#chubwolf21

Derek dropped his gym bag at the door and toed out of his running shoes before coming to stand in front of his boyfriend, looking him over nice and slow. “Uh, whatcha doin’?’” Stiles asked.

“Just looking.”

A lazy grin spread on Stiles’s face and he stretched out his arms. His T-shirt rode up a little more, so the plump little roll of his belly was out in the open. “See anything you like?”

“You could say that.”

The hand not clutching Stiles’s cereal bowl came up to tug at the hem of Derek’s T-shirt, slightly damp from shower water. Derek leaned in and pressed a kiss to his sugary lips.

He trailed kisses from Stiles’s jaw down to his neck, pleased when he tilted his head back and hummed appreciatively. Stiles lifted his bowl out of the way. “Nice to see you too, big guy.”

Derek dropped down onto the couch beside Stiles, but kept his arm wrapped around him, petting his stomach. He lifted the T-shirt above Stiles’s belly button and said, “Keep eating, don’t mind me.”

“Um, okay.” Stiles’s breath was shallow and he shifted down in his seat to give Derek better access. For a second, Derek thought he might get too distracted to eat like Derek told him to, but Stiles picked up the bowl and kept shoving cereal in his mouth once he got used to the sensation of Derek’s fingers.

He tickled lightly at the trail of dark hair that ran from Stiles’s belly button down below his waistband. “I like when you’re all affectionate,” Stiles said.

“Mhmm,” Derek said, totally enraptured by the way Stiles squirmed under his touch, by the way the light coating of pudge on his belly squished in his hands. He needed to feel it against his lips.

Stiles finished up a big slurp of cereal and set the bowl next to him on the other side of the couch. He hummed deep in his throat, stomach muscles tensing underneath his gut. Derek drew back a little to look up at Stiles. Watched him lick milk off his lips, leaning back with his bloated little stomach exposed, looking satisfied. Derek wanted.

“‘S nice,” Stiles said, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mhm, sure is.” Derek couldn’t resist teasing him a little. He patted the side of Stiles’s stomach to feel it jiggle against his palm and smiled at him. “You’re getting a little soft, Stiles.”

“Wh-at, shut up!” Stiles squawked, half-indignant, half-laughing as he shoved at Derek’s shoulders playfully. “I am not!”

“Yeah?” Derek said, gathering up a nice handful of pudge. “What do you call this then?”

“That… I’m… for your information--” Derek kneaded at his lower belly as he spoke, and Stiles’s hips shifted into it in little helpless movements. “Oh. Um.”

“Yes, Stiles?”

“Okay… well, maybe I’ve been overdoing it a little.” Stiles was blushing, but he was still smiling a little and smelled more like contentment and simmering arousal than embarrassment.

“A little,” Derek huffed, poking Stiles’s belly.

Stiles laughed. “Okay, fine! Whatever. It’s all your fault though so you can’t complain.”

“Not complaining.” Derek spun off the couch and onto the floor, kneeling between Stiles’s soft thighs so he was face to face with Stiles’s gut. He took it in both hands, kneading it from the side. “How is this my fault again?”

Stiles was panting now, looking halfway to blissed out just from Derek touching his belly. He was so sensitive, always had been, but the chubbier parts of him seemed to crave touch, now. His thighs, his ass, his love handles, his softening pecs that Derek just knew would get nice and fat if Stiles kept gaining weight like this.

“You. You’re an enabler, is what you are.”

Derek tried to smother a grin. “Oh yeah? Whatever makes you say that?”

“You know exactly why, asshole. Don’t play innocent with me.” Derek rested his forehead on Stiles’s belly and laughed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He said against Stiles’s skin, running his lips and scruffy cheeks over his stomach.

“Oh, god,” Stiles whispered, trembling. Derek placed a kiss right below his bellybutton and his flesh gave under the light pressure of Derek’s mouth. It was fucking incredible.

Stiles gasped. “Wow, that. That feels good.” He grabbed Derek’s hair and pulled a little, urging him just a little closer. Derek licked at his skin, salty and so, so soft. “Oh.”

Derek pulled back just enough to ask, “Yeah?” before diving back in to kiss Stiles’s belly open-mouthed, tongue stroking against his skin.

“Oh, god. Yeah, really good. Like, holy god.”

Overwhelmed at how much Stiles seemed to be enjoying himself, Derek buried his face in Stiles’s fat, kissing him just on the edge of desperate. It was everything he’d dreamed; warm and plush and doughy. He pulled a little mouthful between his lips and sucked on it, laving it with his tongue.

Stiles gripped the leather of the couch and it creaked in his fists. “Fuck.”

“You’re gonna spill your cereal,” Derek said, smug, and more composed than he actually felt.

Stiles, on the other hand, sounded like a total wreck. Derek leaned back in to plant little kisses on his belly while he spoke. “Ah. Well it’s-it’s a good thing we’ve got like... five more boxes thanks to your last shopping trip, enabler.”

“Wow, you’re gonna waste all my hard earned money like that?”

Stiles laughed, breathless. “Hard-earned, my ass, you rich asshole. Mmm. You’re the-the one who’s distracting me from my delicious cereal heaven, anyway. So again, this is a-all your fault.”

Derek leaned back, rocking against his heels as if to get up. “Oh well if that’s how you really feel…”

But Stiles’s fingers latched onto Derek’s hair and neck, pulling them back in with a grip that might have bruised if his skin wasn’t already healing. “Don’t you fucking dare stop. God.”

Derek grinned, reveling in the scent of lust emanating from Stiles, his rapid heartbeat ringing in his ears. He could feel Stiles’s cock under his chin, begging for attention. But Derek wasn’t done yet.

As he touched Stiles’s with his hands and mouth, reverently, wherever he could reach, Derek thought about how drastically his body had changed, even over these last couple of months. How much his appetite had increased and how all the thousands of extra calories sat now on Stiles’s paunchy little starter belly. Derek’s lips tingled at the feeling of it against them, jiggling slightly with all the impatient little movements of Stiles’s hips.

Stiles’s belly groaned and grumbled, full of food and milk. With his face pressed against it, Derek could hear it so clearly and he wondered if Stiles knew how much it affected him. All of this. If he was too distracted to think about it right then, Derek knew he’d figure it out later. But for now, Stiles was damn near writhing beneath him, as much of a mess as Derek was.

“I hope you know this is going to do nothing whatsoever to make me stop getting f-fatter, ah.”

“Fuck.”

Derek shuddered. The thought made him ache to touch himself, but he couldn’t bare to take either of his hands away from Stiles’s skin. He wondered how he lost the upper hand so quickly, or if he ever really had it in the first place. Of course Stiles would figure him out.

But he smiled, breathed in deep the scent of Stiles’s desperation. He said, “And why would I want to do that?”

“I-I guess you wouldn’t, would you?” he said, one hand petting Derek’s hair. “You want me to keep getting fat, don’t you, Derek?”

Derek could hear the smug smirk in Stiles’s voice, infuriating and hot. He growled in the back of his throat, feeling the prickle of claws against his fingertips, aching to come out. But he held back so he could keep caressing the softness of Stiles’s curves.

“Yeah, that’s right. You wanna fatten me up. That’s why you’re always buying me so much food, huh?”

Derek gasped. He lifted his head to look up at Stiles, who looked debauched but thoroughly amused. Derek could feel his eyes bleed electric blue. “Did you ever think that maybe some of that food was for me?”

“Oh, yeah, my bad. You make sure the house is always stocked with my favorite fatty junk foods because you want to eat it. But somehow you never do. Makes sense.”

“Well you’re the one who eats it all. Don’t blame me for this little belly, that’s all you.”

“Yeah, yeah, just admit it, buddy!”

“Admit what?” Derek raised his eyebrows innocently and teased lightly at Stiles’s gut with his teeth.

“You know what. God-dammit that feels-”

“Okay,” Derek said. He stroked his hands down Stiles’s sides, skimming his love handles and coming to settle on Stiles’s meaty thighs. He couldn’t resist leaning his head down to catch the supple inside of one between his lips. It made Stiles gasp and his hips buck up, needy. His eyebrows drew tight together and he looked about ready to lose it for all that he was snarking at Derek just a few seconds ago.

“Stiles.” Derek realized his own voice has gone throaty and thick, his teeth sharp, filling up his mouth. He closed his eyes, tried to calm down and breathed in deep. In a moment he felt them retract, but he still saw through his wolf eyes when he opened them again.

“Yeah?” Stiles asked. It took Derek a moment to respond. He’d almost forgotten what he’d been trying to say, distracted by the hitched breaths Stiles made when Derek grasped at the fat on his thighs and how from this angle the softness around his face looked more like a double chin.  

“You’re right,” Derek said.

Stiles grinned, triumphantly. “Ah-about what, Derek?”

Derek rolled his eyes, annoyed at having to say it. To give voice to the thoughts that had been plaguing him since Stiles started to gain weight. “I want to,” Derek grit out. “I like you fat.”

“Yeah I kind of got that,” Stiles huffed, too breathless to be a laugh. “But I’m not fat yet, dude.”

Awestruck, Derek brought one hand up to frame Stiles’s belly and repeated, “Yet.”

“Ah, shit. You keep encouraging me like this and I will be.”

“Fuck,” Derek whispered. He hid his face in Stiles’s gut, gulping in strained breaths. Almost without thinking about it, Derek’s free hand slid down to touch himself through the flimsy fabric of the sweats he’d changed into after his shower.

Stiles’s fingers dragged through Derek’s hair and he said, “You want to make me fat, don’t you?”

Derek whined, tracing the outline of his dick, feeling too close just from the thought of it. He lifted his face up and looked into Stiles’s eyes. “Yes. I hoped you would. I want...”

Stiles didn’t look smug anymore. He looked like he was barely holding himself together, like he was almost pained by it, but the overwhelming feeling of Stiles’s lust choking the air had Derek surging up half a second before Stiles grabbed his shirt and slurred, “C’mere.”

He kissed Stiles like his lips gave him the air in his lungs. Like they hadn’t kissed since the first time, sloppy and unrestrained. Derek stood up and cradled Stiles’s jaw in both hands, tilting his head against the back of the couch. Stiles whined and pulled Derek down by his ass and the backs of his thighs until he was straddling Stiles’s waist. He pressed himself flush against Stiles’s belly, its softness against his abs, and he started to grind into it in helpless little thrusts.

His human teeth grazed Stiles’s bottom lip and it made him let out a shaky moan. Derek put his mouth to Stiles’s ear and said, “I want to make you fat.”

Stiles moaned again, loud. He was gripping Derek’s muscular thighs and letting out little sounds on almost every breath, noisy like he got when he was close. Derek rocked his ass against Stiles’s dick, his own trapped in the cushion of Stiles’s belly fat. He was close too.

“Can I tell you something?” Stiles whispered, voice low and gravelly against Derek’s temple. “Oh, fuck. I. I’m--”

“Stiles.”

“Ah-I want you to. God, I want. Want you to fatten me up, Derek.”

Derek shuddered and kissed him, filthy wet. That confession was ringing in Derek’s ears; Thoughts of Stiles bigger, fatter were echoing in his mind’s eye. A pulse of heat rushed through him; He came grinding against Stiles’s belly, so suddenly it shocked the air out of his lungs.

And then Derek was slumped against Stiles, pliant and loose, but Stiles was still restless beneath him. He groaned and thrusted up against him, gripping Derek’s ass to move him just where he wanted, and then Stiles was coming too, whispering, “Fuck, fuck, Derek.”

One of Derek’s hands wound up against the side of Stiles’s little potbelly, patting him absently as he shivered through aftershocks. He rubbed his cheek against Stiles’s throat, nuzzling, scenting him.

“Freak,” Stiles said, lovingly.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Oh my god, you loser. What are you, ten? Anyway you’re not allowed to call me a freak. Not when you want me to get fat for you, what the hell, honestly.”

Stiles shifted under his hands like the feeling was still making him crazy, like he could get hard again soon. Derek grinned. “But you want to. So like I said, takes one to know one.”

He rolled his eyes. “Pff, whatever. You’re the one who gave me the idea. You were all, you know,” Stiles flailed his hands, “Into it. It sort of stuck in my head, you know? And one thing led to another… And, okay, maybe I would’ve gotten there myself eventually, because it’s pretty. Wow, awesome. For real. I don’t want you to think I’m not into it, cause I’m like all in. But still. I still say you’re the freakier freak.”

“Okay,” Derek laughed. “You knew? Before?”

“I had my suspicions. Also you should learn to delete your browser history.”

Derek swatted at Stiles’s shoulder lightly. “You went through my browser history?”

“It was an accident!” Stiles yells, laughing.

“Sure it was.”

“It totally was! Sort of. But you get a big fat boyfriend out of it, that’s gotta count for something.”

Derek looked down at his fingers poking at Stiles’s little belly and tried to hide his smile. “I don’t know… Like you said, you’re not really fat yet. I think you’re gonna have to make it up to me.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“Hmm. How about I make you something to eat?”

“Oh my god, seriously? That’s my punishment? Derek. Babe. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Derek grinned at his boyfriend, but something in his expression must’ve read as predatory because Stiles suddenly looked a little wary. “Oh my god what?”

“Nothing. I just hope you’re hungry, Stiles.”

“Pff, is that a challenge? Come on, you know me. I’m always hungry.” Stiles poked his chest. “Bring it on. Do your worst, wolfy.”

Derek couldn't help himself. He kissed Stiles deeply, loving the way his slight softness felt between his thighs and under the palms of his hands. But Stiles pulled away, lips slick and said, “Now come on, chop chop.” He patted Derek’s ass. “I’m not gonna get fat from awesome sex, okay? Actually, maybe I could. We could have all the food sex. Oh my god. This is gonna be awesome-”

Derek kissed him quiet.

Stiles was sitting at his usual spot in the library. He’d only been there for seven and a half minutes, and he’d already lost focus enough that the paper he was supposed to be writing was minimized and he had three tabs open that definitely were not research. Well, research about Botticelli, or even Renaissance art in general. In a line of tangential link clicking he’d ended up on the IMDb page for the “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” cartoon from the ‘90s.

He sighed, resigned, took a swig of his sugary coffee, and opened a tab to check Tumblr. The drink slid down into his stomach, pleasantly full and bloated from lunch and post-lunch coffee shop pastries. As he was scrolling down his dash, Stiles realized he had the fingers on one hand buried underneath where his belly was pooling in his lap.

It was something that happened more and more often, especially when he accidentally threw on a shirt that was from his thinner days and it rode up enough that his lower belly was accessible or even visible. The other day he’d caught himself playing with the hang of his gut while he was waiting in line at the movie theater ticket booth. He didn’t know if anyone had noticed, but his face burned anyway and he crammed both hands into his pockets (with some difficulty; his jeans were, admittedly, a little snug). This didn’t stop him from ordering a large popcorn with extra butter, a large cherry slushie, Red Vines, and cookie dough bites.

And yeah, he had a belly now. Somewhere between munchies, too much beer, stress-eating, and eating for fun landed Stiles firmly within the Sophomore 60, and it was only the first semester. He glanced around, stealthily, to make sure no one was paying him any attention. They weren’t; Stiles’s left arm was next to a wall, and his hand (and belly) were more or less hidden from view by the table.

Which was a good thing, too, because Stiles could now feel how much his shirt was riding up. It was a fairly new one, too. It might have been time to upgrade his wardrobe again, but he’d consider that later. He was very busy writing a paper right now.

Stiles dutifully pulled up his word document again, but the words he’d written down were less than interesting. His vision kept going out of focus because most of his attention was now focused on the smooth, soft skin of the underside of his belly. The way he could feel the tiny beginnings of stretch marks and test the weight of it on his fingers to feel it bounce. Doing this had become something of a habit, but he liked the feeling of it, and it gave him something to do with his hands. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

He was getting pretty fat, he realized, but strangely the thought didn’t make him want to cut back on treats or run to the gym. It made his stomach twist, and he squirmed in his chair, teasing the tips of his fingers against the waistband of his loosest sweatpants. They were his go-to Sunday afternoon attire and, okay, they were a little tight, but not obscene.

Absently, he realized his breathing was a little heavy and he tried to even it out, even as he felt along the ridges left in his skin from the elastic waistband. It was sensitive, made him feel shivery.

Stiles licked his lips and took another glance around the room. There were a couple of other students a few tables away, but neither of them were paying him any attention.

He snuck his fingers down lower, to the pocket of fat right below, and he hissed. It was quiet but felt so loud in the silence of the library. He bit his lip to keep himself from making any more noise. Which was hard when the skin there was /so… responsive. It made him feel hot, and tingly, and he really shouldn’t have been doing this but… Stiles squeezed the plump flesh, feeling how soft it was and let out a ragged breath.

This had become something of a guilty pleasure for him, playing with his fat pad, but it had become something he always did when touching himself now, maybe even more than playing with his nipples. It was so good that for a minute Stiles forgot where he was, got lost in the rhythm of it. He grabbed a handful, middle finger teasing right against the spot where the base of his dick was enveloped in fat, and he couldn’t help his hips twitching up to meet his touch.

The chair squeaked underneath him and his eyes shot open as he drew in a harsh breath, suddenly remembering that now was definitely not the time for this. Maybe he should just call it a day and go home, but -

Just then, Stiles caught sight of his angry, beautiful ex-TA-slash-sex-sex-buddy, Derek Hale, walking right up to his desk. Only he wasn’t angry, now, oh no. He had this half smile on his unfairly pretty face, and he strode right up to Stiles, taking the chair right in front of him.

“Uh, hey,” Stiles said. Belatedly, he realized his hand was still halfway into his pants and he panicked. He removed it so quickly he whacked it against the underside of the table. “Ow.”

Derek barked out a laugh, and if the pain in his hand hadn’t already mostly chased away his boner, he was sure it would be very pleased with the view of smiling, laughing Derek Hale. Stiles hadn’t seen him since he was the TA for his European History class last year, but his awkward, stupid crush came back full-force in the face of it.

“You okay?” Derek asked, insincere and doing something weird with his mouth that made Stiles think he was trying really hard not to smile.

“Oh, yeah, nothing a cast and a little surgery won’t fix. No big. But please, continue to laugh at my pain.”

“I can see you still have a flare for the dramatic.”

“I can see you’re still… a jerk.”

“Nice comeback.”

To be fair, Stiles really wasn’t on his game; he was still a little shaky and flushed from the thrill of almost jerking off in the library, the subsequent panic that he almost jerked off in the library, and the thrill/panic of Derek Hale almost catching him jerking off in the library. So he switched gears. He pulled down his shirt as much as he could, and didn’t miss Derek’s eyes following the movement, amused.

“What can I do for you, Derek?”

Derek smiled, then. Sharp, and predatory. Stiles felt heat trickle down his spine; he knew what that look meant. He and Derek had a brief (too brief) sex thing going on towards the end of last year. They hadn’t seen each other over the summer, but Stiles shouldn’t have been surprised that Derek wanted to pick up where they left off. It had been incredible.

Of course, the whole crush thing made it a little shitty, but Stiles could handle it. Especially if it got him up close and personal with that glorious /ass again.

“Nothing at all, don’t let me interrupt,” Derek said, trailing his eyes down Stiles’s body.

Stiles choked on air. “Wh-at.”

“Stiles, I know what your sex face looks like, it’s really not subtle. You’re lucky I was the only one who saw you.”

Stiles’s face felt hot. He was sure it was unattractively splotchy as he choked out, “Dude, what, no, I wasn’t-”

Derek rolled his eyes so hard, Stiles thought he might injure himself. “Relax. What, do you think I’m gonna tell on you or something?”

Stiles sighed. “Fine, okay! I was just letting off some steam.”

“Well, like I said, you don’t have to stop on my account.”

Stiles’s eyes flitted across Derek’s face and his rapid heartbeat was in his throat. “Are you serious?”

“Come on, Stiles. Give me a show.”

Stiles glanced around the room again, nervously. “Uhm. A show?”

“Mhmm. Or do you want some help?”

Stiles nodded, dumbly. Derek always had a knack for rendering him speechless. Derek smiled. “Why don’t you start, and if I like what I see, I’ll join in.”

The handful of times they’d had sex before, it was always heated, passionate, quick and dirty. It had never been quite like this, before. He never had Derek tease him, watch him. And Stiles had to say, he really, really liked it. Heat was thrumming in his veins and he smiled in a way that he hoped came off as more cocky than desperate. “Like you could keep your hands off me if you tried, dude.”

Stiles would’ve missed the blush if he hadn’t known exactly where to look: the reddened tips of Derek’s adorable little ears. It gave him a surge of confidence, even as Derek said, “You wish.”

Holding eye contact, Stiles trailed his hand down again to cup himself through his sweatpants. He made a breathy little sound, quiet enough that it wouldn’t travel, but loud enough that Derek could hear. He let his hips grind up into his hand so Derek could see him squirm. He licked his lips.

Derek’s eyes were dark, intent on him as Stiles leaned back in his chair, trailing his hand over his belly half a second before he realized that probably wasn’t nearly as sexy as it would’ve been a couple years back, when his stomach muscles were trim and toned. He sucked in his gut as much as he could without drawing attention to it, and, with a little difficulty, wiggled his fingers under the tight waistband.

If Derek was deterred by any of this, he didn’t look it. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows rested on the table, breathing quick and audible. When Stiles wrapped his fingers around his dick, he sighed, and Derek fingers clenched as if itching to grab onto something.

Stiles started slow, fingers brushing softly against his dick. He knew that if he went as hard and fast as he wanted, he wouldn’t make it to the main event; he was too wound up. Derek shifted, and Stiles smirked at the stricken look on his face. “See anything you like?” Stiles said.

Derek’s eyes were glassy and dark when they flicked up to meet his, but he hummed ambivalently. “Is this what you call a show, Stiles? Come on.”

Stiles’s breath hitched, but he didn’t want to give in so easily. He sped up just a little, tightening his grip, and rocking his hips into his hand. “How’s that?”

Derek narrowed his eyes and Stiles grinned. “Okay, big guy, you want a show?”

Stiles looked around to make sure the other students were occupied, and took his hand out of his pants. The waistband snapped back against his skin and he hissed, before licking his palm, making it nice and wet, and then shoving it back in to work himself fast and dirty. He found a rhythm that had him breathing harder, squirming in his chair, and that finally made Derek crack.

He dropped one of his own hands down to his lap and Stiles watched his face as his eyes fluttered shut for just a moment. “You’re welcome to join in any time now,” Stiles said, voice breathy and strangled.

But Derek made him wait it out, even though he looked just as desperate for it as Stiles felt. His eyes were on Stiles’s chest, and belatedly, Stiles realized how much his moobs were jiggling with the quick movements of his arm. But he couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed, not with the way Derek was looking at him. Experimentally, he adjusted his stroke in a way that made his fat bounce in just the way he liked when he was doing this alone. Derek exhaled a shaky breath and shivered, visibly.

“Derek,” he whispered.

The scrape of a chair against the floor and fluttering of paper shocked Stiles out of the moment. He turned his head to follow the sound, and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized it was just one of the other students packing up their things to leave. She was the closest to their table and the most in their visual range, and it must’ve been exactly what Derek was waiting for, because once she left, he pushed his chair back and slid to his knees.

Stiles made a helpless little sound and said, “Derek.”

Derek crawled under the table and immediately had his hands on Stiles’s thighs. Stiles spread them to make room, and grabbed blindly for Derek’s head. He fisted his hand into Derek’s hair, and pulled him in, feeling manic, needy. Derek chuckled under his breath, but compliantly put his open mouth on Stiles’s dick through his sweatpants.

“Ah-h, fuck.”

“Shh,” Derek whispered against his inner thigh, as his fingers curled around the waistband of Stiles’s pants and tugged them down just enough that his cock and balls were out in the open. Stiles fidgeted, pulling down his shirt and scooting closer to the desk, eyes roaming restlessly over the library to make sure no one came in.

Derek kissed the head of his cock, and Stiles tensed with expectation, waiting for the hot suction of his mouth, but instead, Stiles felt Derek’s lips graze the pudgy side of his fat pad. Stiles had to bite his lip against the sounds he wanted to make.

Derek took a mouthful between his lips and sucked, laving the flesh with his tongue. Stiles’s breath stuttered as he gripped the edge of the desk with his free hand. He didn’t remember Derek doing this last time he had his mouth on him, but then, Stiles’s fat pad definitely wasn’t quite so prominent, then. He’d really blown up over the summer, but Derek didn’t seem to mind. He was nuzzling the plump flesh like he liked it, and it made Stiles’s head spin.

Derek wrapped his hand gently around Stiles’s dick and shifted it, not stroking, but moving it out of the way so he could get his mouth around the bulging fat right above it. Stiles bit back a broken sound, trapping it in his throat. Derek nibbled on it, and his scratchy chin was grazing the base of Stiles’s cock. He couldn’t take it. He thought he might pass out from blood loss to the brain.

Slowly, Derek licked his way down, into the slight crease between Stiles’s fat pad and his dick. Stiles dropped his head onto his arm and bit down on it to keep the sounds in. He clamped his eyes shut and started to writhe under Derek’s mouth, and he couldn’t take it, it was too much.

“Fucking. Tease. I hate you, fuck,” Stiles whispered.

Derek laughed and said, "Jeez, keep it down, people are trying to work in here.”

"I will literally kill you if you don't put your mouth - oh, Jesus Christ."

Derek wrapped his lips around Stiles’s dick and sank down.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Stiles whimpered as Derek worked him slowly, torturously.

He grasped at the back of Derek’s neck with one hand and took hold of his own hair with the other, consumed by the wet, tight heat of Derek’s perfect fucking mouth.

And then Derek took one of his hands and slid it up until his palm was resting against Stiles’s plump lower belly. Stiles couldn’t help but gasp and beg silently for more, and it was like Derek heard him anyway because after a few seconds he squeezed Stiles’s gut like he was testing. The feeling of Derek’s mouth and his hand there had Stiles seeing stars, and he choked out, “Oh my god.”

Derek made a small sound and Stiles felt the vibration of it roll through his body. He slid his hand up Stiles’s shirt and grabbed a handful of pudge, mouth working a little faster.

“Please,” Stiles gasped. He was so close.

Derek flattened his hand against the side of Stiles’s belly, grabbed a handful, and shook, making Stiles’s fat jiggle, and waves of pleasure rushed through him. He buried his head in his hands as he rode it out and whispered, “Oh my god, oh my god, I’m, ah-”

Stiles sat there, slumped in his chair, barely coherent. He vaguely registered Derek tucking him back into his pants and pulling his shirt back into place, and he opened his eyes to see Derek’s head pop up on the other side of the table. He chuckled, tired and sated, as Derek tried to stealthily sneak back into his chair. Derek was grinning, and it might’ve been the post-orgasm hormones, but he looked fucking radiant, like, the most beautiful person Stiles had ever seen.

He didn’t say that, even though he wanted to. Instead he said, “So, um. Scott’s out for the day if you wanna, you know, come back to my place?”

Derek smirked. “I donno… Don’t you have homework to do, Stiles?” Derek asked, gesturing to Stiles’s books and his laptop strewn across the table.

He thought about it for a fraction of a second, but Stiles absolutely could not wait to get Derek’s hands back on his belly. Maybe his mouth, too, fuck. He had a couple of days until this paper was due anyway.

“It can wait.”

Derek’s face lit up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, fuck yeah.”

“Let’s go,” and Derek stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

21 Days of Chubwolf

Scott grabs his shoulder and sends him a glance. “Dude, you okay?”

“Fine.”

Stiles knew before it even came out that it was the wrong thing to say. Scott’s eyebrows scrunch up, concerned. Better to offer a bit of truth to throw him off why he was really nervous. Stiles didn’t want to explain that getting weighed like this, while a little hot in private, was bordering on humiliating like this. And that in itself is humiliating because Stiles is not known for outwardly giving a fuck about what other people think of him.

“Nervous about the meet, I guess,” Stiles offers.

“Don’t worry about it, man, you’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, dude.”

Parker steps off the scale and Finstock calls out, “Stilinski!”

Stiles strips down to his boxer briefs and takes a deep, steadying breath. He walks over and steps on the scale slow, one foot at a time, and holds his breath as Finstock taps the weights until it’s level. Stiles watches, breath caught in his throat as the bar in front of him sways with each tap. Finally, it stops on 196 pounds.

Stiles sways a little on his feet, vision unfocused. His mouth drops open. That’s 11 pounds in two weeks. Sure, he’d noticed he was kinda packing it on, and yeah, maybe his eating has gotten a little reckless. But Jesus, 11 pounds? And that’s after the pee-test? He hadn’t even eaten a big breakfast.

Stiles remembers vividly having his fat squeezed and prodded with creepy metal instruments when they did the skinfold test and wonders vaguely if the 11 pounds is all fat or some muscle from training. He has a feeling he knows but he feels lightheaded and tingly when he thinks about it so he's just gonna avoid that train of thought for the time being because now is definitely not the time.

Before the shock even wears off, Finstock says, "You're in luck, Stilinski, looks like Greenberg's out with ringworm, so you're cleared to move up to the next weight class. Good? Good! Now get off my scale." Coach looks down at his clipboard and makes a mark. "Mahealani, get up here!"

And by the time he shoves himself back into his jeans and t-shirt, Stiles feels heat spread over his neck and face even as his gut swirls with a different sort of heat. He walks back towards Scott and Isaac, feeling acutely every jiggle in his new plump flesh. Because Stiles is not kidding himself, he's definitely on the fat side these days. He fidgets and avoids eyes that might be projecting disgust or amusement or worse, pity. But out of the corner of his eye he catches a bright flash of red.

He looks up, startled, into Scott's eyes and watches them flicker between red and brown before Scott looks away and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, they're their usual warm chocolate.

Still feeling a little sensitive from the minor embarrassment of being weighed half-naked in front of the whole team, Stiles grits his teeth in anger. He leans in close and hisses, "What's with the eyes, man? You can't seriously be mad at me for this. Like, literally, fuck you."

Scott looks back at him, startled. "What? Dude I'm not mad at you."

The fury washes out of Stiles. That's not Scott's lying face. But if he's not angry, it's something else, and it's probably not anything good, knowing them.

Stiles tugs on Scott's shoulder so they're a little separate from the group and whispers, "You're not having trouble controlling it again are you? Do you need to get out of here?"

Someone snorts, loudly. Stiles looks up to see Boyd, smirking and shaking his head. Isaac elbows him. And that's when Stiles realizes he's completely missing something. His eyes narrow and he puts his lips close to Scott’s ear and says, “What is it, Scotty?”

Scott draws in a sharp breath and it's loud because Stiles is so close. Close enough that Scott’s arm is brushing against his belly. Stiles’s stomach flutters at the sensation, but he takes a step back so it doesn't get weird. Scott’s eyes are half-closed and he mutters, “Nothing. It’s nothing. It was just. Um, it’s nothing.”

“Dude, come on, don’t lie to me, okay? If you’re having problems -”

“I’m fine, Stiles. Don’t worry about it.”

“You know I’m gonna get it out of you eventually. You might as well tell me now.”

Scott rolls his eyes and steps back into the group. Fine, that's how he wants to play it? Stiles does not forget, and he'll totally figure out... Whatever just happened, later.

But he does almost forget about it for awhile. During the meet he’s occupied by watching his teammates kick major ass. Stiles barely scrapes by in his own round, not used to going up against a higher weightclass, but he manages to pull it off and finally takes the other guy down.

Already sweaty and uncomfortable in the spandex of his singlet, Stiles mostly avoids watching Scott wrestle because it’s hot okay, it does things to him. He’s not proud of it, but avoiding it is better than popping a boner in the middle of the meet in the skimpiest, tightest outfit Stiles has ever worn in public.

He can practically feel Jackson and Isaac judging him as he crosses and uncrosses his legs and tries valiantly to engage Danny and Boyd in conversation, alternately, to varying levels of success. Boyd lets him talk at him for an entire two minutes before telling him to shut up, which is a new record and Stiles is very proud of it. He thinks he’s finally warming up to him.

Unfortunately, at the end of the round, Stiles catches sight of Scott pinning the guy he’s up against in a very sexual position before the guy taps out and the tournament is won. Stiles hopes his confusing combination of jealousy and arousal is at least sort of drowned out by the thrill of victory, but Stiles isn’t holding his breath.

For the moment, he forgets, because he’s hugging his dad who's so proud, and his teammates are cheering. For awhile it fills him up enough that he doesn’t have to think about Scott and how hot he is and Stiles’s confused feelings about how hot he is, not to mention that weird-as fuck conversation from earlier.

But back in the locker room, Stiles catches sight of the scale and remembers. He wonders vaguely what Scott’s problem was, and he knows later it’s gonna keep him awake trying to work out that particular puzzle. But for right now his thoughts are consumed with how fat he’s getting. Stiles takes extra care to seem composed, takes off the singlet that's plastered to his pudgy flesh seemingly without care, all the while feeling hyperaware of every ounce of fat. It's almost like he can sense the shiny pink stretchmarks on his lovehandles and right around his belly button, and the words one-hundred and ninety-six are ringing clear and constant in his brain .

He can't seem to avoid it, especially when he’s naked and soaping up his wet flab in a public shower. But the thing is? Stiles kind of likes it. Likes feeling big, heavy, soft. And he’s close, so close to 200. Even just the idea of it makes him breathe harder.

Conceptually, it’s hot. Way hot. He wants to reach it, reach beyond it. But in reality? It’s so much more complicated than that. He’s so caught up in his thoughts, not voicing any of them aloud, that he doesn’t notice how uncharacteristically silent and still he’s been until Scott comes up behind him and says, “Bro! You’ve been showering for like 10 minutes.”

Stiles jumps and says, “Yeah! Sorry, can’t get enough of this water pressure, you know? I can’t wait until I can get my own place. That’s like a requirement: Must have good water pressure.”

It’s a weak lie, but Scott lets it pass, walking out of the room as Stiles shuts off the water. “Yeah, whatever, man. We’re gonna go to Carlito’s for dinner, you in?”

“Oh fuck yeah, awesome.”

Stiles brightens considerably at the thought of amazing, cheesy Mexican food, only to catch himself. Should he really be eating things like that? At this rate he’ll be two weight classes higher by the end of the season. Isn’t he fat enough as it is? The thought sends a confusing rush of desire through him. Stiles frowns and fluffs his hair with a towel before wrapping it around his waist.

When he gets out, Scott is alone in the locker room; it’s dark and silent. He avoids Scott's eyes because he's making Stiles feel trapped under his examination, and opens his locker.

“You okay, Stiles? You’ve been weird all day.”

Stiles sighs and tosses his backpack on the bench. He turns to face his friend and says, a little irritated at being cornered, “Could say the same about you, dude.”

Scott makes soft, unintelligible sounds like he does when he doesn't know what to say. “Yeah, well. Guess I was nervous, too.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at that. “Oh yeah, Mr. True Alpha Werewolf Star Athlete? Since when?”

“Shut up. We’re talking about you.”

Stiles crosses his arms defiantly. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Before Scott has time to figure out how to interrogate him further, Stiles leans his shoulder against the lockers and says, “So what was with the eyes earlier?”

Scott's eyes flick up and widen, “Um-”

“Because if you weren’t angry or losing control of your wolfy, what was it?”

“Come on, Stiles. Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what? I have like, no idea what you’re even talking about and I’m starting to feel like I’m completely missing something that everybody knows but me!”

“You really don’t know?”

“No! How about you enlighten me?”

“Dude, forget it. It’s not important.”

“Like fuck it isn’t.”

“Come on, the guys are waiting for us, I’m starving, and I bet you are, too.”

That gives Stiles pause. His stomach rumbles and he almost gives into its demands, but- “Stop trying to distract me with food.”

Scott grins and says, “Damn. That usually works with you.”

“Oh ha, ha," Stiles says, patting his belly. "Big fat Stilinski likes to eat, you’re hilarious.”

Scott leans in to pinch a little bit of Stiles's belly fat between his fingers and says, “Hey, it’s the truth.”

It shouldn't be something that gets Stiles's blood pumping but, fuck. His newly squishy belly is really sensitive, okay, it's not his fault. It's Scott's, clearly, and if Stiles didn't know better he'd say Scott's been way more touchy feely with Stiles lately but it's probably because Stiles is just paying more attention to it, because suddenly he really wants Scott to touch him, oh god.

Stiles is a bit of a wreck. He tries to get himself under control, but probably leaves the pause between comebacks a beat too long. He points an accusing finger at Scott and says, “You like to eat just as much as me, it’s not my fault you have a supermetabolism. It’s unfair is what it is.”

Scott pauses, thoughtfully. His soft eyes scan Stiles's face. He's still close enough to touch. “Is that what’s bothering you?” He asks.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No! ...Kind of. Not really. Wait a second! No. The more you avoid it the more I need to know. Not even food can make me let this go. I’m not putting on any clothes until you tell me what the fuck happened earlier. You’ll have to deal with my fat, naked ass for as long as you hold out.”

Scott's eyes catch on his body and Stiles suddenly feels very, very naked. He fights the urge to cross his arms over his stomach.

“Are you sure?" Scott says, leaning into Stiles's space enticingly, "You’re just gonna deny yourself some big, crunchy chimichangas? That huge plate of cheesy enchiladas you like? Fried ice cream?”

Okay, so sue him, but Scott talking food is getting him a little flustered. It's almost like Scott's encouraging him to eat all those things, even though Stiles knows it's just to get him to back off.

Though, thinking about it, Scott always kind of pushed food at him. Especially recently. Even when Stiles was already full, when Scott would goad him to taking thirds, or dessert, or more snacks, Stiles would /always say yes. But he's probably just projecting.

Either way, thinking about it gets Stiles a little, uh, excited. Just as Scott’s nose flares as if he catches scent of it, Stiles says, “Yeah that’s just what I need, right? If I go up another weight class, Finstock is gonna kill me.”

Scott claps a hand on his shoulder. His hands are so warm. “Well you have another 25 pounds before you need to go up again, one trip to Carlito’s won’t hurt.”

“I donno, dude. Did you see how fast I packed on that 11 pounds? At this rate I’ll be a heavyweight by graduation.”

Scott's eyes shiver into glowing, piercing red just before he looks away, blinking as if to clear his vision.

Stiles's mouth drops open and his heart beats frantically in his chest even as his mind files away another data point. “Uh, dude?”

"Stiles," Scott says, imploringly, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands.

Stiles's own hands shake as he reaches for Scott's wrist and pulls it away. "Come on, bro, talk to me."

When Scott opens his eyes to look at him again, they're all human. But now Stiles has a theory.

He lets go and runs his hand down the side of his own gut, letting his fingertips sink into the doughy fat. He watches Scott's eyes travel all the way down, tracing the path made by his fingers, and when he looks back up, his eyes are burning red.

"Oh my god. It turns you on, doesn't it," Stiles says, breathless awe in his voice.

There's a moment, where he's still not sure if he's right, and it's like standing on the very edge of a cliff.

Scott scrunches up his face and groans, knocking his head back against the lockers. He says, “Sorry.”

Stiles’s hands flutter in front of him, unsure. He feels weird. He thinks he might literally be dreaming. He thinks he might pass out. “What!?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t wanna make this weird.”

“Hey,” Stiles grabs Scott’s arm and tugs until he looks at him. “Feel free to make it as weird as you want. So weird. I just want you to know that I’m down with making this extremely weird right now, just-”

Stiles feels Scott’s lips on his before he realizes what’s happening. They’re soft, and warm, and they’re Scott’s. Stiles whines a little, and it’s super embarrassing but then opens his mouth and everything goes a little hazy.

In seconds he’s being crowded against the lockers, hands fisted in Scott’s hair. Scott’s kissing him. He’s kissing the hell out of him. Stiles’s knees buckle a little but Scott catches his hips in strong hands, keeps him from slipping. He starts kneading the flesh at Stiles’s hips, his love handles, as though he can’t help himself, and Stiles swallows the sound of Scott’s desperate groan.

It makes him shudder, want to pull Scott closer, but his feet stay firmly planted when Stiles tries to pull him in. He’s close enough so Stiles’s belly touches Scott’s flat stomach, but Stiles wants more, wants to be pressed, hard, against the lockers, feel every inch of him.

Scott’s mouth pulls off his and Stiles sucks in a stuttering breath as his lips travel down to his softening jawline, what Stiles has been avoiding referring to as a double chin. Scott takes the flesh lightly between his teeth and his palm slides to feel the side of Stiles’s belly, cautious and exploratory. Stiles says, “Ah! Scott. Please.”

Scott presses in, pulls Stiles’s hips toward his so they’re plastered together tight, and kisses him again. Stiles’s whole body hums at the thrill of touching him. He moans, Scott makes a sound back, and it’s like the realization sets in in waves. Scott’s kissing him. Scott likes him. Scott likes him fat and maybe would be okay with Stiles getting fatter. Fuck.

“Hey, assholes, can you stop making out for five minutes, I’m starving, lets get a fucking move on,” a voice echoes through the locker room.

It takes Stiles a moment to come back to himself, and he sighs deeply when he realizes he’s Jackson’s ride today because his Porsche is in the shop.

Jackson steps around the corner and gives them a quick once-over. “Holy shit, you really are making out. Good for you, you finally got your heads out of your asses.”

Stiles glances at Scott, whose eyes are rolled up towards the ceiling. “Um. Thanks?”

“Now get the fuck dressed so we can go, already. I’m not waiting all night.” 

Jackson stomps off and Stiles shouts back at him, “That’s no way to talk to your alpha!”

Scott snorts and pecks him on the lips. “I’m pretty sure you’ve said worse.” 

Stiles feels his mouth stretch in a sappy smile. He couldn’t stop it if he tried. “Well, see, as your boyfriend, I’m totally allowed.”

Scott grins back at him, blinding and sunshiny and Stiles wants to kiss him over and over. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Sorry, them’s the rules.”

Scott huffs a laugh and lets go of Stiles, steps back out of his space. Stiles grabs a hold of his shirt and follows him. “Hey, come on, it was just getting good. Don’t tell me you’re gonna listen to Jackson instead of make out with me in the boys locker room.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, he is right. Besides,” Scott’s hand slides to rest against the crest of Stiles’s belly. “Aren’t you hungry?”

His eyes spark, not with alpha power, but with mischief, and that’s a dare if Stiles has ever heard one. “Oh, yeah. I have a whole 24 and a half pounds to work with before I get bumped up again. Might as well take advantage.”

Derek startles awake at the sound of the metallic clank of a door unlocking, the creek as it swings open, the crinkle of thick paper. He’s had the house nearer to the preserve for long enough that he’s not used to noises like this when he’s sleeping. It takes a moment for his brain to realize where he is, but he takes in the smell of Scott’s apartment and is soothed by Stiles’s distinct, heavy footfalls from the apartment next door.

A high whine sounds from directly next to Derek’s ear, and he opens his eyes to meet the gaze of Scott’s golden retriever, Rocky, a big, loose-tongued smile on his face. He’s attacked with slobbery dog kisses before he manages to push Rocky away and scritch his soft fur.

Scott is away attending a veterinary seminar for a few days and Derek said he’d dogsit his three puppies while he’s there. Initially, Derek wanted to bring them all to his house, but the little black mutt, Gizmo, was nervous and skittish. He wouldn’t stop crying the entire time they were there. So Derek figured it’d be easier to just stay here. Scott has a nice place, though it’s not as big or near open spaces as Derek’s.

It’s late. Derek checks his watch in the light from the TV he left on and sees its well past midnight, but Stiles works strange hours at the sheriff’s office so it’s no surprise he’s just getting home.

Over the hum of electricity and voices and background music, he hears Stiles taking off his uniform, his belt, his gun holster. If he concentrates he can even hear the squeaky plastic-on-fabric slide of buttons being popped open.

His mind is a traitor and decides to give him vivid flashbacks from Lydia’s lake house last weekend: Stiles in too-tight swim shorts, plump belly hanging over the waistband, bouncing as he runs and jumps off the dock into warm, summer water.

Derek growls and turns up the volume on the TV. The pit bull, Rambo, perks her head up at the sound from where she was asleep in her doggy bed. Derek makes a half-hearted soothing sound but it’s enough to get her to spin around in her bed and go back to sleep with a displeased grunt.

On the other side of the walls between them, Stiles pads on bare feet, closer and closer to where Derek sits in Scott’s living room and plops down onto a couch that squeals under his weight. He situates himself restlessly and finally relaxes with a profound sigh. He sounds exhausted.

Derek is exhausted, too. He closes his eyes and burrows deeper into the couch, listens to the white noise of Stiles turning on Netflix and the soft sound of his breathing. He starts to drift.

But suddenly loud in his ears is the crinkle of paper. He takes in a whiff and recognizes the greasy, salty scent of fast food. Stiles unwraps a thinner layer of paper and the couch squeeks. Derek hears the clanking of ice cubes in a paper cup, bubbly soda fizzing, Stiles gulping down mouthfuls of the stuff.

Derek is fixated, now. He loves watching Stiles eat but he’d never gotten to appreciate what it sounded like with such clarity. If he focuses, he can hear the gurgle of liquid and air mixing in Stiles’s empty stomach. He lets out a light, airy burp before resting back again. Derek exhales a shaky breath and knows with absolute certainty all hopes of going back to sleep any time soon are lost.

He sits up but keeps his eyes closed to concentrate on listening. There’s more rustling and Stiles moans a little around a mouthful of food, and, god. It’s so easy to picture his mouth stuffed with burgers, chewing with his eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Derek has seen it before, but those times, at pack dinners or pizza over late-night research, he couldn’t really take the time to appreciate it without risking embarrassing himself.

Now he has the chance to savor it, doesn’t have to ignore it. It feels a little creepy but Derek rationalizes, there’s nothing particularly private about it, and it’s nothing he couldn’t hear from anyone else in the apartment complex anyway. Living with, or even just next to, werewolves, inevitably comes with a distinct lack of privacy. Stiles has to know that. That’s what Derek tells himself. And anyway, it’s not like Derek is listening to him jerk off or anything, he’s just eating, and that’s a completely normal thing to hear.

What isn’t quite so normal is the crackling heat that spreads through his system listening to Stiles crunch on salty fries and open the wrapper of another burger with barely a pause. With a mouthful of food, Stiles burps again, surprisingly loud and distinct even through closed lips. He continues making his way through, hums as he licks his lips free of grease. And then he takes out another burger.

Stiles’s eating seems greedy, even faster than usual. And even for a big guy like Stiles, three burgers and fries veers sharply into excess. Especially when Derek can scent the lingering aroma of tacos underneath that tells him there’s definitely more to come. Stiles sighs out a couple of small burps before he gets his mouth around a handful of fries. Derek had never realized he was so loud when he ate. Is it the fast food that makes him so gassy? Those little burps come so frequently Derek is genuinely surprised he’s never heard him sound like this before.

And then no time at all Derek hears Stiles ball up the third wrapper and pull out another. There’s what sounds like Stiles rubbing his palm over fabric rhythmically and his belly makes a telltale groan before he lets out a low, gurgling burp. “Mmm,” Stiles says, and takes another bite, lettuce and pickles crunching between his teeth.

Derek shifts on the couch and realizes he’s getting hard, just from listening to Stiles’s feast and the sounds he makes in his gluttony. He turns off the TV because he doesn’t want anything getting in the way of him hearing this, and he rests his head against the wall behind him. Stiles is dripping condiments onto the wrapper, and after a bite he can hear him lick them from his fingers. He hiccups, buried in his throat under a mouthful of food, and again when he swallows, mouth open and loud the second time. It’s immediately followed by another small burp and Derek licks his lips. His hand almost slides down to his dick, but he startles at the feel of Rocky’s big, wet nose on his knee.

Derek decides to move this into Scott’s bedroom, right behind the wall closest to Stiles’s living room. He shuts the door, gently, so he doesn’t miss anything, even the slightest, softest groan from Stiles’s stomach. Derek hasn’t felt like such a stalker in years, and Scott would never let him live it down if he jerked off in his room. So he won’t, Derek has self control. Of course, that’s before he sits on the mattress as Stiles sucks down a few gulps of soda, burps lightly, and unwraps another cheeseburger.

That self control flies out the window and Derek cups himself, leaning back against the headboard of Scott’s bed. Stiles can’t possibly still be hungry, and yet he doesn’t falter or show any signs of slowing down. He moans around his burger like its the first one, like he is starving.

Or like he enjoys it, gorging himself like this. Derek always wondered what happened to the skinny kid’s quick metabolism to have him balloon so much during college, but he thinks he knows, now. It’s obvious that he likes it, that he craves eating like this, far beyond what most people’s stomachs can even handle.

Derek wonders if he can push Stiles to eat more, in front of him. If maybe he can pass his ‘leftovers’ off to Stiles or offer seconds, thirds. Would he take it, in front of other people? Would his face be flushed with embarrassment or unapologetic when his gluttony makes him burp and groan in public? Stiles had never been one to get embarrassed easily, So Derek would think it’d be the second option. Stiles stuffing big, greedy mouthfuls of food into his belly and letting loose all the sounds his body would make from being filled too fast, with too much.

But the thing is, Stiles never sounds unrestrained like this, not in all the times Derek has seen him eat. Once or twice he’s heard Stiles have to smother a burp in his throat, barely audible but still telling and still incredibly hot. But when he lets go like this? Fuck, Derek thinks he could get off just listening to Stiles make a pig out of himself.

So he pictures Stiles, instead, unable to pass up the extra food Derek offers him, face heated to a bright pink as he tries to hide burps and hiccups under his hand, behind his lips. He’d squirm in his seat as he eats, trying desperately to smother sounds that would give away how much of a glutton he’s being…

Derek comes out of his thoughts as Stiles balls up that fifth burger wrapper and he groans in what sounds like pain. After eating like that he’d have to be hurting. He wonders if that means Stiles is finished and Derek is ashamed to admit to himself that he really doesn’t want him to be. If he were there, he knows he could goad Stiles into eating more, saying something like, “That’s it, that’s all you’re gonna eat?” And Stiles would just have to prove him wrong, like he always does.

For awhile, Stiles sits like that, groaning intermittently. He burps like he’s trying to push the air out, but they’re tiny little, airy, barely there things that don’t sound like they’re bringing him any relief. His stomach is gurgling like it’s angry, too full and aching. And the whole time Derek listens to this, he’s barely fighting off the urge to just stroke himself to a climax.

Then the springs on the couch squeak like Stiles leans forward. Just as his fingers touch on the plastic edge of his fizzy drink, he lets out a huge, rumbling belch that trails off into a relieved sounding groan. He follows with a smaller belch and says, “Mmm, thank god.”

Derek shivers with need, loses control for a second as his hand strokes his dick through the fabric of his boxers. He listens to the distinct, soft rhythm of Stiles patting his belly affectionately, something he has seen him do, on too many occasions for the preservation Derek’s sanity. It’s seared into his mind, the way it jiggles under that particular touch, and suddenly Derek wants his hand there instead. He wants to be sitting next to Stiles, right now, rubbing the sounds of his excess from his belly as he stuffs himself. Derek’s breath stutters with the urge to moan, but he doesn’t know how thin the walls are; he can’t take the chance.

He stills his hand as Stiles opens the second bag, unwraps something inside it. The scent in the air fills with Mexican flavors. He crunches into it, humming in pleasure, and Derek listens to it fall apart messily onto the wrapper. He listens to Stiles’s stomach gurgle under the onslaught of food. 

And now that he’s eaten so much, his soft little grunts and groans become more frequent, though less pained than they sounded when he was taking a break. Stiles burps, three soft ones in a row, as he eats. When he crumples up that wrapper, his breathing is labored, shallow, like its hard to breathe past the mass of food in his gut.

But still he takes out another one. It’s not as crunchy so it doesn’t block out any sound at all. Not his stomach trying desperately to digest, or his panting breaths, or what Derek thinks is Stiles’s hand rubbing circles into his bloated belly. Derek feels so wired from it that when Stiles belches through an open mouthful of food, listens to it trail off into a series of smaller, gurgly, overstuffed burps, he feels so close he almost topples over the edge and he can’t hold back his own muffled cry.

And still Stiles doesn’t stop. Derek has to or he’ll get cum on Scott’s blankets, and the scent of his desperate arousal is bad enough. Reluctantly he pulls back his hand, fists it in his t-shirt.

Derek is vibrating with need listening to Stiles eat the next one. His groans sound a little pained again, but he keeps pushing. Derek hears bite after bite disappear into Stiles’s belly. If must be aching by now, but it barely seems to phase him. At least, not enough to stop him from finishing and crumpling up that wrapper.

How many things has he eaten? Eight? Too many even for someone as big as Stiles. Too many to call it anything but pure gluttony.

"A-ah fuck," Stiles mumbles. He whimpers in pain and the sound of him rubbing his belly returns, but this time it’s clearly skin on skin, like he’s lifted up his shirt just to touch it.

Derek wants to touch it. Wants it so bad. Wants more than just his ears filled with the sounds Stiles makes. He wants his vision clouded with Stiles’s fat belly and pudgy, pleasure-filled face and the scent of his skin in his nose. The feeling of all that soft, blubbery flesh in his palms, on his tongue. God, he wants to taste him. He’d be salty from all the fast food he eats and so warm.

And Derek wants to know what Stiles would say to him in a state like this, blissed out and overfilled with food that’s only going to make him fatter. Would he beg him to rub his belly or feed him so he doesn’t have to move? Would he burp pathetically and profess “No more, no more,” only to fall back minutes later to asking for another, just one more? Or would he be demanding? Or teasing? God, once Stiles knew what effect this had on Derek, he’d be a relentless fucking tease, Derek just knows it.

Derek’s hips lift off the bed, grinding up into the air with desperate movements. He needs to touch himself. He moves to get up off the bed and head for the shower because it had been awhile, long enough that Derek thinks Stiles might finally done, have finally had his fill.

But Stiles grunts as he leans forward, grasps the cup of soda in what Derek knows are gorgeous, pudgy fingers. Stiles sips gingerly compared to the reckless gulps from earlier, but it’s enough to push a bubbly belch from his gut.

And then he sits back and immediately grabs something else, unwraps it even though his belly is still groaning in protest and he sounds like he can barely breathe, barely move from the food already inside him. He bites into it, a burp falling from his lips as he chews.

He makes it a couple more bites before he tosses the rest of it back onto the wrapper and lets out a low, rumbling belch that makes him sound absolutely packed to the brim. He burps again and sucks his fingers clean, shifts around and then Stiles moans.

The sound of it hits Derek right in the gut and his dick pulses, too hard and too neglected. “Fuck,” Stiles says, as he pats the bare skin of his belly.

He slaps it a little too hard and lets out a burp, before soothing his belly with soft caresses. It sounds like Stiles is nestling himself back into the couch, relaxing as burps keep bubbling up from his gut. Then Derek hears a squelching sound from a plasticky pump, like soap or lotion. He pictures Stiles rubbing shining lotion all over his overstuffed, fat gut and the image has him biting his own lip.

But that’s not what happens. The sound of it is slick, and rhythmic, and it’s unmistakable. Stiles is touching himself.

Derek bolts off the bed and hobbles to the joined bathroom as fast as he can, slams into the shower and turns on the spray of water. He can’t listen to that anymore, feels a little guilty letting it get that far in the first place, but not enough to stop him resting his forearm on the shower wall and wrapping his other hand around his aching cock.

The spray drowns Stiles out if he focuses on it, but all those sounds he made are unforgettable, and it’s almost as if he can still hear the echoes of it. Those soft burps and loud belches, groans and hiccups and moans and pants. Derek has his fingers wrapped loosely around himself, doesn’t need much more than that, not when he’s already feeling weak-kneed and foggy, so, so close.

He loses focus, and the sounds come in and out even over the rush of water. Stiles sounds incredible, lets out little whimpering moans while he strokes himself, slow and languid. His stomach bubbles up a burp on a breathless groan, and that’s it. Derek can’t take anymore.

He muffles a shout against his arm, comes whispering, “Stiles,” into his own skin, thinking about saying it against Stiles’s full gut instead. Derek’s mind fades out while his body lights up, sparking with the release of it. He’s shaking, panting as he comes down.

Derek blinks back into awareness suddenly, and immediately embarrassment washes over him. When he catches his breath, he cleans up the mess he made on the tile, hoping the smell isn’t too obvious. He spends so long in there, waiting for Stiles to finish, his skin is pink and pruney. He turns off the water slowly, trying to see if he can catch any sounds from the other apartment. But it’s silent save for the buzz of whatever show Stiles is watching and his slow, even breathing.

Derek doesn’t know what he’ll do now that he knows that Stiles is definitely into stuffing himself in addition to looking like one of Derek’s wet dreams come to life. He can’t very well go up to him and offer himself up to be his feeder, can he? He’ll be lucky if he can look Stiles in the eye ever again after this.

Derek wanders back to the couch in fresh pajamas and feels dazed. Sinking into the cushions, he buries his face in his arms, trying to slow his pounding heart.

For a long time, it’s quiet, and he starts to drift off again, body sated though his mind is trying to work overtime. His breath evens out and everything goes blank and soft around the edges of sleep.

He doesn’t know how long he’s out until he startled awake again, this time at the sound of a refrigerator opening. Containers jangle against the door. The hissing whoosh of air tells him it’s the freezer and someone is rooting around the crunching ice.

Brain slowed from sleep, it takes him a moment to realize it’s Stiles.

And I like the guidelines that Astrid and I came up with for the "rarest of the rare" round at TWRPE, not least since we put a lot of work into researching and debating that list, like… between the two of us, we probably spent 24+ hours just researching Teen Wolf fandom trends on tumblr, AO3, and elsewhere (both when Sterek-tagged fics are included and not [because of the unfortunate trend of people tagging rarepairs in Sterek fics even though all there reall is there is a one-off mention of the ship somewhere], then also in their current forms and in their historical context, like for example Isaac/Scott has the most fics of any rarepair, BUT it's outclassed by Scott/Stiles when you filter for Sterek AND it's been steadily decreasing in popularity and production for a while)

…anyway, so. I think my nixed ships list for day 8 is going to be Sterek, Skittles, Allydia, Isaac/Stiles, Lydia/Stiles, and Peter/Stiles, but given that three of these ships are actually non-issues since I don't ship them, I might want to add a few more ships to that. like… I'd probably not add Derek/Scott because I like it a lot but it's still pretty… like, Astrid's gone and pulled numbers about Derek shipping patterns and while Sterek just totally out-classes everything else, Scerek has the most fics when you filter out Sterek (which isn't even entirely reliable since some of the fics that get filtered out are actually McHaleinski where the author tagged for Sterek, Scerek, and/or Skittles individually as well).

but… I don't know. I just feel like it's not really challenging myself, if I have a list of six restricted ships, of which I only even ship three of them (Skittles, Allydia, and Peter/Stiles because I'm such trash and I'm probably going to Hell but… I really like badwrong ships of a few certain sorts and Peter Hale is the kind of bad guy who really really appeals to me for the purposes of badwrong ships, like.

I mean, most of my favorite badwrong ships have Peter or Kate in them [and the tippy top favorites there are: different permutations of Peter with Scott, Stiles, and/or Derek; Derek/Kate; Allison/Kate, give or take Scott and/or Isaac and/or Lydia; Jennifer/Kate; and Kate/Laura], and then there's Deucalion and the Nogitsune in the back Derek/Deucalion and Deucalion/Scott and various Nogitsune ships, like Nogistuskittles, though Nogitsune/Stiles is definitely a favorite because I am trash and I have a lot of feelings about possession ships)

but all that being said… I'll have to ponder. …and now because I've had Watchmen on for background noise, I'm thinking about a fusion AU with Derek/Kira/chubby!Scott wherein Derek is Rorschach, Kira is Laurie (Silk Spectre II), and Scott is Dan Dreiberg (Nite Owl II).

the only issue is that I don't know who I'd cast as Ozymandias, Doctor Manhattan, or the Comedian. maybe Boyd for Doctor Manhattan, but I have no idea who could be Adrian except for maybe Lydia, and them I am flat out stumped on the Comedian since… he really needs to be a Very Bad Person but also someone who would have a change of heart enough to try to prevent what happens at the end of the story and Teen Wolf… has Chris?

but Chris… like for as much as I'm not really fond of him at all and generally prefer to more or less ignore his existence, he was never as bad as the Comedian and he's done some fucked up stuff but his shit was never that fucked up. Peter was as bad as the Comedian and still is as far as I'm concerned but the change of heart thing doesn't work for him.

…I guess I could just write a cosplay nerds AU where they're like, a really hardcore and really popular group of cosplayers who are super quality but Scott's been gaining weight and it's really starting to show and the Internet has mixed opinions, and he's like, "well I guess we have to do Watchmen for Comicon instead of The Avengers and The Winter Soldier, right?"

Stiles has no idea what Scott's talking about. "Dude, we've only been working on those costumes for months, everyone's excited about this and you were too until just now apparently, why don't you want to do it."

Scott huffs. "have you taken a look at me lately, Stiles? like, sure, Derek can still be Tony, Allison and Lydia can still be Clint and Natasha, Kira can still be Bruce, Boyd can still be Sam, Danny and Erica can still be Thor and Loki once they pick out who's going to be who, Isaac can still do his crossdress cosplay as Peggy Carter, and you can obviously still be Bucky…"