
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/602124.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Apocalypse, Porn, Apocaporn, End_of_the_World, Smut, Drama, Ridiculous,
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Underage_Sex, Rough_Sex, Frottage, Oral_Sex,
      Masturbation, Intercrural_Sex, Sexual_Fantasy, Dirty_Talk, Requited_Love,
      Marathon_Sex, Multiple_Orgasms, Stamina, Werewolves, Supernatural
      Elements, Loss_of_Virginity, Virginity, Snark
  Series:
      Part 7 of The_Sterek_Porn_Collection
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-21 Words: 2950
****** Last Day on Earth ******
by Saucery
Summary
     Stiles refuses to die a virgin.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
===============================================================================
 
Derek's leaning against the wall of Stiles's bedroom, keeping watch by the
window and scanning the skyline with narrowed eyes, when Stiles bursts into the
room, arms flailing, and skids to a halt. His jaw drops when he sees Derek.
"What're you doing here?” he demands, then immediately shakes his head. "No,
wait, don't bother answering that. 'Same thing we do every night, Pinky.'
Right? Except I'm the brain. And we are so not taking over the world. Because
it's ending. Won't be anything left to take over. Fuck.”
Derek pushes off the wall and walks toward him. Stiles's scent is peculiar.
Fear-tinged. His voice has the underpinnings of hysteria. "What did you find?”
Stiles shoves a piece of blue cloth in his face, and Derek almost sneezes,
because it smells ancient. "What's this look like to you?”
Derek stares at the silver filigree woven into the cloth, in complex patterns
that look like utter gibberish. The cloth's black in places, as though it's
rotted. "A star-chart," he hazards, because one of the patterns resembles
Orion.
"Bingo. Always knew you were smarter than you looked.”
Derek glares. "Hey.”
"Yeah, 'hey'. What the hell am I doing on the last day of my life? Explaining
things to a monosyllabic werewolf," Stiles mutters. "We're all gonna be dead,
Derek. In - ” Stiles glances at his wristwatch " - about four hours. It'll
start when the sun rises.”
"Wait a - ”
"I'm done waiting. I just - do you know that I just got off the phone with my
dad? He's in freaking Denver for that stupid convention, so I can't even hug
him one last time. Before I - ” Stiles swallows. His voice thickens, but he
doesn't cry. "I couldn't tell him the world was ending. I just said that I love
him, that I hope he's having fun in Denver and that he's picking up cute chicks
in cop uniforms, and - ”
"Stiles.” Derek grabs Stiles by the shoulders. "Slow down.”
Stiles breathes shallowly. And blinks suspiciously bright eyes at Derek. "The
world. Is. Ending. That slow enough for you?”
"Maybe if you'd stop insulting my intelligence," Derek drawls, "we might get
somewhere. Explain.”
"Fine, fine. Not like we've got anything better to do before the earth
explodes, huh?” Stiles pulls away, running a trembling hand through his hair.
"I was trying to find out how to make that goddamn paralyzing potion for the
Alpha pack, and what I found was - ” Stiles shakes the piece of cloth, tossing
it onto his bed. " - this. It's genuine, by the way. An actual page from an
actual grimoire. It's - I can feel it. The magic's true. If Dr. Deaton wasn't
currently being kidnapped by the Alphas, I'd have double-checked with him, but…
as of now, I'm the only magic one in our motley crew.” 
"Where did you find it?” Derek bends to study the star-chart, not sure he's
supposed to touch it; magical items don't always react to werewolves in
predictable ways.
"In Dr. Deaton's basement. In a glass case. Pressed between the pages of his
grimoire. And I… now I know why he got this look on his face, sometimes,
y'know? When he was training me. I mean, of course it ain't a big deal if I
don't master a random sigil. The world is ending. Who the fuck cares? It's
better that nobody knows about it. It's better that they just - carry on. Until
they can't.”
Derek stares. He can't smell a lie on Stiles. Stiles believes this. And maybe
Stiles's magic is telling him that it's real, but it can't possibly be. Even if
it is -
Even if it is, does that change anything? Maybe Deaton had the right of things.
It doesn't matter that the end is nigh. Derek has seen endings aplenty, and
he's survived them all. Even the ones he didn't want to survive, that he didn't
think he could survive. He's just going to cope with this as though he will
live through it, because no matter what Stiles says, no matter the truth of his
terror-sweat and his thready pulse, Derek can't entirely believe it's true.
Stiles's body is practically vibrating with tension. "Fuck it. The rest of the
pack don't even know it's the end of the world, but they're living it like it
is. Scott's off boning Allison, Jackson's off boning Lydia, and Boyd's off with
Isaac and Erica doing polyamory-type things that I probably shouldn't think
about as often as I do while jerking off." He shakes his head violently, as if
to dispel images (that Derek does not doubt are far too accurate), before
stripping off his shirt.
And Derek's back to staring at him. "What - ”
"Don't even, Derek. We've been dancing around each other for eight months,
already. And your showing-up-in-my-bedroom-unannounced routine doesn't really
contradict anything I'm saying, since you've obviously claimed my bedroom as a
part of your territory, the way you show up in it, and werewolves only have one
reason to declare an unrelated human's territory as their own. Just ask Scott.
Or Jackson." Stiles shrugs, dropping his balled-up T-shirt on the floor. "So.
Take off your clothes."
Derek glowers. "You're underage - ”
"And we're about to die in, oh, three hours and forty-five minutes, give or
take a couple minutes. Seriously, Derek? Are we gonna argue about this now?"
Stiles unbuttons his jeans, jerky and business-like, and tugs them off. He's
wearing SpongeBob SquarePants boxers. Of course he is.
"You don't smell like sex," Derek adds, even though he knows, from Stiles's
tone, that Stiles won't be deterred. Stiles is wearing what Derek privately
thinks of as his Mountain Ash expression - fierce determination and unwavering
focus. It's unnerving, like it always is.
"Maybe that's because you don't have your hands down my pants? Just an idea."
Stiles steps close, moonlight glimmering off his sweat-damp chest (he still
smells more like terror than lust, more like sourness than musk), and grabs
Derek's wrist. "C'mon. Time's a-wastin'. My virginity waits for no man. Or, um,
wolf. I'm here, you want me, let's do this."
"That's not how - ”
"Shut. Up." And it's so surprising, hearing those words from Stiles, of all
people, that Derek almost doesn't resist when Stiles lunges up to bite Derek's
mouth.
Bite it. Not kiss it, not -
And that makes Derek's fangs threaten to emerge, but he won't injure Stiles,
must not injure Stiles, so he pushes Stiles away -
He's not pushing Stiles away. He's pushing Stiles back, but he's also following
him, until they hit the very wall Derek was leaning against, until Stiles's
mouth is open and panting against his and Derek has to lick into it, has to,
because it's hot and greedy and Stiles is smelling like lust, now, like he
should, although there's still an undercurrent of fear to him that shouldn't be
making Derek hard in his jeans, except for how it is.
Stiles is shaking. They should stop this. Derek should stop this. Stiles is too
young, and this is his first time, and - 
"Yeah," Stiles is saying, whisper-raw, as Derek finds his way to Stiles's
throat, pressing his teeth there, just his teeth, perhaps a bit sharper than
they should be, but not fangs. "Yeah, give it to me."
So Derek does, scratching his nails along Stile's bare belly until it clenches,
tugging at the trail of too-soft hair leading to his groin, slipping a hand
underneath those ridiculous boxers. It still burns a blank space into Derek's
mind, to feel how hard Stiles is, a line of exquisite, unrelenting, wet-tipped
desperation, dragging against his palm and making Stiles keen like he's been
injured.
Derek has to check that Stiles hasn't been injured - that's why he yanks the
boxers down - but the way Stiles's dick jumps and leaks at that makes Derek
fumble at his own jeans, get himself out and right up against Stiles, and
Stiles bucks at that, wildly enough to nearly dislodge Derek, but Derek's teeth
are closed on the juncture of Stiles's neck and shoulder, now, and Derek will
not be dislodged.
He isn't drawing blood, is he?
No, he isn't - there's no blood, no - 
Stiles is so hard -
Derek curls a fist around the both of them, swiping a thumb upward to rub
roughly across the sticky tip of Stiles's cock.
"S-sorry," says Stiles, for no reason at all, and then: "I'm coming, virgin,
sorry - ”
And then, Stiles is coming, as promised, as warned, and Derek can smell it
before it happens, just before it happens, in enough time that he can let go
and drop to his knees and taste it, wrap his lips around it and taste the salty
spurt of it, ignoring Stiles's loud, almost panicked shout. Stiles sounds like
Derek is killing him, like he's terrified and simultaneously can't stand for it
to stop, so Derek doesn't stop, sucking and sucking until Stiles can't come
anymore, until Stiles is whimpering, his fingers tight in Derek's hair, trying
to pull him off.
"I - c-can't, I'm - f-fuck - ”
Which, again, makes no sense. Derek licks Stiles clean, quick, hungry laps
against Stiles's softened dick, then licks his thighs clean of stray drops,
then his pubic hair, which he licks flat, thick with the scent of semen as it
is, rubbing his face against it just to hear Stiles groan.
"I really can't, Derek. Please - ”
And Derek relents, kissing his way up Stiles's chest, biting his way up, as
gently as he can afford, worrying at those stiff little nipples until they're
swollen, until Stiles's breath is hitching, his hands opening and closing
futilely by his sides. Stiles's muscles are still lax with release but are
beginning to tense again, his cock showing signs of twitching, blood rushing
anew to the surface of Stiles's already-flushed skin, coloring him a tempting
color.
"Okay," Stiles mumbles, shocky and strange, like a sleepwalker, "maybe I can go
another round. No, I can definitely go another round. But maybe we can take
this to the b - ”
Derek picks Stiles up and throws him on the mattress.
" - ed," Stiles finishes, around a startled huff, round-eyed and awed, gaping
as Derek strips out of his jacket and almost ruins his shirt with his claws
while wrenching it off. "Whoa, there, Greek God, take it easy."
"You're the one that wanted me to hurry up," Derek growls, and Stiles nods
distractedly, still gaping.
"Point," he says, faintly, then lets out an 'oof' as Derek all but falls on
him, torso-on-torso, skin-on-skin, all blazing heat and sex-smell, animal
comfort and animal need. "Sh-should I," Stiles reaches for Derek's dick,
"return the favor, or - ”
Derek pins Stiles's wrists to the bed.
" - or you could do all the work while also making it exceedingly difficult for
me to complete my sentences. I approve of this plan. I - ” Stiles yelps " -
hey, that was my ear you almost bit into, not a chew-toy for horny werewolves,
okay? Although, gotta say, it seems that the ear is a newly discovered
erogenous zone of mine, so keep, um, doing that thing. That you're doing. With
your tongue. Oh, god - ”
Derek doesn't roll his eyes. That would be meaningless, this close. Instead, he
rolls his hips, and Stiles curses, back arching, turning his face to moan into
Derek's neck.
"You're evil," Stiles says, and he's hard once more, trying not to thrust
against Derek and failing, grumbling half-voiced complaints as Derek holds him
still and ruts against him, and eventually Stiles stops talking altogether,
just tilting his head back and baring his throat and letting out long,
shuddering cries, his pre-come making a slick, slippery mess between them,
turning every thrust into a frustrating glide, so that Derek has to tighten his
grip, has to use more force - 
Stiles screams -
- and comes again.
Derek makes himself pause. He has to let Stiles recover. Stiles needs to
recover. Stiles is human -
Stiles is -
"Holy…" Stiles trails off, eyes at an exhausted half-mast, lashes clumped
together with tears, a wondrous, lost, disbelieving expression on his face.
"You haven't… you still haven't…? Is this a werewolf thing? A werewolves-have-
crazy-stamina thing? Because if it is, I have to say that I understand
Allison's devotion to Scott like never before - ”
Derek flips him over.
" - and you can just keep going, you strict machine, you. Plug me in, et
cetera. Are you gonna fuck me? 'Cause I have lube in that drawer over there,
not that I've ever used it for anything except fucking myself - ”
Derek snarls.
" - and maybe I should shut up before you literally fuck me to death. Gotcha."
The thought of it, of Stiles in this bed, his lubed fingers moving in and out
of his ass, thinking of Derek, thinking of -
No. He won't knot Stiles. Not like this. Not on a first night -
Last night -
Does it matter?
It does. He won't. Because it might be a first.
It is Stiles's first. And pain has no place here.
So he settles over Stiles's back, instead, curving his body to the shape of
Stiles's body, burying his nose in Stiles's nape and inhaling, letting his
mouth suck marks into that lightly-furred skin in lieu of leaving a more
permanent mark, in lieu of filling Stiles with his come, his scent -
He rocks back and forth, slipping his dick between Stiles's thighs, which
Stiles instinctively clasps together, because he's clever, always so clever.
One day, Derek is going to have to reward him for it, spread him and nuzzle his
ass, lick at him and lick at him and eat him out until he comes all over
himself, and when he's relaxed, when his hole is still moist with Derek's
saliva, Derek's going to hold him open and slide into him, slowly, until Stiles
can feel every friction-hot inch of it, until all Stiles can do is lie there
and take it, lie there and writhe -
Derek only realizes that he's been talking aloud when he notices how red
Stiles's ears are, when he notices how Stiles is trying to work a hand
underneath himself, under both their weights, so that he can touch himself. So
that he can -
"No," Derek says, his voice gone guttural and foreign even to himself. "You'll
come untouched. You know you can. You know - ”
"Fuck you - ”
"Another time," Derek grits out, almost amused despite the fevered haze in his
mind, and that, more than anything else, makes Stiles choke on his own reply
and come. He doesn't even cry out, this time. He just falls silent, his eyes
rolling back in his head, his lips falling open, plush and yielding and slack -
And Derek's rocking turns vicious, turns into the sort of thing he's dreamed of
doing a thousand times, taking this from Stiles, taking him -
He isn't even sure Stiles is conscious when he shoots between Stiles's thighs
and over Stiles's balls, and everything is gloriously full for a moment,
gloriously empty, an echo-chamber filled with his own rasping breath and
roaring pulse, the juddering of his own heart inside of him, like the creaking
of a great ship tossed by the tides of his blood.
Several minutes later, Stiles makes his wakefulness known by trying to nudge
Derek off of him.
Derek obliges, but keeps an arm around Stiles's waist, heavy and solid, an
anchor in the aftermath of a storm. He doesn't know whether it's Stiles he's
anchoring, or himself.
Neither of them speaks, too winded to do so, but Stiles, predictably, recovers
his speech sooner.
"This end-of-the-world business is pretty awesome, y'know?" Stiles murmurs,
drowsily, his words muffled on account of the fact that his face is mostly
mashed into his pillow, and he's apparently too tired to lift it. "Although,
ugh, I'm on a wet spot the size of a small continent. This hasn't happened
since I was nine. Not that I'm confessing to ever having wet the bed, or
anything, but - heck, forget about lying on a wet spot, I am a freakin' wet
spot."
"Shower," Derek supplies, because he isn't capable of more than one-word
answers, at the moment.
"Yeah, maybe when I can stand. Speaking of not being able to stand, why didn't
you fuck me?"
"First," Derek replies.
"It's my first time? Meaning, I'm a virgin? Uh, was a virgin? Dude, you don't
want to know - or, er, maybe you do? - about the range of sex toys that've been
keeping me company since I discovered the wonders of the Internet - ”
Derek shuts him up with a kiss.
It works. Mostly because they're both too sleepy to carry on anything
approximating a conversation, and Stiles has the bad manners to yawn into the
kiss before resting a hand on Derek's chest, light as a feather, and going to
sleep.
Derek stays up, because he must keep watch, no matter how much he wants to rest
- and it might be the end of the world tomorrow, after all. Slumber is a waste,
either way. 
His eyes are still open when the sun comes up.
Its rays are too pale to do more than lighten the darkness of Stiles's room,
but they're enough to give Stiles's limbs the sheen of a pearl, something
underwater and hidden deep, a rare thing, not merely a boy at the end of the
world, asleep.
Now that the moon has set, and dangers of the supernatural variety are far less
likely to find them, especially with Scott and Isaac on the morning watch,
Derek finally shuts his eyes. He's aware of the star-chart pressed beneath his
leg, the cloth of it velvety and rumpled and at odds with the starched cotton
of Stiles's sheets, but it seems irrelevant, somehow, even unimportant.
Derek doesn't bother to stay awake for the apocalypse.
 
===============================================================================

                                     fin.
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