
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/541581.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Underage_Sex, Adrenaline, Rimming, I'll_take_some_angst_with
      my_humour
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-20 Words: 13484
****** The Dirtiest Thing You Know ******
by Nanoochka
Summary
     Not to be a girl about it or anything, but Stiles always expected his
     first time to be something tender and slow. Special, and with someone
     he cared about. That isn’t how it happened.
Notes
     A million thanks to qthelights for beta-ing and for holding my hand
     during the (very lengthy) process of writing this fic! Set
     ambiguously during S2. Loose spoilers and even looser resemblance to
     canon when you factor in 2.12.
 
 
  “God, I could eat a horse. Isn't it crazy how slaying just always makes you
                              hungry and horny?”
                                          - Faith, Buffy the Vampire Slayer,
                      “Faith, Hope, and Trick” (Ep. 3.03)
 
 
     The list of things wrong with Stiles’s old Jeep was a long one; judging by
the sound the suspension made when he drove over a pothole, or the fact that
running the air actually made his truck slow down, it was getting longer by the
minute. Sure, she was one bad day away from being a junker, but she was his
junker, and despite her faults Stiles could say with reasonable certainty his
baby was still faster than a werewolf or a kanima. Faster, even, than a bunch
of hunters on ATVs. Maybe that wouldn’t increase the Jeep’s Red Book value by
much, but you couldn’t ask for more in a getaway vehicle than something that
got you out of the shit faster than the shit could catch up with you.
     Stiles still felt like they were flying down the road at ninety miles an
hour even after he’d thrown the parking brake and Derek all but shoved him out
of the Jeep and up the front steps of the Stilinski residence. Anything that
involved dragging Derek home with him was not what Stiles considered an ideal
scenario, but mounting evidence indicated Argent’s men had sussed out the
location of Derek’s rail depot, especially since Allison defected. As hiding
places went, the Hale estate had long since become a foregone conclusion, and
whatever their differences, Stiles couldn’t really throw Derek to the wolves
that way, ha. That pretty much left Stiles’s house as the go-to sanctuary,
since Scott’s mom would’ve flipped her shit, and Allison’s was totally out of
the question.
     Fortunately there was no parental unit around to notice the smell of
burning rubber that lingered in the air or the fact that Stiles had stumbled
home at three in the morning covered in an appealing combination of dirt and
blood, and with an alleged murderer at his heels no less. He was pretty sure
his dad would have something to say about at least one of those things, and
Stiles was too jumped up on adrenaline to stomach the thought of trying to
explain any of it.
     Speaking of stomachs, his gave an obnoxiously loud rumble as they careened
past the kitchen. Derek’s hand fisted in the back of Stiles’s jacket and
prevented him from detouring in that direction to raid the cupboard and all the
Pop Tarts they sheltered. Fucking killjoy.
     “But I’m hungry,” Stiles whined as Derek steered him towards the stairs.
He made a grabbyhands motion towards the fridge like his arms might do him a
solid just this once and grow the few feet that separated Stiles from his
prize.
     Derek showed no remorse. “It’s the adrenaline talking,” he informed Stiles
briskly. “It’s gonna wear off in ten minutes, and then I’ll have to listen to
you complaining about a stomach ache for the rest of the night.”
     “You could always just leave.”
     Jerking himself out of Derek’s grasp, Stiles attempted to stomp up the
remaining few stairs to his room just to prove he could, but tripped a couple
steps from the top and went sliding back down into Derek, limbs akimbo and chin
bouncing off the riser hard enough to clack his teeth together. It should’ve
been painful, but all Stiles registered was a dull ache; that was adrenaline
for you.
     Stiles attempted to writhe onto his back and caught, instead, the sight of
Derek’s arms pinwheeling hilariously. For a split second there was a distinct
possibility Derek would lose his balance and fall on his ass, but then he
stopped himself with a hand on the wall and the other slamming down between
Stiles’s shoulder blades, forcing him back down against the steps as Derek went
down on one knee.
     It might have been dark, but Stiles knew what he’d seen; thinking about
what Derek might’ve looked like sprawled in a graceless heap at the foot of the
stairs was enough to make him start to laugh. And once he started, he couldn’t
stop.
     That’d be the adrenaline, too, he thought hysterically, and even with
Derek’s fist gripping his shirt, Stiles tried to curl into a ball to mitigate
the force of his guffaws. This was better than being drunk and sure as fuck
beat being high, since all that happened the first (and last) time Stiles
smoked a doobie was that he got the world’s worst case of the pasties before
the paranoia set in. Scott’d had to hold his hand until the pot wore off, just
to reassure Stiles that he wasn’t actually asphyxiating to death. He’d heard of
adrenaline sparking all kinds of crazy reactions in people, too, but if all he
had to cope with was poorer-than-usual coordination and a bad case of the
giggles, he’d take it. He was pretty sure Derek was the last person who would
stay up until 2:00 A.M. holding his hand, anyway.
Sure enough, Derek muttered an unimpressed-sounding “Idiot” and climbed to his
feet, making sure to shove Stiles back against the stairs for good measure,
even though he was already lying down and there was nowhere he could be shoved
further, really. Stiles didn’t care. He continued to laugh until he was gasping
and clutching his sides.
     “That shit would’ve been all over Facebook and Twitter in seconds,” hooted
Stiles, knowing Derek knew exactly which eventuality-that-wasn’t he was
referring to. “You’d have fucking trended so fast your tail would curl.”
     The growl that emerged from Derek’s chest didn’t quite sound like he was
playing, not that Derek ever played, and before Stiles could utter any more
about how many hits the Tumblr post would’ve gotten in an hour, there was
another hand clenched in his sweater and Stiles was being hauled up against the
wall. Derek got so far up in his grill that Stiles could feel the breaths
puffing too fast out of Derek’s nose, could probably have counted the dots of
his stubble had it not been so dark. It was a little unnerving, actually, and
Stiles squirmed in a way that was partly begging to be released and partly to
try to mitigate the sharp tingle of excitement that knifed through him at the
contact. Fight or flight, supposed Stiles, and his body couldn’t seem to decide
which it wanted more. In fact, it seemed to want to do everything at once, like
Stiles had skipped his meds for a month and replaced the Adderall with speed.
Is it possible to overdose on adrenaline? he wondered. Right now Stiles felt so
strung out on this natural high that he practically vibrated himself to a half-
chub.
     “I can’t deal with you when you’re like this,” Derek informed him.
Probably because his hands were currently busy balling themselves in Stiles’s
clothes, Derek used his body to achieve the effect of a finger pointing in
Stiles’s face. All it served to accomplish, however, was that Stiles got
pressed even more firmly against the wall, and personal space became a bigger
figment of his imagination than it normally was between him and Derek. “It’s
obnoxious.”
     “Obnoxious?” Stiles chose to believe his voice emerged as a gasp because
Derek wasn’t really giving him much room to draw air. He found himself
squirming like a live wire, unable to control himself. “How the hell do you not
find this, like, exciting? We just owned that life-or-death experience, man!
Fucking dominated it. And now you tell me I don’t get to enjoy it even a little
bit?”
     Derek snorted and his expression became unexpectedly wry. “Who said I
don’t find it exciting? I just think you need to calm the hell down before you
actually achieve liftoff. I didn’t save us from the Argents only to watch you
crack your skull open off the edge of a wall.”
     “I’m not going to crack my head off anything. My dad barely bothered to
de-childproof the house after I got diagnosed with ADHD—there’d have been no
point. So you could stop being all growlypants for five seconds and just savour
the buzz. And this buzz? Is awesome.” Stiles didn’t mean to, he honestly
didn’t, but the words made him huff and push himself against Derek the way he
might have given Scott a chuck on the shoulder midargument to punctuate
something important. Only he couldn’t reach Derek’s shoulders, because his arms
were kind of pinned, so he only managed a weak hip thrust that, in retrospect,
could’ve been grossly misinterpreted under the circumstances.
     And, well. That interpretation wouldn’t have been so far off. Okay, sure,
it wasn’t like Stiles actually intended to go rubbing himself against Derek, of
all people, but if there was one thing he knew about near-death situations, it
was that they were usually followed by Stiles rushing home to eat, dance, and
jerk himself off into a stupor, and not always in that order. There was just
something about the rush that made him want to fuck anything with a pulse
(which his fist kind of did have) and then gorge himself into a sugar coma.
More than usual, even, which was saying a lot for a sixteen-year-old boy.
      “Savour it, huh?” There was a bright gleam in Derek’s eyes that wasn’t
quite the red tint of his wolfed-out self, but not far off it either. From the
tone of his voice and the thoughtful, almost delicate way Derek leaned in to
sniff Stiles’s jaw, there was a chance he knew a lot more about how Stiles
typically burned off his adrenaline high than Stiles could’ve anticipated.
Hell, maybe werewolves dealt with it the same way. The thought of Derek eating
cupcakes and jerking off at the same time made Stiles snort out something
caught between a frantic giggle and a moan. But if he hadn’t known any better,
he’d say Derek looked a little punch-drunk right now, too.
     Swallowing the instinctive bolt of nervousness that wanted to crawl up out
of his mouth and transform itself into full-on verbal diarrhea, Stiles forced
himself to stay calm and shifted his body weight so he could lean more fully
into Derek, letting the other man feel exactly what Stiles meant when he said
this kind of shit got him excited. He thought he’d feel so proud of himself in
the morning for meeting the challenge in Derek’s eyes, for refusing to
apologize for his body’s perfectly normal response to not-so-normal
circumstances, letting himself live in the moment and all that crap. YOLO, or
something. Stiles was totally owning this motherfucker right now. Except that,
whoa, holy shit, there was Derek’s erection pressing into his hip when he
shifted his weight, and Stiles gave a yelp that couldn’t sound any less in
control of the situation if it tried.
     The slight curl of Derek’s lips was dangerous and knowing. “Stiles,” he
murmured, “I appreciate that you’re pretty much just succumbing to natural
urges right now, but if you don’t choose to go to bed in the next five seconds,
we’re going to have one hell of an awkward conversation on our hands tomorrow
morning.”
     Eyes still on Stiles’s, Derek unbunched his hands from the fabric of his
shirt and slid them down to bracket Stiles’s hips, which seemed to have taken
on a life of their own in his attempts not to writhe like some wild, trapped
thing. The pressure of Derek’s fingertips made him give an aborted jerk, and
Stiles forced out a strangled “Why? Is there something I’m doing that makes you
uncomfortable?”
     “You’re such a little shit,” huffed Derek, voice breaking around what
could’ve been a chuckle but just as likely was a grunt of pleasure, since
Stiles sure as hell couldn’t think of anything worth laughing about right now.
     Mouth uncomfortably dry—who was he kidding, this was just like getting
high—Stiles licked his lips and shuddered at the thrill that zinged through him
when Derek’s eyes tracked the movement. “You could stop liking it so much,
Sourwolf,” he challenged, albeit weakly. He barely got the last word out,
though, ended up gasping it out into the shock of Derek’s mouth suddenly on
his.
     The last time Stiles had kissed someone was in the seventh grade, the
result of a token game of spin the bottle at a token middle-school birthday
party—he was lucky if that kiss had lasted longer than half a second, barely
more than the kind of peck you’d give an aged aunt. While it might not have
been much, until now that’d been his fallback example when defending his lack
of experience to outsiders. It was clear, however, that Stiles had been
severely deluding himself when it came to knowing anything about what a real
kiss was like.
     Until now. Derek kissed like an argument, like a fight, and if Stiles
hadn’t been so turned on by the bite of Derek’s teeth and the slick, demanding
pressure of his tongue, the traces of blood and dirt he could still taste from
their tussle with the Argents, he’d have wanted to laugh at how even this was
fraught with violence and competitiveness between them. But Stiles didn’t care,
Christ did he ever not care, and despite his lack of experience—or perhaps
because of it—he couldn’t not fight Derek back. Funny, but his version of
fighting looked an awful lot like pulling Derek closer, manoeuvring his hands
to where they could clutch at Derek’s waist under the leather jacket and reel
him in.
     All this time, Stiles had thought he was waiting for the day when he’d
finally get to lose his virginity, but right now he wondered if he hadn’t just
been waiting for someone to come along and fuck him sideways with a kiss like
this.
     When Stiles managed to insinuate his fingers beneath Derek’s shirt,
scraping his nails along surprisingly soft, hot skin, Derek made a sound
somewhere between and moan and a growl, and then suddenly Stiles was being
fucking hitched up and had to wrap his legs around Derek’s hips for stability.
A picture frame rattled as his back slid up the wall, but Stiles hardly noticed
it. All he could do was sling his arms around Derek’s neck and hold on for dear
life as this new position slammed them together at just the right angle for
Derek to rock up and into him. Wild. Totally wild. Ten minutes ago Stiles had
been fantasizing about a box of Pop Tarts, and now he was frotting against the
hottest guy he’d ever seen this side of Tom Hardy. That it was Derek freaking
Hale made it that much more of a thrill, because Stiles had never, ever thought
he’d—
     “Oh God,” he gasped as Derek, breathing hard, dropped his mouth to suck
and bite kisses into the tender flesh of Stiles’s neck, stubble rubbing the
skin almost raw.
     Stiles was filthy from rolling around in the dirt, they both were, but
Derek didn’t seem to care. He continued to grind himself against Stiles while
Stiles rutted against his stomach, and it might’ve been way too soon for Stiles
to feel remotely dignified about it, but he could already feel the agonizing
heat of orgasm starting to burn in his belly with overwhelming persistence. The
rub of denim against his cock created such shiver-perfect friction that he
groaned deep in his throat, hands grabbing at the first thing they could reach,
which happened to be Derek’s thick hair. When he got down to it, it turned out
sex was about as easy as falling off a bike.
      “Derek, I’m gonna come soon,” he panted, face burning with shame but
unable to deny it. He was sixteen and caught in a real-life wet dream. Just
thinking about something like this was normally enough to make him shoot faster
than a Fourth-of-July firecracker.
     With a smirk, Derek pulled back to rub his beard across Stiles’s lips,
then caught the edge of his chin with his teeth. “Oh yeah?”
     The lowness of his voice caused a full-body shudder in Stiles, gravel and
promise that tingled down to his toes. He’d always sort of wondered what it
would look like to see Derek go for broke in seducing someone, because you knew
a man who looked like that had to be good at that sort of thing, and now he
knew.
     And fuck, did Derek ever not screw around. Still mouthing at the abused
skin of Stiles’s jaw, Derek added, “Well, maybe you should just get it over
with. Then I can show you what a real orgasm feels like when I put my dick in
your ass.”
     How was Stiles supposed to not respond to that? The words—or more
accurately, the mental image they evoked—came as such a shock that he cried
out, fingers tightening in Derek’s hair and hips bucking involuntarily. He
almost came on the spot before Derek moved, lightning fast, and hauled Stiles
back down on top of the steps. Stiles landed on his ass with a stunned oof and
opened his mouth to ask what the hell Derek was doing, but his question was
answered as Derek quickly tackled the button and zip of Stiles’s jeans, then
pulled them down to his knees in one movement along with his boxers.
     Though Stiles flinched at the shock of cool air hitting his exposed skin,
he’d yet to process what was happening when Derek pushed his shirt up and then
dove in, capturing Stiles’s flushed cock between his lips without any warning.
His hands were so warm against Stiles’s belly, calloused fingers caressing with
unexpected gentleness even as Derek held him steady, stopped his hips from
snapping up when Derek swallowed him down and down and down. He all but nuzzled
into Stiles’s pubes, and the sandpaper of Derek’s beard scraped his balls and
made him jolt and whimper so plaintively he ought to have been ashamed of
himself.
     Stiles didn’t want to say he came instantly, but he came instantly,
shouting, again gripping handfuls of Derek’s hair because it was like the whole
fucking world had just fallen away. His spine bowed in an arc so sharp it was
nearly painful, eyes squeezed shut against the tears that unexpectedly sprung
up there. Derek gave an appreciative hum and took everything Stiles had to
offer, no surprise and no hesitation as he drank him down. The orgasm seemed to
go on so long Stiles wanted to sob with it, pleasure raking through him like
electricity, like fire hollowing him out. It felt like hours before his hips
stopped trying to fuck up into Derek’s face and the tremors started to ease,
leaving him twitching and sucking in noisy breaths and crying because Jesus
Christ he’d just seen the face of God.
     For a while Stiles could only lie there and stare at the ceiling, even
after Derek had released him and laid a possessive, comforting hand against the
base of his throat. His legs were still shaking where Derek knelt between them,
using his body to keep Stiles from sliding the rest of the way down the stairs
in a boneless puddle. Stiles blinked when Derek’s fingers brushed the tears
from his cheeks and, when he’d come back to himself, found Derek watching him
with an unreadable expression and big eyes.
     “Are you… okay?” Derek asked. He didn’t sound concerned, exactly, but his
voice was tentative, puzzled; Stiles almost didn’t know what to make of it, but
perhaps that best described his current state in general.
     Stiles shivered as feeling gradually returned to his limbs. He was
surprised he didn’t feel more tired or wrung out. Normally it was hard for him
to keep his eyes open post-orgasm, and he wondered whether residual adrenaline
was keeping him awake, if the crash would be that much more intense later.
“Depends on how you define ‘okay’,” he ventured, then fell silent when he
realized he didn’t know how to define it either, and sure as hell couldn’t
answer the question.
     Frowning, Derek chewed the inside of his cheek, and the gesture was so
alarmingly uncertain and young that Stiles was shocked by it, only remembering
a moment later that Derek wasn’t that far out of his teens himself. The thought
relaxed Stiles not at all, because at least one of them ought not to be flying
blind here. He’d kind been of counting on it, in fact.
      “I guess we… got a little carried away,” Derek murmured after a lengthy
pause, brow furrowed, as he helped Stiles up into a sitting position with one
hand on his elbow. Stiles made a tiny sound at the head rush, swaying, and the
grip didn’t loosen. Though Derek opened his mouth to say something else, he
closed it again as his frown deepened instead. Then he said, “To be honest,
Stiles, I’m a little afraid of what’s going through your head right now.”
     “Well, that’s nothing new.” Stiles bit his lip when he realized he’d said
this out loud.
     But even that was easier than acknowledging what Derek was really trying
to say—that he was worried Stiles regretted what’d just gone down, that some or
all of it had happened against his will. Stiles attempted to work out whether
it was really a problem. Sure, Derek kissing him had caught him a little off
guard, and obviously neither of them had stopped to think the rest of it
through, but Stiles decided he felt surprisingly okay for someone who’d
literally tripped and lost his virginity. Maybe that was the shellshock
talking, but he thought it was best to take one thing at a time. He could wait
until tomorrow to have a minor nervous breakdown over the fact that he’d just
had sex with the last person he swore ever to like.
     “What’s going through your head?” he countered, deflecting because he
didn’t know how to put any of that into words.
     “I’m a little afraid of that, too.”
     Right. This was Derek Hale he was talking to. The guy had the emotional
range of a brick. Still, Stiles supposed it was a start that Derek admitted to
being concerned about something other than effective intimidation tactics or
moon phases. “So what now?”
     “That’s… a really loaded statement,” Derek told him, gaze unwavering.
     “Yeah, and what just happened wasn’t loaded at all,” Stiles retorted with
an unimpressed grunt.
     With a roll of his eyes, Derek sat back a little on his haunches, putting
a small but definite distance between them. “Stiles, I’m not saying I regret
anything, but if we walk away now we can chalk it up to adrenaline-fueled
stupidity and leave it at that. No one has to know, and we don’t have to talk
about it again. We just go back to being… whatever we were before tonight.”
     He’d probably meant that a lot less offensively than it came out, but
Stiles bristled. Derek could think what he wanted, but out of everyone they
knew, he was not the guy whose sanity would be called into question if the rest
of the pack found out about this. Sure, Derek might look like a GQ model, but
the last Stiles checked, being hot didn’t subtract from being weird and a freak
and a Level-10 creeper. “And what was that, exactly?” he snapped.
     Derek shrugged. “Fucked if I know. But whether you want to call us
friends, allies, or mortal enemies, all that changes unless I get up and step
away from you right now. If I don’t, then this becomes something else entirely.
Something deliberate and premeditated.”
     There was no way Derek could miss how badly Stiles had startled to
tremble, shivering along the edge of what could be fear but tasted a lot more
like disappointment. Stiles was pretty well acquainted with how that felt, and
hated that he should be feeling it over Derek Hale of all people.
     “You make it sound like we’re about to commit mass murder,” he bit out.
“If you don’t want to have sex with me, just fucking say it, dude. It’s not
like you’d be the first person to turn me down.” Trying to snap himself out of
it, he began to get up. He didn’t get far. Stiles looked down at the hand Derek
had placed against his chest to hold him still.
     “Don’t put words in my mouth,” Derek admonished.
     “Oh, but putting my dick in your mouth is just fine?”
     “Very mature, Stiles.”
     “You’re the one who said it!”
     Derek gave an aggravated sigh and snatched his hand back, and Stiles took
the opportunity to yank his jeans and underwear back up, hating how naked he
felt. There was an uncomfortable silence as Derek watched him, but then he
said, “What I want… or don’t want… isn’t the issue here,” and stared fixedly at
Stiles’s collarbone. His collarbone, Stiles realized, because Derek couldn’t
even look him in the eye right now. “It’s just… All I’m saying is it would be
the easiest solution to the situation before it becomes a problem.”
     Stiles wanted to say that none of it looked like an easy solution from
where he was sitting; he wanted to say he didn’t even know what problem Derek
was talking about. But that would’ve been a lie, and the expression on Derek’s
face stopped him—he looked tired and unhappy, and Stiles’s snarky comments
wouldn’t help matters any. He felt the anger drain out of him despite how hard
he tried to hold on to it.
     Crap, maybe Derek had a point. He was just trying to unfuck the situation
without making it worse, or trying to preserve Stiles’s—and his—integrity, or…
something. Stiles ought to have been pissed that he was being forced to learn
an uncomfortable lesson about the destructive powers of sex before he’d even
had a proper taste of it, but suddenly he couldn’t summon the energy. Whether
it was because of the inevitable adrenaline crash or because this whole
scenario sucked balls was anyone’s guess.
     “I want to take a shower,” he said weakly. “There are no words for how
gross I feel right now.”
     A momentary flash of hurt crossed Derek’s face, quickly replaced by a flat
expression that was a little too neutral to ring true. “You smell pretty
gross,” he said, and it was such a bad attempt to diffuse the tension that
Stiles couldn’t pretend to be offended by it. This might’ve been the most
awkward post-coital exchange in the history of awkward post-coital exchanges,
but Stiles felt almost relieved to see Derek acting every bit as out of sorts
as he felt.
     “There’s another shower in my dad’s bathroom if you want to get cleaned
up, too,” he offered. Stiles wouldn’t kick Derek out or anything; if wanting to
punch him in the nads was grounds to do so, they’d have run into serious
problems long ago. Plus the Argents were probably still expecting him to go
back to the warehouse to recoup, and Stiles might’ve been angry, but he wasn’t
a dick.
     “Thanks,” said Derek. Hesitantly he asked, “Any chance I could throw my
stuff in the wash? Doesn’t make much sense to shower and then put dirty clothes
back on.”
     “I guess.” Stiles hitched a shoulder up. “Let me get you some stuff to
wear until the laundry is done.”
 
 
===============================================================================
 
     Finding Derek a set of clothes big enough to wear and getting a load of
laundry on managed to hold off the crash of disappointment and adrenaline
burnout until Stiles finally found himself alone, locked safely into the
privacy of his own bathroom. The pipes in this old house shouldn’t have be able
to handle two showers running at once, but he and Scott had cleaned themselves
up after enough muddy romps through the woods to have disproved the possibility
of the other guy’s water suddenly going scalding hot or painfully freezing. Not
that it mattered, because Stiles was rocking the cold shower right now anyway.
     He so badly wished it wasn’t necessary, but there was a naked and soapy-
wet Derek just a few feet down the hall where Stiles had let him use his dad’s
ensuite. Not only did Stiles want to be able to shower in his own bathroom
after this without trying to picture what Derek looked like with water sluicing
down his stupidly defined musculature, but his shower stall was cramped and
barely big enough to fit him, let alone a guy almost twice Stiles’s size. He
didn’t know why he was taking one for the team when Derek deserved a little
discomfort—except, no, Stiles didn’t truly believe this was solely on Derek’s
shoulders. Stiles had flirted. He’d goaded. He’d come on to Derek way before
Derek came on to him. Rationally he knew Derek pushed him away later in an
attempt to try and right the situation after the fact, for all the good it did.
     And it’d done so embarrassingly little. Stiles’s mind was helpless to keep
itself from turning back to the scratch of Derek’s whiskers and the slick of
his mouth, the way he’d lifted Stiles against him with no more difficulty than
he would a rag doll. It was funny how Stiles always knew it’d be like that;
how, at the same time, it was like he didn’t know anything at all. He just
remembered how excited he’d felt, maybe the greatest rush ever, how hard it’d
made him. God, how hard he was again now.
     Trying to concentrate instead on getting himself cleaned up, Stiles
furiously worked at the layers of dirt and grime and blood, though he couldn’t
be sure whom it belonged to since he wasn’t hurt anywhere. Bruised, yes—he
always looked like a walking advertisement for domestic abuse—but miraculously
not cut anywhere. Must’ve been Derek’s.
     Not that Stiles was thinking about Derek in the shower or anything. He
scrubbed until he was pink and sore, distracting himself with pain, but there’s
no stopping the tiny, frustrated sounds he made at every brush of his wrists
against his cock, the thick need in his belly that made him give up the
pretense of not needing more than the casual touch of his own hand. He should
just rub one out and be done with it, not waste another thought on the subject,
but Stiles knew himself well enough to dismiss the idea as bullshit. He
could’ve stood here whacking it ’til his hands fell off and be just as obsessed
with the taste of Derek’s tongue in the morning.
     It wasn’t as though he hadn’t heard what the guy said. He had, and
contrary to appearances he’d actually tried to listen to Derek’s reasoning,
understanding as much as a dumb kid of sixteen could understand of these
things, especially with need overriding pretty much everything but the urge to
want, take, have. But it was like Stiles had wandered too close to an open
coalmine with a lit candle or something; now there was a fire he couldn’t put
out. He gave his dick one quick, conciliatory stroke, hoping it might be enough
of a compromise for his body to calm the fuck down, but all it did was
frustrate him further and incite him to bang his forehead against the shower
wall a couple times, cursing, until his skull hurt. Bizarrely enough, it seemed
to crystallize things for him, though that could’ve been the latent brain
damage talking.
     Still, Stiles didn’t even pretend not to feel relieved when his next
actions were to turn off the water and grab a towel. On the way out he caught a
glimpse of himself in the fogged-up mirror, and paused to swipe a hand through
the moisture so he could see his reflection. He gave a start at the swollen
redness of his mouth, the bruises already starting to form on his neck where
Derek had done a number on him. Shuddering, he marched himself out of the
bathroom and down the hall to where another shower continued to run.
     Either werewolf hearing wasn’t so great in the shower or Derek was giving
him some weird gesture of courtesy, but Stiles’s entrance into his dad’s
ensuite went unacknowledged. The master bath had been renovated a couple years
before Stiles’s mom died, making room for a sweet claw-foot tub and a spacious
shower stall, and he could see Derek clearly through the glass door. His back
was to Stiles and the rest of the room, leaning against the wall with one hand
to support himself. Stiles didn’t miss the faint possibility that Derek was a
bit of a shower-hog, based not only on how long he’d been in here, but also on
the limp, appreciative droop of his head under the spray, looking like he
wanted to drink the water in with his whole body.
     But Stiles could only concentrate on that for a second before his eyes
were all but dragged forcibly down. Lower and lower, so he could take in what
Derek seemed to think Stiles should be missing out on—the triskele tattoo stark
against the pale skin of Derek’s back, his trim waist, the obnoxiously firm
glutes that practically made Stiles’s mouth water on the spot, as visceral a
reaction as he might’ve had to a really great pair of tits. He supposed,
visually speaking, the perfect cleft of Derek’s ass didn’t look all that
different from a nice display of cleavage, and at the thought Stiles emitted a
squeak that finally compelled Derek to turn around.
     Afraid of losing momentum, Stiles ignored the startled look on Derek’s
face and dropped his towel, making himself take the few remaining steps towards
the shower so he could open the stall door and step inside that cocoon of
warmth and steam.
     He blurted out the one thing that’d been circling around his mind pretty
much nonstop this past little while, taking advantage of Derek’s surprised
silence. “Did you… did you mean what you said before?” he asked. “About the—”
Finally, it was too much to say out loud. Stiles snapped his mouth shut as his
cheeks flushed red and tingly, which, if anyone asked, he’d blame on the heat.
     The way Derek had his fists clutched to his chest made Stiles think of
that thing girls always did in movies to cover themselves when someone
surprised them in the shower. It was funny but completely ineffective, since
Stiles had seen Derek’s chest about a million times and the rest of him never.
He’d look his fill now, but hello, rude. Even if he was so, so curious, so
fucking hungry. Instead he noticed there were suds on Derek’s hands he was
trying to hold away from the spray; a second after that, his brain made the
connection between those soap-slick mitts and the fact that Stiles wasn’t the
only one who’d escaped into the shower with a boner.
     “About what?” Derek eventually responded, eyebrows deeply troubled. Stiles
liked that Derek got how pointless it’d be to question Stiles’s presence in the
shower right now, jumping instead to the main event.
     Stiles really wished he could clarify what he meant without having to say
it, but his furious hand gestures didn’t seem to cut it. At least not judging
by how Derek continued to stare at him. “About showing me what a real orgasm
feels like,” he managed to squeak, voice intimidated down to a near-whisper.
     There was sure as hell no way he could look Derek in the eye and repeat
the part about Derek’s dick in his ass. Except—holy fuck, he wanted it so bad,
wanted Derek to show him how good it could be. The thought alone sent a shiver
through him, and he blushed further. Stiles figured there was no turning back
from the fact that Derek had sucked his cock, right? Might as well go big or go
home. At this point they were practically doing each other a favour by putting
themselves out of their misery. Collaboration at its finest.
     He didn’t miss the way Derek’s pale eyes narrowed at the words, glaring
down at him as though angry. His eyelashes were glued together in spikes from
the water and made his eyes look even more arresting. And they definitely were
that—arresting. Not dark and predatory like before Derek had kissed him, but
sharp. Interested, maybe, if Stiles could guess what interested looked like. He
hadn’t had his throat cut yet, at any rate.
     “We talked about this,” Derek said with something approaching patience.
     “No,” Stiles corrected, finding his bravado, or his balls, or both, “you
talked, and I just didn’t argue. At some point it had to have occurred to you
I’d find a flaw in your logic eventually, something to object to. I always do.”
     Fed up with the idea they could spend more time dancing around this,
Stiles decided to go for broke and reached out to curl his hand around where
Derek was still impressively aroused.
     “You said you thought grinding this amusement park ride to a halt was the
easiest solution for both of us,” he said, voice wavering only a little bit.
“But frankly things are looking pretty hard from where I’m standing.”
     There was no mistaking the puff of air that hissed past Derek’s lips or
the warning flash of his teeth. “You’re sixteen,” he bit out, the strain of
control clear in his voice.
     “So? How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
     For a moment there was nothing but the overloud sound of the shower spray,
and if Stiles couldn’t see his chest moving he’d think Derek had stopped
breathing for a second. But then his jaw worked angrily and he spit out a
bitten-off “Fifteen.”
     Whoa. Well, okay. That wasn’t quite the answer Stiles had expected, but he
could work with that. Plenty of people lost their virginity early—just look at
England. He knew about snog culture from Skins. Stiles was a lot closer to
fifteen than seventeen at this point if you wanted to look at it that way, and
most of his friends had lost their V-cards around the beginning of sophomore
year anyhow.
     He was about to open his mouth to respond when Derek cut him off, saying,
“Stiles, trust me, my experience is not a point in your favour in this case, so
don’t even try to use it. You’re a… a pup. At this age you don’t think there’s
anything you can lose that you might want back.” He sounded distinctly sad, and
Stiles wondered if Derek wasn’t projecting a little bit over the innocence he
lost too young.
     Well, join the freaking club. Stiles had seen a lot more that would scar
him for life than a twenty-two-year-old werewolf who’d accidentally deflowered
a minor. He hadn’t felt like a kid for a while now, and there were far bigger
things for him to worry about in his life than spreading his legs for a less-
than-expected someone in less-than-expected circumstances. Like not dying or
watching his friends die. You know, regular teenage stuff. Stiles wouldn’t deny
he might’ve pictured it going down differently, but he wasn’t going to play a
bunch of Taylor Swift and cry himself to sleep later. Quite frankly, this
conversation, while excruciating, was the first thing Stiles had done in a
while that felt normal, like a reprieve.
     “What I am is horny and a virgin, not stupid,” he corrected, anger
sharpening his words. “I know perfectly well what it means to get hurt and lose
things you wish would come back every day.” Derek looked chastened at that,
probably remembering about Stiles’s mom, and to make the look of pity go away
Stiles tightened his fingers around the heft of Derek’s cock, the warmth and
wetness of which made his own erection throb in excitement or sympathy, he
couldn’t decide which. “But I’m also of pretty freaking sound mind right now,
and nothing in my life has been easy since I met you. I don’t even know what
easy looks like anymore. Even if I did, that isn’t what I want.”
     “I thought you wanted Lydia,” countered Derek.
     “I decided I wanted Lydia when I was five years old,” Stiles pointed out.
“At that age my backup plan was to marry a T-Rex.” Yeah, he wasn’t stupid
enough not to know his affinity for Lydia Martin was more figurative at this
stage, though he thought he’d probably slept through English class on the day
they talked about symbolism anyway. Nerves starting to fail him, Stiles pushed
forward with an annoyed grunt and blurted out, “Right now what I want is you,
okay? So just… stop fucking condescending to me, and either put me out of my
goddamned misery or kiss me, dude.”
     The seconds crawled by as Derek simply looked at him, watching Stiles’s
face like he was trying to decide whether Stiles was full of shit or secretly a
genius. Which, obviously. His heart may have been pounding in his throat, but
Stiles wasn’t lying, wasn’t uncertain, and knew Derek knew it. Nevertheless, he
couldn’t help but release the breath he’d been holding when Derek leaned
forward and pressed their mouths together, infinitely slower than before, but a
proper, deep kiss.
     Stiles didn’t quite know what he was doing, didn’t know how to make it
good like Derek could, so the best thing he could think of was to copy the
movements of Derek’s lips, the way his tongue flickered out or how he
occasionally tugged on Stiles’s bottom lip with his teeth. It felt awesome, and
Stiles moaned into it and reached up to tug Derek closer with his hands in his
hair, wrapping those sopping dark waves around his fingers. Now there was
definitely no denying the hard jump his cock gave when he canted his hips to
rub against Derek’s groin, good like before times infinity now that they were
both naked.
     Derek broke off from the kiss with a low sound, forcing Stiles a step away
from him with hands on either side of Stiles’s face. It wasn’t to signal
refusal, Stiles realized a second later; Derek wanted to look at him.
Embarrassment coloured his cheeks as Derek stopped and dragged his gaze down
the full length of Stiles’s body, eyes taking everything in with deliberate
slowness. Stiles wasn’t built like Danny or Jackson or even Scott (that he was
no Derek either went without saying), but he didn’t think he had anything to be
ashamed about, even if he was suddenly really glad for the weights he’d
purchased last summer. Derek didn’t seem to have any complaints either. When he
lifted his eyes back up to meet Stiles’s gaze, mouth slack with want, it was an
undeniably heady sensation.
     The feeling made Stiles brave, and he arched his body against Derek’s,
rubbing. “C’mon, kiss me,” he murmured.
     To his relief, Derek didn’t fight him and did as asked, gathering him up
into in arms and slotting their mouths together. Stiles stumbled backwards
until he hit the shower wall, shoulder blades jarring against the cool tile.
Once again he found himself hefted up and his legs wrapped around Derek’s
waist, the effect all the more potent for the slippery glide of wet skin
against skin. Without even trying, Derek’s cock located the strip behind
Stiles’s balls and nudged against it, then prodded even farther back until
there was undeniable pressure against his hole that made Stiles immediately
clench up in excitement, his breathing going erratic. They were just rutting
and it didn’t seem deliberate, but Stiles mewled his approval and was met by a
sharp tug at his bottom lip by Derek’s teeth. His fingers gripped into the
muscles of Stiles’s ass with the sweetest fucking bite he’d ever felt.
     “You make me crazy,” Derek harshed out, pulling his mouth away for a
second only to reattach it to the skin near Stiles’s ear where, presumably,
there would be a mark later. The thought made Stiles groan almost as much as
the idea that he had any kind of effect on Derek at all, let alone the kind
that made him question his sanity. He tilted his head to the side so his neck
was bared, and Derek pressed him even harder into the wall. There was a brief
scrape of human teeth against his throat and Derek added, “You have no idea how
crazy.”
     Stifling a manic giggle, because this really wasn’t the time or place for
Stiles to lose his grip, he fisted his hands into the dripping mass of Derek’s
hair and jerked his head up, forcing him to look Stiles in the eye. “I have a
pretty good idea,” he said, or more like panted. “Getting better by the
second.”
      For once Stiles’s natural restlessness seemed to serve some purpose, as
the little uncontrollable rolls and bucks of his pelvis rubbed his cock against
Derek’s abs and Derek’s cock against his ass, concentrating a bit more
sensation on the lower half of Stiles’s body than he thought he could handle.
Tiny gasps and whimpers fell from his mouth faster than he could try to bite
them back. Derek obviously approved, rumbling a moan deep in his chest that
made all the skin on Stiles’s shoulders, chest, and arms prickle.
     “You like that?” Derek asked, letting Stiles ride up against him like he
could do this all day.
     “Feels really good,” Stiles agreed. “But Derek, I need—” His own impatient
grunt cut off the thought, but he hoped Derek got the hint and did something.
He didn’t care what, as long as it was more. Stiles might’ve been new at this,
but he was getting the impression sex was like a hard-to-reach itch; scratching
once wasn’t enough. You had to keep doing it harder and harder to get that
little bit of relief, and it was so much better if someone else did it for you.
     At that, Derek shot him the most uncanny of smiles, as if Derek smiling
wasn’t weird enough already. Although he barely did more than give a sexy curl
of his lips, it was like catnip to Stiles’s over-stimulated brain, and he
whined helplessly.
     But Derek was already lowering himself down to the floor, hands firm on
Stiles’s waist to steady him on his wobbly legs. “I know what you need,” he
promised, eyes a darker, more vivid green than Stiles had ever seen them, and
then without warning Stiles was being turned and shoved back up against the
shower wall by strong hands against his shoulders.
     He began to say, “What are you—” at the series of kisses, licks, and nips
that trailed down the centre of his back, only to have his question abruptly
answered as he felt his ass cheeks spread open by Derek’s fingers and Derek’s
face suddenly, unbelievably insinuated in between, his mouth hot and open and
there against the absolute core of him.
     “Oh my God,” Stiles yelped and curled his fingers against the tiles.
Clawed at them.
     He instinctively tried to move away from Derek’s mouth, his tongue, Jesus,
but was held securely in place, and only succeeded in smushing his face into
the wall like he could melt right into it. If Stiles’s legs had been unsteady
before they were little better than rubber now, threatening to give out as
every nerve in his body seemed to focus dead on the sensation of Derek eating
him out, doing the most unspeakable fucking things to Stiles’s asshole, things
not even Stiles could’ve thought of in his filthiest dreams. He’d always loved
seeing men get rimmed in videos but never pictured it happening to him, not
like this, Derek’s mouth both everything and nothing he’d ever imagined.
     The rasp of stubble against Stiles’s skin tingled like electricity, little
shocky bursts of pleasure that made him shudder and gasp and twitch back
against Derek uncontrollably. Even the water raining down against his back
added to the overwhelming mix of sensations. Derek’s chin scraped deliciously
along his perineum and then a soothing tongue followed, long, slow laps like
Stiles was an ice cream cone on a hot day, kisses trailing lower momentarily
before Derek pressed his face back in against Stiles’s ass, so close not even
air could pass between them.
     Stiles found himself crying out, voice pitching higher as Derek’s tongue
jabbed into him in the dirtiest way possible, and he could hardly believe he
was the one making those sounds, pornographic moans and ecstatic shouts. He
begged and begged. When fingers slid into his crease and one of them gradually
insinuated its way inside him, working the ring of muscles loose even as Derek
continued to suck and lick and fuck into him like a machine, Stiles thought he
might pass out on the spot. He didn’t know if he could come from this but sure
as hell might die from it.
     It seemed to go on for hours, and then Derek stopped, suddenly, just when
Stiles felt he was on the brink of delirium, trembling and incoherent with
pleasure. Derek’s slow slide back up his body gave Stiles something to lean
into, though, and he let himself be supported against that firm chest so they
could both catch their breath; he sighed at the gentle kisses Derek pressed
into the nape of his neck and arched, rubbing against the erection lined up
with the crack of his ass. Stiles allowed his head to be turned when Derek
placed dripping fingers alongside his chin, and their lips met in a kiss that
was slow and a bit slack. The most coordination Stiles could manage was a
gentle lipping against Derek’s mouth. By now the shower had gone barely
lukewarm and he shivered.
     “Come on,” Derek said, noticing. He pulled away enough to reach the faucet
and turned off the water. Promise was thick in his voice when he added, “Let’s
go to your bedroom.”
     There was a brief intermission where they roughly dried themselves off
with towels from the rack. Stiles wrapped his around his waist, though Derek,
typically, couldn’t summon enough modesty to cover himself. Then again, maybe
modesty was totally moot at this point.
     They moved in silence down the hall to Stiles’s room. Stiles couldn’t help
but feel brave and shy all at once, mesmerized by the raw beauty of Derek’s
body like a moth struck stupid by the blinding lure of a flame, but also unable
to meet his eyes. Suddenly unsure what was even the right thing to say in this
situation—Derek, inscrutable as usual, was no freaking help—he distracted
himself by flicking on his desk lamp to chase away the claustrophobic darkness.
     He jumped when Derek came up behind him to clasp his warm palms over
Stiles’s hips, dipping in to caress the soft skin of his belly. Derek’s nails
scraped fleetingly against the trail of hair leading down from Stiles’s navel
to where it disappeared beneath the towel. The hold Derek had on him was a
confusing mix of gentle and possessive, fingertips pressing into flesh, not
quite bruising but firm enough to suggest Derek wouldn’t let him go easily,
that he was prepared to manoeuver Stiles wherever he wanted.
     And where Derek wanted him was right here, apparently, judging by the
decisive way he stripped the towel off and dropped it to the floor before
pushing Stiles forward. He forced him to bend at the waist, causing Stiles’s
hands to fly out to catch himself against the desk. Derek’s foot kicked his
legs further apart and Stiles had no choice by to obey, spreading his thighs
and digging his fingers into the wooden surface upon which he did his homework
every night. He gasped, prepared for what was coming but not like this, not
here, and yet Stiles couldn’t deny the vicious thrill of pleasure that swept
through him at the thought that he was going to get fucked over his desk like,
like... a schoolgirl in a bad porno or something. There was a perfectly good
bed five feet away, but the fact that Derek couldn’t even be bothered to wait
that long made Stiles pant with echoing need, made him arch his back and thrust
his ass out like he couldn’t imagine it any other way.
     The pained moan that hissed past Derek’s lips was a clue he’d done
something right, and the other man’s hand gentling down the serrated edge of
his spine was proud, approving. “Where’s your lube?” Derek grated out, rocking
his pelvis against Stiles’s ass.
     “Desk drawer, on the right,” Stiles panted. He had a couple stashes in his
room—here and in the bedside table, the two places he did most of his jerking
off. At first he’d only invested in a single bottle of lube, but quickly
realized getting up from in front of the computer was sometimes too much
trouble; and no one honestly believed a teenaged boy kept a bottle of hand
cream on his desk for cuticle emergencies.
     Derek dug around in the drawer for a second before withdrawing the tube of
slick, then said, “And condoms?”
     Stiles grunted. “Other drawer.”
     There were another few moments of shuffling around before Derek withdrew a
handful of foil wrappers, the rubbers inside a rainbow of garish colours.
“Where the hell did you get these?” he asked with an edge of laughter in his
voice. Stiles turned his head to look when Derek held up a glow-in-the-dark
condom. “Really?”
     “Safe sex assembly,” Stiles answered simply. It wasn’t like he’d been out
having sex at every available opportunity that he needed to buy condoms of his
own. The only thing that had stopped him from forking over his loot bag to
Scott was the little voice in his head that’d said, You never know. Clearly
that little voice knew something Stiles didn’t. “They handed them out to
everyone for free. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
     Chuckling, Derek flipped through the packets until he found one that
wasn’t flavoured or otherwise obnoxious looking. The rest he tossed back into
the drawer, and then Stiles buried his head in his arms as he heard Derek tear
open the foil and, presumably, roll the rubber down over himself. Next he
reached for the lube and clicked open the cap, and there was the sound of gel
being squeezed onto fingers and then something being slicked up. Stiles had
seen enough porn to imagine exactly what Derek was doing, and he shuddered out
a sigh of anticipation, ass wiggling unconsciously.
     He braced for what he assumed must come next, the blunt head of Derek’s
cock pressing against his entrance, but he flinched in surprise when he got a
finger circling his hole instead, too confident to be teasing but more tender
than he expected. Derek placed his other hand against the back of Stiles’s
neck, warm and reassuring.
     “Dude, enough,” Stiles whined, pushing his hips back against Derek’s body.
“Just give it to me already.”
     Unbelievably, Derek cuffed him lightly on the back of the head before
returning his hand to Stiles’s neck. “Always so fucking impatient. You’ll thank
me in a minute,” he chided, and then his slippery finger was working itself
inside. It was a familiar feeling, both from when Derek had done this in the
shower and from the times Stiles had fingered himself in the past, alone and
curious, but a second finger added a moment later caught him by surprise and
wrenched an animal-sounding groan from his throat.
     Never had Stiles been so aware of the thickness of Derek’s fingers as now,
the two of them equal to three of Stiles’s, stretching him open with firm
gentleness that had an edge of pain to it, but mostly had him spreading his
legs for more. The lube helped Derek slide easily in and out as the muscles
loosened and Stiles got used to the feeling of being opened up like this, and
at the prod of a third finger he mewled, deliriously thinking, Three-finger
rule, and propped his shoulders against the surface of the desk so he could
reach back and hold his own ass open to Derek’s gaze. That was pretty slutty,
okay, but you didn’t get your entire sex education online without picking up a
few ideas and tricks.
     “Fuck,” Derek gasped, sounding like the word was punched out of him, and
the hand on Stiles’s nape tightened. Stiles shouldn’t have felt half as
gratified by that as he did.
     Derek withdrew his digits for a brief second before he pushed all three
home. The burn was the most delicious thing Stiles had ever felt. He was loose
enough now that Derek could shove in far enough to reach his prostate, nudging
against it with a sure, relentless pressure that had Stiles crying out and
shaking with pleasure that was almost more intense than half the actual orgasms
he’d had in his life, and he wasn’t even there yet. His cock was throbbing and
pulsing precome against his stomach, trapped between his body and the desk.
     “Please now,” he begged, and Derek didn’t argue with him this time,
pulling his fingers out and immediately replacing them with the head of his
cock. They both moaned at the contact. Stiles suddenly understood the wisdom of
Derek having put the condom on earlier, so he could slide in without further
ado, just like this.
     Also true to Derek’s word, he was grateful indeed Derek had bothered to
stretch him beforehand, because while the feeling of taking a cock for the
first time wasn’t as painful as it would’ve been without preparation, it was
still intense enough to make Stiles keen a long, low note of discomfort as his
body attempted to accommodate Derek’s not-unimpressive girth. He thought of
every description he’d ever read of being split open, filled to bursting, and
decided none of it did the experience any justice.
     “Easy,” murmured Derek, entering him nice and slow. He replaced Stiles’s
hands on the top of the desk and then spent a few minutes rubbing warm,
pleasant circles over his back, caressing the skin in a way that both
distracted and added to the intensity of everything going on. “Push out a
little against me and relax. Breathe. You’re doing fine.”
     Clenching his teeth, Stiles sucked in a breath and said, “Hurts,” but
didn’t ask him to stop, for the first time in maybe ever concentrating on doing
as he was told, getting used to the feeling of Derek inside him even as he
needed more, more, more.
     “That’ll pass.” Derek sounded calm and surprisingly patient, taking his
time and pausing whenever Stiles made a sound that could’ve been pain, watching
his responses for cues on what hurt, what felt good, how much Stiles could
take. They’d always had the silent communication thing down pat but never,
Stiles thought, like this.
     It seemed like forever before Derek finally pushed all the way in, which
Stiles only knew because Derek’s pelvis bumped the curve of his upturned ass.
Entwining their fingers, Derek blanketed himself over Stiles’s back in a way
that should’ve felt smothering but wasn’t. He was immediately comforted by
having Derek in such close proximity, chest firm against his shoulder blades
and heart thumping a strong, reassuring tattoo. The sensation of lips pressing
kisses into the side of his neck sent something hot and unexpected flickering
through Stiles’s body.
     Though Stiles kept thinking he knew what came next, primed for Derek to
pull out and thrust back in, he waited for it and waited for it until he found
himself shifting impatiently, bumping himself back against Derek’s body in a
clear entreaty for him to do something. He was so busy being desperate for more
that it took Stiles a moment to realize that was probably Derek’s intention all
along, getting him relaxed and distracted enough for the pain to fade into a
memory. Clever.
     A shiver ran through him when Derek’s mouth brushed his ear. “You feel
unbelievable,” came the whisper, and Stiles groaned softly at that, at the
uncomplicated honesty in Derek’s voice, like being told “The sky is blue” or
“It’s raining.” He moaned a bit louder when Derek took the noise as
encouragement to slide his dick a little ways out and then in again, sparking
warmth like Stiles couldn’t believe. The force of it scared him a little.
“Always knew you would.”
     “Well, I’m glad you feel that way, because I feel like I’m gonna pass
out,” he countered with a breathless laugh, which was probably inappropriate
for the situation but escaped without his permission. This was kind of like
being drunk, overwhelmed and intoxicated to the point that consciousness no
longer seemed like a given.
     Derek nuzzled closer to his mouth. “That’d be a shame.” He shifted and
slid his arms under Stiles’s chest, one hand curling around his shoulder and
the other placed lightly against the base of his throat, then started rolling
his hips in easy, gentle movements that threatened the stability of Stiles’s
knees. For a moment he wished he could see the ripple of Derek’s muscles as
they coiled and flexed with the smooth undulations of his body. Oh God. Stiles
might actually not live through the night. He’d survived kanimas and deranged
Alpha werewolves and hunters with guns, only to die from Derek’s cock
overloading his brain’s pleasure centres. “I’d have to do this all over again
when you woke up so you would appreciate it properly.”
     “Which in no way suggests you wouldn’t still keep going even if I was
unconscious, right?” Stiles observed weakly.
     The quiet moan Derek breathed against his ear was oddly gratifying. “I
wouldn’t stop fucking you if the world was ending,” he said.
     Stiles all but choked on the shocked noise that worked its way up out of
his throat at that, but a particularly hard thrust had him yelping and
uttering, “Oh God, oh God,” over and over, especially when he fucking heard
Derek’s grin as he started pounding into Stiles in a punishing rhythm. “What
are you—”
     “Obviously not giving it to you hard enough if you’re still talking,”
Derek panted out by way of explanation, sounding a bit strained himself.
     He pulled Stiles more upright so they were pressed chest to back, holding
him in place so Stiles couldn’t simply slump forward in a boneless heap. With
the desk no longer in reach, Stiles flailed his arms momentarily until he
anchored his hands around Derek’s forearms, locking them together. Each slap of
Derek’s hips against his ass sent his cock bouncing off his stomach, sparking
pleasure through him like bright fireworks, and Stiles arched until his head
touched Derek’s shoulder. When he turned to look at Derek’s face, needing some
kind of visual connection other than the sight of his messy desk and the
posters on his bedroom wall, he found the werewolf’s mouth right there next to
his, Derek’s lips parted and bitten red. Eyes locking, it was like nothing to
initiate a kiss, even a sloppy one, mouths mashed together and teeth clacking.
A subtle adjustment of Derek’s hips had him driving against that unbelievably
sensitive place inside, and then Stiles’s shocked cries were thrown into the
mix, too, swallowed up by Derek’s greedy mouth.
     Stiles heard himself sob when, suddenly, Derek stopped, but he didn’t have
time to ask what the fuck had happened before Derek—gently, to Stiles’s
surprise—pulled out and swung Stiles away from the desk, manhandling him
towards the bed until Stiles’s calves hit the mattress and he fell backwards
with a grunt. Derek was on him in an instant, kissing him dizzy and stroking
his hands over seemingly every inch of Stiles’s over-sensitized skin, nails
blunt and human but still long enough to scratch pink lines into his skin.
Everything after that happened in a confusing blur of motion as Derek hiked
Stiles’s ankles up against his shoulders, fingers dug into the muscles of his
thighs, and then he was pushing back inside in one confident thrust that
wrenched Stiles’s mouth open even though no sound came out.
     Of course, that lasted about three seconds until Derek hefted him into the
ideal position, and every one of his thrusts started ramming Stiles’s prostate
with startling precision. Then the moans came tumbling out of him. Derek knew
his aim was good; a flash of a grin appeared, his teeth glinting, and then it
was replaced by a look of serious concentration.
     For lack of anything better to latch on to, because Derek was just
slightly beyond his reach, Stiles grabbed fistfuls of his sheets and tried to
anchor himself to something real as his body threatened to revolt. Actual
shouts tore his throat ragged, his voice a wild, frantic thing he barely
recognized. Derek was noisy, too, surprisingly so, huffing out broken sounds
and murmurs of Stiles’s name, whispered words of praise. His expression was
pleasure-drunk as he gazed down at Stiles, skin flushed, eyes hot, mouth soft
and surprised. Stiles was almost more mesmerized by that than the marvel of
Derek’s body, the muscles in his arms, chest, torso bunched and straining as he
heaved himself into Stiles again and again.
     Without warning, Derek pitched forward and began shoving Stiles farther up
the mattress so he could climb on top, hooking Stiles’s knees over his elbows
as he went. The new angle pushed Stiles’s legs against his shoulders and opened
him wider, took Derek impossibly deeper. Leaning in, he caught Stiles’s mouth
up in a bruising kiss even as his punishing thrusts continued to rock the bed
and them on it. The slam of the headboard was probably audible halfway across
the neighbourhood, and Stiles couldn’t have given less of a fuck. Everything
that wasn’t Derek—them, this—fell away. He slung an arm around Derek’s neck and
simply hung on for his life.
     “Touch yourself,” Derek barked out, gasping around the words, and Stiles
couldn’t tell if it was desperation or severity in his voice, but he did as he
was told, working a hand down between their bodies. He wrapped his fingers
around his cock and started stripping himself fast, massaging the spot beneath
the head with his thumb in the way that always made him come hard. Somehow he
knew, from Derek’s expression, there was no stopping this train now for either
of them.
     He’d never thought of pleasure as frightening before. Stiles thought he
might be coming apart like the old tree in the backyard that’d been struck by
lightning when he was twelve, splintered into a thousand unrecognizable shards
in a burst of light that was terrifying as it was beautiful. “Oh fuck, Derek,”
he whimpered, eyes wide and startled in his face as their gazes locked, blurry-
focused from up close. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”
     The broken moan Derek flung out was all he needed to trip over the edge
into his release, keening into Derek’s mouth as the fire grabbed him and burned
inside until Stiles thought he forgot his own name, come jetting out over his
hand and across his belly and chest, splashing the underside of his chin.
Barely four seconds passed, or close enough in Stiles’s woozy approximation,
and Derek jerked and shoved into him a half dozen more times. Buried as deep as
he could go, he cried out against the corner of Stiles’s lips and shook with
the force of his own orgasm.
     Time always seemed to transform into a theoretical concept when Stiles
found himself coming down from a sex high. It turned out sex with another
person—Derek, more specifically—knocked him for even more of a loop than usual.
He had no idea how long it took him to float back to himself, registering the
slowly lengthening breaths of the body on top of him and the ridiculous amount
of sweat drenching them both, but it wouldn’t have surprised him if hours had
passed. Days, even. Derek had let Stiles’s arms fall so they were wrapped
loosely around his waist—more of a graceless sprawl, really, and it seemed
Derek’s cock had slipped out of him at some point as well, leaving a weird
feeling of lack in its place.
     Wondering if this was what a fugue state felt like, Stiles resolved to ask
Lydia later, then returned his attention to Derek with a sigh that still
sounded a bit shuddery to his own ears. Derek had his face pressed into
Stiles’s neck and was breathing wetly against his skin, but he, too, seemed to
realize the moment Stiles rejoined the land of the living, and lifted his head
ever so slightly to meet Stiles’s gaze. His expression was wary.
     Stiles said the first thing that popped into his head. “Hi.”
     Derek approximated what Stiles thought was a smile by pressing his lips
together slightly, though there was strain in the slant of his eyebrows. How he
even had enough energy left to be tense at this point, Stiles couldn’t guess.
But Derek said a tentative “Hi” back, which was a start.
     He had a brief moment of panic when Derek disentangled himself to slide
off the bed, but Stiles relaxed when he saw Derek grab the discarded towel off
the floor and wipe himself down with it. Derek also pulled off the condom and
tied it before flinging it into the trashcan by Stiles’s desk, and then he
returned to the bed. Gently he began to clean Stiles up, swiping carefully at
the inside of his thighs as well as his stomach and chest; he even managed to
wipe the glob of jizz that had splattered beneath Stiles’s chin.
     It was awkward, just lying there while Derek cleaned him up, so Stiles
said, “So that happened. All deliberate and premeditated and everything.” He
gestured vaguely between their naked bodies, only to grimace when he realized
his hand was covered in come.
     Derek noticed and took a moment to clean his palm and fingers, getting
right in between, though he responded only with a clipped “Yes.” Any other
time, Stiles would’ve enjoyed seeing Derek look so uncomfortable, but he barely
had a chance to file the expression away before the awkwardness transformed
into something more concerned. “How are—” Derek began, sounding hesitant, then
broke off abruptly. “Are you hurt?”
     Grunting a short laugh, Stiles arched his eyebrows. “Did it look like you
were hurting me, dude?” Derek didn’t respond except to furrow his brows more,
so Stiles decided to let him off the hook easy. “The answer to that question is
no. Pretty much as far away from hurting me as it’s possible to be. Except for
that bit at the beginning, but even that was kind of enjoyable. Part of the
experience. Like how Jack Daniels is super gross at first but then totally
worth it a few minutes later.”
     The towel got tossed away into a nearby pile of laundry. Derek crossed to
the desk to turn off the lamp. Moving confidently through the sudden darkness,
he crawled back onto the bed but lay down beside Stiles instead of on top of
him. “So I’m super gross JD,” he said flatly.
     His deadpan delivery made Stiles want to thwap him, but that kind of
seemed like advanced pillow talk and he was still figuring out the basics.
Clumsily. “Did you hear the part where I said ‘totally worth it’?” he shot
back. A moment later he added, more gently, “You made me feel really good.”
     There was a slight softening about the mouth Stiles would’ve missed had he
not been watching Derek’s face intently, but it was quickly covered up with a
smirk. “Did I?” There wasn’t a trace of insecurity in the words, but Stiles
couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that it was more than a rhetorical
question. Or maybe he was just projecting. If he’d had barely a second to get a
thought in edgewise as Derek was manhandling him around, fucking the anxiety
right out of him, Stiles probably would’ve hyperventilated himself into a coma
over whether or not he’d done any of the right things, if his kissing sucked or
if Derek thought he was too skinny, or, or, or.
     He reached up and touched Derek’s eyebrows. “You really did.” Stiles
swallowed. “Did I—um, I mean, did you feel good, too? Even if I kind of twisted
your arm into having sex with me?”
     At first Derek’s face was closed off, no clues as to what he might be
thinking, but then he sighed and dropped his neck, touching his forehead to
Stiles’s shoulder. When he lifted his head again to look Stiles in the eye, his
whole guard was down, appearing as nakedly vulnerable as Stiles had only seen
him maybe twice before—in the pool after he’d saved them from Jackson, and a
few minutes ago, when they’d been having sex. It was terrifying, Derek’s face
like that, but Stiles refused to glance away or lower his gaze.
     “It felt good,” Derek told him, screaming reluctance from his tense
posture and soft voice, the insistent jump of a muscle in his jaw like he was
fighting something. “And you didn’t—it was nothing I hadn’t thought about
before. A few times.”
     Unbidden, a small sigh of relief snuck past Stiles’s lips. “Okay.
That’s—I’m glad. Me too.” He traced his fingertips down to Derek’s cheekbone
when he thought the touch wouldn’t be turned away or mocked. Derek twitched but
didn’t push him off. “I wouldn’t mind making you feel good again,” he said.
Stiles barely had the first idea about what he was even asking. “Um. I didn’t
really get much of a chance to touch you like you did before. In the shower. Or
downstairs. I kind of want to. If you think you want to, uh… you know. Again.
Sometime.”
     For a moment they did nothing more than stare at each other. Though he
didn’t answer, there was a lingering wariness in Derek’s eyes, Stiles could see
it, and so he did the only thing he could think of, cupping his hand against
the back of Derek’s skull in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. The hair
that brushed his palm was damp, probably a combination of sweat and residual
moisture from the shower by now, but Stiles found it oddly pleasant. He didn’t
apply any pressure to get Derek to kiss him, wasn’t even sure if that was the
logical next step in this situation, but something must’ve broadcasted because
Derek got the hint, leaning in until his lips met Stiles’s.
     It was chaste, at first, but then Stiles shifted onto his side and
squirmed closer, closer, pressing himself into Derek’s body and rubbing his
still-sensitized cock against Derek’s abs. He couldn’t help the soft moan he
emitted. Derek’s arms came around him and their legs tangled, and Stiles didn’t
know how they kept falling back into it but suddenly he was sucking on Derek’s
tongue and arching against him like they hadn’t just fucked each other’s brains
out. If his dick were unionized it’d be staging a strike right about now,
twitching feebly when Derek ran his hands down Stiles’s back to cup his ass and
hold them firmly together. Maybe it wasn’t totally necessary for Derek to voice
his answer out loud after all, which was something Stiles would’ve probably
learned sooner if he’d learned to keep his mouth shut.
     Despite Derek’s perfunctory clean-up job, they both needed another shower
immediately, but Stiles could’ve let it go on forever, letting his hands rove
in a way he hadn’t had the opportunity to do previously, given that Derek’s
approach to sex had been very Stiles-centric. Not that he was inclined to
complain about that. But let it never be said he couldn’t be the voice of
reason when the situation called for it. Stiles recognized how things could
easily snowball out of hand all over again, how the rasp of Derek’s stubble
against his skin was so very, very addicting.
     He dragged his mouth away with a gasp and said, “Oh my God, are you made
of catnip or something?” growling helplessly in his throat when Derek gave a
surprised-sounding chuckle and latched on to Stiles’s neck with his teeth, a
not-quite bite that caused Stiles to shiver and abortively hump up against the
ridge of his pelvis, because it seriously, seriously wasn’t happening again in
the next couple hours. At least. He was beginning to get quite well acquainted
with the concept of an adrenaline crash all over again. “I didn’t mean I wanted
to do those things to you right now, Jesus. I’m not equipped to deal with this
werewolf stamina of yours.”
     Derek pulled back seemingly for the express purpose of giving Stiles the
stink eye. “You should be,” he said. “Being younger and all.”
     “A couple hours ago you were ready to hold that against me.”
     At that, Derek fell silent, and Stiles immediately regretted the words.
Hoping to avoid rehashing that particular avenue of discussion, attempted to
mitigate it with a joke.
     Wiggling his hips against Derek’s for emphasis, he quipped, “I guess you
figured out a few other things you’d like to hold against me since then, huh?”
     But the words had had their effect, and Stiles felt the comfortable
afterglow slipping away between his fingers. He should’ve anticipated it,
having gone into this with no expectations to begin with, but at the prospect
of Derek pulling back he found himself desperately wanting to prevent it from
happening. To change his mind. Especially since he didn’t think he’d imagined
the effect they’d had on each other, how even that first kiss had ignited a
brighter, hotter fire than either of them was prepared for. And Derek had said
he’d thought about Stiles that way before. It was something Stiles thought he
could get used to, and he didn’t like the idea of relinquishing that feeling so
easily, nor the chance to make Derek feel that way again.
     “Your dad will be back soon,” Derek said stiffly. “I should get cleaned up
and go before he comes home.”
     “It’s Saturday, he’s on a double,” Stiles answered automatically. “There’s
no rush. You don’t have to go.” Off Derek’s conflicted look, Stiles decided,
fuck it, he was already naked and covered in various bodily fluids, he didn’t
have much dignity left to lose. Gesturing awkwardly, he croaked out, “Are you
really going to—after we just—”
     There was no interpreting the complicated crease between Derek’s eyebrows,
but then he said. “Stiles, I don’t…” Sighing, he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m
not going to pretend we didn’t just do what we did, or that it wasn't good, but
staying over probably isn’t a good idea.”
     “Why not? Because you might give someone the impression you enjoyed
yourself?”
     “Stiles, I can’t—” Frustrated, Derek grit out, “What do you want me to say
here?”
     Hardly knowing what he was doing, Stiles clapped a hand over Derek’s
mouth. “Maybe don’t say anything.” He forced an exaggerated yawn and gave Derek
what he hoped was a significant look. “Man, I’m tired. Those adrenaline rushes,
huh? Something else. You must be beat, too. I wouldn’t say no to just lying
here quietly for a while. Until you get your strength back.”
     Those pale green eyes studied him closely for several moments, though
Derek didn’t seem inclined to say anything until Stiles removed his hand. He
remained mute for another minute after that, the two of them watching each
other, but then he murmured, “I think anything that combines you and ‘quietly’
in the same sentence is a bit overambitious.”
     Stiles pressed his lips together to hide the smile that wanted to form.
“I’m willing to stay silent if you are.”
     This time Derek’s uncertainty, while still obvious, was shorter. Instead
of speaking right away he released his hold on Stiles in favour of reaching
down to grasp the sheets rumpled near the bottom of the bed and pulled them
over himself and Stiles. His lips quirked when Stiles kicked his feet to aid
the process and get himself settled comfortably, nestling closer. Derek
hesitantly pulled him in against his chest and replaced his arms around
Stiles’s waist, letting Stiles pillow his head upon Derek’s shoulder.
     “Okay,” he said at last, and brushed a kiss across Stiles’s eyelids like a
suggestion that Stiles should close them now. He did, and felt Derek’s head
settle against the pillow, his breaths warm and soft on his face. They both
took Stiles’s advice and didn’t say anything more.
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