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now you've got the information

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cover art for podfic: now you've got the information by verity & anatsuno

podfic duration: 15:40mn // file size: 12MB
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Derek doesn't like being called names.

Not Balto, not Lassie, not Pongo, not Gromit; not sweetheart—that was Lydia, not Stiles, he values his life—not baby, not—

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, scooting to the far side of the mattress to give Derek some space. Derek doesn't say anything about it, the stuff he doesn't like; instead, he tenses and goes still and looks like he wants to die, which—words would be better, really. At least this time, they weren't in the middle of having sex, just basking in the afterglow. Stiles was getting into the afterglow. A little too into it, apparently.

"It's not your problem," Derek says. He rolls over to press his face into the pillow.

Only, it is is a problem.

"I just want to say nice things to him," Stiles says, thunking his coffee mug on the table for emphasis. "Is that so hard to believe?"

Lydia doesn't look up from the astrophysics journal she's paging through. "Yes."

Derek and Stiles have been dating for a year. Sort of. Maybe. It started when Stiles transferred back home to finish up his anthropology degree at the Jesuit college twenty minutes south of Beacon Hills, close enough to commute and fuss over his dad while he recovered from a cardiac cath. Stiles ran into Derek in the grocery store, where Derek was in the cereal aisle trying to choose between Cocoa Puffs and Captain Crunch. They were having sex in Derek's loft twenty minutes later.

Everything between them since then has been pretty much like that.

"Aw, for me?" Stiles picks up the butt plug. He has one already—a gift from Malia, so it's clear silicone filled with glitter—but this is a serious business butt plug. Black latex, spreading out to a wide girth from the flared base, heavy in his hand. It's going to be heavy in his butt, too. He's into it. Though maybe they should take this out of his living room.

Derek shrugs, arms folded across his chest. "Actually, I thought—me."

"Wow," Stiles says. "You going to buy flowers for yourself, too?"

They make out on the couch for a while, grinding against each other aimlessly, the butt plug discarded but not forgotten as it digs into Stiles's hip. He reaches up and tangles his fingers in Derek's hair, pulling him closer so Stiles can press a biting kiss beneath his jaw. "I really wanna put stuff in your butt," Stiles says, instead of I like you. "I bet you're going to take it so well. You're—"

Derek drags his fingers up Stiles's side. "I'm what?"

Stiles bites him again. "You taste nice."

"You're weird," Derek says, tilting back his head so Stiles can keep going.

"You're so good," Stiles says, shifting forward on the bed and yanking Derek's ass up in the air so he can go deeper. He keeps one hand on Derek's waist to steady himself while he reaches around with the other. Derek whimpers when Stiles wraps his fingers around Derek's dick. "You're so—you make me feel so good, Derek—"

"I'm sorry," Derek says, and comes like two seconds later.

Stiles doesn't last much longer. The muscles in his legs are burning, but the rest of his body feels like amazing jello. He pulls out before too much of his jizz can leak out, grabs the butt plug off the shelf above his head, and works it slowly into Derek's ass while Derek makes soft little noises. "You like that, huh?" He leans forward to nuzzle Derek's shoulders. "You like having me fill you up. You like having me in you. You're so good to me."

"Ungh," Derek says.

Stiles has a theory. He has a hypothesis.

"You can't hypothesize from one data point," Lydia says. She's perusing a fashion magazine today, but Stiles suspects she has more astrophysics hidden inside from the way the pages never seem to move.

"I have more than one data point," Stiles objects as he tries to adjust the incline on his pool chaise without injuring himself. "Derek always gets weird when I don't insult him to his face."

Lydia hmms. "He does get that constipated look."

"He doesn't look constipated," Stiles says. "Or—maybe it's emotional constipation."

"Derek does have a lot of emotions," Lydia says, flicking another hidden page.

Stiles gives up on the chaise and lies down, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. "Yeah, I guess." He's seen Derek when Derek is on the phone with Cora, almost dying, eating a bowl of really sugary cereal, when Scott claps him on the back and calls him "bro." Sometimes Derek even smiles at Stiles in the two seconds before Stiles opens his mouth and ruins everything.

"I want another Diet Coke," Lydia says.

"Get it yourself," Stiles says. He has limits.

Derek doesn't like endearments. Derek doesn't like talking about feelings, either, judging by the one time Stiles almost confessed some while bleeding out on Allison's driveway and Derek was visibly torn between continuing his job as a werewolf tourniquet on Stiles's leg and diving for the bushes. On the other hand, Derek does seem amenable to positive feedback on his performance. As Stiles has hypothesized, he might even be into it levels of amenable.

Lydia's right about one thing: Stiles needs more data.

Stiles manages to get post-coital with minimal intervening dialogue the next time. They're in Derek's bed, which is big and has nice sheets as well as a surprising amount of comforters to kick to the bottom, given that Derek's a little werewolf furnace. "I like it when—" Stiles starts. This is so awkward, it's like filling out a feedback form for a course with a really hot TA. "When you do the thing with your tongue."

Derek squirms against Stiles's back. "That's very specific."

"You know what I mean." Stiles tugs on Derek's arm until Stiles is rolled up in Derek's arms and legs like the contents of a burrito. "I like it when we do this, too. I like the cuddling."

"Are you trying to give me pointers?" Derek says.

Stiles shakes his head as much as he can without smacking Derek in the nose. "Nope. Just—saying."

Derek pulls Stiles even tighter, until Stiles feels like some kind of meta burrito inside a burrito. A burrito turducken. "Thanks," Derek says.

Later that week, Stiles changes some variables. That makes it sound like what happens is premeditated, like he's doing actual science, which—haha, Stiles leaves that to Lydia. The brownies Derek has just taken out of the oven, however, are all Stiles's.

"These are the best thing I have ever eaten," Stiles says through a mouthful of molten brownie. Well, just molten enough not to burn his mouth so much he can't taste the delicious, delicious, double-chocolate goodness with Andes mints melted on top. "Oh my god, how are you so amazing?"

Derek sniffs and turns toward the sink to start washing out the mixing bowl. "I was born this way," he deadpans.

Normally, Stiles would go on to talk some more about the brownies—god, he wants to marry these brownies and have delicious little brownie babies—but today, he switches gears. "I believe it," Stiles says. "You're so great, I bet you were born with a spatula in your hand. For stirring things."

"…that doesn't make any sense," Derek says, flushing. Stiles can only see the back of his neck, the side of his face, but Derek pinks all the way up to his ears. "You use a spatula to scrape the bowl, Stiles."

"Can I lick the spatula?" Stiles says, distracted. "Or did you wash it already?"

Derek turns around and narrows his eyes.

Turns out, the brownies taste even better after sex. Or after they've cooled to room temperature, whatever.

"That was objectively the best blow job you have ever given me." Stiles tightens his grip on Derek's dick, keeps jacking him while Derek whimpers and arches back against the pillows. "Just, like. In case you were wondering. You can put your fingers up my ass and suck me off any time."

Derek is so far past talking that all he can do is pant, but he does sort of roll his eyeballs at Stiles before Stiles speeds up his hand and things get nice and messy.

"Wow," Stiles says, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice and failing. "Nice paint."

Derek narrows his eyes and jumps off the ladder, paint roller in hand. Fortunately, there's a tarp on the floor. Derek's thin white shirt and shredded jeans are already splashed with Pumpkin Fiesta. "You said if I painted the brick this color that you'd never come over here again."

"Well," Stiles hedges.

"You don't have to pretend to like stuff." Derek crouches down to put the paint roller in the tray on the floor. "The stuff that I do. You can stop buttering me up. I won't—"

Stiles steps forward and puts a hand on Derek's shoulder, which has so far escaped a coat of Pumpkin Fiesta. "You like it when I like your stuff. You don't like names, you don't like—feelings, so I don't—I hate the paint."

"I know," Derek says through gritted teeth.

"I like you," Stiles says. "We're really bad at communicating except with our junk, so I've been experimenting with alternatives to dick semaphore."

There's a long pause before Derek shakes off Stiles's hand and stands up. Stiles can't read Derek's expression, but before he has time to work himself up to a decent freakout, Derek cups Stiles's jaw in his hand and smears a wet stripe across Stiles's cheekbone with his thumb. "I like the paint."

"Getting some mixed messages here," Stiles says.

Derek leans in and kisses him, unexpectedly soft and gentle. "I don't know how to do this, like this," he says. "Slow. I've always, with other people—it was all in or nothing. You don't push. You make me feel like I can learn."

Stiles wraps his arm around Derek's waist and tugs him closer, wet paint and all. "You make me feel feelings. You're the worst."

"Ah, yes," Derek says. "There's the asshole I know and love."

"I'm gonna repaint your apartment in the night after I do you in the butt," Stiles says, hiding his face against Derek's neck.

Twenty minutes later, they're making out on the couch, Pumpkin Fiesta forgotten. "So good," Stiles says as Derek grinds against his thigh. "You're—"

Derek stops sucking a bruise beneath Stiles's jaw. "I just said, you don't have to say that stuff."

"But it's true," Stiles says. "And you get off on it, you weirdo."

The tips of Derek's ears go pink.

Stiles drags his fingertips down Derek's spine until they dip beneath the waistband of Derek's jeans. "I'll prove it to you. I'll talk not-dirty at you until you come in your pants if you want."

Because they're boring grownups who talk about their emotions and fix up their property now, they end up getting naked first instead. The last time Stiles tried to ride Derek, he got a boner-killing cramp on his thigh, so they do it dude-on-dude missionary style, or whatever the name is for Stiles's legs wrapped around Derek's waist, back on the mattress, Derek's dick in his ass. Stiles wraps his hand around his dick and jerks off while Derek fucks him hard enough to shake the bed frame, says, "You're the best."

Derek manages to roll his eyes and shoot off at the same time.

"So," Stiles says as the waiter sets their complimentary chips and salsa on the table. "About that hypothesis…"

Lydia sighs. "If this is about your feelings again, you're buying me a margarita."