Hi, followers! I realized the other day that there’s quite a few of you, and I think about 95% of you are here because I keep shamelessly plugging my Tumblr in the end notes of my fics. Or maybe you just like useless, repetitive, and grossly inappropriate tag commentary. Anyway: as most of you (probably) follow me for my fic, I’d like to start taking prompts. I can’t promise I’ll be able to write them all, let alone satisfactorily - inspiration is, after all, a fickle thing. But I’d like to try! So please, if you have any headcanons or stories or scenes you’d like to see written, feel free to leave them in my askbox and I’ll see what I can do with them.
How is this going to work? Well, you leave me a little prompt, like this:
And then I respond with something like this:
“You’ve never— what?” Stiles’ mouth is hanging open and he’s pretty sure his eyes are bugging out of his head. He probably looks supremely unattractive right now, but he’s too shocked to do something about it. “That’s… you’re kidding, right?”
Derek squares his jaw and looks at the floor. “No,” he says, stiffly. “I’m not.”
“But, but how do you—” Stiles splutters. “I mean, do you— have you even…” Okay, this sentence isn’t working. But he’s in shock, okay. He tries again. “Like, surely you’ve—”
A blush is making its way to Derek’s face. Stiles watches it bloom underneath the v-shaped neckline of his shirt, spread upwards past the upturned collar of his coat (it’s always cold in the loft; Stiles doesn’t get why Derek insists on having pack meetings here), settle among the black dust of his five o’clock shadow.
With the way Derek’s eyes are still downcast, Stiles gets to pretend for one second that he and Derek are normal, just these two guys with average hobbies and an intact set of parents each and the certainty of a hot meal awaiting them on the dinner table at six-thirty sharp; two normal guys who know each other through mutual friends or the after-school music club or hell, maybe even the meat section at the grocery store, accidentally reaching for the same steak, laughing about it, hands hovering in the air, both saying, “No, no, you take it,” as their faces heat up in concord.
Stiles watches the flush ebb from Derek’s cheeks and thinks that maybe Derek used to be shy as a kid, a mommy’s boy, not very good at making friends but okay with that.
“Of course I have,” Derek says, his gaze snapping back to meet Stiles’. “Don’t be an idiot, Stiles. I— just never with porn. I prefer…”
He waves his hand around but doesn’t continue. Stiles, helpful as ever, suggests, “Toys?”
Derek rolls his eyes, shakes his head, says, “Just my hand, usually. Hands.”
“Without porn or toys?” Stiles asks faintly.
“Yeah.” Derek shrugs. “Why? That a bad thing?”
“Not a bad thing. Just…” Unbelievable. Unheard-of. “We— guys, visual stimulation works for us, it… did no one ever talk to you about this?”
Derek rolls his eyes again, harder this time. Stiles is briefly concerned about his extraocular muscles. “Sure they did, Stiles. In fact, Laura and I talked about masturbation all the time. Why do you ask?”
Wince. Stiles shifts on the couch, folding one leg underneath himself, and marvels momentarily at the fact that this is his life: having little heart-to-hearts with Derek Hale after pack meetings, teaching him all the ins and outs of the average adolescent (non-werewolf, non-exile, non-fugitive) life.
Derek’s been trying, though, really trying. He’s been helping Erica with her Physics homework and Jackson with finding out more about his biological parents; he filed for custody of Isaac, got Boyd a secondhand car as a birthday present. He talks to Scott every day and he’s applying for jobs around the neighborhood and even went to the BHPD to apologize for his behavior since his return to Beacon Hills, goddamnit. He’s still grumpy and bossy and regularly attempting to out-sass Stiles (fruitlessly of course), but he’s trying. And the least Stiles can do for a guy so earnestly seeking redemption is to inform him of the best ways to unwind, right?
“Look,” he says, shifting again. “I— okay, this might be way TMI for you, so I apologize in advance, but Scott and I, we, uh, you know we’ve known each other since we were basically fetuses, right, so we went through that whole developmental-slash-experimental phase together and, uh, things like personal boundaries and privacy, we don’t really subscribe to—”
“Stiles,” Derek says. “Get to the point.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal. Every week on Monday evening Scott and I watch porn together and jack off.” He bites the inside of his cheek and waits for Derek’s reaction.
Derek nods very carefully, as though he doesn’t quite know how to process this information yet. “All right.”
“All right,” Stiles echoes. “So, uh. Look, if you’re okay with it, feel free to drop by next time. Just to see if it… floats your boat, or whatever.”
Derek nods again. “Okay,” he says. “Sure. I’d… yeah.”
“Cool!” Stiles jumps up from the couch. “All right, I better go. Good talk.” He awkwardly claps Derek on the shoulder. “See you this Monday, then? My place? Eight thirty?” To reassure them both, he adds, “This totally doesn’t have to be weird.”