Camunki was here.
Here you may find a variety of Chris Colfer and Max Adler, Teen Wolf, Avengers, Sherlock, Harry Potter, Supernatural, Misfits, Game of Thrones, Doctor Who, Star Trek, How I Met Your Mother and House MD.
Fanfic writer, occasional artist:
So uh… I had to google yoga pants for men and ah…
I mean, sweet mother of all things merciful…
So ah, yeah. This kinda went from Derek failing at yoga to Derek failing at not being stupidly attractive. Which I still consider a personal affront so the failwolf tag stands.
Needless to say, this devolved into porn really, really thoroughly. I’d say I’m sorry but we all know I’d be lying.
- - -
“No! Damn it! Never again!”
It’s a testament to Stiles’ leet gamer skillz that he barely flinches at the yell. Shepard’s raiding a Collector base and that shit cannot afford distraction.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Derek grumbles behind him. Stiles hears a bag hitting the floor and grins.
“How was yoga guys?” he calls gleefully, because the picture of Derek doing yoga hasn’t gotten any less funny since Lydia mentioned it as a means of getting Derek’s inner grr under control last week.
“It was awful,” Lydia says, and Stiles can practically hear her hair flip. “Derek’s chakras are fucking welded shut and he can’t even do the basic stretches-” Derek makes a noise of protest but Lydia just steamrolls right over top of him. “NOT that it matters at all because every time he tried half the class fucking fell over.”
Stiles hears Derek sigh. “They didn’t-“
“Madeline fainted, Derek,” Lydia snarls, and Stiles pauses the game to turn around because this sounds way too hilarious.
“Why would they- oh my god-” Stiles breathes.
Lydia throws her hands in the air. “See!”
Stiles blinks - just once - very slowly. Because holy shit.
“I am not taking him anywhere dressed like that ever again!” Lydia says and Stiles - well, Stiles kinda barely hears her because Derek’s shifting uncertainly under Stiles’ probably terrifying scrutiny and it’s making the pants inch a little lower and fuck.
“You look like porn,” Stiles says, and Derek flushes which just makes everything worse. Or better, depending how you look at it.
“It’s indecent,” Lydia snaps. Then to Derek, “You need to burn those pants.”
Stiles makes a noise that may or may not be a squark and launches himself over the back of the couch. “Do not burn the pants!”
Lydia rolls her eyes so hard Stiles will be surprised if she hasn’t done permanent damage. “You’re both ridiculous,” she says, hefting her rolled up yoga mat like a sceptre. “Don’t call me. Ever.”
And then she’s out the door. Which is kinda fine with Stiles because there is no way his self control is going to last - not with Derek looking like the cover of a really risque yoga magazine - and while he’s pretty solidly equal opportunity when it comes to kinks he’s also kinda possessive.
Speaking of. “You made someone faint?” he says.
Derek shrugs uncomfortably, the material of his tank top shift-stretching over his chest and it’s practically freaking obscene.
Stiles makes a low noise in the back of his throat and crowds Derek back against the wall, thrilling a little when Derek lets him.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, palming Derek through the- wow, really thin material of the ridiculous fucking yoga pants and Jesus, he’s gone commando to boot. “I’ve never been so torn about you taking off your pants before.”
Derek’s breath catches as he bucks slightly into Stiles’ hand and the fact Stiles gets to do this is just never, ever getting old. “They’re not that bad,” Derek says, sliding his hands up under the back of Stiles’ shirt. Stiles imagines them pressing into Derek’s own thighs, holding his balance as he stretches out into a pose and why the hell had that visual not occurred to him before, holy shit.
“Are you kidding?” Stiles says, getting his hand around Derek’s rapidly hardening length and jacking him softly through the pants. “They’re fucking obscene. I’m surprised no one was seriously injured.”
Derek groans. “I didn’t- oh fuck-”
Stiles grins, settling on his knees and spares a quick glance up to see Derek watching him, pupils already blown and bottom lip shiny where he’s licked at it. Fuck yes.
“Shut up and let me worship these pants,” Stiles says. “They’re a fucking gift from God and need to be treated as such.”
Derek snorts, fingers curling around behind Stiles’ ear. Stiles pretty much stopped regretting the decision to let his hair grow out the second Derek admitted in a post-orgasm bliss that he loved touching it. “You’re ridiculous,” Derek says.
“Your face is ridiculous,” Stiles says and then he leans forward and sucks a wet kiss to the side of Derek’s dick through the material of the pants.
Derek bites off a moan and Stiles hears the thump of his head hitting the wall but he’s too intent mapping the shape of Derek through the material to worry too much. Werewolves heal.
The pants are soft and dampen swiftly under his tongue, making it easier for Stiles to get his mouth around Derek’s length, sucking and pressing until Derek’s shivering. It’s not long before he’s making light, bitten off noises. Derek fails so much at being quiet during sex - it’s pretty much the best thing ever.
Stiles groans as Derek fists one hand gently in his hair, tonguing up and around the head of Derek’s cock and-
“Fuck, Stiles - fuck- ” Derek curses, hand tightening and tugging and Stiles moans, riding out Derek’s resulting shudder and sucks harder.
The pants - oh my god, best pants in the universe - mould down around Derek’s length, letting Stiles get his mouth properly around him and he can taste Derek now - the musk of him soaking through the material and Stiles is so fucking addicted it’s not even funny.
“I can’t- god- I’m gonna-” Derek groans and Stiles takes him as deep as the material allows, tonguing up under the head and that’s all it takes. Derek comes with a muffled curse, hunching down over Stiles and Stiles sucks harder, trying to get as much of the taste of him as he can. Then Derek’s groaning, pushing him back and pulling him up and god, yes, Derek’s mouth is the greatest.
Stiles moans and wow, yep - that was sorta loud - only he can’t care because Derek’s licking into his mouth, swallowing the sound and he’s got a hand down Stiles’ sweat pants and fuck-
Stiles comes hard, one hand finding the edge of the yoga pants and holding on for dear life as he shudders through it. “Oh my god,” he breathes, when Derek pulls back. He watches helplessly as Derek brings his hand up and licks and god that should be gross but it’s not at all. Fucking werewolves.
“I’m not apologising for coming like a teenager,” Stiles says. “That was too hot.”
Derek hums, licking the last of Stiles’ come off the pad of his thumb and then wiping his hand on- oh man…
“I think we ruined the pants,” Derek says, lips ticking up as Stiles plucks forlornly at his waistband.
Stiles sighs. “Oh well, you’ll have to buy more.”
Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles takes the opportunity to reel him in, kissing him deep, thorough and as filthy possible. Derek groans like Stiles is killing him, hooking one hand over Stiles’ jaw to angle his head and-
“Fine - fuck - I’ll go tomorrow,” he says.
Stiles does victory arms and laughs when Derek drags him towards the bedroom.