
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/507197.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Make_Them_Do_It, Dubious_Consent, Imprisonment, Magic, Sex_Magic,
      Ridiculous, Humor, Drama, Captivity, Danger, Canon_Compliant, Canon-
      Typical_Violence, Sexual_Content, Underage_Sex, Dirty_Talk,
      Fingerfucking, Blow_Jobs, Hand_Jobs, Marathon_Sex, Multiple_Orgasms,
      Forced_Orgasm, Snark, Awkward_Sexual_Situations, Sexual_Fantasy,
      Werewolves, Supernatural_Elements, Self-Control, Orgasm_Control, Orgasm
      Delay/Denial, Loss_of_Virginity, Random_Stiles_is_Random, Unintentional
      Seduction, Fuck_Or_Die, Porn_With_Plot, Porn_Thinly_Disguised_As_Plot,
      Very_Thinly, Rampant_Debauchery, DEREK_SUFFERS_THE_MOST_OKAY, YOU'VE
      GOTTA_BELIEVE_ME
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_Sterek_Porn_Collection
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-08 Words: 6028
****** Necessary and Sufficient ******
by Saucery
Summary
     Is it even possible for penises to develop Stockholm syndrome?
Notes
     Dedicated to Suaine, because she asked this_question, and I just had
     to write my own version of an answer.
See the end of the work for more notes
===============================================================================
 
"Get. Us. Out of here," Derek rumbles, his arm tightening around Stiles, the
runes of the circle around them flaring and dancing like heatless flames.
Derek's last attempt at stepping out of the circle had nearly lost him his arm,
but maybe Derek's gotten used to nearly losing his arm on a semi-regular basis,
because as soon as his fingers regrew themselves, he went right back to bossing
Stiles around.
Doesn't anything phase Derek? Stiles is still reeling and a little sick in the
stomach from the sight of Derek's fingers just dropping off his hand. He
stares, appalled, at the three-and-half-digits (thumb, forefinger, ring finger
and half of Derek's middle finger), claws included, rolling like unholy hors
d'oeuvres on the floor just outside the circle. Oh, god, like literal finger
food. He's going to throw up.
"Concentrate," hisses Derek, shaking him a bit. Which, well, it might be 'a
bit' for a werewolf, but it almost rattles Stiles's bones right outta him.
"Stop! Stop, I can't focus if you're shaking me like your very own personal
rag-doll, okay? Just - keep me from toppling over the edge. I'm going to have
to, um, bend over to look at the runes - "
"Do it," Derek commands.
Stiles slowly bends until he's as close to the circle's boundary as he can
afford, the runes flickering in and out right under his nose. If his face
touches them, he might as well be dead. Unless people can generally survive
without their faces. Jesus Christ. It's not like he can just crouch and look at
those goddamn runes, given that they're weaving and shifting over the last few
inches of the boundary, and his human reflexes aren't fast enough to get him
out of their reach, should they go for him.
Derek holds him steady, newly-regrown fingers digging into Stiles's waist, as
Stiles leans lower and lower, trying desperately to make sense out of the
flitting marks on the floor.
"Um," says Stiles, frantically tracking the moving symbols, although it's
difficult, because they keep transmuting mid-movement, dark and sinuous, almost
sentient. Like living ink. Like bloo -
Oh. Fuck.
Stiles reels back, appalled, and Derek catches him.
"What?" Derek's voice is harsh.
"I. I just. I think I recognize what it is. And it's not pretty, Derek, it's -
"
"What. Is it."
"Uh, Deaton's been going over this stuff with me, right? Not making the runes,
so much - that's, like, advanced placement, and I'm still a beginner - but
breaking the runes, or at least finding out what might be needed to break them,
and - "
"Stop babbling and get to the point."
"It's blood," Stiles blurts, his stomach twisting up in knots. "What we need,
to break the spell. It's - wait!" he exclaims, when Derek lets go of Stiles and
flicks out his claws, full-length, as if to slash at his own veins. Freaking
Wolverine.
"I'll heal," Derek says, tersely. "I can bleed as much as this damn thing wants
- "
"No! Not werewolf blood!"
Derek freezes.
"Human." Stiles swallows. "It's. It's human blood."
Derek's expression has gone all… weird. Blank. Something.
"Y-yeah. And I'm, uh, the only human in here, so. I think it's. A sacrificial
circle?" He's sweating, so he tugs the collar of his T-shirt away from his
neck. "Like, the runes will only vanish when enough, um. Blood. Has been
spilled. And I don't just mean a few drops, I mean, like, an entire person's
worth of blood. It has to be a proper sacrifice."
Derek's claws go back in. He looks stunned. "They want me to - "
"Yep, that's what I figure. They - they want you to kill me. It's the full moon
in two days, so they must be planning on you going nuts and - "
"I won't kill you."
"I know that, but - " Wait, how does Stiles know that? He just does, the way he
knows that Scott's a moron and his dad won't be able to resist a single frosted
donut if Stiles isn't there to make sure he eats healthy. He just knows. "I
know," he says, eventually, quietly.
Derek just looks at him. His face still has that weird blankness to it, like
maybe he's about two seconds from going apeshit and is expending so much energy
in just keeping himself sane that he doesn't have any left over to animate his
facial muscles. "Their code won't allow them to kill a werewolf that hasn't
killed humans," he says. "They want me to kill a human in order to escape. They
want to force me to kill you, so that they're justified in killing me."
"Mr. Argent would stop them. If - "
"If he knew about it."
"Yeah. But he doesn't. So… it's just you and me, down here. In this basement.
In the secret hide-out of the big, bad Hunters from South Carolina. Hell, we
wouldn't even know where they were from if their leader wasn't given to
stereotypical villainous monologues, but - South Carolina? Why? Why're they
even in Beacon Hills?"
"Not all the Hunters have been happy with Argent's… retirement."
"He's not technically retired."
"No," says Derek, still with that exaggerated, I-could-choke-a-bitch-but-I'd-
rather-just-scare-you-shitless patience. "He just refuses to kill the
werewolves that are living on his own territory."
"Ha! Maybe we should've, like, faked some werewolf deaths. Or something. Just
to keep these guys away. 'Cause they're… these Hunters have been around a long
time. Maybe even longer than the Argents. They know more about the lore and the
runes, that sort of thing. Just look at this trap. They won't even have to
check in on us, the lazy sons of bitches; they'll just wait for me to die, and
whoever cast the circle will instantly feel that the circle was broken, and
then they'll come after you."
"That level of knowledge is unusual. For Hunters."
"They've probably got someone like Deaton on their side. Which, um, it would be
great if we could get a message to our Deaton?"
"We can't get a message to him." Derek paces back and forth within the bounds
of the circle, but at three feet across, it only affords him about two steps at
a time. "Not from in here."
"And you can't howl, because that'll bring the rest of the pack, and… we really
don't want them to get involved. Bad enough the two of us got captured."
Derek doesn't say anything. For a moment. Then, he says, so low that Stiles
almost doesn't catch it: "I'm sorry."
"Huh?" What? Is Derek apologizing? Derek? The Alpha? The A in the A-Team? And
also the 'a' in 'asshole of magnificent proportions'?
"For getting you caught up in this. You're not even - "
"If you say I'm not 'pack,' I will seriously kick you in the face, Derek. Now,
are you gonna claw me open, or what?"
Derek looks like he has been kicked in the face.
"Uh. No, I didn't mean - I meant, how do we convince this circle I'm bleeding
to death? Maybe you could just, like, slice my wrist open and I could bleed
along the lines, and that'd convince it that I'm lying dead in the middle of
the circle and the blood's overflowing from my desiccated corpse, or
something?"
"You can't fool magic."
"Yeah." Stiles's shoulders slump. "First thing Deaton told me. But I just - I
can't just give up."
"Then don't." Derek comes back around to where he was, behind Stiles, and wraps
an arm around him again. "Study the runes some more. There must be a way out."
"But I - " Stiles sighs, and leans out to the edge of the boundary, once more,
relying on Derek to keep him from falling out. The symbols don't look any
different. "Look, maybe you should - and I hate to make you, but - maybe you
should, you know? K-kill me."
"Shut up," Derek grinds out.
"No, I'm… I'm serious. There're Hunters out there, and you need to be with the
rest of your pack, not - not here, while…" Stiles trails off, trying not to
think of what happened to Derek's last pack. Plus, the lives of the many
outweigh the life of the one. Simple arithmetic. "I just don't want my skinny
ass to be the reason all of them - Boyd, Erica, Isaac, Jackson, Scott, for
god's sake, I just - I can't be the reason they're - "
"Shut. Up." Derek hauls him back. "Think. It's the one thing you're good for."
"Ha ha," Stiles laughs, shakily, resting his hands on Derek's arms, where
they're still locked around him. "Was that a compliment, or an insult?"
Derek squeezes him so tightly, Stiles half-expects his upper body to pop right
off his lower body, like a Lego figurine. His ribs actually creak.
"Whoa, don't kill me if you're not gonna bleed me to death, okay? It'd be a
waste."
Derek's hold loosens. His breath is far too even against the back of Stiles's
neck, the sort of even that Stiles knows - as a result of thoroughly going over
meditation techniques with Scott - doesn't bode well for a werewolf's
composure. It usually means they're trying to stay composed. Trying, and
inevitably failing.
"Hey," Stiles says, softly. "Hey, it's fine, I'm all right, I'm - uh. Wow."
Just then, Stiles remembers something Deaton told him once, offhandedly, when
Stiles had pointed to a pentagram in Deaton's well-worn grimoire. A pentagram
that looked awfully similar to the rune that winks in and out of visibility
across the circle's boundary. "Wow."
"What did you just see?"
"I… heh. What's more powerful than than death? Magically speaking, what's got
more, y'know, juice?" Stiles snickers madly - possibly hysterically - because
that was just, like, the worst pun ever in the history of ever -
"I don't know, Stiles, I'm not under Deaton's special training - "
"Life, Derek. Life's better than death. Any day. Living bodily fluids are
better than dead bodily fluids. More powerful. Hundreds of times more powerful,
maybe. Now, see, the Hunters wouldn't have known I'd know that, because, as far
as they know, I'm just the random human kid that keeps hanging around the pack
for some reason, maybe because he's suicidal, 'cause his psych reports from
around the time of his mom's d…eath," Stiles almost stumbles, "definitely
indicate suicidal tendencies. Ideation. Whatever."
"Stiles."
"What? I'm sure they looked up everything they could get on me, on paper, but
never bothered to stalk me the proper way. The old-fashioned boots-on-the-
ground way. The way they've been stalking you. To them, I'm just cannon
fodder."
"They didn't see you as a threat."
"Who would? I wouldn't. Just like Deaton's top-secret identity is top-secret,
so they won't know about him. I'm starting to get that that's the whole point,
with being what… Deaton is. What he's training me to be. You stay under the
radar, so you're the hidden ace, the one still able to fight when everyone else
has been taken out. Except that I don't want anyone to be taken out. So we have
to get out of here, like, right now, and you could maybe… look the other way?
While I do this?"
"Do what?"
"I, er. I've… this is gonna sound wacky, but you've got to believe me, there're
only two things that'll work to take the barrier down. One's blood, and the
other's - uh. It's. You really should just close your eyes. Crap. Except you
can smell things, right? Um, maybe don't breathe for a couple minutes, either -
"
"Stiles - "
"Not that I have a clue how I can even get it up in the middle of a life-
threatening situation with yourcut-off fingers in my line of sight, because
eviscerated were-parts don't normally do it for me, and it's not like I've got
anyone to help me, but - "
Stiles feels a pull on his jeans. He gapes down at himself, disbelieving, as
Derek's fingers unbuckle his belt.
"What are you doing?"
"Helping you. Wasn't this what you meant?"
"Uh. I. I was saying that you should look away - "
"How much do you need?"
"Derek, I can do this by myself, seriously - "
"You just said you couldn't get aroused by yourself."
"I'm seventeen. I could try." There's another pull, and - "Eep! What're you - "
Derek's unzipping him. "How. Much."
"I don't know, man! I've never thought about the blood-to-semen differential!"
"Didn't Deaton - "
"No, I don't sit around discussing the holy powers of jizz as opposed to plain
ol' plasma with the local veterinarian-wizard!"
"Maybe you should."
"Yeah, obviously, but - ohgod." Stiles's voice just disappears. Evaporates.
Like the last vestige of moisture from the bottom of a desert well, because the
heat under Stiles's skin has just shot up to temperatures hotter than the
average desert.
Because Derek's hand is on his dick.
Derek's hand. Is on his -
The world literally spins -
They hate each other. Fine, not 'hate,' but - there's definitely no love
connection, here. Maybe an oddly tolerant sort of exasperation, at most, and
even that usually involves death threats and mutual insults.
Which is to say, of all the people in the world that Stiles might have
reasonably expected to one day have their hands on Stiles's package, Derek was
not one of them. And, sure, Stiles is bi and Derek is kind of a sex god, but -
But -
"You're hard," Derek says, with the same flat, vicious approval he reserves for
when the Betas in his pack master a fighting skill he's thrashed into them, and
that's - that's just insane -
"Gee, you're touching my penis, Derek, I wonder why? You can let go, now, by
the way, thanks a lot, I can take it from here - "
Derek tugs.
And Stiles's knees give out a little. "Oh, damn," he says, dizzily, vision
narrowing and dimming, fresh sweat springing to the surface of his skin, his
dick feeling like a live wire that's just been short-circuited. "Nuh. Wuh. I.
Wait - "
But Derek just keeps at it, still holding Stiles back against his chest with
one arm, while the other one jacks Stiles off. Quickly. Efficiently.
And there's something miserable about it, some corner of Stiles's soul that
curls up with the blackened bitterness of burnt paper, because this the first
time anyone's touched him down there, and it's just -
It's soulless, no warmth in it, no affection, no -
There's nothing -
And then he's coming, helpless and stupefied, watching the come spurt out of
himself and hit the runic barrier. It flickers and visibly weakens, the
flickering of the runes growing duller, and -
"It's working," Derek murmurs, right up against Stiles's ear, and Stiles tips
back his head and moans, because Derek still isn't letting him go. Which, he
gets that this is all about emergency handjobs and they can't afford to take
their time, but -
He's too sensitive. He always is, after coming. It almost hurts, but Derek can
either smell that on him or just knows on account of also being a dude, because
he eases his strokes down, some. Turns them into whispers of touch that are
both better and worse, too-light and too-cruel at the same time, teasing and
relentless, never stopping, speeding back up.
"Relax," Derek says, and Stiles wants to snort, but instead all he can do is
twitch into Derek's grip and shake like a leaf, his shirt clinging to him with
perspiration. Fuck, he can smell himself, smell how sweaty and horny he is,
smell the spunk he's just shot all over place, and if it smells so monsoon-
thick and heavy to him, he doesn't want to know what it must smell like, to
Derek.
Derek, who's just playing with him, barely-there calluses and a hint of a nail,
just a trace of a scratch along the underside of Stiles's cock, a faint,
sizzling line that has Stiles's nerves keening with the sharpness of sawn-off
glass.
Stiles can't even moan, anymore. Any sounds he might've made are choked to
death inside him, pressed flat under the weight of sensation and just - just
gone, and Stiles realizes with a sort of distant dizziness that even if he
can't hear himself, Derek probably can, from the hitching near-sobs that never
escape Stiles's chest, to the subsonic whimpers fluttering in the back of his
throat.
For Stiles, though, it's silent. Too silent, except for the caught, ragged
stuttering of Stiles's gasps and the too-even inhalations and exhalations of
Derek, right behind him, even as clockwork. Totally unaffected. It'd be
humiliating, except that it's also vaguely comforting, like Stiles is the
werebeast and Derek is his anchor, keeping him from flying apart. Which is some
freaky Stockholm shit, right there, because Derek's making him fly apart. Is it
even possible for penises to develop Stockholm syndrome?
Yeah, apparently, it is.
But not just for penises. For whole bodies.
Because when Stiles stares down at his cock leaking in Derek's clasp, he can
also see that his nipples are hard. Damn, but that's embarrassing. They've
stiffened to stubborn little peaks, visibly dark under the damp white cotton of
his shirt. And because this is crazy, anyway, and they do need to get this over
with as soon as possible, Stiles brings his own hand up to sweep a thumb across
his left nipple.
Derek's breath catches.
"What?" Stiles asks, and his own voice is raspy, unfamiliar, sandpapery. God,
it's such a relief to talk. It was getting way too quiet, in here. "It's what I
do."
"You - "
"My, y'know," Stiles gulps, as the bright, familiar spark shoots from his
nipple to his dick. "Routine."
"Routine."
"When I'm alone, I - "
"Don't," says Derek, which doesn't make any sense, except that then Derek's
palm is clamped over his mouth, and Stiles makes an indignant 'mmph' sound,
because he needs to talk, okay, talking is how he copes with stressful
situations, and getting jerked off by his supernatural frenemy in a life-or-
death scenario in the middle of a magic circle is a brand new entry right at
the top of his list of stressful situations, second only to someone he cares
about being in immediate mortal danger, and -
He licks Derek's palm in revenge.
Derek just clamps down tighter on Stiles's jaw and keeps on stroking, so Stiles
has to thrust into Derek's grasp and bite, vengefully, and the bite must feel
as ineffectual as a baby squirrel's to Mr. Big Bad Wolf, but Derek still makes
this aborted growl and jerks him off even faster, ignoring Stiles's desperate,
stifled whines as he comes a second time.
Stiles's legs crumple, but Derek's there to catch him.
Of course he is. Bastard.
"Good news," Stiles pants, because Derek's not busy forcing his mouth shut,
anymore, "the circle's at half-strength. Bad news, the circle's… still at half-
strength."
It's true. The runes are a hell of a lot duller - and slower - than they were
before. Wait, no, they may be even weaker than half-strength; some of them seem
to be dying off, like put-out flames.
But they haven't all been extinguished.
Not yet.
Derek shrugs; Stiles can feel it against his back. "At least one more time,
then."
"No!" Stiles panics as Derek's hand moves toward his crotch again. "No, I
can't. My dick'll fall off! It'll be fucking painful! And dick-pain is the
worst kind of pain!"
"It's either pain," Derek says, "or death."
"Man, you're like some depressed Calvinistic philosopher, although why I'm
remembering schoolwork in this situation, I have no idea. I don't think
Calvinistic philosophers were so eager to jerk dudes off, for one thing. Think
we could wait? Ten minutes, at least? Because I wouldn't mind a bit of pain if
I honestly thought it'd get us out sooner, but I'm biologically incapable of
getting it up for another round, this soon."
"We can try."
"We - hold up, cowboy, get your hand off my dick. Put down the dick and step
away from the Stiles."
Derek, miracle of miracles, listens to him, and redirects his hand to Stiles's
hip. Maybe he can smell that Stiles genuinely isn't gonna be able to pop
another one out, yet.
Great. Now they've got an awkward silence to deal with. A silence way more
awkward than the one when Stiles had been getting jacked off, because at least
then, he'd been distracted by getting jacked off.
There's nothing to distract him this time, though. Stiles's limp cock is
hanging out of his jeans, and his sweat is cooling, and he just feels clumsy
and dumb and all-around bizarre and - not ashamed, no, he has nothing to be
ashamed about, but - self-conscious. Sort of. Maybe.
"Uh, could I… could I tuck myself back in?"
"No." Derek grabs Stiles's hands before he can do it. "There's no point."
"The point is the preservation of my dignity and my pride."
"It's too late for both."
Stiles elbows him - or tries to, anyway - but it's like elbowing a brick wall.
Stupid washboard abs.
Derek just keeps touching him - fingers drifting up under Stiles's shirt, over
his chest, his nipples. A soft, electric brush.
Stiles jumps, startled. "I thought we agreed on ten minutes!"
"I'm not touching you where it'll hurt."
"No, just where it'll drive me mad - "
"You said you… touched yourself. Like this."
"I…" Stiles blushes. Now that he isn't on the brink of orgasm, he can't believe
he said that, that he got carried away enough to -
"This will speed things up."
"I'm not a goddamn automobile, Derek, stop trying to foot my accelerator - "
Derek's finger flicks his nipple.
"- fuck. Ah, fuck - " And he's getting hard again. Impossibly, gradually.
Straining upward, lengthening the way a hanged man's neck lengthens before it
snaps. "Derek, I - I can't - "
"You can."
Fuck you, Stiles doesn't say, because it'd be a moot point, given the context,
and also, his dick is fucking sore. How the hell is he even going to -
One of Derek's hands slips down to his thigh and folds into a fist, the
knuckles gently lifting and moving Stiles's balls.
Stiles shudders. His head knocks back against Derek's shoulder, teeth clacking.
"Not hurting you," Derek says, like saying it will make it true.
Tiny shocks run through Stiles, scalding like burns, shorting out his brain.
He's blinking away a wetness in his eyes, and he's so hard now that his cock
spits pre-come, dripping down and over Derek's fingers, and Stiles is shivering
like he's cold, even though he's fever-hot.
He still can't believe this is happening. Everything seems jagged and surreal,
like the shard of a magic mirror in an amusement park, reflecting things at
slanted angles, elongating and distorting faces, meanings, words. If someone
asked him where he was, right now, he couldn't tell 'em.
Derek doesn't stroke him, this time, which is a relief - Stiles isn't sure his
cock could take direct friction from Derek's callused palms - but that's also
why Stiles is taking too long to come, and every second only ratchets up the
agony, whips it up into a rabid, roiling sickness that churns Stiles's blood
and his gut -
And he's making noises, unlike last time - he can't help himself - but he can't
hear himself above his own roaring pulse, even though, strangely enough, he can
hear Derek's breath getting rougher -
Maybe this is -
This is the focus thing, like with werewolves, honing in on one sound in a
cacophony, one thing among many, one -
Anchor -
It's -
Stiles isn't gonna make it, he just isn't, and it's too much -
"It's okay," Derek's saying, but his voice is different, somehow, more
guttural, more resonant. "You'll be okay."
"C-can't. Derek, please - "
And Derek curses, and suddenly, before Stiles can even make sense of what's
going on, Derek's flipped him around, and he's - Derek's getting on his knees -
"Wha - "
"You won't be able to finish, otherwise," Derek says, like it costs him
something to say it, and no, Stiles doesn't want to force someone to do this,
never wants to -
"Don't. You - you don't have to - "
"It's. Okay. Stiles," Derek enunciates, clearly, except that his eyes are
glowing red, and he's -
When Stiles glances down, he can see that Derek's hard, too.
So hard, in his jeans, that it has to hurt -
Serves the bastard right -
And Stiles laughs, high and incredulous, because this - this is just perfect,
isn't it? This is ridiculous, the two of them in this situation, with boners
for the very people they'd least expected to have boners for -
Derek's such a hypocrite, pretending to be calm, pretending to be composed. The
puzzle-pieces slot together in Stiles's head with a nearly audible click, and
everything makes sense, from Derek's exaggerated control to his strict
indifference, his fake indifference, the goddamn liar -
"Do it, then," Stiles says, feeling wild and insane, somehow driven closer to
the edge now that he knows Derek's teetering on it, right along with him. The
words tumble out of him like they belong to somebody else. "Take it. You want
it? Fucking take it, Derek - "
Derek snarls, his hands bruising Stiles's hips as he yanks them closer, and
Stiles huffs out a final laugh before Derek swallows him.
And it's -
It's the end of everything, at once a heaven and an exquisite, boiling hell -
"F-fuck," and the word splits right down the middle, like Stiles's mind.
Stiles's back arches as Derek just lifts him to his toes and forces him into
Derek's mouth -
Again -
Again -
And Stiles is gibbering again, pleading, his hands tangling in Derek's hair,
his hips thrusting instinctively, the slurping sounds Derek makes around him
obscenely sloppy, and it doesn't help that Derek keeps growling, so steadily
and so continuously that it's like a constant wet buzz along Stiles's cock, a
throbbing vibration that echoes all the way down to Stiles's bones.
"D-do. Derek, just - " And Stiles pries one of Derek's hands off his hips and
urges it behind him, because this is what he always does, when he's in the
shower, whenever he can. "This," he says, hoping that Derek gets him, "th-this,
please - "
Derek groans, and his back hunches, for a moment, like Stiles has just punched
him. His pupils are all-red, now, starved and feral, and Stiles spares a moment
to wonder how the hell Derek's keeping from wolfing out, completely, from
tearing Stiles to bits with fang and claw -
He doesn't care, and maybe that makes him suicidal, yeah, like the shrinks have
always said, but he just. Doesn't. Care -
Derek's finger slips into him -
And Stiles screams, bucking, because this is it, this is where he can take the
friction, where he needs it. He needs it so much that he can't even voice more
than a garbled complaint when Derek pulls off, lips trailing threads of saliva
as he turns his face aside against Stiles's thigh, scrape of stubble and a
sudden, sharp sting and oh, shit, those're fangs, after all, there they are,
there they are -
"Fuck me," Stiles is babbling, unable to think about what he's saying, unable
to think beyond the press of those fangs against the softness of his inner
thigh, just enough to be a threat, just enough to be a promise - "Fuck me,
Derek, fuck - "
And Derek does, with his fingers - two, three? - Stiles can't exactly count -
making Stiles's ass clench around them, the spit-slick drag of broad, hard
knuckles in and out of Stiles's hole, past the tightly quivering rim, fucking
Stiles deeper very time. The ache is a dulled lightning that unravels into a
thousand delicate, electrifying strands, drifting through him and
simultaneously cutting him open, like the stingers of a carnivorous sea-
creature, paralyzing and sweetly poisonous, a drug in his veins that turns him
sluggish and tormented, each push prompting a slow, wracking writhe that works
its way through his muscles and leaves him wrung out and sobbing. It's so, so
much better than Stiles's own fingers. The angle is incandescently right -
He just - he wants Derek inside him, Derek's dick filling him inch by inch. He
wants to feel the roll of Derek's hips against his ass as Derek ruts into him,
wants Derek to hold him face-down while he does it, claws pricking the nape of
Stiles's neck -
Oh, god, is he saying that out loud, is he -
He wants to say it out loud -
Wants Derek to hear him, wants Derek to do it -
But if Derek hears him, he gives no sign save for the darkening of his growls
and the near-brutal tightening of his grip. All Derek does is nip Stiles's
belly and thighs with hungry almost-bites, fangs just stopping short of
breaking skin, straying, every now and then, to run his tongue in a molten
swipe along Stiles's dick, but not daring to swallow him again, not with his
fangs unable to retract, and somehow that, more than anything, is what makes
Stiles come.
"D-Der - "
It hits him like a wrecking-ball, a solid wave of crackling light that slams
into him, rocking him forward, and he isn't sure if he wails or shouts or if
he's beyond making any sound, at all, because he isn't there when it happens,
he isn't even a person for it to happen to, just a lone, twitching nerve,
unbearably naked and painfully taut, stripped of its casing and singing like a
chord that's been struck -
He's -
He may have passed out, for a second.
He… isn't sure. All he knows is that by the time the fireworks stop going off
behind his eyeballs and his vision stops going from purple to hazy white to
hazier purple, the runes are no longer there, which means that Derek must've
remembered to jack him off right onto them, which means they're free, which
means -
Means -
He can't think -
He definitely can't stand.
The only reason he's still on his feet is because Derek's holding him up. And
he knows he was a virgin until just a while ago, but is sex always this…
unmanning? His legs feel like jello. His lungs won't inflate.
He tries to remember how to breathe, and fails, until the fourth try.
"Derek," he manages to say, because Derek's looking ruined, too, lips swollen
and hair mussed and eyes fading from red to a shocked and shockingly human
blue, "you, uh, you haven't - we should - "
God, he'd begged Derek to fuck him -
And Derek's just staring up at him, like he can still hear that -
The thought shouldn't make Stiles blush the way it does, blush and crave, given
that he's so spent that he may not be able to have another orgasm in his
lifetime, let alone in the next half hour or however long it takes werewolves
to -
"No," Derek says, and ignores Stiles's blush in favor of getting up, hauling
Stiles close and burying his nose in Stiles's throat, his fangs thankfully
gone. But when Stiles reaches for Derek's fly - damn, those jeans aren't just
tented, it's like a vintage Erector Set, in there - Derek lashes out and traps
Stiles's hand in his, shakes him, and says, "No."
It's like a bucket of ice water.
Stiles snatches his hand back, numbly horrified, and mumbles something about
'sorry' and 'shouldn't have' and 'should've known', but then, Derek's kissing
him, quick and savage and angry, before shoving Stiles away, right out the
circle, so that Stiles stumbles and almost falls.
"Not. Now," Derek clarifies, and… oh.
Oh. Right. The pack. Warning the pack. Hunters on the loose. Crisis in
progress. No time for sexytiemz. Er, unnecessary sexytiemz. Although Derek's
giant boner certainly looks necessary, the poor guy. Is he gonna have to ignore
that? At least Derek isn't a teenager, anymore; Stiles would be physiologically
incapable of not creaming his own pants at any stray contact with a foreign
surface, in that state. Derek's ability to focus on things beyond his erection
is… kind of impressive, actually. Pity-inducing, but impressive.
"The shoving's still unacceptable," Stiles replies, when he recovers his
coherence. He isn't relieved. That would be idiotic, because it's not like
forced sex - or, in Derek's case, forced sexual frustration - means that
they're dating, or that they ever have to touch each other again. So he isn't
relieved that Derek does want to touch him again. He's not. They can scarcely
stand to be around each other, and that's on a good day.
Derek grunts. "I'll kill them."
"Who, the Hunters? Yeah, man, I guess I'd wanna kill 'em, if they gave me a
case of blue balls that bad."
"No," says Derek, as he steps out of the circle, and what, is 'no' his favorite
word, now? Other than 'grrr'? "Because they put you in harm's way."
…oh.
Oh.
This is a day of ellipses and italicized epiphanies, looks like.
Did Derek just -
"Could you repeat that?" Stiles squeaks, and shuts up when Derek glares at him.
Back to business as usual.
"Fix your pants, for god's sake. We're leaving." Derek scans the basement
impatiently while Stiles gets himself in order, no doubt scoping it out for
more clues, but there aren't any; Stiles had done his own inventory when they'd
first been brought here, and his inventories are flawless. Like Derek said.
Thinking. It's what he does.
And if Stiles notices that Derek's eyes keep flicking to Stiles's fingers, as
Stiles zips his jeans and buttons them, or that Derek's gaze gets occasionally
caught on Stiles's mouth… Well, Stiles charitably doesn't mention it, because
it's bad enough that Derek can't even get his rocks off. No need to make it
torture. (Although Stiles is tempted to see, one day, just how much he can
dirty-talk before Derek loses it. He'd seemed on the brink of losing it, today,
when Stiles started describing what he liked doing to himself.)
Maybe Derek can smell those naughty thoughts, or something, because his glower
intensifies, and there's a slight flush on his face that's just -
Uh-huh.
Not entirely forced sexual frustration, then. At least, not with Stiles.
The awesomeness of this discovery is one that merits plenty of exploration,
later, preferably on a bed. A bed of leaves, even. Whichever is closest, once
they're done with the Hunters - a human-made bed or the all-natural variety.
Hm. All-natural, if they end up in the forest. Crinkling leaves against bare
skin and the loamy scent of the earth rising around them, and Stiles can just
imagine -
Derek makes a lupine, irritated noise and lugs Stiles upstairs.
Stiles almost bangs his head against the doorframe. He doesn't object to the
hurry, though, given that they're on borrowed time now that the circle's
broken. The Hunters will know that they've escaped, and will be on the chase.
He finds his mobile phone on a small pile of bric-a-brac by the porch, wiped of
its contacts, but that isn't a problem, because Stiles has everyone's numbers
memorized, anyway. He isn't worried about whether the Hunters have texted
anyone to call them out, pretending to be Stiles, because Stiles has long since
established a texting code (changed at every full moon) to keep such misuses at
bay. Heck, he hopes the Hunters tried to text someone, because if they did, and
didn't use the right lingo, that would've been a red flag, right there.
Everyone may already have gone underground.
"Call Scott," Derek tells him, as they set off at a careful jog down the road,
keeping low and ducking behind trees and parked cars. The highway isn't too far
from here, and there's a designated meeting-point at the interchange, so he and
Derek don't even have to discuss where they're going.
"Already on it," Stiles smirks, punching in the numbers.  "Hey, buddy," he
says, when Scott picks up and asks where the hell he's been, and what that non-
protocol text message was about.
So they did try to text Scott. Cool.
"Did you warn the others?"
"Yeah," Scott agrees, cautiously, from the other end. "Even Allison's dad. But
what - "
"We're heading for the main highway, to In-N-Out. You know the place. Bring
your car, be there in ten."
"But - "
"And if you see strangers with guns, run."
"Why - "
"Mr. Argent's got friends in town. If by friends, you mean enemies."
"Oh," Scott says, with dawning comprehension. "Fuck."
"Dude," Stiles grins, darting a glance at Derek, who's still scowling at him.
"You have no idea."
 
===============================================================================
                                     fin.
                                Please review!
End Notes
     It's my personal headcanon for this story that Derek's been wanting
     Stiles all along, and has been waiting for Stiles to turn eighteen
     before making his, uh, intentions known. He doesn't count on Hunters
     from South Carolina forcing him to deflower Stiles, though. Fandom =
     Hunters from South Carolina.
     Like my writing? Check out my_blog!
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