
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/521891.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, First_Time, Feral_Behavior, Mildly_Dubious_Consent,
      Frottage
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-26 Words: 4159
****** A Wild of Nothing ******
by BewareTheIdes15
Summary
     Sharp, warm points drag against his throat, and Derek probably
     doesn’t even need to hear the staccato of Stiles’ heart, although
     he’s sure he can. Can probably feel Stiles’ jugular doing a tap dance
     against his tongue. If he wasn’t about to die horribly, Stiles might
     laugh. All the hours he’s spent imagining Derek’s mouth on him and
     he’s finally got it.
Notes
     I'm so sorry! Don't worry, I'll never leave you SPN, I just needed to
     write something different while I work on bangs. Also, twitter is
     possitively swarming with enablers.
     Special thanks to akadougal and heard_the_owl for canon-checking me.
     Title from The Merchant of Venice.
See the end of the work for more notes
The house is doing that middle of the night, ‘let’s freak out some small
children’ pop-shift-groan thing that had Stiles scared of the dark for way
longer than was age appropriate as a kid. Ok, fine, so he’s still scared of the
dark – now it’s completely justified. Back then he was just imagining monsters
creeping around the shadows, nowadays he spends his time getting up close and
personal with them.
It’s closing in on two in the AM, and the pound of his feet on the stairs
sounds like an elephant is making a run for his room. Luckily his dad’s on the
late shift tonight because, hey, whaddaya know, there’s been another set of
mysterious events that keep sending local residents to the hospital. Stiles is
working that case too, but from the other side – the side where he actually
knows what the fuck is going on and can do something about it. It’s sort of a
father-son bonding moment, minus the part where his dad doesn’t know any of
it’s going on.
The light from his phone paints the hall in muted shades of blue, screen almost
blinding in the dark as he taps out a response to Scott’s message about the
pack heading up to the Hale property to look for Derek again. He’s got to give
it to the witch bitch, turning Derek feral did make for a hell of a
distraction, even if, so far, Derek hasn’t shown much of an interest in people.
Which is to say – he’s Derek, only less talkative. Stiles didn’t even know that
was a thing that could happen.
He’s also proven impossible to catch, because he’s the freaking alpha, and of
course he is, why would anything in Beacon Hills be easy to handle?
--On my way-- he sends, rounding the corner into his room. Pauses for a second
to think before adding, --Need an- and has a moment to regret how much time he
spends texting instead of talking because if he was actually on the phone with
Scott right now, the whole pack would be racing over to keep Derek from killing
him.
Then he hits the floor.
Red eyes gleam out of the darkness above him, the rest of Derek a deeper patch
of night where he’s crouched over Stiles, unnervingly familiar hands pinning
him to the carpet by his shoulders. He can’t feel whether Derek’s nails are
wolfified but he’s going to take it on faith since Derek’s growling at him like
a very scary outboard motor from his perch on Stiles’ thighs.
“Derek,” Stiles squeaks outs around all the cardiac muscle trying to jam its
way up his esophagus. Talking is one of Stiles’ four primary responses to
danger – there’s also running, screaming and falling. Occasionally, flashes of
brilliance, too, but he tries not to bank on that one since the second he did,
he’s sure it would let him down. Plus, maybe if he can get Derek to recognize
the sound of his voice, he won’t have to stick his dad with the trauma of
coming home to find his only son half eaten on his bedroom floor. Not being
eaten is always high on the priority list.
“Derek,” he tries again, zero percent steadier. “C’mon, man, you know me.
Friend not food, ok?”
There’s a dark instant where Derek blinks and makes another rumbly noise in his
chest. Fuck, Stiles can feel it vibrating right into his marrow from this
position.
“Alright, maybe not friend. But, like, grudging acquaintance who’s saved your
life on multiple occasions. That’s got to count for something, right?”
Derek makes that sound again and oh, crap, wait, not supposed to stare a wolf
in the eyes, dominance challenge equals dead human, abort, abort. Stiles tips
his head back to stare into the deeper recesses of his room instead. His eyes
are starting to adjust now, and from what he can make out, Derek’s done a
serious number on his living space. God he hopes his laptop is ok. And, you
know, himself, because his laptop getting out unscathed without him would just
be adding insult to injury. His mourners so do not need to know the specifics
of Stiles’ viewing proclivities.
“Look, Derek, I don’t know if you’re getting any of this, but this isn’t you,
ok? I mean it is, I guess, maybe, I don’t really understand how the whole wolf-
human multiple personality id-expression thing works, but I think you’re in
there somewhere and I don’t think you want to kill me. Not seriously anyway.
You threaten me a lot, but I like to think of that as our thing, you know? Like
how Lydia ignores me and Scott expects me to solve his life problems. It’s,
like, how you show affection because you’re a big furry ball of emotional
dysfunction, and I’m, like, pack and oh god, oh god.”
Derek is leaning forward, hands pressing Stiles’ shoulders into the floor hard
enough that the joint grates. Rough bristles rasp at his jaw and that’s the
moment he realizes that he just bared his throat to a wolf.
Hot breath whuffs against his skin, wet from Derek’s open mouth, and this is
the part where Stiles should start to fight, but ha! Yeah, that’s going to
work. He can’t even keep Derek from shoving him into walls when Derek has full
control of his faculties. So he makes himself stay still, belly up, neck
vulnerable, submitting. The alpha won’t kill a submissive. Hopefully.
Sharp, warm points drag against his throat, and Derek probably doesn’t even
need to hear the staccato of Stiles’ heart, although he’s sure he can. Can
probably feel Stiles’ jugular doing a tap dance against his tongue. If he
wasn’t about to die horribly, Stiles might laugh. All the hours he’s spent
imagining Derek’s mouth on him and he’s finally got it.
The air pushing out of his lungs shreds into a wet sound. He can feel Derek’s
jaw tighten, tips of fangs digging in, splitting skin, and instead of his life
flashing before his eyes, Stiles has this fucking Dali surrealist moment of
feeling guilty that once the pack figures out how to fix Derek, the poor guy is
probably going to torture himself over murdering a defenseless human for the
rest of his life and what the fuck is that about?
The next breath he sucks in shocks Stiles’ pulse into a stutter. His neck is
suddenly cool, sticky with spit and getting worse because Derek has left off
from the bite debate and started licking.
“D-Derek?” See, talking in response to danger. It would be cool if he could say
something other than Derek’s name, but whatever. Derek makes another one of
those sounds, only this one seems happier, like the canine version of a purr
with a little ‘shut up’ thrown in.
Derek spends longer than Stiles would have thought possible giving his neck an
incredibly thorough tongue bath. It falls somewhere on the spectrum between
feeling really good and tickling like hell and freaking him the fuck out. Of
the many things Derek may be, liberal with physical affection isn’t one. Even
with the pack – the real glowy-eyed, lupine-oriented pack, not the extended
family of assorted whatits they call a pack – he’s more about the occasional
shoulder bump and protective looming. So what, exactly, is this?
And why does it involve Derek sniffing his chest. And his pits. And now his
stomach. Oh this is not ok.
“Woah, woah, woah!” Stiles makes it a quarter of the way to a sitting position
before Derek slaps a hand to the middle of his chest and smacks him flat to the
carpet again. The bottom part of his face is bandit-masked by Stiles’ shirt
where he’s nosing the hem higher on Stiles’ torso, but his eyes are still two
bright laser points. He’s got this sniff, huff, lick thing going on, liberally
sprinkled with interludes of rubbing some beard burn into Stiles’ skin. It’s
not as sexy as it sounds, but Stiles hasn’t managed to convince his dick of
that yet.
Oh yeah, his dick? Totally down with the creepy werewolf meet and greet. In
fact, it’s thinking that they need to move this soiree southward about a foot.
Seriously, this is his life. With psychosexual responses this fucked, he
probably won’t even be able to get it up if he ever convinces another human
being to put their hands on his body.
Mouthing at Stiles’ belly button – he is going to be raw for a week; note to
self, purchase razors, teach Derek to use them – Derek makes a completely
foreign noise. Considering all the time Stiles has spent around werewolves at
this point, he’s something of an expert on the non-verbal communications, but
this one is bizarre, like a whimper and a howl had a baby and it was born
really tiny and soft. It is not, in any way, a Derek Hale kind of sound. It
seems hurt and lost, both of which are good descriptors for Derek most of the
time, but not things he’d ever say within hearing distance of the guy. Derek’s
all about the silent manpain.
Naturally, it makes Stiles feel like he should do something about it, because
Derek’s his… scary stalker dude who shows up in his bedroom with alarming
frequency and sometimes saves him from mortal peril. They need to come up with
a shorter relationship title. Put a pin in that for some time when Derek’s got
use of the human part of his brain again. But yeah, Derek’s somebody who Stiles
would prefer not feel hurt and lost, and since his threshold for normal social
interactions went out the window when he started spending all his time around
creature-people, of course that means Stiles is compelled to stroke his hands
over Derek’s hair.
Also, Stiles may have some kind of unexpressed death wish.
Derek freezes at the touch, eyes darting up at him under the dimly visible hang
of his eyebrows. There’s a lot less red going on now, but not so much because
they’re less luminescently terrifying as because Derek’s pupils are eating up a
lot of the space. Well, it is dark in here, that makes sense, he guesses. Also
totally a pre-attack thing and hey, at least his dick’s hard enough he’s
probably not going to pee himself. Small victories.
Stiles’ holds his breath, like maybe he can pull the whole Jurassic Park deal
and Derek won’t be able to see him if he’s really still. Not that Stiles has
ever successfully been really still, but worth a shot. Derek huffs and rubs his
chest –Stiles should not in any way be surprised Derek’s shirtless – against
the exposed parts of Stiles’ belly and then his head is butting back against
Stiles’ hands, turning his face into one to nuzzle at his palm. And lick it. Of
course. There’s been more licking action in the past five minutes than the
whole first sixteen years of his life combined.
For a reason that probably makes sense in the Call of the Wild deleted scene
Derek’s acting out but Stiles has no hope of keeping up with, the hand thing
seems to get Derek really worked up. Stiles keeps petting at him because it
seems safer than stopping, but he may have to reevaluate his opinion on that
one because he suddenly finds himself making an incredibly undignified chirp as
Derek goes facedown in his groin.
Crotch sniffing. It’s happening. It’s a thing. Crotches are being sniffed.
Sweet sugar-dipped deep fried fuck.
He can feel Derek’s mouth moving, how it’s open and he’s chuffing and rubbing
and fucking breathing all over Stiles’ hard-on, which he could rent out as a
concrete drill right now. Alright, yes, he’s had more than his share of
inappropriate thoughts about Derek, but he’s a person with eyes, so it’s not
like that’s his fault. Derek’s the one who walks around like he has a life-
threatening shirt allergy. And Stiles never actually considered any of it
happening. There may have been a few moments where some hate-kissing seemed
like a possibility, but Derek is mind-bendingly hot and old enough to buy beer
and mind-bendingly hot. Stiles can’t even get people his own age to realize
he’s alive, no way was there ever a shot of Derek Hale macking on him.
Except for how he’s licking Stiles’ cock through his jeans. He can't feel the
wetness through the fabric, but there's all this warm, humid pressure and he
can hear the scrape of Derek's tongue on denim. Every now and again a harsher
tattering sound when sharp canines catch and pull, a prayer away from doing
real damage. All this slurpy grunting like all Derek wants out of life is to
suck Stiles off through his pants.
A thrill like white-hot wire wound all through his system hisses and sizzles
under Stiles' skin, tangled up around his organs like knotting fishing line.
Derek's barely even doing anything and it's still the best… the only… Stiles is
going to hyperventilate and pass out and it will be the greatest tragedy in the
history of ever, bar none.
An abandoned kitten mewl explodes out of him when Derek tears his face away
from the spread of Stiles’ legs – all you can eat buffet kind of spread,
fucking virgin smorgasbord up in here – but then he’s shoving back between
them, with his hips this time and-
“Oh baby.” Jesus, was that Stiles’ voice? He sounds like he took up sword
swallowing in his ample spare time. Maybe that's because of how dry his mouth
has gone, or how his throat keeps spasming like he's choking to death because
he can't get enough air. Derek pulls that growly purr business, right up in
Stiles’ space like he owns the acreage.
Choppy and stuttered, Derek grinds down into him, spilling all these hot,
ravenous snarls everywhere as he nuzzles at Stiles’ face. The friction is
electric, and he can feel Derek’s cock, how hard it is, how hard for Stiles, as
if that’s not the most insane idea. And it’s kinda wrong, only without the side
order of ‘kinda’, because Derek doesn’t know what he’s doing and he’d
definitely disapprove of doing it with Stiles under normal circumstances, he's
sure, but Stiles can’t very well do anything to stop him, so he might as well
enjoy it while it lasts.
He brings his hands down onto Derek’s back only to be stunned by the feel of
the bare skin under his palms. It’s as fever hot as all the wolves run, but
smooth too, unexpectedly soft when that’s the last concept anybody would ever
ascribe to Derek. The feel of silk over sunbaked stone and Stiles could get
lost in it so easily. Does, he guesses, because the next thing he knows he’s
got a handful of Derek’s ass, pulling him down harder into this filthy dry hump
thing they’re doing and holy fuck, Derek’s naked. When did Derek get naked? Did
he show up naked? Has he been naked this whole time?
Naked Derek Hale is getting all up on Stiles’ junk. This might be a sign of the
apocalypse.
Derek’s stubble scrapes at him again, his fucking ear this time, and he’s
starting to wonder whether it’s on purpose. Scott never feels the need to leave
weird scratches all over Allison’s body, to the best of Stiles’ admittedly
limited knowledge, but maybe he just keeps a handle on the instinct. Or maybe
Derek just fucks rough and likes to leave the people he does marked up and
obvious. Stiles’ doesn’t know of Derek sleeping with anybody in the time
they’ve known each other, so he doesn’t have any solid data to go by, but it
sorta makes sense, the alpha marking his territory.
Shit. Stiles just managed to turn himself on in the middle of getting off. His
sexual responses are so stupid-fucked.
Like the massive and difficult to explain tongue kink he’s going to have after
this is over. Derek is licking his hairline. This should not be sexy but
Stiles’ head keeps running off on these tangents about tasting his sweat and
grooming and mating displays and somehow it’s just painfully hot.
He wishes there could be kissing, though. He likes kissing. Probably. In theory
he likes kissing. The entirety of his experience comes from making out with his
pillow – generally when he’s asleep – and that one time when he was eleven and
convinced Scott that they needed to practice, which they both refused to count
as their first kiss. Regardless, he has a feeling it would be right up his
alley, especially where Derek's involved.
Somewhere in the middle ground between those two ideas is the place where
Stiles' hind-brain decided it would be a good idea to lick Derek back. Because
it's kind of like kissing, and hey, tongues are his new obsession. Stiles is
pretty sure that's not a logical argument, but Derek's still fucking at him
like he neither notices nor cares that Stiles' jeans are in the way of this
being legit sex, so logic might as well live on fucking Pluto for how far out
of reach it is.
The first rasp of his tongue across five o'clock shadow is like licking really
sexy sandpaper. It's all salt bursting across his tastebuds and that woodsy,
wet dirt and cinnamon and dude smell that Derek has. He's gonna assume Derek
likes that because he makes another one of those pitiful noises and then there
are big hands lighting up his skin like a touchscreen. His arms, his ribs,
palming the back of his head, Derek's all over the place, touching him
everywhere, punctuating the trippy, gut-punch bliss of contact with papercut
jolts when claws catch.
Stiles is working to give as good as he gets, which he probably isn't, like, at
all, but Derek doesn't seem to mind being pawed by a klutzy teenager. He's got
great hair and goes into overdrive with the snuffling when Stiles tugs at it a
little, busy memorizing the exact taste of the dip between Stiles' collarbones.
Either his backpack has become sentient and thrown itself at his head, or else
they're creeping their way across the floor with Derek's thrusts. That's going
to mean some serious rug burn on his back tomorrow, but hell, his front's
already going to look like somebody took a Brillo pad to him, so why not. Right
now his attention's too focussed on his dick to feel it away.
The buck of Derek's hips is too hard, random enough that every time Stiles
thinks yeah, right there the next one skids wide. Like Derek's as clueless and
desperate as Stiles is here, even though that denim's got to be chafing
something awful. Like he couldn't stop himself from fucking Stiles up if every
last hunter on the planet came busting into the room. It's on the verge of
hurting more than it feels good and Stiles might actually, literally die if it
stops.
His dick is so hard he can feel his heartbeat there better than the pounding in
his chest, the throbbing in his temples. Inside his jeans, everything's wet and
sticky from precome and sweat, fucking disgusting if it wasn't so hot, and his
chest is sizzling under the scrunched up wad of his tee, lungs burning up with
every geriatric wheeze of breath. In about a minute, he's going to lose it like
the hair-trigger wonder he is and there's a chance he's going to cry because
then it will be over.
Searching for something to focus himself with, Stiles ends up stuck on the ball
of Derek's shoulder, mainly because it's about a centimeter from jamming
straight up his nose. He buries his mouth against it instead, feeling his lips
go hot and thick when Derek doesn't back down from where he's snaking his arms
under Stiles' body to pull him down into shorter, more hectic thrusts. The skin
here is just as perfect as it felt under his hands, salt stinging against a
scraped mark on his chin. That place at the base of his spine where all the
pressure build feels like it's been tied in a bow and set on fire.
He's gonna lose it. He's gonna lose it in his fucking jeans like a kid and
Derek's not going to stop because Derek isn't there enough to care. Is just
gonna keep using him even after Stiles is all spent and oversensitive and
pliant. Just make Stiles take it until he gets what he wants because he's a
wild fucking animal in there and- shit, shit.
Not even close to thinking, let alone considering consequences, Stiles bites
down around the flesh in his mouth as his dick starts spilling in his underwar.
The mess of it is sticky, thick, pushing back all around him and coating him in
it so the last couple of spasms feel tight and wet, almost too good to stand.
And then there's even more of it, spattering over his belly and seeping into
the waistband of his jeans while Derek grinds out a deep, sub-sonic howl he can
feel reverberating through the floorboards.
Jesus fuck, he just got Derek off. Possibly with his teeth. He's not far enough
out from orgasm to handle these levels of sexy.
Also, the pack probably knows where Derek is now. Stiles is going to get around
to caring about that in a minute.
For now he lets himself flop limply against the floor. Derek's still going at
it, albeit at a much slower, lazier tempo. He's mostly camped out on top of
Stiles - and damn but they weren't kidding about muscle weighing more than fat
- puffing out hard breaths against his neck and swivelling his hips. Every now
and again, he hunches up and goes tense like-
"Oh my God, are you still coming?" If Stiles thought his voice was wrecked
before, it needs to be sent to the scrap yard now. It's all roughed up, an
octave too deep, like his body can't find the energy to stretch for his upper
range. Fucked out. This is how he sounds fucked out. Awesome.
Derek, of course, doesn't answer, what with the whole not remembering how to
talk deal. Still, there's a ticklish trail of fluid starting to slide a path
down Stiles' side and a lot more gumming up the works between their stomachs.
This isn't really something he ever thought he'd need to know about, but now
he's regretting not doing more research on werewolf orgasms.
Midway through the face portion of the second round of tongue bathing - this
might not be as appealing when Stiles isn't hard, but his dick is willing to
put in the extra effort to enable his shiny new fetish - Derek jerks back,
cocking his head toward the door. Even fully adjusted, Stiles' eyes aren't good
enough to make out the expression on Derek's face in this light, but with the
way he's growling he doesn't need to either.
Distantly he hears the sound of car doors slamming - multiple, not his dad,
thank fuck - and then the rattle of keys echoing through the silent house. An
icy-hot dump of adrenaline splashes down in his veins as he tries,
ineffectually to wriggle his way free, but then Derek's barking a sharp noise
at him before hunkering down, caging Stiles' body with his own. Covering him,
protective. Stiles takes a second to be flattered before he hears the front
door bang open and Scott's voice shouting his name.
Freaky-swift werewolf feet tromp up the stairs, down the hallway and Stiles can
feel a blush rising before several sets of shoes shuff to a stop in front of
his bedroom door. Derek saves anybody from seeing Stiles' burning cheeks by
cradle-forcing Stiles' face against his neck and roaring a challenge. Stiles
kind of doubts that this is the less humiliating option.
From here he can't tell what's happening, but it doesn't sound to his lowly
human ears like anybody's moving. Gasping, yes. Definitely some sniffing.
General shuffling and murmurs. Somebody just whistled. Fantastic.
The way Scott says, "Stiles?" makes it sound like he thinks Derek killed Stiles
and then molested his body. Or possibly just that he thinks that would have
been preferable to their current predicament.
Just in case, Stiles gives a little wave to let them know he's still warm and
breathing, although hello, heartbeat, you can hear that shit, Scott. Worst
werewolf ever. Except for the big naked one still on top of Stiles The Jizz
Puddle, growling at everyone they know. Close contest.
"So, anybody know how to get me out of here?" he asks hopefully. That dirty,
fucked out thing his voice was doing has officially evaporated. Now he just
sounds squeaky again.
Well, this is going to be awkward.
End Notes
     Sequel: Wish_I_Was_the_Moon_Tonight
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