Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/980809.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Agent_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Sheriff_Stilinski, Agent_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Extremely_Dubious_Consent, Cuddling_&_Snuggling, Sleepy
      Cuddles, Daddy_Kink, Rough_Sex, Possessive_Behavior, Emotional/
      Psychological_Abuse, Come_Marking, Accidental_Voyeurism, Aftercare,
      Dissociation, Masturbation
  Series:
      Part 7 of Starts_with_"F",_Ends_with_"U"
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-26 Words: 8008
****** I lost myself again ******
by RemainNameless
Summary
     later sequel to "You hollow out my hungry eyes"
     There's no such thing as easy. Derek needs help and Stiles can give
     it, but at what cost?
Notes
     WOW LOOK AT THE FOLLOWING WARNINGS BECAUSE WOW.
     As usual, this is PART OF A SERIES.
     ANYWAY. So, this chapter contains the most dubious of the dubious
     consent so far. As in, the sex would not be happening if there were
     not extenuating circumstances, despite whatever sexual attraction or
     whatever may be present. Some of the language is pretty manipulative.
     Also, there's a voyeurism issue wherein no one wants the voyeurism
     happening but it does anyway. There's also a brief episode of
     dissociation. And it's just generally pretty creepy? jsyk bbs <3
See the end of the work for more notes
It’s dark when Stiles finds himself very suddenly awake. He looks around the
room quickly, sheets clutched to his chest, and it’s then that he sees someone
slumped in the chair in the corner. After a second, he recognizes Derek, but
that doesn’t explain why he apparently snuck into Stiles’ room to sleep. 
“Psst,” Stiles hisses, then again, a little louder, and Derek’s eyes shoot
open, bright blue in the darkness. “Dude, what are you doing here?”
“I just…” Derek sighs, rubbing his face. “I didn’t feel safe there. Sorry. I
was going to leave before you woke up.”
“First of all, that would’ve been ten times creepier and I’m just going to
assume for the sake of my sanity that this would be the first time you’ve done
that, and second of all, don’t apologize. I wouldn’t feel safe there by myself
either. Now get over here,” he says, throwing open his covers. “And take off
your shoes, God, I don’t know how you can sleep when you can’t wiggle your
toes.”
Derek stares at him for a minute, and Stiles can’t really see more of his face
than just his eyes. But he gets up, takes a second to toe off his shoes, and
approaches the bed. At least he’s still wearing the basketball shorts. Because
Stiles was not about to let him into his bed in jeans, thank you very much, and
that might have been a little awkward.
“Don’t make it weird, dude,” Stiles tells him when he hesitates. “Couch rules.
Also, heads up, this bed is too small for the two of us if there’s no spooning
going on, so you’re the little spoon.” 
“I don’t care,” Derek says as he settles down onto his side, facing away from
Stiles. 
“Good.” With a sigh, Stiles slings an arm over Derek’s ribs, tucks his face
into the pillow better. Derek pulls the covers up over himself and tucks
Stiles’ arm under his own. It doesn’t really seem to be much of a thing for
him. He seems at ease, so he’s probably still mostly asleep. Stiles stares at
the back of his neck for a moment, wondering at how they got here, before he
lets it go and lets himself fall back asleep.
 
Stiles wakes up feeling really good. Like, usually when he has sexy dreams, he
wakes up with a mess and a good memory, but this time, he wakes up before the
grand finale. Right at a good place to enjoy it, just grinding his hips against
whatever he’s humping. 
Whatever he’s humping. 
His pillow is under his head, which begs the question what is he humping?
He opens his eyes and nearly shoves Derek off the bed because fuck. Fuck fuck
fuck. 
Derek makes a little angry noise at Stiles sort of flailing and turns his face
deeper into the pillow, pulling Stiles’ arm around him tighter. He’s kind of
stuck like this because Derek’s stronger than him, and shit, Stiles’ boner is
right against his ass. If he wakes up any more, he’s going to feel it and he’s
going to know and fuck. 
But he does try. Tries to sort of wiggle away, but that’s a fucking terrible
idea because some of the movement is in the exactly wrong place and Derek goes
tense for just a second. 
“Don’t make it weird,” Derek says, voice sleep-thick, “just go take care of
it.” He lifts up his arm so Stiles can slip out of bed, out of the room and
into the hallway. 
Where he very nearly runs into his dad. 
And pulls his t-shirt down over his crotch as far as possible. 
Dressed for his shift, his dad gives him a long-suffering look. “Something
wrong with your room?” he asks like he really doesn’t want to know the answer. 
“Uh, well,” Stiles says, trying to think of a good explanation at first, but he
gives up. “Not really alone. So. I’m just going to go? And you have a good
day.” 
He tries to sneak off to the bathroom, but his dad grabs his shoulder. “Don’t
think you’re getting out of that one. Please, for my sanity, tell me that you
don’t have who I think you have in your room right now. Just tell me you’re not
harboring a possible murder suspect.”
“At least he hasn’t been arrested for it this time?” Stiles offers and yeah,
that’s the wrong thing to say.
“Thistime?” his dad looks like he’s going to need to see a doctor about his
blood pressure pretty soon, and shit, this is really not his morning, is it?
“You should go to work,” Stiles says. “And just let me assure you that no
statutory is going to be happening under your roof while you’re gone.”
“I really don’t have the time or patience to deal with this right now, so I
just want you to think long and hard about how Romeo and Juliet ends. And then
I want you to think about how easily it could’ve been avoided. Understand?” 
Stiles salutes. His dad sighs and heads down the stairs. 
For a moment, Stiles just stands there. At least he doesn’t need to use the
bathroom anymore. That’s an upside, at least. Always good to look for the
silver lining, right?
Yeah, this feels shitty. But he can’t do a much about it, can he? Not until
they sort out this whole shitty mess with the murder. 
When he goes back into his room, Derek turns over to face him. “You told him
we’re together.”
Stiles shrugs. “It’s consistent, at least. Don’t worry about it. His only
problem is, well, we need to talk about that, actually. Because things are
going to get kind of shitty unless we figure out what to do.” 
“Is this the kind of talk where I have to get up?” Derek asks and Stiles grins
in spite of himself. 
“Nope,” he says quickly, hopping over and slipping under the covers. “I’m
totally down for this to be a comfy convo.” Facing each other, they don’t fit
as easily on the twin mattress, so Stiles tucks his legs up so his shins are
against Derek’s thighs. Derek’s got a hand between his head and the pillow and
for some reason, it makes Stiles’ stomach swim in a bizarrely good way. 
“So I’m a murder suspect again?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods. 
“Yeah. I don’t know how close they are to getting a warrant for your arrest,
but apparently, they were going to check your tires yesterday before your car
went bye-bye. Basically, if they find out that I was there after I left the
station, it might not look so good. Like I tipped you off. And you were
destroying evidence. My dad thinks we should stay away from each other until we
figure out how to make it go away.”
“You don’t agree.”
Stiles shakes his head. “No, I do. I don’t want to be the one to accidentally
implicate you in something you didn’t do. But if I can help by leading Rafa in
another direction, I’m going to need you.” 
“I…” Derek takes a deep breath. “I was thinking about who might do it, if they
were targeting me. I just wanted to be sure...there’s no way that this whole
story about us could’ve gotten back to him somehow, right?”
“No way. I mean, Scott knows, but they’re not exactly on good speaking terms.
I’m not sure if Scott’s mom knows, you know? But even if she did, she wouldn’t
ever talk to him about me. Not unless she was telling him to stay away.” 
Derek frowns. “Does she know?”
“Not about anything that’s happened with him in the past year,” Stiles says.
“But he was kind of...she knew what he was like. Who knows if she’s said
anything to him anyway. But if he does know about you, I’m not sure what to do,
honestly. But I mean, he’s a little possessive, but I don’t think he’d go that
far. Arson’s a felony, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Derek says, “it was probably just some stupid kids.” He doesn’t sound
convinced, but he seems to shake it off. “You don’t have to do anything about
it, though. I’ll deal with it. I’ve dealt with cops before.” 
“But if he does know, and he is going for you on purpose, then the only person
who can get him off your tail, no pun intended, is me. I’m the only one that’ll
be able to convince him that I don’t like you. If that’s what’s going on, then
I have to fix it. It’s my fault.”
Derek reaches forward and wraps his hand around Stiles’ wrist in a loose grip.
“It’s not your fault if he’s got jealousy issues. If he does, he’d be like that
even if you didn’t sleep with him.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Stiles tells him. “I’ve still got to fix it
because I can. And the sooner he arrests someone else and closes the case, the
sooner he’s out of here. I just want him gone, okay? I don’t want him in our
lives anymore.” 
“We can—”
“It’s seriously no big deal, okay? It’s just sex. I just need to make sure we
do it somewhere we can stick around at for a while. He’s got a hotel room. I
was thinking I’d go there, maybe tonight, and see what I can do.” 
Derek sighs, nods. “If that’s what you want to do. I’ll make sure you know
where to find me.”
“Good,” Stiles says with a sharp look, “because someone didn’t text me last
night when they were supposed to.” 
“My phone died. I’m here, and there’s not much to report anyway. They’re doing
an arson investigation. I need a new car. That’s all there is to it.”
Stiles gives him a look. “I was worried about you, idiot.”
The look Derek gives him hurts a little with how much it makes Stiles want to
kiss him. Because he can’t, or he shouldn’t. It’s easier if he doesn’t, and
what his dad said about Romeo and Juliet is sticking in his head. They don’t
need to bring a real relationship into this. Because then, whether it’s sooner
or later, Rafa will find out.
“I’m worried about you, too,” Derek says after a moment. “I don’t want you to
fuck him if you don’t want to.” 
“It’s not like I don’t enjoy it.”
“There’s a difference between enjoying it in the moment and actually wanting to
do it,” Derek says. “You don’t like him. You don’t like anything about him. You
don’t like yourself after.” 
Stiles rolls his eyes, mostly because he doesn’t want to look at Derek. “I’m
tired of having this conversation, okay? I’m not going to change my mind.”
Derek pulls away from him a little, lets go of his wrist, and it hurts. “Hey,
don’t be like that. Don’t be mad at me, alright? I’m just trying to help you. I
know you don’t like it, but you’ve done a lot of stupid, reckless things that I
didn’t like. I just need you to not be mad at me for this.” 
“I’m mad at him.” Derek’s arm tucks around his waist and it’s a little too
much, so Stiles shuts his eyes. It works until Derek rubs his back, says, “Do
what you need to.” 
It’s weird, but a part of him wants Derek to put his foot down. Wants him to
say that he won’t help Stiles cover it up anymore so he can’t do it. He wants
someone to make the decision for him, really. He wants it all to be out of his
hands. But Derek won’t give him that, and maybe it means Stiles is going to
make a mistake, but if Derek’s there when it happens, maybe it won’t be so
bad. 
And if it saves Derek from Stiles’ mess, then the price isn’t too high. 
It’s not that bad, anyway. Really, he’s afraid of Derek finding out how much he
enjoys it. Or exactly what it is that happens, because he’s okay with Derek
knowing that he gets fucked. That’s not a big deal. It’s what Rafa says, it’s
the little ways he unmakes Stiles, the way some part of Stiles craves it. He
doesn’t want Derek to know that part of him he hates. 
He naps a little. 
After a while, they both sort of realize that they’ve spent too long lying in
bed together for it to be considered normal by any stretch, so Stiles offers to
make breakfast. 
“Just to be clear,” he says, “by that, I mean that I’ll unwrap a pop tart and
stick it in the toaster for you. I don’t cook on weekends. Not if I can help
it.” 
“I’ll make something,” Derek tells him. He looks weirdly innocent about it,
like he has absolutely no vision of it going wrong, so Stiles decides to trust
him. Maybe he has hidden culinary talents. Who knows. 
“I’m going to take a shower.” He almost adds don’t burn the house down but
manages to stop himself just in time. 
Derek nods, stretching. “Go for it. I’ll have something ready by the time
you’re done.” 
“Sweet,” Stiles says, heading to the bathroom. He stops, thinking. “So, uh, if
the shower’s running and you’re downstairs, how much can you hear?” 
“Nothing I can’t ignore,” he says, the gives Stiles a tired look. “Just do what
you need to. I went through puberty in a house full of people who could hear
through the walls. I handled my parents’ anniversaries. Trust me, my selective
hearing is well-trained.”
“Right then. Awesome. I’m going to go. You do your thing. I’ll do mine. And
we’re going to pretend that neither of us know what I’m talking about.”
He leaves before he can say anything worse, and thankfully, Derek doesn’t say
anything horrible. 
The sound of the shower is really calming, actually. He hadn’t gotten around to
it yesterday after Rafa, so he’s pretty ready. The water isn’t even hot enough
by the time he’s stripped, so he waits, trying not to look at himself too hard
in the mirror. He catches the yellow of a fading bruise at his shoulder. The
hickey Rafa left, finally disappearing. When he presses his fingers to it,
there’s no ache. 
The mirror’s starting to fog up, so he hops in the shower. Shampoos. Tries not
to think about jerking off, but he’s going to do it anyway. He knows that. Knew
it before he got in the room, even. It’s just a good way to start the day. And
Derek gave him the go-ahead. There’s no reason not to. 
He squirts a little soap into his hand for something slick and pumps his cock a
couple times until he’s fully hard. 
Usually, he tries and fails to not think about Rafa, or he tries to think about
Lydia, or he thinks about a weird mixture between Derek and Rafa that makes him
slightly less uncomfortable than just thinking about Rafa. But he can’t. The
idea totally puts him off. And really, he woke up this morning pressed up
against Derek’s ass and it was kind of a beautiful place to be, so it’s not
like he doesn’t know what he’s going to be thinking about. 
He keeps it separate, though. Doesn’t let himself think about Derek in those
fucking basketball shorts because then he won’t be able to look him in the eye
over breakfast. So his usual. Jeans. Those fucking obscene jeans that only
people with asses like Derek’s should wear. Or the curve of his back, the warm
weight of his body. 
Or maybe what Derek admitted to yesterday. That he’s been fucked. Stiles hopes
he likes it, hopes he enjoys being filled with fingers or cock. An ass like
that should be enjoyed. Revered. Derek’s pretty athletic, too. He could
probably ride someone the way they do in porn, only without the editing breaks.
He could probably keep it up for a while. Stiles would bet he’d look like a
fucking dream over him. Or even under him. Where Stiles can taste his tattoo,
see if the skin feels different under his tongue. Or facing each other so he
can feel Derek wrapped around him all over. 
He bites into his fist when he comes, years of having his bedroom adjoining his
dad’s making him remarkably quiet. Breathing a little hard, he rinses off his
other hand, grabs the soap so he can finish his shower. Out of habit and maybe
preparation for Rafa’s that night, he spends a little longer than he might, but
he might as well. 
When he gets out, he puts his PJs back on too soon so they stick to his skin
with moisture. A moment later, he’s in the doorway to the kitchen and he
stops. 
Derek stills, moving a pancake from the frying pan to a plate, and stares back
at him. Stiles looks at his face and down to the frilly pink apron and back up
to his face. Face to apron. Apron to face. 
“What? Does it not bring out my eyes?” Derek asks drily as he sets the pancake
down.
“No, it’s...it’s my mom’s,” Stiles manages. 
“Shit. I’m sorry. Here,” Derek says, reaching behind himself to untie it. “It
smelled like you, I just figured it was a joke thing, the pink, I didn’t even
think—”
“Stop,” Stiles says, holding up a hand. “It’s okay. Just took me by surprise is
all.”
Derek’s hands drop to his sides. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” He shrugs. “It was, by the way. A joke, I mean. She hated the whole
concept of aprons, always said that’s what clothes are for, so my dad got her
the most obnoxious one he could find for Christmas one year. She wore it every
time she was in the kitchen just to piss him off, I think.” 
“My mom used to give us small appliances for the holidays,” Derek says after a
weird moment of silence. “The last one she got me was an electric fondue pot.
I’m still not sure what I was supposed to do with it.” 
Stiles smiles at him because he’s not really sure what to say to that, and
Derek clears his throat.
“So, there’s pancakes,” Derek says, holding out the plate. 
“Are those…” Stiles looks at them for a second. “You found the secret stash of
chocolate chips?”
Derek shrugs. “I was looking for frozen fruit or something. I grabbed the
‘frozen peas’ on accident. Sneaky, I have to say.”
“I’ve been trying to find his stash for ages,” Stiles tells him with an
exasperated sigh. “And there you go, finding it on accident. Of course.”
“Do you want the pancakes?” Derek asks, wiggling the plate in front of his
face. Stiles snatches it from his hands and counts. 
“We can split them. Let me just—” He grabs a second plate, the syrup, forks,
milk. “Come on. Let’s see if I’m going to turn you into my live-in chef or
not.” 
Derek turns off the stove and sits down with him at the table. One of his eye
brows is cocked as Stiles takes the first bite, chewing thoughtfully. Stiles
draws it out a bit, just to fuck with him.
“Alright,” he says, swallowing. “So, we can’t tell my dad you can cook because
then he’ll like you and it’ll be weird.”
“What’s so wrong with that?” Derek says, batting his eyes, and who can even do
that? “Don’t you want your dad to like your boyfriend?”
Stiles blinks, stomach flipping because yes, actually, he really does, but
Derek would have to actually be his boyfriend instead of his...person. Person
of ambiguous relationship to him. His not-boyfriend. Not that it wouldn’t be
super weird to call Derek his boyfriend even if it were more accurate because
they’re not really holding hands and Valentine’s Day. They’re near-death
experiences and cuddling they don’t really talk about. There’s not a good word
for that. For liking someone too much in spite of everything and because of
everything.
But he’s been quiet for maybe too long. 
“You know, I just have to ask him to buy condoms once and he’ll go after you.
Don’t test me, buddy.”
“I would do it anyway,” Derek says, cutting a triangle of pancake with the side
of his fork. “It’s just polite. So you wouldn’t have to ask him. Courtesy.”
“I wouldn’t have to,” Stiles says. “I mean, I got some for Scott once. I just
did self-checkout at the store so it wouldn’t get back to my dad. Gossip
spreads and all of that. Who knows what he would hear.” 
Derek makes a face close to a wince and focuses on his pancakes a little too
intently and they’re talking about buying condoms. For each other. Like it’s
nothing.
This is just a very uncomfortably not-weird morning. It should be really weird,
but maybe after you tell a guy you’re boning someone twice your age, the rules
change. Maybe they change after he tries to sleep in the corner because he
feels safer in your room than where he lives. 
“I’m going to fix things tonight,” Stiles says because he is. He’s going to
finish this shit with Rafa as soon as he can so he and Derek can have the talk
they’re not having. They’ve been putting it off for way too long and he’s tired
of not being able to say what he’s feeling when he looks at Derek. Or not being
able to touch him in the little ways when no one’s around. Sure, he’s only
about 95% sure that Derek’s on the same page, but that’s enough for him to go
for it when it’s safe. Because he can’t bring it up now without going too far,
and if it goes well, he’s not going to be able to fuck Rafa. He knows that
much. 
“I’ll be at my place, then,” Derek says. “I’ll wait up for you. Let me know if
you change your mind.”
“Thanks,” Stiles tells him with feeling. He eats quickly, glancing up at Derek
too many times. 
Derek’s guilt spills across the table, murky and oppressive like fog. 
“I’m doing it for you,” Stiles says quietly, stabbing rows of holes into his
pancakes with his fork. “Not because of you. There’s a big difference.” 
“Not from where I’m standing.” 
Stiles sighs and puts his fork down, but he doesn’t want to argue about it.
They disagree. That’s all. Arguing about it isn’t going to resolve it. He’s
still going to let Rafa fuck him and Derek’s still going to think he should
stop. Nothing’s going to change if they fight about it. 
“I should go,” Derek says. “I didn’t mean to stay so long.” 
“You don’t have to go.”
Derek stares at him for a moment, then shrugs as he gets up and collects their
plates. “My landlord probably wants to yell at me. I should clean up in case
the cops come by. I can’t do anything here.” 
“Fine.” Derek leaves the plates next to the sink when he goes upstairs and
Stiles starts cleaning up. 
As he’s putting the plates in the dishwasher, the doorbell rings. Frowning,
Stiles brushes his hands off on his sleep shirt and goes to answer it. He’s in
his PJ boxers, but they kind of look like shorts, and anyway, it’s a Saturday
and he’s sixteen. Anyone who expects him to be fully clothed is pretty
misguided. 
He flings open the door and freezes. Rafa takes a step forward, then another,
brushing right past him. 
Too late, Stiles says, “No no no, you can’t be here.”
“Relax. After the work I gave him, your dad’s going to be tied up for another
few hours. It’s just you and me.” Rafa peeks in the living room and kitchen,
probably seeing if it’s changed at all since the last time he was here, and
this is not okay. Derek is possibly upstairs right now. Possibly, since Stiles
is pretty sure he came in the window last night, which means he’s probably not
against doing it again. He might be gone, but Stiles can’t count on it. 
Rafa’s at the bottom of the stairs, heading up, and this is too much for Stiles
to handle. 
“Wait, don’t—” 
When Rafa turns, he gives Stiles a look that somehow manages to make him feel
ridiculous for protesting, just for an instant. “Come on. I’ve always wanted to
fuck you in your bedroom.” 
Shit shit shit. Stiles scrambles up the stairs after him, trying to stop him in
case Derek’s in there because wouldn’t that just be great? He grabs Rafa’s
shoulder, and he spins, gives Stiles a look that, for a moment, makes him think
he’s fucked up big time, but it disappears. Rafa yanks his shirt over his head
and backs him against the wall fast enough that the air rushes out of his
lungs. 
“Hey, look at me,” Rafa says, cupping his face. “I would never do anything you
didn’t want. You know that, right?”
Stiles nods dumbly, eyes shutting to block it out when Rafa kisses him,
terrifyingly gentle. 
“Good,” he says against Stiles’ mouth. “I care about you, baby. Let me show
you. Just let me give you what you need.” Stiles gets distracted by being
kissed again, doesn’t really realize until his legs are instinctively wrapping
around Rafa’s waist that he’s been picked up. 
It’ll be okay, though, won’t it? He’s given Derek plenty of time to clear out.
This just means he doesn’t have to go seek Rafa out tonight. If anything, it’s
better this way because there won’t be anything suspicious at all, since Stiles
isn’t the one coming to him. Everything’s going to be alright, he just has to
let go and let it happen. 
The sound of his bedroom door being kicked shut is what makes Stiles realize
that they’re in his room now, that this is happening in here and it’s too late
to stop it. He’s going to have to burn his sheets or something. 
There’s a wet sound when Rafa breaks the kiss. “Come on, let’s get you naked,”
he says, giving Stiles’ ass a good squeeze before setting him on his feet.
Stiles slips his boxers off his hips, steps out of them, and kicks them away,
following the arc in the air so he doesn’t have pay attention to the fact that
he’s hard, that of course he’s hard, and he very nearly screams. Because
Derek’s fucking there, in his freaking closet, looking like he’s caught in the
headlights of an eighteen-wheeler, too scared to run. Rafa takes off his suit
jacket, hanging it over the back of Stiles’ desk chair, and Stiles takes the
opportunity to frantically look between Derek and the door, which just gets him
an even more frantic look at Rafa. 
Shit, Rafa’s going to see him any fucking second, which is not okay, so Stiles,
panicked, launches himself at him, hits his mouth a little too hard. Rafa
laughs against him, an arm wrapping around his waist as Rafa’s tongue slips
into his mouth. Stiles reaches down and palms his cock through his slacks and
fuck he’s hard. But this is a thing for him, isn’t it? Stiles’ bedroom. In all
its illicit, underage glory. 
There’s a soft scraping sound and Stiles tries not to freak out about the fact
that his closet door doesn’t sit on the hinges right, never quite closes all
the way. But apparently, Rafa’s distracted enough that he doesn’t hear it. 
The thing is, Stiles can’t think about Derek. If he does, he’s going to freak
the fuck out, and if he does that, he ruins everything. 
“God, you’re so eager. Gagging for it, aren’t you?” Rafa asks as he unbuttons
his shirt with deft fingers. 
Stiles can’t bring himself to say anything, not since he knows that Derek can
at least hear everything, so he just nods. Starts working on Rafa’s belt
buckle. It comes easily enough, probably because he’s fucking had practice, and
he gets the zipper down about the time Rafa’s going for his undershirt. 
“Bed. Hands and knees. Go.” 
Without thinking, Stiles goes, grateful, at least, that he can just stare at
the wall. That he can only hear Rafa’s clothes dropping to the floor. He
breathes and focuses on the texture of the wall instead of the fact that
Derek’s hearing everything, that it really doesn’t matter that he can’t see
because he can probably visualize it just fine. But the words are worse.
Because Rafa’s going to start talking and when he does, there won’t be any
going back. 
“What a view,” Rafa says with a low whistle. 
Stiles’ face goes hot with shame, and Rafa’s hands settle on him, squeeze the
meat of his ass, hold him open to the cooler air in the room. His fingers just
kind of play with Stiles, trailing down his crack and brushing against his hole
like he’s got all the time in the world. 
But he better fucking hurry up because Stiles isn’t going to be able to handle
him drawing this out. Not going to work for him.
“You got any lube?” 
Stiles nods. “Headboard. Behind the tissues.”
Rafa snorts and pats him on the ass. “Of course it is, kiddo.” While Stiles
grinds his molars, Rafa leans over to the headboard, hand outstretched, and
stops. “Maybe I should just let you get me wet instead. I’ll eat you out. I bet
you can take it.”
Yeah, that’s not going to work for him. Stiles may have read some mythical
stuff on the internet about dudes who can take it with just spit, but he’s
pretty sure he’s not one of those guys. Even if Rafa isoffering to rim him
makes it the tiniest bit tempting.
“Lube,” Stiles tells him. “Use the lube.” 
Rafa grabs the lube with a sigh and moves behind him again, but he pauses.
“You’re better than that. You know the right way to ask me for things. Try that
again.”
No no no. Stiles was hoping he’d get through this without Rafa thinking about
it, without having to do this when Derek can hear. This is not okay. Fuck.
There’s a sharp, bright flash of pain across his ass, a smack, and Rafa saying,
“Take as long as you want. I’ve got time. I don’t need this the way you do.”
That’s not fucking true because Stiles doesn’t. What he needs from Rafa is way
more hard to get than his dick, but if he doesn’t play along, they’re sunk. 
Stiles drops down to his elbows so he can bury his face in his arms. “Please,
Daddy,” he whispers, hoping Rafa will ignore his defeat. 
“Good boy.” Stiles presses his lips tight between his teeth so he doesn’t let
anything out. 
The cap snaps open and a split-second later, he’s hissing as it lands, too
cold, against his hole. Rafa’s fingers rub it into him, warm it up a little,
before tucking two blunt fingers into him. 
“Did you finger yourself in the shower, baby? Is that why your hair’s still wet
and you’re loose for me?” Stiles shivers as Rafa leans down over him. “Or did
someone fuck you?” At that, he scissors his fingers too quick, makes Stiles
suck in a breath. 
“It was me,” Stiles tells him. “I missed you.” 
Saying it makes him feel gross, but Stiles doesn’t like something in Rafa’s
tone, the edge to it, like he knows Derek’s been here.
Rafa’s fingers start up again, and Stiles is acutely aware of every single
little noise. The soft wet sounds are almost too much, and he wants to cover it
up somehow, but there aren’t really any options for him. The only alternative,
really, is moaning over it, and that’s worse. That’s so much worse. He doesn’t
want Derek to think he’s enjoying this, even if maybe a small part of him is. 
A third finger twists and stutters against his rim for a lip-biting moment
before it’s eased inside. Yeah, alright, it feels fucking good, but he’s not
going to betray that.
“Who would’ve thought that being in your own room would make you shy?” Rafa
asks with a teasing lilt. “Let’s see if I can’t do something about that.”
That’s all the warning he gets before Rafa’s fingers stroke over his prostate
just hard enough that Stiles can’t think to hold back a loud groan because his
head is swimming. 
“Oh, fuck, that’s—” He clamps down on his tongue, but Rafa just rubs, and when
Stiles looks between his legs, his dick is leaking all over the place. Fuck,
Derek can probably smell it. 
“That’s right, baby,” Rafa hums. “Tell me what you want.”
Stiles tries to say no, but it comes out as a moan and he just gives up. “Fuck
me, please, God. Just give it to me, Daddy,” he pants. Rafa would make him say
it anyway. Might as well just get it all over with. The sooner Rafa’s dick is
in him, the sooner it’s over. 
“You’re such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” 
His fingers are gone and his cock is right there, spreading Stiles wide open as
it sinks into him. Stiles nearly sobs at it. The last couple inches are too
much too fast because Rafa’s fingers can’t stretch him deep enough, but it
feels fucking amazing. That might be the worst part, though, because he doesn’t
want to enjoy this in any way, but the way Rafa’s rocking into him forces
little whimpers from the back of his throat.
His arms wrap around Stiles’ middle as he shifts up onto the bed, fucking in a
little deeper. “Yeah, you like that? You like my cock filling you up? Tell me
whose hole this is, baby. Tell me who you belong to.” 
Stiles breathes it against his elbow, afraid to say it too loud even though
Derek can probably hear it anyway. 
“Say it,” Rafa demands, ramming into him almost too hard. 
“You,” he spits, hating both of them for it. “I’m yours, please, just fuck me.”
Rafa snarls, deep in his chest, and Stiles can’t be sure if it’s pleased or
angry, just knows that Rafa’s pounding into him so hard he can barely think.
But he can hear, can hear the slick noises of Rafa sliding into his ass, the
thudding slap of their bodies colliding, the rhythmic whine he can’t quite keep
silent. 
And he’s so fucking turned on he wants to kill something. He’d been close
before, with Rafa’s fingers in him, but Rafa does something, changes his angle,
and Stiles hurts with how much he just wants to get off already. 
He knows better than to try to jerk himself off, knows it would be worse in the
long run, so he just holds on to his comforter and takes it. 
It doesn’t take long, and he kind of hates himself for it, but Rafa yanks his
hair, and that little flash of not-quite-pain hurls him over the edge. It’s too
fast of a rush, leaves him spinning and trying not to sob with his face pressed
into his covers, failing as Rafa fucks him through the aftershocks. 
When he can catch his breath, Rafa’s pulling out, moving him, flipping him onto
his back at the end of the bed so his head hangs over the edge. He can see the
closet, see the dark line under the door, and he shuts his eyes as Rafa pushes
his knees up to his chest and slides back into him. Pulls him back, onto his
lap. When Stiles opens his eyes, Rafa’s gaze is right over him, shrinking him
and crushing him small. 
His cock nudges against Stiles’ prostate and he cries out as his dick jerks
against his stomach too soon. But he stays away, just thrusts into him nice and
slow, and he doesn’t break eye contact. His eyes are dark and swallowing Stiles
up, wrapping him up in something dark. 
Just when Stiles is about to start trying to drag himself away, Rafa pulls out
and, bracing himself on an arm above Stiles’ shoulder, strips his cock until he
groans and spills hot on Stiles’ belly. 
It takes a few moments and Stiles feels weirdly disconnected at the little
pulses hitting his skin, the tight look on Rafa’s face. It doesn’t feel like
he’s here, that this is happening, that it’s happened. It just feels raw and
strange and open as Rafa breathes, done. 
After a moment, he smears his spunk over Stiles’ stomach, watches his hand move
like a kid fingerpainting. 
Stiles tries not to shake. Tries not to react. He finishes quickly enough,
sitting back on his heels, and looks down at Stiles between his spread legs.
Rafa smirks. Like he’s won something here. Something Stiles is afraid to look
at dead-on. 
“You look good when you’re messy,” he says before he gets up and starts pulling
on his clothes.
For a moment, Stiles doesn't move, just watches Rafa dress like he's watching a
movie. A quietly and profoundly disturbing movie. But he stretches his legs out
on the bed and does everything he can to not look at Rafa's come drying on his
stomach. 
Rafa straightens his lapels with sure hands. Leans over and kisses Stiles'
forehead. A weird little noise comes out of Stiles' throat at that, high and
thin. 
"Call me," he says, heading out, but he stops at the door like he's just
remembered something. "I hope it was good for you too, Derek."
The second it registers, Stiles just shuts down.
He’s out. 
There’s a buzzing in his ears and it kind of feels like the opposite of a panic
attack. There’s just nothing. He can’t even feel his body because he’s pretty
sure he’s not in it. It’s all just sort of gone. 
There are vague things. Sounds he doesn’t process. Shapes he doesn’t recognize.
Sensations that belong to someone else. 
But for what feels like a couple seconds and a few hours, he just isn’t there. 
 
When Stiles comes back, he’s just sort of there. Lying there. In silence. His
body is kind of sunken, like he’s been half-asleep for a while, and he’s not so
sure about moving it. If it’s possible, if it’s worth the energy. 
He knows why he’s lying here. But he doesn’t want to think about it. That’s a
little too much for him at the moment. So he looks around, just moving his
eyes, and sees a lot of ceiling, some wall, the tops of bookcases, his nose.
That’s about all he can take, but he takes deep breaths, like he’s supposed to
when he’s having a panic attack. In four. Hold seven. Out eight. In four. Hold
seven. Out eight. 
After a couple times, he feels a little more whole. He should move. He should
get up.
Instead, he turns his head from side to side, frowning when the second side
reveals a dark head of hair. Derek, with his back against the bed and his knees
pulled halfway to his chest. But the thing is, he’s here. Which is not
something that should be happening. 
Stiles reaches out and pats the top of his head, feeling the puff of his hair.
Derek’s head tilts back as he looks up, turns a little, to meet Stiles’ eyes. 
“Hey,” he says softly, and Stiles’ stomach turns.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. 
Derek stares for a moment, then turns towards him with most of his body. “Are
you serious? Why wouldn’t I be here?” 
Stiles looks up at the ceiling. “Don’t give me that shit. You know exactly why.
You were here. You were here.” He bites down on nothing, like that’ll make him
feel less like shit somehow. Less like breaking down or checking out. 
“I am here. And I’m not leaving,” Derek says and he takes Stiles’ hand in his
own. Just holds it there. “I should’ve—”
“No. Don’t say it. Just don’t.” He pulls his hand away. “I didn’t want you to.
I didn’t want you there for any of it, but I didn’t— It would’ve been worse. If
you had done anything. I’m glad you didn’t, alright? And that’s all we’re going
to say about it. It’s done. It didn’t happen.” 
Derek looks at him with too much pain. “What do you need me to do?” 
“Leave,” Stiles says immediately, but he thinks about being alone, and it’s
worse. “No, don’t. Stay with me. Just for a little while.” Stiles wants to curl
up in his lap, wants Derek to wrap him up in a little ball and hold him to his
chest, but he’s not a child. He wouldn’t fit. 
What he needs is to get clean, to wash all of this off of him. He hazards a
look down at his body. Frowns. He very distinctly remembers Rafa’s come all
over him, but there’s nothing on his stomach.
“Did you clean me up?” Stiles asks in a quiet voice. 
“Sorry, I just— I could smell him on you. I couldn’t be in the same room, it
was too— I’m sorry.” 
“Thank you,” Stiles tells him because it’s okay, it’s good. He’s glad he
doesn’t have to clean himself up, even though he’s thinking about how close and
personal Derek had to get to do it. 
But does it matter, really? After what Derek heard, it’s not like seeing his
body would be shocking. It’s not like there’s anything left for him to hide.
Derek knows everything. Stiles has been naked in front of him in all the ways
that matter. It might be a little too much for what they are, but he can’t undo
it. 
“I think I want to shower,” Stiles says slowly. He’ll have to move. Get up.
“Come with me.” 
Derek nods, eyebrows high, and twists around as he gets up. There’s nothing or
maybe too much in his face when he helps Stiles up, and it’s slow going. His
bones feel old, too shaky and too brittle. His steps are strange. 
The water runs, heating up. Derek’s at the sink, holding himself up and not
looking in the mirror, and Stiles doesn’t mean to, but he leans against Derek’s
shoulder. The cotton of his t-shirt is soft and worn under Stiles’ cheek. They
stand there like that while the room fills with steam and the mirror goes
cloudy, until Stiles is ready to get in the water. 
“Do you want me to wait outside?” Derek asks, looking somewhere over Stiles’
shoulder. 
“Nothing you haven’t seen,” Stiles tells him, and Derek’s face shatters. “I
didn’t mean it like that. I’m okay with it. I’m fine. Seriously, it’s okay.
Stay.”
Derek stares at him for a second, then flips down the toilet lid and sits as
Stiles gets into the shower. “Are we going to talk about any of this?” he asks,
words still clear over the water. Stiles grabs his loufa and soaps it up,
thinking. 
“I’d really, really rather we didn’t, so…” He scrubs fast, hard enough to sting
a little, and Derek doesn’t say anything. “Look, it was fucking shitty and I’d
give my left nut for you to not have been here, but it doesn’t work like that.
So I’m just going to pretend it was a bad dream and move on. You can deal with
it however you want, but we’re skipping the heart-to-heart. I just can’t,
alright?” 
“Is he always like that?”
Stiles stops scrubbing, still for a moment, before sticking his head out of the
curtain. “Pretty much. And you know what? I get off on it. That’s me, that’ who
I am. So you can drop it or you can leave, because I spend enough time thinking
about how fucked up I am. I don’t need your help.” 
Derek nods once. “I won’t leave,” he says, and Stiles is the one to break eye
contact, ducking back into the shower to breathe. Because really, Derek should
be running, and he’s not. He’s not moving at all, and that’s something Stiles
would’ve never thought he could count on. 
His skin is pink when he’s thinking he should stop, should get out. He slips a
hand down behind him, numb all over, and makes a half-hearted attempt at
fingering the lube out of his ass. It’s pointless, anyway. Can’t get it all,
and even if he could, he doesn’t want to with Derek right there. It just feels
gross, wrong. 
When he turns the water off, it’s a little too quiet. His breathing is loud
over the sound of water dripping from the faucet to the porcelain. 
And then there’s movement. When Stiles pulls the curtain back, Derek’s waiting
with a towel held out in front of him. Stiles steps forward onto the bathmat,
holds up his arms. There’s a second’s hesitation before Derek wraps it around
his body. He smells good, just really fucking good, and Stiles buries his face
into his neck for a moment. Just a moment. 
But Derek steps back. Away. 
“You should put on some clothes,” he says, reaching out towards Stiles’ face
and stopping. 
Stiles nods, watches him for a second before tucking the towel tight around his
waist and walking out of the room. There’s no need to look back because he can
feel Derek close behind him, like he’s worried that if there’s too much space
between them, something would happen to him. 
He pulls out random shit from his dresser, the first things he sees, while
Derek shifts from foot to foot in the background. 
“Can I—” Derek sighs and doesn’t finish, so Stiles turns to look at him.
“Your—” he nods at the bed “Can I wash it?”
“Uh, sure,” Stiles says, taken a little by surprise. “Yeah, the laundry room’s
downstairs. Near the kitchen.”
“I know.” 
Stiles nods quickly, looks at the clothes in his hands as Derek goes and
gathers up his comforter up. Leaves. 
It’s weird, him not being in the room. It makes Stiles feel kind of cold,
fragile. Like thin ice. So he dresses fast, yanks on his clothes, and it feels
better, being covered. A little more human. 
He heads downstairs almost immediately, though. Derek’s just coming out of the
laundry room, and he stops when he sees Stiles. Like he’s unsure of how to
navigate around him. His hands twitch at his sides. His feet are bare on the
tile. 
“Do I still...can you smell him on me?” Stiles asks, grasping for something
simple, something established. It seems to be enough, going by the way Derek
relaxes. Nods. Stiles turns and heads into the living room, checking back over
his shoulder to be sure Derek’s following. (He is.) 
Stiles stops at the couch, nods at it, and Derek gets it, lays down first. His
eyes track over Stiles’ face as he follows. They settle together maybe too
easily, Stiles nestling down between Derek’s legs, laying his head on Derek’s
chest. His breath is deep and sure, if a little fast. After a moment, his hands
come to rest lightly on Stiles’ back. Stiles’ feet are hanging over the arm of
the couch, but he’s comfortable. 
“I didn’t want you to ever have to be there for that,” Stiles says softly, not
bothering to open his eyes. “I know it must have sucked.”
“Shut up,” Derek tells him. His fingers skim up Stiles’ shoulders. “I can’t
even believe you’re worried about me right now. Just go to sleep. We’ll figure
it out. We’ll figure everything out.”
Stiles doesn’t fall asleep right away, but between Derek’s hands rubbing his
back and the gentle movement of Derek’s chest, he finds it soon enough.
End Notes
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