
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/466212.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall, Allison_Argent, Isaac_Lahey,
      Erica_Reyes
  Additional Tags:
      Loss_of_Virginity, Trapped, Community:_kink_bingo, First_Time, Blow_Jobs,
      First_Kiss, Sex_In_A_Cave
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-07-22 Words: 4202
****** Never Been ******
by Lenore
Summary
     Stiles gets snared in a virgin trap. Derek to the rescue!
Notes
     This is for the Virginity/Celibacy square of my Kink Bingo card.
     Thank you to my dear
     [http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=94.3]
no_detective for the beta. Contains "something made them do it" trope dubcon.
Contrary to what some people might believe—and "some people" of course means
Stiles—Derek doesn't actually keep a list of things he hates, sorted in order
of "I want to rip that apart with my really sharp werewolf claws." If he did
keep such a list, witches would certainly place high on it, although not quite
as high as teenagers.
Teenagers—especially ones who don't fucking do as they're told—might actually
top the list.
"When my parents said things like, 'stay away from that cave by the old knotted
tree, it's dangerous,' I actually listened."
The words make Derek feel like an asshole even as they're coming out of his
mouth, because he's hardly parental and also he's way too young—by a good two
decades—to go around saying things like "in my day" and "back when I was your
age." Then again, his ragtag not-quite-a-pack of hormonally challenged trouble
magnets is aging him by the moment.
It's Stiles who pipes up. Of course, it is. "You didn't even give us a chance
to explain!" The rest of them have the good sense to look sheepish or at least
to keep their stupid mouths shut. But not Stiles. Never Stiles.
"A chance to explain why you've come to the one place in the entire forest that
I told you was off limits?"
If Derek didn't have werewolf eyesight, he might miss the way Stiles's pale
skin turns pink with outrage at the unfairness of it all. "It wasn't like
that—"
Derek cuts him off. "Don't think I don't know that this was your idea."
"An idea that kept the psychotic hunters from cutting us all in half!" He darts
a semi-apologetic look in Allison's direction, as if "psychotic" isn't a
perfectly accurate description of demented groups who go around bisecting
people.
Argents. Add that to the long, dark list of things Derek hates.
"They just weren't stupid enough to follow you in here," Derek tells Stiles
flatly.
Stiles puffs up, as if to argue, but it's half-hearted. He's too smart not to
realize when he's been a moron—at least in hindsight.
"Hey, you weren't there," Scott says with a flare of anger, because of course
he's going to take up for Stiles. Also, he lives to be a contrary little thorn
in Derek's side. "If you'd been around, taking care of alpha business, maybe
this wouldn't have happened." He shoots a glance at Stiles and crinkles up his
forehead, and just watching him try to figure things out is painful. "I still
don't get why only Stiles is trapped."
Neither does Derek, but he can feel the invisible hum of energy, stronger
whenever Stiles edges closer to the cave's entrance. Apparently, Stiles got
thrown on his ass three times and inspected every inch of the cave for clues
before finally accepting that he wasn't walking out of here without help and
agreeing to let Erica go find Derek. Stiles is nothing if not persistent.
"We think it might have something to do with this inscription." Allison sweeps
the beam of her flashlight over what looks like a third-grader's script roughly
carved into the stone above the cave's entrance, in a language Derek doesn't
recognize. "I've been studying archaic Latin with Lydia, but some of these
words—" She shakes her head. "Never been—something." She blinks and darts a
glance at Stiles, awareness dawning. "Oh."
Scott is a step behind his girlfriend, as usual. "But what has Stiles never
done that the rest of us—" He doesn't clap his hand over his mouth when he gets
it, but he definitely looks like he wants to.
Isaac snickers. Erica seems like she might be interested in helping to remedy
this never situation. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. Werewolves can't
get headaches, and yet.
"Thanks for that, buddy," Stiles tells Scott. "Awesome way to overshare with
the group."
How Stiles can still be a virgin when he spends at least ninety percent of his
time thinking about sex is beyond Derek. But there's no doubt that he is. Derek
can smell it on him, soured milk frustration tangled up with desire as sticky
as cotton candy and a leafy sort of innocence.
"Why does a place like this even exist?" Stiles complains. "Urban Dictionary
has an entirely different definition of 'virgin trap'. Oh my God, is this
because there are actual sacrifices? Tell me there are no sacrifices."
I will sacrifice you personally if you don't shut up. The fact that Derek
doesn't say this out loud is a new achievement in self-restraint. He
congratulates himself. Maybe he won't go down in werewolf history as the first
alpha ever to off his entire pack.
"It doesn't matter why it's here," Derek says, without snarling, but just
barely. "Only what we're going to do about it. Although given how well you
listen to me, maybe I should just leave you here."
Stiles glowers. "Like I left you in that swimming pool? Oh, wait."
"Maybe my family has information?" Allison ventures. "Maybe we can break the
spell?"
Maybe, but Derek doubts it. If the hunters understood the secret of this place,
they would have known it posed no danger to them. They would have followed the
pack inside and slaughtered them.
That only leaves one solution.
"Get out," he orders. "All of you."
It's almost comical the way they freeze at the bark of his voice, eyes cartoon-
big with surprise. Eventually, they start filing out, a slow shuffle, made all
the slower by many curious backward glances. Scott, of course, hunkers down
stubbornly.
"You too," Derek tells him.
Scott has years to go before glaring makes him look anything but mildly put
out, but Derek can feel waves of protectiveness coming off him, as clearly as
he can feel the shimmer of the spell that's stranded Stiles here.
"You can take care of the problem yourself or you can get out," Derek says,
clipped, in no mood for Scott's posturing. "Those are the options."
"Um." Scott blinks, deer in the headlights. "Stiles?"
There's some complicated silent communication back and forth between the two,
consisting of raised eyebrows and significant looks. Derek is hardly an expert
at interpreting it, but from what he can make out, Stiles is assuring Scott
that he'll be okay and Scott is wondering if Stiles has lost his mind.
"Dude. Go." Stiles waves his hand. "And let us never speak of this again."
Scott scuffles away, and somehow that makes the cave feel even smaller, a
claustrophobic little world of two. Stiles nervously licks his lips, and Derek
thinks, not without bitterness: He has no idea how he looks when he does that.
Beacon Hills High must be populated with idiots if no one has ever touched him.
Stiles is his usual live-wire self, fidgeting and balling his hands in his T-
shirt. "We could still wait for Allison to see if her parents know how to get
rid of the spell?"
"Yes." Derek takes a step toward him. "Or we could do this the simple way."
"Simple?" Stiles's voice squeaks.
The look on his face is yearning and a little afraid and so desperately young,
and the wolf in Derek wants to lunge, greedy and predatory. This part of him
likes knowing that Stiles is defenseless against him, that Derek could do
anything. That's probably how Kate felt, some decent corner of his brain
reminds him.
The thought lingers like a bad taste in the mouth.
Clearly, he's not the right person to do this to Stiles. For Stiles. Do this
for him. Derek can't even get his prepositions right. How could he be the right
person? Unfortunately, he's all Stiles has got.
Business-like. That's what this needs to be, Derek decides.
He grabs Stiles by the arm, the touch purely pragmatic and, if Stiles's
indignantly yelped "Hey!" is any indication, a little too rough. Derek said
that this was simple, and that's how it's going to be. No more virginity. No
more trap. That's all, nothing more. He yanks Stiles's jeans and underwear down
to his knees.
Stiles lets out a strangled sound, and there's a surge of lust and fear on the
air, and then just lust as Derek drops to his knees.
"Oh God," Stiles gasps out as Derek drags his tongue the length of Stiles's
cock, once, and then again, getting his taste. "Oh God, oh God." Stiles's voice
shakes, and his body shakes, and he's nothing but trembling, pliant need.
It's just a problem, and this is the simplest solution, Derek reminds himself,
as he takes Stiles into his mouth, up and down with long pulls, his lips firm,
his tongue stroking. Of course, Stiles can't keep anything to himself, even
when he's too stunned to actually speak. Sensation swamps Derek: the many
textures of Stiles's taste and layer upon layer of scent, the drumbeat of
Stiles's heart and the windy rush of his breath.
Derek holds Stiles carefully by the hips, because he knows that he could touch
him anywhere, do anything. Stiles is too far gone to protest, or maybe he would
even like it. Derek tightens his grip, fingers pressed into the grooves of
Stiles's hipbones. He can feel the minute tension in Stiles's thighs, the
little hitch that is Stiles wanting to thrust and holding himself back.
Stiles's hands curl and uncurl at his side, as if he doesn't know what to do
with them. Maybe he's not sure what's allowed. Maybe he thinks Derek will tear
his throat out if he does something wrong.
One thing is certain: Stiles's knees aren't holding him up all that steadily
anymore. Derek guides Stiles's hand to his shoulders. Stiles breathes out a
little hiccup of relief and grabs onto Derek and clings. Derek urges him on,
and Stile's hips stutter forward.
"Derek." He sounds lost, utterly wrecked.
Derek's wolf likes that. He can feel instinct trying to take control, his claws
extending, skating over Stiles's pale, smooth skin. He's already hard—has been
since he knew he was going to get to do this, put his mouth on Stiles's eager,
untouched cock. It's a relief when Stiles proves that he is only exceptional in
some ways and comes just like a sixteen-year-old boy, too quickly, no stamina
at all.
Derek spits out and wipes his mouth and keeps his head turned while Stiles zips
up. Now they can get the hell out of here.
Except. He can still feel the shimmer of energy, almost hear its low throb.
"Stiles—"
"Can we just get on with the leaving part? Put some distance between us and the
epicenter of recent awkwardness. Not that it wasn't—because it really, really
was, but, well, you know what I mean," Stiles babbles away, not listening to
Derek as usual.
He goes crashing into the invisible barrier, round number four of being thrown
on his ass.
"That is seriously getting old," Stiles groans.
Derek rolls his eyes, but he does offer Stiles a hand up.
"So. That didn't work so much," Stiles helpfully states the obvious. "Do you
think this is because we're two dudes? I mean, if the point is to catch
virgins—like serious, never-did-anything-with-anybody virgins—how does it help
the diabolical cause to have a heteronormative definition of virginity-losing?"
Derek only half listens. He knows what the problem is. Him. He's not the right
person. He doesn’t have any claim to Stiles.
"Maybe it needs to be someone else." He tightens his jaw and makes himself say
the rest of it, "I could go get Lydia."
Stiles goggles at him, open-mouthed, for an annoyingly long moment. "I would
seriously pay money to hear that conversation."
Derek lets out his breath. "Fine. Someone else then. I think it needs to be—it
should be someone you want."
Stiles dips his head, and Derek can feel the intake of his breath, and he says
in a small voice, "Then it should have worked with you." He braves a look at
Derek.
This is the thing about Stiles that makes Derek alternately want to keep him
forever and shake him until some sense snaps into his head: the way he's always
throwing himself into the middle of things he doesn't understand, taking
ridiculous risks that he doesn't even realize are risks, getting in way over
his head.
"Maybe it would work if—" Stiles bites his lip, his gaze still fastened on
Derek, eyes big and hopeful. "Maybe there needs to be reciprocation."
Using werewolf senses on Stiles is overkill at least ninety-five percent of the
time. If he doesn't provide a detailed commentary of his every thought, it's
all reflected right there in his face. At the moment, his expression is bright
with expectation, and there's also a touch of uncertainty and that mulish
determination that is either the most annoying thing ever or the most
endearing, depending on Derek's mood.
It occurs to Derek, rather belatedly, that he's taken Stiles's virginity
without even kissing him, and now all Stiles wants is the chance to
reciprocate. So not the right person for this job. That doesn't stop Derek from
grabbing Stiles by the wrist and pulling him in.
Stiles goes easily, pressing close, arms messily tangling around Derek's neck,
eager for whatever Derek will give him. Derek presses his thumb against
Stiles's jaw and kisses his mouth and behind his ear and the hollow of his
throat where Derek can practically taste the pumping blood beneath thin skin.
Stiles lets out a breathy "oh," and he tips his head back, going slack in
Derek's arms. There's nothing quite as sweet as surrender, and the wolf in
Derek wants to take, to claim, to own. The urge to bite—Derek squeezes his eyes
shut and fights it down.
"Derek." There's a hitch in Stiles's voice, and if he had any sense, it would
be fear, the terrified recognition of how much danger he could be in. But
Stiles just lifts his mouth, begging for kisses. Derek gives him what he wants,
letting Stiles kiss back in greedy gulps, and when Derek drags his thumb across
Stiles's pretty little mouth, wet and even darker pink than usual, Stiles goes
heavy-lidded, his breath catching at the touch.
It's painfully clear that he's never been kissed before either.
Derek frowns at that. Maybe—but no, it couldn't be—except that it is. There's
no more shimmer of energy. The barrier's gone.
"I really hate witches," he says, taking a step back from Stiles.
Stiles looks confused by this, not to mention disappointed that the kissing has
stopped. "You mean—oh my God, I'm starring in a bad remake of a Drew Barrymore
movie, with witches instead of mean girls. If you say it's totally rufus that I
can get out of here now, I'll—I don't know. Okay, probably nothing. But don't
say that." At Derek's blank look, he adds, "Seriously? Have you never seen a
movie ever?"
"Come on." Derek grabs Stiles by the arm and drags him, because sometimes
manhandling is just the easiest way to deal with him.
The others are still loitering around outside, a fact that Derek has of course
been aware of, but it comes as a surprise to Stiles apparently. A blast of heat
catches Derek squarely between the shoulder blades. If the force of adolescent
embarrassment could only be harnessed, Derek thinks, it could power small
cities.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" Derek snaps at Isaac and Erica.
Isaac smirks. "And miss this?"
"Go back to the den." When they don't immediately jump to, Derek adds with a
snarl, "Now."
This gets their attention at last, and they slink off, although not without a
parting leer or two.
"You." Derek turns to Scott, sternly. "Take him home. And try keeping him safe
this time."
"Still standing right here," Stiles interjects dryly.
Derek points a finger at him. "You stay out of trouble for once."
It's a futile warning, he knows, even as he's saying it, and he wonders why he
even bothers when he gets a wave of sticky, candy-scented desire in the face,
Stiles's body broadcasting "sex, sex, sex" on all frequencies. Derek's wolf
paces restlessly, aggressive and eager to throw Stiles to the ground and shred
his clothes and give him exactly what he's begging for.
Derek is just barely holding onto the civilized part of him—not that there's
much of that to begin with—and Stiles, the idiot, takes a step closer, wafting
more of his fuck-me scent at Derek.
Before Stiles has a chance to say anything, Derek snaps, "Sometimes I really
don't know how you're still alive."
He takes off through the forest, four-legged for speed, not because he's
running away, but because someone needs to be the adult in this situation, and
these days that's Derek's job, however hilarious he may secretly find that.
===============================================================================
In no way does Derek avoid Stiles in the aftermath of what Isaac insists on
calling "the hookup at the virgin trap" until Derek loses his temper and flings
him into the nearest wall. Derek is the alpha, and this is his territory, and
no mere human will keep him from going wherever he wants.
He simply chooses not to seek Stiles out. There's a difference.
One that completely escapes Scott. Big surprise. He shows up at Derek's den
with his disapproving face on. "You've been avoiding Stiles."
Derek crosses his arms over his chest. "How about I give you a reason to avoid
me?"
Unfortunately, threats don't work on Scott as well as they used to. He merely
scowls and looks more aggravatingly determined. "You—" He flails his hands.
"Did stuff to him. And now he's all—I don't know. You really should talk to
him." When Derek just stares at him in the clearest get out way possible, Scott
stomps off, muttering about stupid, stubborn werewolves under his breath.
Takes one to know one. If only Derek weren't supposed to be the adult here.
Of course, the fact remains that Derek does need to address the Stiles
situation, even if he would never give Scott the satisfaction of admitting it.
Stiles can be a valuable ally when he's not being just totally infuriating. If
Derek has done something to jeopardize that—well, he's the alpha. It's his
responsibility to deal with it. For the good of the pack.
Sheriff Stilinski is on duty the next evening; Derek has memorized his schedule
as a precaution against hard-to-explain run-ins when Derek is slipping out of
his son's window. He finds Stiles at his desk, restlessly jiggling his leg up
and down as he types away at his computer, working on what appears to be a
history paper. Derek stalls in the window frame, having one of those moments,
the kind where he wonders: How did this become my life?He really needs to start
spending time with people who don't have homework.
It takes Stiles an unacceptably long time to realize he has company—they
seriously need to work on his situational awareness—and then he nearly pitches
off his chair.
"Jesus, Derek," he mutters, and Derek can practically taste the sudden thunder
of blood as his heart races. "A little warning next time. What are you doing
here?"
Derek paces around the room, taking in the artifacts of Stiles's boyhood, not
that he hasn't seen it all before of course: the Mets pennant, the back issues
of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit edition that are not nearly as well hidden as
Stiles thinks, the framed photographs of Stiles and his dad and a smiling woman
with a kind face and intelligent brown eyes that are eerily familiar. God. What
is Derek doing here?
"Scott said we should talk."
Both of Stiles's eyebrows shoot up, as if this is the least likely thing he's
ever heard. "I thought maybe you were here to settle that reciprocation
business." He looks at Derek hopefully.
Derek stops in his tracks. Clearly, Scott doesn't know his best friend as well
as he thinks. Stiles isn't having messy teenaged emotional fallout that Derek
needs to manfully suffer through in an ill-fated attempt to help since he's the
one responsible for it. No. Stiles, the little shit, is happy.
"How stupid can you possibly be?" Derek barks at him.
There is nothing to be happy about here. This is a situation where you deny,
deny, deny, and maybe occasionally jerk off to furtive memories if you really
must. Stiles is supposed to be the bright one of the group. Having his judgment
disastrously impaired by his dick is Scott's job. Derek is really not okay with
being surrounded by idiots who have no idea what's good for them.
"You've clearly forgotten what it's like to be a teenage boy," Stiles informs
him. "I lost my virginity to the hottest, if possibly also the grumpiest, guy
in town. Which is pretty much the best thing that's ever happened to me. The
only thing that could be better is—" He leans forward, and his heartbeat picks
up, and he looks so nervous and eager and just, just wrenchingly trusting. "If
I get to keep having sex with you."
The fact is, Derek remembers being a teenage boy far too well. He knows exactly
what Stiles has been doing in that innocent-looking twin bed of his, touching
himself and thinking about Derek and getting his spunk all over the sheets. The
wolf snarls at the image of Stiles sticky with his own come. The wolf thinks
that Derek should be the one who gets Stiles messy.
Stiles watches and waits, eager and also terrified of rejection, as if that's
the worst thing that could happen to him. He doesn't believe that Derek could
ever hurt him. Could ruin him. He can't imagine how this could all go so
horribly wrong.
Derek presses his mouth into such a harsh line his jaw aches. "You can't make
mistakes like this."
"Not your call, dude."
Derek doesn't know what to do with that. At all.
"Then I won't make that mistake," he says at last and heads for the window.
"Okay, maybe I'm overstepping here in a tear-your-throat-out kind of way,"
Stiles says, and Derek stops, rolls his eyes that the possibility of getting
his throat torn out is never enough to shut Stiles up. "I just feel it should
be said. You're not like her. You're really not, Derek."
Fury blinds Derek, the color of blood on his retinas, and he digs his claws
into the sheetrock to hold onto himself. He's not sure what makes him angrier:
that Stiles knows about this or that he would dare to bring it up.
"Yeah, sorry," Stiles say, although he doesn't sound it. "Those were some big,
obvious dots. Kind of hard not to connect them."
"Then you should know better than to jump into things," Derek says, when he's
calmed down enough to use his words.
"My sense of self-preservation is fully functional. I'd go so far as to call it
advanced. And that reciprocation offer is still on the table, just so you
know." He says it with typical Stilesian bravado, but then he freezes, and
Derek can see the self-doubt rush in, the realization that he might have
interpreted the situation wrong. "I mean, you know, if you want it to be," he
adds more quietly, lowering his eyes.
Derek remembers being sixteen far too well. He remembers believing that nothing
bad could ever happen to him, just like Stiles believes it. This doesn't stop
him from placing one foot in front of the other, back over to Stiles, tipping
Stile's chin up and kissing away the uncertainty. He doesn't want to be the bad
thing that happens to Stiles. He's just not sure how to prevent it.
Stiles is smiling when Derek finally stops kissing him, as if he's won
something. As if Derek is any kind of prize.
"You're ridiculous," Derek informs him.
"No, you're ridiculous," Stiles counters.
No you, no you, no you. Being the adult kind of sucks, Derek decides.
He climbs back out the window and strides way down the street, head up,
shoulders back, as if he's not going to return, probably embarrassingly soon,
to commit an E-class felony at the sheriff's home. Housebreak, Derek knows from
his angry, juvenile delinquent days, is gaining access to a dwelling for the
purpose of committing a crime. The things Derek wants to do to Stiles's
underage body are far, far from legal.
Stiles is still up there in his room, Derek knows, not finishing his history
paper, probably smiling at the empty air like a dork.
Derek is torn, as he so often is, between wanting to kiss Stiles until he's
breathless and adorably pink-cheeked and Derek's, Derek's, no one but Derek's,
and yelling at him to stop being such a dumbass. Derek lets out a sigh.
Apparently, this is just going to be his life now: charmed and exasperated by
turns and doing his best to pretend that he doesn't love every moment of it.
Might as well make his peace with it, he supposes.
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