Stiles gets a massage. And then some. Alternatively: in which Stiles' mouth gets him into trouble, again and again.

The thing about gymnastics is that it's a lot of work. And time. And busted muscles, And calluses everywhere. (Yes. Even there.) And having no social life whatsoever. All that for the distinction of being really good at gymnastics. Which does not exactly bolster Stiles's already tenuous masculinity.

“You like happy endings, huh?” Stiles says, lying pressed in against his back, sliding his fingers along the edge of Derek’s chest, along his ribs and up his sternum.