andrealyn: (kitchencon: homoerotic offer)
AndreaLyn ([personal profile] andrealyn) wrote2012-08-23 09:24 am

(no subject)

I think my brain is fired.

Title: Google-Fu
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
Word Count: 1975
Summary: Stiles isn't sure where to lay the blame for his recent browser search history, but he's thinking 50% Derek, 20% Scott, 30% Being A Teenager With Really Inappropriate Curiosities.
Notes: Thanks endlessly to [personal profile] loveflyfree for the beta! Set midway through S2.




It’s Scott’s fault.

It, like so many other things in Stiles’ life these days, is completely and absolutely and totally Scott’s fault.

It’s Scott’s fault for drifting away when they were roaming the woods at night and getting turned into a creature controlled by the moon and Stiles will pile on a little more fault for Scott’s inability to get curious about what the wolf-bite means.

Stiles is going to insist on this forever because if it weren’t for Scott’s sudden ‘wolf of Beacon Hills’ thing, his search browser wouldn’t have phrases like Lycanthropy in it and no matter how much he deletes his cookies or wipes his internet history clear, he can’t shake the feeling that someone’s going to find out.

*

Okay, so, it’s not entirely Scott’s fault when Stiles starts getting curious about ... things. He’s pretty sure that Derek Hale bears a good brunt of the responsibility for the new search terms his browser starts seeing. Okay, so, like, eighty percent Derek’s fault, five percent Lydia for continuously leaving him turned on and frustrated, and about fifteen percent general male sexual curiosity.

In searching for Lycanthropy-Human Porn, he finds two mind-bogglingly disturbing sites, one quaint website with a themed Bed and Breakfast with rooms to offer, and the usual assortment of whackjobs and crazies volunteering. This should be turning him off, but instead, he does a whackjob crazy thing and starts looking up what a wolf’s tail could do if it managed to be prehensile.

Stiles will tell you right now that there are definitely no quaint websites on that subject.

It’s four AM before he comes to grips with reality. He’s sitting in the dark with his fluorescent lamp illuminating the keyboard in front of him, he has his head in his hands, and he feels beyond dirty. He knows, now, more about werewolves and sex than any living being should know.

“What,” Stiles asks himself in the dark, “is my life?”

*

This has got to stop happening.

Stiles is pretty sure that most people don’t get in these kinds of life or death situations more than once or twice in their lives, so he’d really like to know why he’s suddenly pressed up against an alley wall two blocks down from the gay club while Derek manhandles him and a pack of roaming werewolves from two towns over sniff precariously closer to where they’re holed up.

“Stiles,” Derek barks.

God, the ‘bad puppy’ images in his head are horrible right now, completely horrible. “No,” Stiles insists, shaking his head as he tries to fight against the way Derek is pinning his wrists higher and higher against the bricks (which are definitely not bacterially healthy, is all he’s saying). He closes his eyes tightly, trying to ignore the bloodcurdling howls. “Nope. This isn’t happening.”

“Stiles, if you don’t let me mark you with my scent, they’re going to figure out you’re available.”

“I’m human! I don’t see where the ‘has a convenient pack’ part stops them from ripping out my throat!” Stiles demands, aware that Derek can hear the blood pumping through his veins. He’s mostly kind of hoping that Derek is directionally challenged and can’t tell where some of it is going (although, one look down will solve that pretty easily). “Okay, okay! Fine! Smear your wolf hormones all over me.”

The situation sucks, but Stiles takes great comfort in the fact that when he opens his eyes, it looks like Derek’s about to have a wolfy aneurysm. He stays as still as he can while Derek leans in, sniffing at his neck like Stiles has turned into Puppy Kibbles and Sexy Bits.

“I don’t have wolf hormones,” Derek growls, his breath tickling the skin behind Stiles’ earlobe and oh god, why is that making his knees give out on him? Stiles is firing his knees as soon as they get out of this life-or-death situation. He is filing for new knees. “Hold still,” he orders, which is a little like telling an overexcited poodle to sit.

Stiles writhes, enough to put their bodies closer together and just enough that Stiles’ fingers brush softly against Derek’s ear.

Derek freezes, a shocked look on his face. Then, there’s a sound.

It’s not a bad sound, no. No, no, no, not at all, no. Stiles’ eyes widen as he realizes exactly what kind of sound that is. That’s not a rip-your-throat-out howl. That’s an oh-god-yes-can-I-have-another-whimper stuck in the back of Derek’s throat.

Experimentally, Stiles brushes his fingers over the shell of Derek’s ear one more time and he’s rewarded with the same sound and the same blissful expression on Derek’s face.

“Holy shit,” Stiles announces, ignoring the fact that their bodies are completely flush together and that Derek’s lips are hovering over the pulse point in his neck. He did that. He got Derek to make that noise.

He is awesome.

Ten minutes later, the threat is over, Stiles is driving Derek home in his Jeep, and somehow, he ends up opening his mouth to ask what the hell that was all about when Derek shoots him a glare, says ‘Don’t’ and storms right back to his weird abandoned supervillain lair (or whatever it is they’re calling it these days).

Two hours after that, Stiles is googling ‘sensitive werewolf parts’.

He’s starting to consider making his own website so that every time he searches for something like this, he pulls up a page that says in no uncertain terms and in big bold red letters: STILES, DON’T GO THERE.

Then, he never has done anything for his own good. Why start now?

*

“So.”

“So?” Allison says, barely glancing up from her chemistry notebook.

How do you approach this topic? No, really. How are you supposed to actually ask your best friends’ secret on and off again girlfriend (usually mediated by how many times your pack has tried to kill her family this week or vice versa) about werewolf sex.

Yeah.

“I’m gonna do everyone a favor and not ask,” Stiles says aloud, realizing ahead of time that he had been about to walk into scary, scary territory. He kind of thinks he deserves a gold star for this one.

Allison has that look on her face. Stiles is used to that look. It’s the ‘Stiles Stilinski is being Stiles Stilinski’ look, TM Stiles Stilinksi. God help him, he’s actually kind of proud that it’s become a trendy expression that people wear at the height of their social popularity. Sure, wrong thing to be proud of, but it’s this or start a campaign to get a medal for ‘most frequent nuisance to the Beacon Hills justice system’.

He’s pretty sure his Dad has one of those tucked away in a drawer for when Stiles turns eighteen, too, so he can’t really ruin that.

“Are you feeling okay?” Allison finally asks.

What’s he supposed to say? No, I’m not feeling okay, I’m getting morbidly curious about the mechanics of werewolf sex with an alpha and I kind of want your advice. He settles for plastering a giant smile on his face and giving her a double thumbs up. “Me? I’m awesome,” he assures, and goes back to the standard level of mortification that every teenage boy exists with.

*

Stiles opens the front door to find Derek Hale on his porch.

Stiles waves. Enthusiastically. He shoves his hands into his pockets to avoid that happening again and manages an off-kilter grin that’s probably two shades too enthusiastic. Derek looks ... contemplative. He’s also sniffing the air and Stiles isn’t going to ask. “Is this your daily hour of stalking practice or are you joining forces with the girl guides to sell cookies? Don’t get me wrong, I could use some Samoas, but if it is the stalking, you tend to loom, like...” Stiles points in the direction of the house across the street.

“Are you here alone?”

“Is that what the sniffing was for? Don’t you already know? Is this a new werewolf thing, do I need to answer really obvious questions now?”

Derek looks at him like he’s only going to tolerate one more stupid comment. He’s in for a surprise when Stiles lays three in a row on him. Stupid comments are his jam.

“You know, if you wanted to know something, you could have just asked.”

“Wait,” Stiles says. “Is this about the thing where I suggested that you get a leash for Scott if you wanted to keep him close at hand, because I swear, I don’t think you have a thing for Scott.” Stiles isn’t sure how his brain would cope with that. He’s pretty sure it’d opt for a full shut-down before actually deciding to process any of it.

Derek pushes a palm over Stiles’ shoulder (pressed flat against the front door), pinning Stiles between a wolf and a hard place – why did he have to think that, why the hell did he have to think about hard places, what is he doing to himself, why would he ever start thinking about hard...

Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, trying to ignore how very close Derek is to him right now.

“You’re not sniffing,” he says dumbly, the best thing that pops into his head.

“I don’t need to.”

“Okay, so, this could totally be the wrong call, but I’m going for it. I’m asking. What was it I was supposed to ask about?”

“Werewolf sex.”

“Therewolf sex?” Stiles supplies helpfully, thinking that if he keeps making stupid comments, Derek will either leave or push even harder. He’s sort of trying not to think too hard about the fact that his body is kind of gunning for the ‘pushing harder’ option.

Derek looms even closer, so, yup, he’s basically fulfilling every teenage boy’s masochistic dreams. There ought to be a young adult romance series about Stiles’ issues. “The next time you want to know what gets a wolf going, you don’t need to turn to Google,” he informs Stiles, that hand sliding down from the door to grip hold of his shoulder and push him into the front foyer of the house. “You’ve got me.”

Stiles lets out a sharp breath of relief. Judging by the way that Derek is locking the front door behind him, it’s actually looking like he might get kind of lucky. Or he might be getting kind of murdered.

“Wait,” Stiles says, when he’s been angled in the direction of the stairs, on the second step while Derek stares up at him from the ground floor. “How do you know about my internet search history?” he squeaks out, affronted horror mingling with sheer humiliation and an edge of arousal to create one of the most vivid shades of red that’s ever graced his cheeks.

Instead of answering with words, Derek grabs Stiles by the hips and pulls him in, flush against Derek’s body.

“Does this mean you know everything?” Stiles says, proving that he is never without stupid comments.

“We’re going to discuss your internet browsing habits later,” Derek says. “Much later. And Stiles, seriously, My Little Pony?”

“It was – I wasn’t – it wasn’t a serious search,” he sputters, wondering how that’s somehow worse than the fact that two nights ago, he’d googled ‘how to make a werewolf howl uncontrollably between the sheets’. He’s kind of wishing he could blame alcohol for that one, but he can’t.

It’s ten more steps to the second floor, but Derek proves to be an excellent kisser by step four, really quick on the draw with getting his shirt off by step seven, and by step ten, Stiles has already received four answers to his curious Google questions.

He’s definitely going to the wolf-wiki two steps below him in future seeing as he is definitely way sexier as far as information systems go.

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