hale kicks the door shut behind her and looks down at her tank top.  It used to be a perfectly respectable almost-white, and now it’s spattered with reeking green stains.

“Leprechauns,” she groans, shooting a murderous glare at Stiles.  He looks far less intimidated than he used to be.  Than he ought to be.  “You’re back in town one day and there are fucking leprechauns.”

Stiles gestures incredulously – five years since she’s known him and he hasn’t gotten those hands under control.  Or that mouth.  “Are you seriously blaming me for the leprechauns?  Because A: if I were summoning supernatural creatures, they sure as hell wouldn’t be anything as lame as leprechauns, no matter how sharp those little teeth are.  B: it’s not like I’ve been gone forever – you totally saw me over winter break, and there was absolutely zero supernatural activity, murderous or not, that whole time.  Nice curtains you’ve put up, by the way.  They really tie the room together.”

Contrary to popular opinion, werewolves can get headaches.  They don’t last long, but they can be extremely obnoxious.  Right now, there’s a throbbing just behind Dara’s left eye – only one person can bring that particular headache on.  And he’s standing right in front of her, just bursting to come out with a C.  There’s always a C.  “And?”

“And C: did you really not get me a graduation gift?  Because even Scott got me a gift card to Applebee’s.  I mean, okay, you could argue that that’s actually worse than nothing, because he’s going to expect me to spend it by eating at Applebee’s, but I think graduating with honors from USC merits some kind of recognition.  Even verbal recognition.  I would accept that as a gift.”

Dara sighs.  “How about the fact that I just saved your life from a bunch of murderous leprechauns?”

“Hey, I was doing just fine with the leprechauns.”

“Yeah, and you’re bleeding your ‘just fine’ all over the collar of your shirt.”

“I’m—Oh, goddamn it, I liked this shirt,” Stiles moans, yanking the tee over his head.

Dara should really be concentrating on the leprechaun bite – near the base of Stiles’ throat, Christ – but she can’t help but be distracted by all the pale, freckled skin on display.  He’ll never quite lose the gangliness, but he’s filled out a bit in that lean, toned way that never fails to make her want to lick and bite.  Not that it’s anything she hasn’t seen before, but it’s been limited to breaks and holidays and—fuck, it’s been too long.

“Get over here,” she growls, yanking Stiles in by his belt loops when he gets close enough.  He makes a token sound of protest but doesn’t say a word as she licks the blood away.  It tastes dirty and sour, foul with leprechaun spit, but the wound isn’t deep, and soon it’s just the pure tang of Stiles’ blood on her tongue.  It’s not really the part of him that she wants to be tasting, but until she’s sure the small puncture marks are clean and clotting, Stiles’ injury is her first priority.

“Are you at least glad I’m back here for good?” he asks.  “Because with this shitty economy, nepotism is really the only way I’m going to find a paying—okay, now that’s happening.”

Dara glances up from where she’s started sucking a bruise just above the leprechaun bite.  “Of course I’m glad,” she says incredulously, and goes back to her work, because she never gets over how pretty he looks with her marks on him.

Stiles groans and smoothes back the strands of dark hair that have come loose from her short braid.  “Mmm, alright, fine.  But I’m not sure if this merits a thank-you card.  I’ll have to check the ‘hickeys’ section of my Miss Manners.”

His voice is a familiar vibration under her lips as he keeps babbling.  She doesn’t hear a word he’s saying, but the feel of it is enough to make her tighten her fingers around his hips to keep him against her.  He’s already hardening in his jeans, and all she has to worry about now is whether to haul him upstairs or just ride him right here across the kitchen table.

&&&

They’ve all come back for the summer.  Not all for good – Scott still has a few semesters to go after changing his major no less than eight times, and Lydia is in some kind of combination program that means she’ll have both a bachelor’s and a masters this time next year.  But it’s been an unspoken rule for the past four years that they spend summers in Beacon Hills, even if it means online courses or internships with the town’s lone, creepy dentist, who still has no idea how close he came to death when he tried to set his hand on the small of Erica’s back.

They’re all draped across Dara’s living room furniture, still a bunch of college kids (though Boyd and Isaac chose trade school and – Stiles grumbles often and loudly – are making a hell of a lot more money than Stiles ever will with an English degree).  At least they’re all of legal drinking age now, so Dara doesn’t have to worry about the sheriff pounding down her door.  Not for providing alcohol to minors, at least.

Jackson and Danny are out back, chucking lacrosse balls at each other like they’re still in high school.  Scott and Allison are, unsurprisingly, wedged together in the loveseat, catching up with Isaac, while Erica is sitting on the floor in front of the couch as Boyd leans over her, rubbing her shoulders.  At the other end of the couch, Stiles is talking very animatedly with Lydia about the relative societal value of literary criticism versus abstract mathematics, and Dara has to try very hard not to eavesdrop. 

She knows Stiles’ thing for Lydia has faded down to an “intellectual crush,” but it’s hard to keep the claws in when she hears Lydia say, a little too loudly, “Fine, Stiles, I will admit that you are a cunning linguist if it will shut you up,” and Stiles bursts into grateful laughter and clutches her hands to his chest.

“That’s… that’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear you say, Lydia,” says Stiles in a mock-weepy tone and nope, the claws are coming out no matter what.  Dara steers herself back to the kitchen for another beer.  It won’t get her drunk, but maybe she can bash the empty bottle over her head.  Or Lydia’s.  Or Stiles’.

Though the temper-induced violence usually stays in her head these days.  Usually.

All the same, she sticks her head in the freezer until she’s pretty sure her eyes aren’t glowing red anymore.

&&&

“I missed this.  I did,” says Stiles as he works on prying the talon out of Dara’s thigh.  The huge, barbed talon from some big-ass thing with wings that is not in Peter’s bestiary.

“Jesus fuck, will you stop wiggling that thing around and just pull it out already,” Dara growls through gritted teeth.

“That’s what she said,” Stiles mutters, like it’s an automatic reflex (which it pretty much is), and for one blessed moment, the rage dulls the pain.  It’s not even that Stiles is joking; it’s that it’s just such a stupid fucking—

Dara groans in relief when the talon comes free, her flesh immediately starting to knit, and Stiles falls back on his ass with the force of the pull.  “Um, ow,” Stiles says, waving the talon around until Dara bats it out of his hand.

“You’re fine,” she says, offering a hand to pull him up.  She’d made sure ‘roid-rage Big Bird hadn’t hurt Stiles before worrying about her own leg; she tells herself that it’s just instinct.

“Damn right I’m fine,” Stiles says with a grin that makes Dara equal parts horny and furious.  “That’s why you keep me around.”

“Well it’s sure as hell not for your mouth,” Dara says, rolling her eyes.

Stiles’ grin just gets wider, sharper.  “Uh-huh.”

Dara spins on her heels before she can allow herself to recant and “furious” starts to lose the battle.  “Come on.  Grab your knife and let’s go kill Big Bird.”

That earns her a distressingly enthusiastic “Yes, ma’am.”

&&&

Stiles is doing it on purpose this time, and everyone in the room, werewolf or not, knows it.  Except Scott.  Occasionally, Dara thinks, there are benefits to being Scott.

Stiles is actually molesting the beer bottle.  It’s not just how he makes a production of wrapping those perfect pink lips around it every time he takes a drink; his tongue keeps peeking out to circle the rim, like that’s even a thing normal people do.  Of course, the last thing anyone’s going to accuse Stiles of is normality, but even though he’s pointedly not looking at Dara, everyone else is starting to look just a little uncomfortable.  Except Scott, of course.  And Erica, who is so focused on Stiles’ mouth that Dara might need the freezer again if she’s going to stave off a temporary disemboweling.

Ten minutes later, the bottle is empty and Stiles finally, finally sets it down on the coffee table.  And proceeds to slowly, carefully lick his lips.

“Everyone out,” Dara growls, and nobody has to be told twice – Allison drags a confused Scott out by the collar, and even Erica has the good grace to whimper and duck her head in quick submission before leaving.

Before Stiles can even attempt to play the innocent card, Dara is tugging him up by his shirt, licking the taste of cheap beer out of his mouth before running her own tongue over those lips.  When she lets him up for air, Stiles pants victoriously and Dara lets her eyes flash red in response.

“What?” Stiles says.  “It’s not like they don’t know.”

“Doesn’t mean you get to put on a fucking show for them.”

“Hey, I had no intention of putting on a fucking show for them, but if you’re into that kind of th—oomph.”

Dara does make an effort not to completely knock the wind out of him when she throws him over her shoulder, but he loves being manhandled so much that it’s not exactly a punishment anyway, as evidenced by the quiet oh fuck that squeaks out of him as she takes him up the stairs.

If she also gets a thrill out of tossing him around like a rag doll, well, at least she mostly does it against couches and beds these days.  Bed this time, because Stiles does not get to tease her like that in front of her betas without fully delivering on it.  It’s possible she should have stopped that thought after “in front of her betas,” but Stiles is licking his lips again, eyes already greedy.

“Shirt off,” she commands, trying to take back some control over the situation.  He obeys and gets that dazed look on his face when she does the same.  Her jeans and bra get flung somewhere over by the corner, too, and Stiles just reaches out for her, nothing but pure want on his face, in his scent, and her resolve, already crumbling, gets pulverized to dust.

When she kneels over him, he arches up and kisses her mouth.  He always kisses her first, no matter what, and right now it’s dirty and deep and aching with need.  She knows exactly what he wants – even if he hadn’t just been broadcasting it to everyone in the damn room downstairs – and it still thrills her that even without werewolf instincts or senses, he needs the taste of her like nothing else.

Even though he’s leaking arousal from every pore, he takes the time to kiss down her neck, nuzzling and nipping in a way that makes her wolf stretch and whine.  His mouth is so sweet that she sometimes forgets about his hands until they’re on her, wrapping around her waist.  He has such long, nimble fingers that tease at the skin of her lower back, the elastic of her white cotton panties.

He presses his nose between her breasts and inhales like he’s scenting her, and she can’t stop the moan that shivers out of her.  “God, fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he whispers against her skin like a confession.  “That’s why I— because I want you so much sometimes that I can’t think about anything else.”

It’s almost enough to excuse him for the beer bottle antics – which, she’s not fooled, he’s going to try again on some poor unsuspecting lollipop or something until Jackson starts making gagging noises – but she turns his head with firm hands until his lips are right up against her nipple.  He breathes wetly over it first, making it pucker and tighten before he takes it in his mouth.

He can be a little rough with her here, use his teeth, because she hasn’t got the most sensitive nipples, but the sharp pressure feels good, makes her rock her hips against nothing but air because she’s still up on her knees.   And she really needs to do something about that soon, but Stiles is lavishing attention on her other nipple now.

She gives him another few moments before pulling him away.  He has less than a second to look confused, because then she’s flipping them both over until she lands gracefully on her back and he flails like a windmill before landing on hands and knees.  It draws a laugh out of her – an unexpected, honest-to-god bark of a laugh – and he grins down at her like she’s just given him the moon.

Which is not exactly an idle expression, considering.

He kisses her again – quick and almost apologetic, like he can’t help it – before dropping back to bury his face against her stomach.  He mouths reverently at the skin there, knowing full well what it means that she’s exposing her belly to him, as he begins to tug her panties down her legs.

Her own arousal is so strong that she nearly misses the fresh burst of the same scent from Stiles, though she can’t miss the soft, involuntary moan he huffs against the inside of her thigh.  She kicks the panties away and spreads her legs, lets Stiles get comfortable between them, which also involves yanking down his own zipper, and even though he doesn’t touch himself yet, his scent is getting stronger.

For a long time, he just looks, and it might make Dara order him to get to work if it weren’t for the fact that she gets to watch his cheeks flush pink, his pupils dilate, and his teeth worry his lower lip like he’s planning.  Dara’s never exactly been one for delayed gratification – not if she can help it – but Stiles isn’t teasing; he’s appreciating, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t make her wetter, make her feel desired and powerful.

It’s absolute hell on the bed sheets, though.  Whenever Stiles comes back into town, it takes her a while to get the claws completely back under control.

By the time he finally dips his head to taste her, they’re both shaking.  He takes one long, luxurious lick and groans, his eyes fluttering shut.  “Stiles,” she grits out.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his eyes opening again, and they’re dazed and heavy as they meet hers across the length of her body.  “Yeah,” he says again, gaze sharpening, and he spreads her gently with those trembling fingers.

His tongue, though.  His tongue is anything but hesitant as he licks into her, circling and flitting and pressing, but not as deep as he can, not yet.  He has to explore every inch of her first, with light, sucking kisses and deft flicks of his tongue and the occasional flat press of his teeth.  Unpredictable is what he is, what he’s always been, and that’s what drives her crazy.  How he can be so loyal and steadfast and still surprise her, every time.

He’s starting to tease at her clit now, just enough quick, darting pressure to make her hips jerk.  “Oh fuck,” he moans, mouth right up against her, and she feels it shiver up her spine.  The quiver in his voice, the flush that’s spread down his neck and chest, the speed of his heart all make her want to howl with an abandon that startles her.

“Can I—?” he blurts out.  “I want to…”  But he’s not asking permission, because one long, slender finger is sliding into her and it’s not enough, he knows it’s not enough.

“More,” she snaps, like he’s not already pulling back to push a second finger in, and when he ducks back down to press the softest of kisses against her clit, it’s devotion, pure and simple, and she has no idea what to do with that, with being touched like she’s something precious.  He’s the one with all the words; all she can do is moan yes and again and Stiles and hope he understands.

His tongue is moving firmer on her clit now, still not enough of a regular rhythm to get her there, but more than enough to make her growl and tangle her fingers in his hair.  When she tightens her fingers against his scalp, he moans, and underneath it she can hear the sound of cloth rubbing against sensitive skin.  He’s clumsily thrusting against his other hand, his cock still trapped in his boxers, and the fact that he gets off on this just as much as she does…

Soon she’s clenching down on his fingers, locking them inside her as her body starts to tighten for the final climb.  He gasps wetly and pulls his other hand free, grasping her hip to hold her steady as he focuses completely on what his mouth is doing, working her up so quickly with lips and tongue that it’s almost too much and she has to ride out the intensity of it until the rest of her body can catch up.

He feels her go rigid under him and slows his tongue, just a tiny bit, just enough, and that’s when it hits her, sharp and raw and wild like the first shift under a full moon.  Except that’s only the peak – she still has a long, long way to fall, arching and keening as Stiles’ fingers and his mouth – that infuriating, heavenly mouth – guide her through it, slowing but not stopping until her shudders relax into stillness.

She doesn’t get oversensitive right away and he knows it, knows it very well, because he keeps kissing and mouthing at her gently, drawing his fingers out only when he’s sure she’s through the last of the aftershocks.  She gets the feeling he might stay down there all day if she didn’t tug his head back up to see the drugged look in his eyes, the shine of her own wetness on his swollen lips. 

It takes mere moments for those lips to curve up into a smile.  “Hey now, I was just starting to have fun.”

Okay, so maybe she’d been prepared for this, because it only takes her a second to dig the condom out from under the pillow and flick it at him.  It hits him square in the forehead, and the way his flushed face morphs quickly from irritation to confusion to full-blown arousal when he snatches the condom up off the bed is more than enough to make her blood heat up again.

“I can—?”

“You’d fucking better,” she snarls, no venom behind it at all, and he laughs, a sound of pure, innocent joy that curls around her heart and squeezes.   Then he’s shoving gracelessly out of his pants and boxers and she can’t help smiling at his eagerness.  She makes a show of stretching lazily, tugging her arms up and back to lift her breasts, just for the pleasure of watching his (still-wet) mouth go slack.

“Un-fucking-fair,” he grumbles, abandoning the removal of his one remaining sock to climb over her and kiss her again, messier and less focused than before, lips hot and swollen.  She licks the taste of herself out of his mouth and he presses deeper like he’s trying to steal it back.  It’s heady and arousing, especially when she can feel the hardness of his cock pressed against her hip.

When he pulls back, she just arches an eyebrow at him, and he’s got the condom unwrapped and slid on so fast it’s almost a blur.  “How—how do you want me?” he breathes.

“Just like this,” she says, wrapping a leg around his lower back to tug him forward until his hands land on the bed on either side of her.

“Gonna make me do all the work, then?” he says with a wicked smile.  It’s not like she’s always on top – well, okay, she’s usually on top, but it’s just how things tend to work out and she knows very well she’d get complaints, loud and ceaseless, if he had a problem with it.  But this… this is good, too.

Better than good, she thinks, when he’s rubbing himself against her mound like he’s warming up.  She presses her hips up against his hard length, the friction starting to warm her up again.  And then he’s pushing into her, slow and steady even though his arms are shaking.  His heart is hammering in his chest and he’s babbling.  “Oh, oh my god – Dara, you’re so—I can’t even—”

His eyes, when he’s buried as deeply as he can go, are wide and warm and adoring, and it would be easier to stare straight into the sun than hold that gaze for more than a few seconds.  But she doesn’t want to turn away, either, so she takes his face in her hands and leans up to whisper the best thing she knows how to say to him.

“Stiles, talk.”

He moans and shivers into a deep thrust that rocks her body up the bed.  “Oh fuck, okay.  Where do I even—?  Yeah, god, you make me crazy.  I hated being so far away from you, I would just lie there at night and think about you, the times when you—when you’ve touched yourself for me, let me watch.  Your own fingers sliding in and out of your cunt, and I’m wishing they were my fingers.”

He pauses for breath but his hips speed up, and the words sound like they’re being pushed out of him.

“But that’s not – ah – that’s not what makes me lose it, not usually,” he says, his voice a ragged whisper now as he nuzzles against her throat.   “It’s the th-thought of tasting you, of just burying my head between your legs until you’re gasping my name and pulling my hair.”

She decides she wants him close, closer, as close as she can get, and locks a leg around his waist.  His hips stutter for a few seconds until he can switch to shallow, grinding thrusts that aren’t enough for how far gone he is, but rub her clit in just the right way.  She wraps her arms underneath his to clutch his shoulders and pull up, sucking another bruise into the hollow of his throat, right next to the one that hasn’t even started to fade.

When she uses her teeth, the sound he makes is pure desperation and god, he’s earned pretty much anything he wants right now, so she loosens her grip on him and tells him to let go, just let go.

His thrusts are hard, reckless, his control completely gone and she loves that she can do this to him, make him feel this good.  He’s still trying to hang on, though, to wait for her, and his voice is so gorgeously rough and broken.  “Fuck, fuck, Dara, I can’t— You have to— Just touch yourself, please.”

He pushes up on his hands to give her room to reach between their bodies and work her clit, and the soft, amazed noise he makes when her fingers carelessly bump his cock where it’s pushing into her is just enough to send her over, body seizing again, and he follows her with a shout. 

His arms give out and she holds him tight as he collapses on top of her, and she’s going to take it as a compliment that he goes pretty much dead weight on her after riding out the last few, weak thrusts.  Though he’s gotten heavier, broadened and put on muscle, she can take his weight easily.  It’s almost comforting, pressing her solidly into the mattress, especially when he regains enough motor function to wrap his arms around her.

She doesn’t really need to wrap her legs around him, whisper, “Stay,” because he knows, but she does it anyway.  He’ll stay in her as long as he can, and she’ll stroke his back and listen to his heartbeat even out and feel the lazy contentment start to seep through his body.

When he finally does have to pull out, she bites back on the whimper that is all wolf (well, mostly wolf), but when he comes back from getting rid of the condom, she welcomes him back into her arms with a contented sigh.  Which, of course, he breathes in with a soft kiss, sex-drunk and so, so happy that it’s not even a scent; it’s like a current buzzing through the air around him, and she can’t help but be caught in it, too.

“You glad that I’m back?” he asks, the words only a little slurred against her lips.

“Already told you I was.”

“I know.  I just wanted to hear it again.”  He smiles against her mouth, and from this close his eyes are a dark golden blur.  “Since you know you’re never going to get rid of me.”

And she can’t even tell what’s wolf and what’s not anymore, because she’s thinking of instincts and words that they’ve never said aloud, though Stiles has probably known about them for a long time.  But that’s an actual talk, one that needs to happen when they’re not both naked and blissed out.  Dara can’t say she’s entirely looking forward to it.  Stiles would tell her she’s emotionally constipated, but the fact is that he doesn’t actually know everything, but he needs to, and it might change things.

For now, though, she’s said the only word that matters – stay.

&&&

Isaac walks in from the kitchen, his mouth already starting to stain purple.  “Hey, I don’t know who put the jumbo box of popsicles in the freezer, but nice.”

Dara just groans.

Comments

[vee-dub.livejournal.com]

OMG. Hot. So hot.

I don't normally like genderswap, either, but this? Melted. My. Brain.

[the-deep-magic.livejournal.com]

Hee hee, thanks! I do love a melted brain! ::hands mop:: ;o)

[an-sceal.livejournal.com]

Followed this link off the kinkmeme. I'm not usually a fan of genderswap, but GUH. I'll be in my bunk.

[the-deep-magic.livejournal.com]

Heh heh, thanks!

[an-sceal.livejournal.com]

Looking forward to reading the rest of your stories. Thanks for writing! :)

[fatty-fat.livejournal.com]

don't watch, was still totally hot, etc etc

if i start watching this show because of you... *shakes fist*

;)

[the-deep-magic.livejournal.com]

HA HA HA! This is what happened to me -- the fic sucked me in, and now I am out to do the same to as MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE! SHARE IN MY MISERY AND PORN!

Ahem. I meant, uh, thanks.