Derek is tired. No, exhausted. In the past twelve hours he’s found out his sister was alive and Erica dead, managed to cooperate with a hunter, and fought off two rabid werewolves by himself and nearly died doing it.
The external cuts have healed but he’s running on empty, vision blurring and head full of cotton. He shouldn’t have forced the healing, but he didn’t know if the alpha pack would return to finish what Boyd and Cora started. There isn’t a part of him that doesn’t ache. There must still be damage inside.
The teacher, Jennifer, had insisted on giving him a ride home. He’d washed the blood off in the locker room and sniffed out Isaac’s locker to steal some gym shorts and a t-shirt. He’ll buy Isaac a new lock before school.
Chris has taken the betas to Deaton’s, where Boyd and Cora are recovering. Derek knows that he should go to them. He refuses to admit that he doesn’t want to. It was hard enough seeing the pity in Scott’s eyes and the fear in Isaac’s. He’s their leader. He can’t protect them if they see how disjointed and ripped-raw he is on the inside. He’s a wounded animal and even though he knows that Scott and Isaac would never do it, his instinct is to hide himself away so no one can take advantage of his weakened state to steal the mantle of alpha. His eyes widen. Scott and Isaac would never, but Peter . . . .
That’s when he hears it: soft, almost silent footsteps and a steady heartbeat, leather sliding against the taut line of a bow string. Allison is on the roof, but Derek isn’t afraid. She’s either here to finish her vendetta or she’s here to protect him. Derek doesn’t care, so long as Peter never regains control of the pack.
He lets the heartbeat of a hunter lull him, almost falling asleep into the five pounds of hamburger meat that he has no energy to cook and is forcing down raw just so his body has enough calories and protein to rebuild.
The knock is unexpected, but the nervous shuffling and the syncopated flutter of the heartbeat are familiar. Derek groans. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with Stiles right now.
The thing is, when he isn’t dead tired, Derek likes Stiles (not that he’d ever tell him so). When they first met, Derek hadn’t appreciated the intrusion into his cocoon of anger and grief, but he’s since learned that the amusing, sometimes fascinating bundle of spastic, hyperactive energy that is Stiles is pretty much the only thing that can successfully distract him from the abyss he feels he’s walking a tightrope over. He’s like a cartoon character five steps over the cliff. Don’t think about it. Don’t look down.
Of course, he’s forgotten that Stiles had annoyed himself into a key a month ago with a twelve point argument and the threat of a powerpoint. Derek is pretty sure the powerpoint didn’t exist, but he hadn’t risked calling that bluff. Now he regrets it.
When Stiles shoves himself in the door, Derek honest to god growls, like he hasn’t done since he was a teenager. It’s only the meatlover’s supreme pizza and the two gallons of milk he’s carrying that keep Derek from bodily tossing him back out.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Stiles makes a face. “Is that raw miscellaneous cow parts that you’re eating out of the container like ice cream? Even for a wolfman, that’s gross.” He knows Stiles well enough to see an undercurrent of something beneath his rapid banter. Stiles smells like tears, but his twitchiness and refusal to meet Derek’s eyes say that it isn’t sadness that preoccupies him. Derek decides he’s dealt with enough today. He doesn’t have it in him to help Stiles too.
Derek shrugs, but he lets Stiles swap the beef with pizza, because it’s not as though he likes ground up cow anus and extruded pink sludge. “Go away, Stiles,” he says.
“Hey, that’s no way to treat the man who brought you actually edible sustenance. I hunted and gathered. I provided. I’m totally the provider.”
Derek rolls his eyes, because Stiles’s minimum wage summer job hasn’t resulted in the resources to provide anything. “Take a twenty out of the coffee can in the fridge.
“Oh my god, Broody McBroodywolf keeps spare cash in a coffee can like my eighty-year-old grandma! I can’t believe--”
Derek tunes out the rest of the joke, closing his eyes and trying not to gut Stiles like he’d been forced to do with the annoying Mockingbird that had nested on his balcony. Derek summons all his patience, what’s left of it, and manages a frustrated plea. “Stiles, today I . . . look, I just need to rest.”
That stops Stiles in his tracks mid-flail. Derek realizes belatedly that he usually asks for things with a threat of his teeth or claws meeting some increasingly inventive body part, but it’s the downtrodden plea that actually produces a result.
Stiles nods, but instead of leaving, he puts away the ground beef and opens the milk for Derek. The weight of Stiles’s stare is just as draining as listening to whatever he’s obviously come here to say.
Derek finishes one milk jug and reaches for the second. “Fine. Out with it.”
“Out with what?” Derek refuses to find that over-the-top confused face amusing.
“Whatever you came here for.”
“I can’t come check on you? I know you love to retreat to your den of guilt and manpain, but sometimes you need someone to have your back. That’s what pack is, right?”
Stiles isn’t lying, but he’s not answering the question either, plying Derek with what he knows is his weakness: appealing to the pack bonds that he reaches for on instinct.
“Just say it, Stiles.”
“No, you’re right. This can wait until you’re feeling better. Here, let me help you up.”
The food has helped, but Derek’s head is still pounding and his joints ache. He doesn’t need Stiles to push him up the stupid spiral staircase that leads to the master bed and bath, but he’s grateful for the help, grateful to be around someone he trusts enough to take care of him. He grunts his thanks, not willing to let Stiles to become complacent about his welcome in Derek’s personal space.
Derek doesn’t want to sleep with Isaac’s smell all over him, so he strips out of his clothes and pulls on a clean pair of boxer briefs. Stiles snaps his gaping jaw shut when Derek turns back around. Arousal is in his scent and excitement in his heartbeat. Normally Derek is a little more circumspect about encouraging Stiles’s attraction, but he can’t spare the effort for modesty today.
Stiles doesn’t try to tuck him in, but he stays sitting on the bed, looking at Derek with a strange combination of fear and nervousness and desire as he keeps touching his neck in that twitchy way of his. Derek raises his eyebrows to give Stiles the cue to leave, or at least go sleep on the bed downstairs, but instead Stiles takes that as an invitation to blurt, “there’s something or someone out there sacrificing virgins.”
Derek sits up against the headboard, rubbing his eyes to force them stop drooping because there’s a chance that this can’t wait until Derek’s rested. “Really?” Because Derek refuses to believe that his life has become that much of a horror movie cliche.
“Yes, really. Do you think I would joke about something like that?”
Derek raises his eyebrows.
“Okay, fine, I would totally joke about something like that. But I’m not joking. Three murders on the night of the full moon, all the same ritualized injuries, all virgins.”
“Did you research this?” Derek asks.
“Dude, I just found out! I told Scott and then came over here. When would I have researched?”
“Fine, I am going to go research, because this is an issue very, very relevant to me.”
Derek knows he shouldn’t be confused, but his mind is foggy. Cora is alive. Derek didn’t die. The moon. Virgins. It’s all so overwhelming. Can’t Stiles just take the helm? Just for a little while?
Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s hard to believe -- I know -- but I happen to be a virgin. Somehow people of both sexes find me repulsive.”
Derek’s not really surprised that Stiles is a virgin. It’s not that Stiles is bad looking. He’s smart and funny and capable of great acts of devotion, the kind of guy that would probably never spend long without a significant other later in life. Unlike Derek, everything about him screams inappropriate attachment and cuddling on the couch eating breakfast for dinner rather than sexy one-night-stand. He’s just not there, yet. Right now, it’s all high school territory disputes and nonsensical teenaged pack hierarchies. Stiles shows his weaknesses too much for that crowd.
“You’re not repulsive,” Derek says, because as much as he likes to poke fun at Stiles, he hates that Stiles would think that way about himself. “Trust me, you’ll do fine in college. Better to wait for when it’s right than do something you’d regret now.” That was a hard lesson for Derek. He hopes it’ll work better for Stiles.
“Yeah, that’s great advice, Derek. Self-esteem problem solved; except, oh wait, that’s two years away and in case you’ve forgotten what I just said, someone is killing virgins like now.” Then all the sarcasm melts away and Stiles does that thing where he just throws his heart wide open for all to see. Derek hates it. He wants to tell Stiles to protect himself, shield those tender parts, even though he’s drawn to the freedom of that innocence. “I don’t want to die,” Stiles whimpers.
“You won’t. The pack will protect you. I’ll protect you.”
“Yes, that’s great to know, but is the promise of a romantic first time with someone who appreciates my rapier wit really worth the risk? It’s like, the smallpox vaccine used to be really unpleasant, like a scary needle-filled pneumatic torture device.” He makes a face like the very idea leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “But it’s better than fucking smallpox. So, it might be awkward and uncomfortable, but it’s better than ending up dead.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “Stop being so desperate. High school kids don’t like that.”
“Well then I’ll hire a prostitute for prophylactic sex if I have to. I don’t know about you, but about to be murdered sounds like the perfect time to be desperate. Speaking of which, can I borrow $200?”
Stiles is panicking now, wheezing just slightly, soft enough that only a wolf could hear. Derek doesn’t like that sound. Stiles truly is desperate. He’s desperate enough to do something stupid. Derek remembers what happens next.
“I’m not paying for you to lose your virginity.” Nobody deserves to lose their virginity like that. Also, $200 seems like a lot just for sex.
“Well, it’s not like you’re volunteering to help me out,” Stiles complains. “Wait, unless you are, because you don’t think I’m repulsive and you’re like … you’re like wow. That would be like learning to drive on a Maserati.”
Derek winces. It’s not that he dislikes being attractive. It seems like a stupid thing to complain about. Except people are always looking at him. They look, but nobody sees. “Not really.”
“Oh, come on,” Stiles snorts, completely misreading Derek’s discomfort (as usual). “It’s not like you don’t know you’re fucking gorgeous. I bet you had men and women falling from the sky to punch your v-card. Literally, there were probably people throwing themselves out of planes and heavenly bodies crashing to Earth once you got on the market.”
Derek has been thinking about telling Stiles about Kate for a little while now. He’s not sure why Stiles is the first person he’s ever really wanted to tell. Part of it is because Derek sees some of his young self in the kid: overeager, under confident, and so inexperienced that he can’t even imagine what could be the downside. Derek wonders what he would have done if someone had taken him aside and rather than telling him he was too young or demanding he stopped seeing her, had instead talked honestly about their own regret.
Another reason he thinks he wants to tell Stiles is because as boneheaded and inconsiderate as Stiles can be at times, he takes his promises seriously. If Derek told him, Stiles would lie up and down to keep the others from finding out, if Derek wanted. He’d already successfully lied to his best friend, with his werewolf hearing, all summer just so that Scott could have some time to catch up and not ruin his academic future.
“Nobody fell out of any planes,” Derek says, deadpan. He’s still not ready to tell Stiles, because looking at his hopeful, slightly glazed, manic expression, Derek knows that even though Stiles will absolutely hear, he won’t listen. “Seriously, Stiles, it won’t be like a Maserati.” Maseratis are awesome and Derek is just a broken, twisted mass of incompetence and unworthiness that happens to be covered by a pretty shell. If the outside matched what's inside, Stiles would be at Scott’s house begging for a pity fuck from the most beautiful guy in town. “You’ll regret it.”
“That’s not a no.” Stiles gapes. Then he fist pumps the air. “It’s not a no!”
“It still could be,” Derek grumbles. He’s shaking a little, but he did almost die today. It must be the exhaustion.
“Derek,” Stiles says tentatively, scooting closer and laying a hand on Derek’s bicep. “I know that you have no interest in dating me or whatever. I couldn’t offer you anything other than demonstrating an embarrassingly quick orgasm and I don’t know, promising wolfy research forever and ever, but if you would be willing, I would literally owe you my life. I don’t think anyone else cares enough to do this for me.”
“Ew! He’s like my brother. And not gay. He might not even be straight. I think he’s just Allisonsexual.” Derek thinks Scott would do it, because Scott’s a hero and heroes make sacrifices for the greater good.
“Don’t you think if I could make that happen, I would’ve done it already?”
“Ha. The love of my best friend’s life. Plus, I don’t need a crossbow shoved against my nuts.”
“We’re not actually friends. And Isaac and I definitely aren’t, in case you were wondering. Neither are you and I, I guess.” Derek hangs his head, because he did think they were friends or at least on their way to being. “I don’t know who else would do it. I mean, I probably spend at least half of my brain power on trying to figure out how to get someone to sleep with me eventually and I still have this problem. I mean, there’s not a single person who would’ve done this for me except Heather and -- look at that -- she’s dead of lethal virginity so that’s out.”
Erica would’ve, Derek wants to say, because as much as she tried to pretend that she’d moved on to bigger, better things, a part of her had always wanted to show Stiles what he could’ve had if he’d just pulled his head out of his ass long enough to see. Oh god, Erica. Derek forces back the tears that have been threatening all night. He’d held her dead body in his arms, a fate he’d doomed her to the second he arrogantly presumed that strength and beauty would make up for dragging her into his twisted horror story of a life. Stiles wants Derek to touch him with these hands? The ones who touched a dead body less than half a day ago, nearly strangled his own sister, killed his uncle and made love to the woman who had murdered his whole family? These hands?
Derek flinches, but Stiles doesn’t notice. He’s up in his own head as usual, tapping his fingers against his lip like he’d actually bite his nails if it were an option.
“Derek, please.” It’s plaintive and it breaks Derek’s heart.
The thing is, Derek doesn’t want to have sex with Stiles, even though he likes him. Derek certainly doesn’t have the right to take this experience from Stiles. He isn’t as experienced as Stiles thinks he is. In fact, other than Kate and a handful of one-night-stands, Derek hasn’t done much of anything. He looked it up once. He thinks he might be asexual. Except he enjoys the sex itself. Maybe he’s aromantic? Then again, he’d been the world’s worst romantic before. It was full on Romeo and Juliet to fall for a hunter.
He’s probably just plain fucked up. That’s would explain why he hasn’t had sex in three years. It’s probably why he couldn’t bear Jennifer’s searching, longing gaze when she asked if she’d see him again. Stiles gets under Derek’s skin in a new, unusual way, a way that intrigues Derek. But fascination does not equal attraction and loneliness does not justify the damage he could do to the kid if he got anymore involved in Derek’s life than he is already.
Except Stiles is already here, sitting on Derek’s bed, holding that hand that had been bloody mere hours ago. It’s too late. Stiles is irrevocably pack and it’s Derek’s responsibility to make sure he’s alright. Stiles is right, awkward prophylactic sex (even with someone who would taint him the way Derek would) is preferable to even the smallest risk that Stiles ends up gruesomely murdered. It’s all Derek can do, really, to soften the blow that the supernatural has dealt Stiles.
Derek isn’t worthy of Stiles’s virginity by any stretch of the imagination, but he acknowledges that he isn’t the worst option. Derek is safe, responsible and disease free. He won’t make fun of Stiles or treat him like shit afterwards. He won’t use him or burn his fucking house down. He could make it good, because he does care about Stiles, unlike a hooker or whoever Stiles could convince on short notice. He would put his own pleasure on the backburner, because he’s not one of those creeps who might be attracted to a coltish-looking sixteen-year-old. He won’t harm Stiles physically and there’s no way Stiles could fall in love with him and end up with a broken heart.
Stiles is still, for once, and breathing shallowly and looking at Derek wonderingly, as though he’s something amazing to behold. Derek hates that look. He focuses on the wall behind Stiles’s head. “Okay,” he says. He’s too tired to fight this and even though it twists his gut with wrongness, his gut hasn’t made a single good decision since Laura died. He can trust Stiles to make this one.
Stiles is grinning. He almost knees Derek in the balls in his haste to straddle him. Derek catches his hips on reflex and in self-defense. Stiles’s skin is warm even through the fabric of his jeans. His heartbeat is frantic and fluttering and those stupidly compelling amber eyes are huge, pupils blown wide in lust. Derek can smell it on him, the arousal.
Derek thinks Stiles means to kiss him, but instead he just leans into Derek, folding his long arms around Derek’s broad shoulders. Derek’s skin tingles where they touch. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that Stiles is hugging him. Derek can’t remember the last time someone hugged him. He suspects it might have been when he said goodbye to Laura at the airport. Stiles is actually the closest he’s come, but that was just to keep Derek from drowning, like any decent person would do. He buries his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck, breathing in the scent and feeling the familiar heartbeat pulse against his chest.
“Thank you,” Stiles says, and plants a smacking kiss on Derek’s cheek with a grin. “Ooh, stubble!” He rubs his cheek against Derek’s in a weirdly wolf-like behavior, following it up with his nimble fingers. “It’s soft!”
Derek pulls Stiles’s hands away from his face. “I said I’d have sex with you, not that you could pet me like a dog.”
“I’d like to state, for the record, that you’re one who brought up dogs, buddy. I won’t be held responsible for any further dog jokes.”
Derek laughs. It’s punch drunk and absurd. He’s gone through exhaustion and come out the other end and landed on his ass in a world where he has a lap full of eager teenager and Cora is alive and his pack actually worked together on a plan that didn’t go completely to shit. It’s over the goddamned rainbow and he’s just waiting for some little people to start singing and a good witch to show up and tell him that the last nine years have all been a terrible dream.
“How about you lie down and let me rub your belly?” Stiles asks and gets shoved off Derek’s lap with a snort. “Seriously, you broke the seal. Dog jokes totally fair game.”
They end up lying side by side the way they’d stayed for hours when the kanima had paralyzed them at the police station. Stiles’s confidence fades with his laughter. He leans up on an elbow, trying to look sexy but just looking awkward and young, so young.
“Can I kiss you?” Stiles asks.
Derek can’t really visualize it. He’s spent a lot of time looking at Stiles’s mouth, probably because it’s always moving, but he’s never once considered those lips meeting his own. The familiar fission of arousal and disgust shoots down his spine and, like all these moments, Derek feels paralyzed on the verge of flight.
He nods, minutely, because this isn’t Pretty Woman and Stiles deserves everything he wants for his first time.
Stiles leans down, half falling into Derek at an angle that must hurt his neck. Their noses bump and Stiles almost pokes Derek in the eye trying to cup his cheek. Their teeth clash at first. Stiles shows his inexperience by opening his lips a little too wide and using his tongue at the wrong times. He makes aborted attempts at taking control and then shies away, like he’s used to being kissed, but never kissing. Derek finally takes pity on him and hauls him up on top of Derek so that they’re touching head to toe, with one of Stiles’s legs shoved between Derek’s. Stiles is rock hard to the point that Derek wonders if that hurts in humans. Derek isn’t unaffected either, but that’s mostly from the friction of Stiles’s hips twitching against his. Stiles whimpers softly, biting Derek’s lip, probably on accident, judging by how he tries to pull away after he’s done it.
Derek doesn’t let him go, wrapping his arms around Stiles’s back and pulling him even closer, because if they pause for even a second, Derek might lose his nerve and Stiles might end up both a virgin sacrifice and an insecure mess of teenaged rejection. Derek reluctantly fills the power vacuum and takes control of the kiss, biting and surging forward and alternating between hard dominance, slow desperate passion, and teasingly soft caresses. Kate trained him well. Derek tries not to think about that, but he stiffens anyway. His claws come out for just a second, nicking Stiles’s neck as he squeezes down reflexively.
Stiles completely melts, his whole body is a dead weight for a moment before he shifts and almost knees Derek in the balls again. Derek ends up grabbing his ass to readjust him, which only ratchets up the tension in Stiles’s body so that he flails more. Derek’s ribs are still sore and Stiles is forcing his healing, lacerated kidneys down into the mattress. He grunts and flips them over.
“Oh, please god, yes,” Stiles manages in the two seconds Derek detaches his lips from Stiles’s. “I don’t know whatever I did in my past life to deserve this, but Jesus Fucking Christ, Derek, if I die of sexual shock, tell Scott I choked on a lollipop.”
Derek snorts. “He’s not going to believe it was a lollipop you choked on.”
They both laugh again and Stiles drags Derek down so that he can press his lips to the sensitive skin behind Derek’s ear, kissing down his neck as he fiddles ineffectively with his own zipper. Derek rolls his eyes and pulls off Stiles, so that Stiles can flop around trying to get his clothes off. He executes a particularly sloppy maneuver trying to reach for his right sock, but Derek can’t bring himself to help undress him. It has been fun up until now, probably the most fun Derek has had in a situation like this. But once their clothes are off, then the weight of the act will return. This is the point of no return.
“A little help?” Stiles pokes Derek right over the one floating rib that’s still sapling soft and not fully healed. Derek gasps. “Oh god.” Stiles shoots up, almost knocking their foreheads. “Did I hurt you? You just went up against two feral werewolves. I am such an ass. I mean, I still want to do this, but we should wait until you’ve had some rest.”
“I’m fine,” Derek grunts. He wants to get this over with.
“You didn’t sound fine, just now. I know that there’s no way I’ll measure up with the flock of gorgeous, flexible, experienced people who you could take home with a quirk of your stupidly attractive eyebrow, but I don’t actually want to cause you pain.”
“Seriously, my virginity is not another crucifix for you to martyr yourself on.” Stiles goes for another poke, but then can’t seem to decide if it would injure Derek further. “This is meant to be a minor, but hopefully still orgasm-inducing, moment of awkward inconvenience, not a vehicle for self-flagellation. Just say the word and we’ll take a break.”
Derek shakes his head. He can’t bring himself to talk. He could stop this, maybe. But then he remembers coming across Laura’s body, black blood and pale in the moonlight. Erica, bruised and already starting to decay. He remembers the husk of Peter’s burned body, the choking scent of the fire, Kate with her throat slashed and not even by Derek, who had just as much reason to hate her, but not the strength to follow through.
He won’t lose Stiles like that. Stiles will die an old man, as safe from the supernatural as he can be. His innocence won’t be tainted by Derek’s world. Derek won’t let Stiles become another lifeless face that flashes before his eyes at night when the world is still and memories creep. He won’t allow it, not if there’s anything he can do to shake the reaper from his tail and protect the ones he loves.
A flash of doubt sparks in Stiles’s eyes, sapping the previous playfulness and causing his features to collapse in on themselves. Derek knows that look. It’s the sarcastic, peppy facade fading to reveal the kid who truly understands loss that lurks beneath. Here is Derek’s kindred soul and that soul is wounded. Rejection, insecurity, fear, it’s all there laid out for Derek to see, as though any good could come from that.
“Hey,” Derek says, “don’t think that.”
“I’m sorry. I know I’m not much to look at. I’m pale and skinny, but maybe if you close your eyes--”
Derek cuffs him behind the ear, the way Laura used to knock sense into Derek (only not as hard - Stiles doesn’t need a concussion). “Don’t be stupid.” Stiles is skinny and he is pale and his moles are strangely distributed and his pose awkward, but his smell is a heady mix of spice and arousal. Derek leans down to breathe him in, now that he has an excuse.
The doubts don’t leave. If anything, Stiles has that stubborn, stoic look that says he’s going to endure, just to be contrary. Derek isn’t good with words. He’s not great with action either, but it’ll have to do. He kisses down that pale chest, pulls down Stiles’s boxers, ignoring the choked gasp, and just buries his face in the hair he finds there, trapping Stiles’s scent and intensifying it.
“Holy shit!” Stiles squeaks, hands coming down to pet Derek’s hair. Stiles is already leaking. Derek had gone down on Kate for hours, but a blow job is easier. There’s no mystery: just rhythm and motion and suction. Derek has Stiles’s cock down his throat before he can even think about it. This isn’t the bathroom of a dive bar or a stranger’s hotel room, but the mechanics are the same. It can even be sloppy, so long as the fangs stay in.
It’s just a cock: long and engorged, circumcised, pulsing with blood and tasting that bad kind of wonderful. Derek tries not to think about the body attached. Not because he finds Stiles unattractive, but because he can’t stand the look of knowing he’ll find on Stiles’s face. Stiles sucks down information (particularly of the personal kind) like an alcoholic at a kegger on St. Patrick’s day. He can imagine that mix of smug and intoxicated that will make Stiles shine. It’s probably his best look. And his most dangerous.
“Oh my god!” Stiles says again. “This is not happening. Derek Hale is not blowing me. I’m not this lucky. Gnnnnnuh. Oh, Jesus, don’t stop. No, stop. I’m going to … and does this count?” Only Stiles could possibly ponder that at the moment of his release. Cum tastes disgusting, but it’s better than blood and there’s something satisfying about the completely unashamed grunt Stiles makes as he paints the back of Derek’s throat. The hands in his hair clench and Derek feels good. He’s being useful, for once.
Stiles lays there panting, starfishing while Derek stays poised between his legs. Derek’s boxers are still on, but Stiles might be able to see that he’s not hard. He flops down against Stiles’s chest to hide it. Stiles practically purrs, petting Derek’s hair without even a mild dog reference.
After a minute or two, Stiles jerks out of his post-orgasmic stupor, knocking his knuckles against the headboard in his enthusiasm. “That. Was. Awesome!” he shouts. It makes Derek grin a little into the crook of his neck. “Seriously, dude. Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
Except for the part where Stiles might die, so he kind of had to. Derek shrugs.
“You’re amazing,” Stiles lies. The hand he runs lightly up Derek’s back tickles. His tattoo feels like a wound. Stupid Scott and his unwelcome metaphors. “You’re seriously beautiful and your body is like a statue. I mean, I’m awesome, but never in a million years would I think someone like you would do that for someone like me without a significant amount of money changing hands.” Derek scowls. It’s not exactly something to throw a parade over if the only reason Derek’s here is to save Stiles’s life. It shouldn’t be flattering, but Stiles is sixteen and he just got his first blowjob. He’s entitled to ride the high, Derek figures.
Derek stretches a little, wincing. His aches return as the distraction of sex recedes. He might possibly be drooling on Stiles, not that the kid would care.
About five minutes later, Stiles shoots up, dislodging Derek from where he’d almost fallen asleep with his ear pressed to the human’s heart. “Shit. I’m totally breaking the rules.”
“I think I’m the one breaking them,” Derek mumbles, because Stiles is two years short of legal and the Sheriff’s son.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Not that rule. That’s a dumb rule and I never intended on following it. I’m talking about the oral sex code.” Derek had no idea there was such a thing, but then again, Stiles is always on the internet. “You, know, the one about reciprocation? Granted I’m not sure how I’m expected to function when you nuked half my brain cells with that orgasm. Seriously, thanks. I will be forever in your debt. Especially because you didn’t come, did you? I’m like the worst gay hookup ever.”
“It’s okay,” Derek says. He’s glad the wait has given him an excuse to be soft now.
“I’ll make it up to you later. I’ll even write you a blowjob IOU. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I can fit my fist in my mouth and I’ve watched a shit ton of porn, so it shouldn’t be terrible, especially if you give me some direction.”
Derek rolls away, afraid that Stiles wants to get the debt settled immediately.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“To rinse my mouth,” Derek says. “And then to sleep.”
Stiles squirms, knocking Derek’s comforter off the bed entirely. “Oh,” he looks nervous again. How could all that confidence just evaporate like that? “Um, I was, um-- You see, the thing is that was great and all, but I kind of need you to fuck me.”
That is absolutely not happening. Derek retreats to the bathroom, but Stiles follows him, tripping over the sheet he’s wrapped around himself like a shawl. Derek gargles with Listerine so he doesn’t have to talk.
“You were great. That was seriously the best thing to happen to me, like ever, but I don’t know if it counts.” He winces. “I know, it’s stupid, because in my mind, we totally just did it, but what if it’s not enough? Any other time, I’d say screw heteronormative definitions of virginity and all that feminist jazz, but my life is on the line and I’d really rather not die on a technicality.”
Derek almost chokes because there’s only so long a man can gargle. He spits into the sink inelegantly and marches back towards the bedroom.
“And I haven’t even gotten to see you naked! I mean, you’re like a greek statue everywhere else, so I figure your dick must be pretty damned spectacular. And it’d be a shame, you know? A crime against humanity that I’d get your mouth on my cock without getting to see that.”
Stiles wants that too? He wants to see Derek stripped bare like he’s entitled to more than Derek’s already given him? Derek doesn’t even have a sheet to hide under because Stiles has commandeered that too.
“I get it,” Stiles says in a tone that pretty much certifies that he doesn’t. “Stopgap in place. We can close the loopholes in the morning.” He presses a quick kiss to Derek’s cheek.
Derek sighs, ashamed that it comes out more despairing that put-upon. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
“What?” Stiles gapes. “Because you just sucked me off and swallowed my cum, which I’m sure wasn’t tasty and I haven’t done anything for you yet. I may be an ass-virgin, but I’m a guy, so I know that sticking your dick in anything hot and tight should be awesome no matter what it is. Well, unless it’s going to like chop it off afterwards. Wow, I probably shouldn’t be bringing that up when I want you to fuck me. Just … please, Derek, let me do this. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t return the favor.”
Derek groans into his pillow. He has no idea why he thought an orgasm would make Stiles shut up any better than a threat would. He’s already accepted that Stiles yammering until it provokes a reaction is a natural state of affairs. He glances up at Stiles, but he can’t marshall the fortitude for a glare.
“You won’t hurt me,” Stiles argues, as though it’s Stiles who’s the problem. “I’ve stretched myself. I even stuck a cucumber up there once. One of the fat organic ones, not those weird long English things. I got distracted and almost lost it up there, I think, but it felt amazing. And I have a buttplug. I just barely avoided pissing my pants when my dad picked up the mail for once in his life, but I got it away from him and now I am in possession of one giant sparkly purple anal stopper. I’ll show you sometime, if you want. I mean, if you’d be into that.” He eyes Derek’s crotch. “You’re probably pretty big, but I’m not worried. Okay, maybe a little worried, because large item and small hole, but I trust you.” His smile is soft and sweet. Fuck Stiles, because it’s genuine.
“I’m not going to fuck you,” Derek repeats. He has done that in the past, but sometimes he can’t keep an erection. Other times he feels so sick afterwards that he just needs to run away. He jumped forty feet down a fire-escape once and broke both his ankles just to escape. And then there are those times when he can’t manage to do it at all. Derek’s not intimidated by perfect strangers, because he’s a werewolf, so there’s not much they can do to him, but Stiles would be hurt if Derek just sat there shaking, paralyzed by the prospect of something that 99.99% of the planet spends most of their adult life trying to get.
“Seriously?” Stiles complains. “I’m not going to break, you know. You can stop the preemptive guilt trip. I can handle it.”
“It’s not that,” Derek manages. The confession hurts. “I don’t really like it that way. I know it’s not what you wanted, but would it be okay if you,” he gestures helplessly, “to me?”
Stiles almost chokes on his tongue. “Wow, um, yeah, not going to be a problem. Not expecting it, with the grrr and the wall-slamming and everything, but um, gift horse, mouth, all the gift horses. And, um, you know I’ve totally pictured it. Fantasized, really. Not that I, um, mean to-- Yeah, okay that sentence has no exit strategy, because I’m a total perve, but my point is that there is no universe in which fucking you would be a hardship.”
Stiles steps up to Derek then, letting the sheet drop as he pulls Derek into a kiss by the elastic of his boxers. Stiles is a quick learner, just as Derek had been, because the kiss is almost perfect. They’re both panting by the time Stiles has thoroughly conquered Derek’s mouth.
Finally, Derek thinks. He’s actually getting hard, thank god. Of course then he has to try not to think about it, because too much attention might make it shy away.
“Yeah, baby,” Stiles says, because he’s sixteen and kind of a dork. Somehow the idea of Derek bottoming has pushed Stiles out of insecure virgin territory and back into unwarranted confidence. It’s so very Stiles that Derek grins.
Stiles yanks down Derek’s boxers and then pushes him back onto the bed, climbing into his lap when Derek doesn’t immediately scoot back. “Lube?” he asks, but then gets completely distracted when he notices Derek’s cock. He pokes at it like it’s completely different from the one he looks at every day. “Okay, I have no idea why I’d be surprised, but your penis is just as criminally perfect as the rest of you. There is seriously no justice in this universe, because I’d take that over a cucumber any day of the week.”
Derek snorts, distracted enough that he stops worrying his erection will flag. He reaches under the bed to pull out a bottle of lube. He doesn’t have any condoms, but Stiles is a virgin and Derek is a werewolf, so there’s nothing to worry about. Stiles fumbles the bottle in his eagerness to grab it from Derek. “Let me, let me, let me,” he pleads greedily. “Unless you don’t want me to. That’s okay also.” Derek would like Stiles to forget that this is a favor and just take what he needs.
“Go ahead,” Derek replies, getting on his hands and knees for Stiles.
“Hey,” Stiles swats at his hip until Derek rolls over onto his back to look at him. “I know you wolves must love doggie style, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see your face.” Derek doesn’t want Stiles to see his face and the determined expression he’ll find there, but he can’t think of a good excuse.
When Derek doesn’t answer, Stiles just shoves a pillow under his hips and squirts way, way too much lube onto his fingers, which ends up dripping all over everything. “Oops,” Stiles says, but his eyes are so lust-glazed that Derek doubts he cares about Derek’s real mattress that he purchased at the actual mattress store. Derek is going to have to go down to sleep on the guest bed by the time Stiles adds spunk to the various wet spots his slippery fingers have created.
Derek doesn’t mind the fingers that probe at his entrance, but he doesn’t really enjoy them either. He’s never actually had a prostate exam, but he imagines it’s something like this. He fakes a few moans when Stiles is distracted.
“That’s it. Oh my god, you’re so tight. This is fucking awesome.” He starts kissing Derek as his long fingers probe. Stiles eventually finds Derek’s prostate, which provokes a reaction of sorts. They both stare down at Derek’s leaking cock, Stiles looking smug and Derek surprised. Plot twist, he thinks, you should try to actually enjoy this.
The sensation of pressure inside him makes Derek squirm. He’s only done this a few times and unlike Stiles and his buttplugs and cucumbers, he’s never tried on himself. He doesn’t remember it being this intense, though. When Stiles adds his other hand on Derek’s cock, Derek ends up biting down on Stiles shoulder hard enough to bruise. Human teeth, though; he’s not that far gone.
Stiles pulls back, swatting Derek on the nose. “Bad dog. No lycanthropic accidents, okay?”
Derek nods. He would never. He doesn’t lose control. Especially during sex.
“Okay, come here,” Stiles agrees. He pulls Derek up by the shoulders so they can kiss again. Stiles is smearing lube and precome between them and the position is awkward, but Derek finds himself suddenly absorbed in the kiss. “I want to stick my dick in you now,” Stiles whispers in the most unromantic way Derek can imagine. Derek flops back onto the bed with barely contained laughter.
Stiles uses even more lube on his own cock.
“You know that bottle isn’t single serving, right?” Derek asks, because this is getting ridiculous.
“Sorry. I didn’t know how much to use and the internet said better too much than not enough. I guess that’s the point of doing this, right? So I’ll know?”
Yeah, the point is still just to keep Stiles alive. It hasn’t changed in the past half hour. “Just do it,” Derek snaps.
“Okay, tell me if I hurt you.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m a werewolf and you’ve used more lubricant than I put in the engine of my car. Just shut up and fuck me.”
Stiles nods, looking more focused than Derek has ever seen him (even in mortal peril) as he lines himself up and slowly pushes in. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! Yes. Shit, Stiles you can’t come yet!” he berates himself. “Just because this is the hottest thing to ever happen to you doesn’t mean you can fail to get Derek off yet again.”
Stiles’s still lube-covered hand fumbles for Derek’s cock. He’s managed to stay hard, though Stiles talking about himself in the third person isn’t exactly setting the mood.
Stiles isn’t huge, but he’s determined to use what he has to the fullest effect. He keeps tilting Derek’s hips and changing the angle of his thrusts almost scientifically, until Derek is forced to surrender a gasp.
“Oh, yeah, right there. I found your sweet spot. You like that, don’t you? Big bad wolf likes to get pounded. You just need a good fucking. Maybe get tied on a bigger dog’s knot like the good boy you are.”
Derek growls, but his legs tighten around Stiles’s hips involuntarily. This shouldn’t be doing it for him, but it does. He yanks Stiles down so they can share a biting, bruising kiss. It’s good, Derek realizes. It’s good enough that he doesn’t care about the alphas or the human sacrifices or the many ways he’s failed his pack. It’s just the unrelenting pressure of Stiles pistoning against his prostate and the whisper of skin on skin. For a moment, he feels complete.
Derek lets out a noise that is definitely not a whine and pinches Stiles’s nipples hard in order to force him to scream, because Derek has maybe ten seconds before he’ll be coming all over his own belly.
“Holy shit!” Stiles shouts, but then his thrusts become erratic and he kind of half grunts and half roars as he spills inside Derek. It has never been this good, Derek realizes as he chokes on his own orgasm.
Derek may have blacked out a little when he came, because the next thing he knows, Stiles is collapsing against him, panting. “That was great,” he says, propping his chin on Derek’s chest and stroking his hair fondly. “Seriously, dude, best pity fuck ever.”
And then the weight of the world comes crashing back down along with Stiles’s uncanny ability to say the absolutely most insensitive thing at any given time.
“It’s not pity,” Derek mumbles, choking off when Stiles pulls out of him. That sensation will never stop being strange. If it’s not pity, then Derek has no idea what it is: concern, affection, moral decency. All that matters is that it’s done. Stiles will live to fight another day and Derek will finally get to rest knowing that he’s done all he could to protect him.
Derek watches Stiles with glazed eyes as he practically skips to the bathroom, returning with a wet washcloth for Derek and somehow having found Derek’s spare sheets in the closet. Derek groans as Stiles shoves him over, but he manages to stand long enough for Stiles to deftly make the bed. He collapses back down the second Stiles is done.
“Can I?” Stiles asks. Derek’s vision is going blurry again and he has no idea what Stiles is talking about so he just nods, hoping it’ll shut Stiles up for good.
Stiles throws himself down onto the bed on Derek’s other side, curling up behind him and throwing a leg over Derek’s. “Seriously, thank you,” he says, pressing a dry kiss to Derek’s tattoo. “You didn’t just help me to not die, but you made my first time really good. I appreciate it, man. You have no idea how much.”
“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Derek groans, because he doesn’t even have the energy to stop Stiles from spooning him. “You’re pack. Of course I’d help you, but I will tear your throat out with my teeth if you keep me awake for one more minute.”
“Yeah,” Stiles’s hand feels good running through Derek’s hair. His voice is dreamy. “You’ve had a big day.”
Stiles’s warmth seeps into the aches in Derek’s bones and the smell of pack so close is a comfort that Derek hasn’t felt in a long time. Maybe once she’s recovered Cora will cuddle with him the way she did as a child.
Derek’s thoughts trickle away, lost in the limbo between consciousness and sleep until another barely audible whisper intrudes, accompanied by a kiss to the back of Derek’s neck. “I’d do it again,” Stiles says. “If you wanted, I’d never stop doing it.”
Derek feels bereft, suddenly, just as Morpheus claims him.