» Fandom: Teen Wolf
» Rating: NC-17
» Pairing: Derek/Stiles
» Additional tags/warnings: Alternate Universe, massage!kink, toppish!Stiles, bottomish!Derek, Smut
» Summary: The collected and refined bits, plus porn, of a ridic phone!fic I half-wrote for a friend on tumblr.
Stiles is a masseur, and very good at what he does. Derek was not expecting this.
"How much do you need me to take off?" the client grumbles, like he hopes the answer is just his tie and shoes.
"Only as much as you feel comfortable with," Stiles says sweetly, enjoying the way the man's eyes narrow.
He knows this type: the Big Boss, belligerent, impatient, constantly watching the clock like stopping to take care of themselves for once is some huge imposition. Probably hasn't been sleeping more than four hours a night for months, lives on coffee and protein bars, spends seventy plus hours a week slumped in some crappy 'ergonomic' desk chair. Stiles can see the tension knotted in those broad shoulders from all the way over here, and his fingers are already flexing in anticipation.
"There's a place to hang your clothes right through here," he adds, drawing back the curtain on the alcove where the shower is, and the man stalks past him without another word.
Yeah, Stiles knows this type— his specialty is this type, and Derek Hale is a specimen he just can't wait to get his hands on.
Stiles gives the man the illusion of privacy and steps over to the broad gold sink, scalloped like half a clam shell. Lotions and oils are lined up on the lip in glittering rows, all marked with the same palm-leaf motif that's embossed on his name tag, stitched into the pocket of his company polo shirt. Stiles runs his fingers over the glossy bottles, listening to the rustle of fabric behind him, and hears a zipper being pulled down. He smiles to himself.
When Stiles turns around, it's better than he could have hoped. Derek is sprawled out on the massage table with a thin white towel doing very little to preserve his modesty, cloth draped haphazardly over his hips and not quite wide enough so that a long, unbroken line of bare skin is visible along his thigh. Stiles' eyes wander and his mouth waters; Christ, this guy has muscle definition that would make angels weep. His chest belongs in the Louvre.
Unfortunately, it looks like the show (excellent as it is) is entirely unintentional. Derek is propped up on an elbow and frowning distractedly at his phone, flicking through screens with a thumbs. Just as he's starting to type in something Stiles plucks the device from his fingers and sets it on the low shelf beside the table.
"It can wait sixty minutes," he says mildly, and smacks Derek's hand as he reaches for it. Ignoring his affronted glare, Stiles adds, "Y'know, this would all go much more smoothly if you just let me do my job."
Mr. Big Boss rolls his eyes, and predictably glances at the clock again.
"You're already naked," Stiles points out. Gloriously so. "You might as well lie back and enjoy it."
"I really don't have time for this," Derek mutters, but it's mostly to himself. He keeps a careless grip on the towel and rolls onto his stomach, settling with a little wriggle that makes Stiles bite his lip.
When Stiles is (understandably, he thinks) a little slow in ungluing his eyes from the sleek play of muscles over Derek's back, the man glances over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow and a challenging glint in his eye. "Well?"
Oh, this is going to be good.
Stiles takes his time, lighting candles and dimming the lights while Derek fidgets. At the sink, he pulls eucalyptus and cedar and spearmint from the shelves and listens to the minute rustles and impatient tapping. The resulting oil is woody, sharp and sweet, and he's letting it puddle in his palm when Derek gives a bad-tempered sigh.
"I realize you're paid by the hour, but do you think you co— ah!"
"Sorry, is that still too cold?" Stiles asks solicitously, and kneads a little deeper, muscle drawn suddenly taut under his knuckles.
Derek's scowling, but his eyes have already gone a little blurry as Stiles presses harder, digging at the knots that feel like a series of pebbles under his skin. "'S fine," he mutters.
"Let me know if it's too much," Stiles says, and gets to work.
It takes all of thirty seconds for the first breathy "Fuck," to slip past Derek's gritted teeth, and safely behind the man Stiles grins. He works those spots, at the base of the shoulder blade where it angles towards the spine, until the stiffness finally eases and Derek is breathing hard into the terrycloth table cover.
"Good?" Stiles murmurs, leaning in and rubbing concentric circles all the way down either side of Derek's backbone. This is why Stiles does his all his paperwork on the floor, by the way: Derek's beautiful body is a mess, tendons strained and muscles wound tight to the point of cramping, and it's only getting worse the lower Stiles goes.
Derek makes a noise that might have been agreement or a question, deep and drugged-sounding as he shifts up into the extra weight.
"Shhh," Stiles says, and strokes both palms down into the dip of Derek's lower back, hard.
Muscle spasms and Derek flinches back, then arches into the motion with a moan that's nothing but pure pleasure. "Fuck...!"
"Guess I know your weak spot, huh?" Stiles asks, fingers working the oil deep into smooth skin. Derek gives another purring moan and Stiles wonders if the man even knows he's doing it.
Mr. Big Boss, as it turns out, has a lot of weak spots, and soon he's moving into Stiles' questing touches, begging with his body like a cat, groaning approval when Stiles finds a particularly tender place. Stiles uses the heels of his hands to stroke back up to Derek's neck, threading his fingers through Derek's hair and kneading firmly along the base of his skull, and can feel the muscles that had been coiled and drawn go lax, pliant as hot wax.
"Still with me?" Stiles asks, paying special attention to the corded muscle that frames the spinal column.
"Hn," Derek sighs. He sounds so out of it that Stiles laughs and ruffles his hair with oil-slick fingers. Derek's eyes slit open like he'd like to glare, but can't quite drudge up the will, then slide closed again as the careless touch turns into careful, rolling strokes over his temples. "Nn."
Stiles could almost feel bad for the guy, but A) he was being kind of a douche earlier and B) Stiles holds it as a point of professional pride that all his clients end up like this: eyelashes fluttering, cheeks flushed and body gleaming with sweat and aromatic oil, clutching at the edges of the table like the room is spinning. Derek's making rough little sex noises with every slow, sweeping motion of Stiles' hands, and that's just the sweet, shiny cherry on top.
And speaking of cherries, Jesus. That tiny towel is just barely clinging to the curves of Derek's ass and thighs, and it's something less than professionalism that has Stiles' fingers skirting just under the edge, stroking into the crease where cheek meets leg before kneading downwards over the hamstring and adductor.
"Hey," Stiles says, voice coming out a little hoarse. "Still doing okay?"
It might be meanspirited to press his thumbs into the arch of Derek's foot while asking, but if he hadn't then he never would have heard that surprised little yelp or the soft-edged sound of rapture that followed. And that would have been a damn shame.
"How does it feel? Still good?"
A pause, and then Derek grits out, "Y'stupid'r s'mthing?"
Stiles snorts. "Well, it would help if we could get past the preverbal level when it comes to feedback."
Derek mutters something inaudible and from the tone pejorative as Stiles flexes Derek's knee and watches the joint work with a critical eye.
"Hmm," he says. "Ever tear your ACL?"
Derek makes a small, loose motion that might be a shrug. "Once, 'n high sch— shit!"
"Shhhh," Stiles says, digging in harder. "This will feel amazing when I'm done."
And it will feel amazing, but the angle is all wrong in this position. Without thinking, Stiles slides his hands up Derek's thighs to shift them further apart, and Derek just moves with him and whoa. Serious dereliction of duty there, towel.
The thin cotton weave has ridden up to the point where the Derek might as well be naked, and the swollen heft of his balls is almost as eyecatching as the shiny wet head of his cock; Derek is thick, uncut and so hard he's weeping precome in a sticky patch on the terrycloth, and—
—and professionalism. Stiles has it, squashed down somewhere. He's a licensed massage therapist, not a Thai bordello girl, and people don't come to an upscale spa like this looking for sex. The hard-on straining against his work khakis needs to calm the fuck down. Stiles resolutely draws his eyes away from the, uh, assets on display, trying to subtly adjust himself without drawing attention to it.
Then he makes the mistake of glancing up.
Derek's eyes are dark and hazy, lips parted and gleaming like he's been licking them, and the way his gaze flicks from Stiles' face to his crotch to his hands leaves very little doubt as to how much he'd appreciate a happy ending.
"Derek?" Stiles asks, the pads of his fingers gliding through the sheen of oil on the inside of Derek's knee. "Still good?"
Derek's eyelids, already at half-mast, dip closed at the caress. "'S good."
"Yeah?" Stiles hands are slipping upwards without his conscious control. "I'm gonna need a better angle to work on this. Turn over for me?"
Derek's eyes go hot and Stiles can actually see his dick twitch, a fresh pulse of clear liquid oozing free before the man gets an elbow under himself and... utterly fails to move.
"This is what happens when you abuse yourself," Stiles tells him as he moves to help, Derek's movements kitten-weak and his muscles visibly trembling with the effort of supporting his weight.
"Thought... 's what happens when, mmm, masseur's a sadist," Derek says, and between the two of them he manages to roll over onto his back, limbs splayed and head falling back against the table.
The towel has disappeared; Stiles doesn't know where and frankly he doesn't care, because now he can see the flush in Derek's cheeks working its way down his chest, the hard points of his nipples just begging for a coat of oil, eager cockhead smearing all that precome across his abs. Derek's watching him with clear expectation, and who is he to disappoint?
"Good?" Stiles murmurs, palming the balls of Derek's shoulders and stroking down. He thumbs those eager nipples as he moves past them, letting his fingers press deep into the meat of Derek's sides and flank as he drags them over warm skin.
"Nn." Derek's moan has an element of pained disbelief as Stiles continues past his jutting cock and rocking hips, down his leg and to his knee, bringing it up so Stiles can fit both hands around it.
"Relax," Stiles advises, watching the play of muscle in Derek's stomach as the touch draws another faint sound from him. "What did I tell you? This will feel amazing."
"D'feel more amazing if I got to come," Derek says, just as Stiles plants a hand on the table and heaves himself up. "What—?"
Stiles grins and crawls up until his knees are pressed to Derek's ass, pushing the leg still gripped in his other hand up until it's almost pressed to Derek's chest. "Easier from this angle," he blithely lies, and hears Derek's breath catch as the motion stretches him out, leaves him exposed.
"Fucking— touch me," Derek says, and Stiles finally does get his hand on him, at first just a ring of slick fingers so he can watch Derek's hips stutter up into them, watch his eyes screw shut and his mouth drop open on a soundless gasp.
"Good?" Stiles husks out, and Derek curses.
"Fucking— yes," he says wrathfully, arching into Stiles' weight. "More."
Stiles tightens his grip and leans in further, lapping at a drop of sweat that catches his eye as it beads along the line of Derek's pectoral. "I can do more, yeah," he says, and lets his hand speed up, tilting his chin down so he can watch the furiously red head peek in and out of the foreskin and his fist.
Derek's arms are reaching up but he doesn't seem to know what to do with them, grabbing at Stiles' shirt collar and waist, clumsy and demanding. One of his hands finds the back of Stiles' neck and pulls him up, Derek's tongue lapping over Stiles' lips before sinking in.
They kiss, a war of teeth and tongue that's sloppy and bruisingly hard until Stiles discovers he can make Derek's mouth go slack and yielding, his voice crack on a subvocal growl by rubbing his thumb up over the frenulum, into his dripping slit and back, and he does it again and again until Derek's head tips back in bliss, tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief.
It's enthralling to be this close, to be able feel those noises break low in Derek's throat when Stiles bites there, just over his adam's apple. Derek's body is bucking into his on every upstroke, forcing the hand striping his cock to grind over Stiles' own erection where it strains again his zipper, and fuck, fuck, that needs to change.
Stiles pulls at Derek's leg until the man gets the hint and hitches it over Stiles' waist, and gets a pissed-off groan of protest when he gives one more sloppy-wet tug before pulling back to jerk frantically at the button of his fly.
"Patience is a— oh God, finally," he hisses as his pants open. His dick tents obscenely out of his boxers, and Stiles shoves the elastic waistband down as fast as he can and palms himself, moaning in relief.
Beneath him, Derek shifts impatiently and the leg over Stiles tightens, the hand at his neck urging him down into another kiss. The crown of his dick slip-slides through the mix of oil and precome smeared over Derek and Stiles whimpers, "Fuck," and fumbles until he can get his fingers wrapped snug around both of them.
Derek makes this amazing sound, all heat and need against Stiles' jaw, and his hips pump up into Stiles' fist. The slide isn't as smooth as it could be but the grittiness adds another layer of molten greed to the tension building in Stiles' gut, and he gasps "Fuck yeah, that, definitely," and follows his lead.
It takes them a few seconds to find a rhythm but when they do, Stiles braced up on his elbow so he can watch Derek's face go from desperate to drowning, it's just a few more thrusts before he can feel Derek locking up around him, grip at his hip and neck going rigid.
"Gonna—" Derek starts, "Ah," and then he's shuddering and spilling all over Stiles, white and thick and fucking filthy, dripping down the planes of his stomach and soaking into Stiles' polo. "Fuck!"
That burning tension builds and builds until he can barely breathe around it, his pace long gone wild and irregular. Derek unclamps his hand from Stiles' hip and shoves it down between them, their fingers meeting and tangling and tightening and that is fucking it.
"Derek—" and done, game over, Derek staring up at him with hungry eyes and a red-bitten mouth while he jerks the orgasm out of Stiles in short choppy bursts, adding to the mess between them and hollowing Stiles out until he collapses against Derek's broad chest, boneless and sated.
When Stiles opens his eyes again, Derek's licking come off his fingers with a lazy, satisfied gleam in his eye and there's really no response to that other than, "Holyjesusfuck. Have dinner with me."
Derek pauses and stares at him, sticky thumb resting on the swell of his bottom lip in a way that makes Stiles just want to eat him. "Dinner."
"Dinner," Stiles says firmly. "It's late, I'm starving, and after food we'll have the strength to go home and do this again, on a bed."
And it must be meant to be, because Derek smirks and then laughs outright, body shaking under Stiles as he takes a fistful of polo and tugs Stiles in close.
"Why the fuck not," he says, still chuckling, and pulls Stiles into another kiss.
Once again, I have proven I can't write porn. OH WELL
Oh, I can write porn eventually, given several days of advance notice and planning. But a carefree, off-the-cuff smutty oneshot? Completely beyond my powers.