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The Dick Critic

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“That's scarily realistic,” a voice behind him says and Stiles is shocked enough to jump and flail his arms out a little and yeah all that accomplished was adding a large amount of come to his masterpiece.

He's determined to get this done before the dude that keeps stealing his parking space in front of his own damn house catches him, so he doesn't give the rubbernecking art critic behind him much attention.

“Are you working from a personal memory or--”

“Are you seriously insinuating I'm painting a mural to my own junk on the enemies car? Seriously?” Stiles snorts as he contemplates adding a hand around the dick in question.

The dude clears his throat, “I'm just saying it looks personal, like you're well acquainted with this particular, you know…”

Stiles hums and leans back a little, “you may have a point there. Fuck my life.”

“Just add a detail that would throw people off the scent.”

Stiles thinks the guys trying not to laugh. At him. Whatever.

“Any suggestions, oh great art critic?” Stiles scrunches up his own nose and squints his eye at his handy work, it's pretty damn good if must say so himself, er, about himself.

“I don't know, truthfully. It's a pretty nice dick as far as dicks go, it'd be a shame to mess up the masterpiece.”

Stiles still hasn't turned around to look at this dude, but, like, is he confusing signals? That sure sounded like flirting and the dude-- “Are you trying to get in my pants, dude? Because you think this is a, I don't know, great comparison to the actual anaconda trapped in my pants?”

The dude literally wheezes when he laughs, it's honestly a great laugh. “Maybe I was until I found out you refer to your dick as an anaconda.”

“Well, you know what? My anaconda don't want none unless you got buns, hon.” Stiles grins as a thought hits him and goes back to work on defiling this hot piece of ass car. Dammit! Why did it have to be so evil at the same time! He's had to park by old lady Hela for a week and a half and he's going mad with her pinching more than just the cheeks on his face.

“Well, you haven't even turned around to look at me once this entire time so how do you know I don't got, er, buns, hon? My friend says my booty pops, I'll have you know.” The guy laughs and crouches down, his chin not quite touching Stiles as he examines Stiles’ latest addition.

“I um.” Dude clears his throat, but it's still a little rough when he continues. “Is that an invitation?”

Stiles smirks and starts to turn his head, “I'm not-- Oh shit!” Stiles shrieks, paint pens flying from his hands and graceless as ever lands on his ass.

The dude-- Who offuckingcourse is Derek fucking Hale, just smirks at him. Give Stiles credit for not knowing the flirty dude behind him was the aforementioned parking space stealing, car porn driving, asshole he was trying to prank. They had never actually spoken to each other before now!

“I-- I-- Why… I just drew come drenched ass sex on your very sleek, very expensive car and you just stood there and let me!”

“Answer my question first: is that an invitation?”

Stiles, not once in his life could describe seeing or being looked at like… THAT. Derek's eyes were both predatory and complete liquid sex. Liquid sex. Stiles is losing his damn mind. But jesus on a fucking dildo, that is the only way he can describe how Derek is looking at him. Like he wants to eat him out right here right now and have Stiles fuck him over the hood of his car at the same time.

“Yes. Just yes. I don't even know what the question was anymore. We need to be very naked very quickly. My roommate is gone for the week. Sex now, get to know each other later, and then more sex. Good with you? Cause I can tell you you definitely got the booty. My anaconda wants some.”

Derek slaps his palm against his eyes, “Stiles just don't… how bad I want to fuck you and finally get those goddamn fingers inside me will wither and die, I swear to God. No more anaconda jokes.”

Stiles leans back against the drying paint and pulls up the hem of his shirt a little, runs his fingers through the trail of hair exposed and toys with the edge of his boxers that stick out over the waist of his jeans. He slowly walks his fingertips down his fly where a slight bulge is already showing. “My hands, huh?” He looks up at Derek through his lashes and sighs when he cups himself.

Derek lunges at him and easily picks him up and tosses him over his shoulder. “House. Now.”