Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/479426.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, First_Kiss, Blow_Jobs, Rimming, mild_panic_attack
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-06 Words: 4308
****** Shake my ash to the wind ******
by rufflefeather
Summary
     Kissing Stiles is like a breeze through an open window that chases
     away a smell of fire that never leaves. The first time he tastes
     surprised and says, Holy shit while his fingers find lips that
     probably sting a little from Derek’s stubble. It makes Derek laugh
     and Stiles’ eyes go wide and pleased as if that’s a bigger surprise
     than the kiss.
Notes
     First porniness for this pairing! This always makes me nervous omg.
     There is a brief moment where Stiles has a mild panic attack.
     Thank you hardticket for the beta!
     Please go leave lots of love here_at_this_Derek/Stiles_vid_to_the
     song_Lover's_Eyes by Onashippunintended.
     Now with podfic by the amazing Brunie! Go, go listen to her gorgeous
     voice and the way she tells the story so beautifully.
See the end of the work for more notes
Kissing Stiles is like a breeze through an open window that chases away a smell
of fire that never leaves. The first time he tastes surprised and says, Holy
shit while his fingers find lips that probably sting a little from Derek’s
stubble. It makes Derek laugh and Stiles’ eyes go wide and pleased as if that’s
a bigger surprise than the kiss.
Nearly six months later Stiles is shuddering with nerves and no matter how long
Derek kisses him and touches him and whispers, it’s all right, he doesn’t stop.
“Stiles,” Derek says, trying hard not to sigh as he reaches for his t-shirt,
“I’m not doing this while you’re scared out of your mind.”
“I’m not scared,” Stiles says, fast and high, hands fisting in Derek’s shirt so
he can’t pull it back over his head. The lie is so loud, Stiles winces. “I
mean, I am, clearly. But I want this.” He looks down and worries his lip with
his teeth. “So bad.”
Derek takes hold of Stiles’ wrists through the t-shirt, and says, “You know it
doesn’t matter to me if we don’t. Stiles,” he waits until he looks up. “I’m not
going anywhere.”
“I know,” Stiles says but he looks miserable. “I know.”
“C’mere.” Derek pulls him closer, eases down onto the bed with Stiles on top of
him and kisses him and urges him on with his hands on Stiles’ hips until Stiles
comes in his jeans.
“Well, that’s embarrassing,” Stiles mumbles against Derek’s neck, flushes so
dark Derek can feel the heat of it bleed into his skin.
“It’s not,” Derek tells him, petting his hair and breathing deeply. “It’s
good.”
It’s maybe a week or two after, that Derek wakes up sweat-soaked and heart
beating out a gallop in his chest. He’s half wolfed-out and crouched to defend
when he realizes the panic isn’t his own. Beside him, Stiles is lying very
still, both hands pulled into fists and pressed against his sternum. His eyes
are wide open and all he’s doing is breathe in and in and in.
“Stiles,” Derek says. The wolf in him wants to crowd, wants to press close,
wants to sniff and lick and soothe but Derek doesn’t let him.
“I’m,” Stiles says, sucking in air. “Sorry. Happens. Sometimes.”
“Okay,” Derek says because talking makes it worse. He settles against the
headboard and pulls Stiles into his lap, back to chest, breathing deep and calm
against him. He lets his hands trace Stiles’ arms even though he’s dying to
just touch him all over, to appease the wolf that he is whole and unharmed.
When the harsh breaths ease, he allows himself, just a little. He noses Stiles’
hair, trails fingertips over his neck and shoulder. He presses flat palms
against Stiles’ chest.
“Derek,” Stiles says, his head falling back onto Derek’s shoulder, exposing his
throat. He can see that Stiles is hard underneath his pajamas but he doesn’t
know if it’s the aftermath of the panic attack or not, so he eases them down
until they’re both on their sides, Derek running his hand through Stiles’ hair.
His back feels wet with cooling sweat but his heartbeat is nearly normal, so he
asks,
“Will you tell me about it, some time?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says and then after a long silence, “I’m sorry I woke you, I was
trying to be quiet.”
Derek can’t speak, at first, the words sinking into him and tying knots in his
lungs, so he just holds on tighter. Never, he says later, never apologize for
something like that. But Stiles doesn’t hear him, is already out cold.
“You’re still here,” Stiles says the next morning. He rubs his face into his
pillow, wiping away the last tendrils of sleep. It looks like he’s trying hard
to stop the pleased smile from taking hold, but one side of his mouth curls up
anyway, in a lopsided grin.
“Of course I am,” Derek tells him, putting his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck
and shaking him gently. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He lets his hand creep up and drag
through Stiles’ hair. It’s always so ridiculously soft, it makes the wolf in
him yearn for dens and Pack, for pups with the same soft fur. That won’t
happen, obviously, but it’s an ache Derek knows will never go away. He doesn’t
want it to anyway.
“I don’t know,” Stiles mumbles. He’s hiding his face in the crook of his arm
and Derek can smell the unease on him. “I thought you’d––“ The words stop high
in his throat, Derek can hear it by the way his breath catches and heartbeat
picks up. Stiles can’t actually say it, but Derek knows how to listen. He rolls
over from his side, to half cover Stiles’ back. Trails a hand over Stiles’
waist while he mouths at the skin between his shoulder blades. Stiles remains
tense, like he can’t let go but he can’t talk about it either, so Derek says
nothing, just presses against Stiles’ hip to show him just how much he still
wants him. Nothing’s changed.
Stiles’ intake of breath is like oil on a fire and Derek feels it twist his
insides. It pushes the air out of his lungs and for one brief moment he lets
himself go. He braces himself over Stiles, hands on either side of his
shoulders, pressing his face into his neck and grinding down his hips.
“Oh,” Stiles says and Derek rolls away, fighting the urge to take and hold and
claim. Stiles’ heartbeat is like a fragile bird, wings beating against a cage
it’s trying to escape. He chances a glance at Derek. His eyelids are heavy and
his face is pink just above his jaws. He carefully inches closer, hides his
face against Derek’s shoulder as he says, “Can I, um, touch you?”
“Yes,” Derek says, without hesitation. He knows what this is like and it’s
easier to do than be done to, that first time. So he says again, “Yes,” and
then turns his head to catch Stiles’ forehead with his lips. “Please.”
Stiles hardly moves, just presses his palm just above Derek’s heart. He trails
the dips and rises of Derek’s body, sucks in a breath when an accidental brush
causes Derek’s nipple to pebble. He takes his time and Derek says nothing about
his trembling fingers, just closes his eyes and tries to calm his breathing
because he wants and he wants and he wants.
When he trails over Derek’s navel, he begins to hesitate. His breathing becomes
shallow and his eyes keep moving from Derek’s mouth to his chest and down. The
soft touches make the muscles beneath Derek’s skin jump, and he has to bite
down on a groan. Eventually Stiles dares lower, fingertips dipping carefully
beneath the waistband of Derek’s sweatpants. He’s wearing nothing underneath
and Derek can tell Stiles touched the head of his cock without meaning to. He’s
about to flinch away, but Derek grabs his wrist and presses his hand against
him, on top of his pants.
“Feel how much I want you, Stiles. Feel it.”
“I am,” Stiles says, hiding his face again. His hand is completely still but
he’s not trying to pull away so Derek lets go. Pulls him in for a kiss instead.
Stiles knows how to do that, now, so he does it with abandon.
Derek moans, “Stiles,” desperate and so turned on he can’t help himself.
“Yeah,” Stiles says and Derek can feel the shift in him, as if that somehow
made everything clear. He’s still nervous when he dips his hand in Derek’s
pants, but he reeks of arousal now. “Oh my god,” he whispers, when he takes
hold of Derek. “Oh my god.”
His touch is far too light and far too slow and still Derek is going to go off
within minutes. It has never felt like this before, like he’s being given
something so precious he feels he has to keep still or it’ll break. Stiles
shifts up on his elbow and kisses Derek again and Derek holds on to his biceps,
pants in his mouth. “Stiles,” he says again, because he can’t hold on, he needs
to come.
Stiles presses kisses against Derek’s throat, and he probably doesn’t know what
that means, just kisses because it’s a path to his destination but it makes the
wolf shudder with surrender. Derek arches in Stiles’ hand, whose fist tightens
with a jerk.
“Derek,” Stiles says, looking up at him from where he’s poised above Derek’s
heart, “holy shit are you going to come?”
“Yes,” Derek grits out, because the touch is still not hard enough to make it
happen but he doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to pressure. He will, later.
Some other day, when this doesn’t make Stiles tremble with shyness anymore, the
wolf will claim back his dominance.
“Oh,” Stiles breathes and he tightens his hand, begins to stroke Derek harder,
running his thumb through the wetness and slicking his way down. “Derek,” he
mumbles, face pressed in the dip of Derek’s shoulder. His hips are pushing up
involuntarily and Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ ass, driving him down against
Derek’s leg harder.
“Stiles,” Derek warns, “I’m gonna come.”
And then Stiles bites down on Derek’s neck and it still comes as a surprise
when the orgasm hits, making him curl in on himself, taking Stiles with him,
who is, again, coming in his pants.
Stiles clings to his shoulders as they calm down, and Derek clings back, just a
little. No one’s ever done that to him before, no one has ever dared. He doubts
Stiles even realizes what he’s done, but if feels right, somehow, that Derek
yielded to Stiles before claiming an innocence from him he’ll never get back.
Stiles pulls his hand out of Derek’s pants and pulls a face. “Gross,” he says.
“No it’s not,” Derek tells him and Stiles watches with a mixture of horror and
fascination as Derek takes his time to lick him clean.
They almost die. All of them. Stiles is only alive because Derek covers him
from the worst of the wolfsbane infused shrapnel. His left arm will carry faint
scars for years. Scars that will remind Derek of just how much he’s willing to
give up for Stiles.
Stiles and Dr Deaton spend hours removing bits of metal and pressing wolfsbane
ash into wounds. Afterwards Stiles cries and cries while trying to rip the
clothes off Derek’s body.
Rocking him gently, Derek just holds him and says, “Not like this, Stiles. Not
like this.”
The first time he gets Stiles off with intention, it’s with his mouth.
They’re in the car, it’s dark and crickets sing to the beginning of summer.
“Why me,” Stiles asks suddenly, voice small and eyes on his fingers nervously
plucking at the wristband of Derek’s watch where it rests against Stiles’
thigh. He does that, when they’re alone. He doesn’t even know it, just touches
and worries at Derek in some way as if he needs to reassure himself he’s really
there. “I don’t understand.”
Derek’s hand tightens on Stiles’ knee, maybe a little too hard because he
flinches, but Derek can’t help himself. It makes him want to roar with anger,
the way Stiles sees himself, or doesn’t see, more accurately. It makes him want
to rip right through time to find out who did this to him. He doesn’t say
anything, just snaps his seatbelt off and bites at Stiles’ mouth, mouths down
his throat where the flesh is soft and fragrant. He unbuttons Stiles’ jeans
with one hand and sucks him down, already hard and leaking even though Derek
started this less than thirty seconds ago. He wants to apologize because this
isn’t the way he should be doing this, but he can’t because Stiles dick is
nudging the back of his throat. So he just sucks and sucks like he can draw out
all the years of building up those layers of self-doubt, until Stiles spurts
hot and sticky in his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, hands frantic in Derek’s hair, “I’m sorry, I
should’ve warned you, I didn’t mean to but that was so good and I couldn’t––“
“I wanted it,” Derek growls and he’s pulling Stiles into his lap, kissing him
deep and filthy, knowing Stiles can taste himself. The steering wheel has to be
painful as it digs in his back while Derek grinds against him, pushing him down
as he rises up, breathing hard in each other’s mouths until Derek throws back
his head and shouts as he comes.
“Shit,” Stiles says afterwards, still in Derek’s lap and they’re both sweaty.
The car reeks of sex. “Some day I’d like to actually get to enjoy this instead
of going off like a rocket whenever you just look at me right.”
Stiles has his head buried against Derek’s shoulder so he allows himself to
grin, pleased as punch, his eyes glowing red with possession when he catches
his own gaze in the rearview mirror. Mine, he thinks, mine. “You will,” he says
instead, “I’ll show you how.”
He does, not much later, when he takes Stiles to his house, to the renovated
part with the mattress on the ground and the cushions everywhere. Stiles is
still lax from his orgasm earlier, so Derek gets to undress him and Stiles only
blushes a little.
“Are we doing this?” Stiles asks.
“Only what you want,” Derek says. He’s so young. So young. Derek would feel a
mixture of guilt and depravity if this wasn’t forever, for him. He knows it
might not be, for Stiles. It shouldn’t be. He’s a teenager and he has no wolf
demanding loyalty and it’ll crumple the last remaining charred corner of
Derek’s soul to dust when he goes, but he doesn’t care. He’s learnt to live in
the now, because the future is never what you expect, and never what you want.
“Maybe I want it,” Stiles says, even though the words make his cheeks blotch
red. He wants to cover his naked skin, Derek can tell, but he doesn’t. He
pushes the jacket off Derek’s shoulders instead, tugs at the hem of his shirt.
“You do now,” Derek says, stripping off his clothes without ceremony, like this
is something they do every day. He hopes they will, that there will be days
they do this because it’s theirs. “But what about tomorrow?”
“I won’t hate you for taking this from me,” Stiles tells him, pulling him down
and kissing his cheek, chastely. “I want you to have it.”
Derek doesn’t fuck him, but he does touch him everywhere. He kisses his mouth
and his chest and his balls. He licks his neck and his belly and his back. He
takes him in his mouth but eases off when Stiles’ balls contract. He puts
Stiles on his stomach and circles his hole with his thumb. It makes Stiles
whine, high in his throat and Derek pulls him up on all fours, fisting his cock
while he slides his own between Stiles’ ass cheeks until they both come, Stiles
loud and desperate, Derek quiet but no less hungry for it. And then they sleep
and do it all over again the next night.
Derek’s bed smells of Stiles and for the first time it feels like home.
“I’m scared,” Stiles confesses, one morning. Derek’s plastered all over his
back, lazily rubbing his dick against that sweet spot behind Stiles’ balls.
“M’not gonna do anything,” Derek mumbles into his shoulder. He likes this, the
lazy feel of a morning where the frantic chase of a day hasn’t yet begun.
“That’s not what I mean,” Stiles says and he buries his face in his arms. Derek
lifts up a little and looks at him because Stiles hasn’t done that in a while.
He’s about to ask what he does mean, when Stiles goes on. “I’m afraid this
won’t last. That you, that you’ll get bored,” Derek doesn’t realize he’s
growling softly until Stiles hurries on, “or get hurt.” His heart begins to
race and Derek automatically begins to scratch his scalp with blunt nails to
calm him down. “With your life, with our life, you could, Derek,” and here he
looks up, over his shoulder. His eyes are huge and liquid like caramel. “You
could die.”
“Stiles,” Derek whines, pressing his face into the dip of his shoulder. He
knows exactly, exactly what Stiles means. Stiles isn’t a werewolf, Stiles’s
veins bleed dry when they’re opened. His skin scars when it’s cut and his
innards rip when they’re pierced by a bullet. There’s no wolf in him who tears
through injury until it’s gone. There’s only Stiles who takes care of everyone
but himself. Who thinks he’s going to lose Derek to a battle that’d kill Stiles
ten times over.
Derek wants to haul him away from the world. Wants to keep him safe in his den
and never let him leave. His biggest fear is to lose, again, and it tastes like
ash in his mouth. Stiles squirms and Derek realizes he’s holding on too tight.
He takes his weight off and Stiles turns over, wraps his bare legs around
Derek’s waist and kisses the taste away. Like he knows it’s there.
The chill of the fall begins to creep through the roof and Derek should really
get on that, if he’s going to stay here. “Is this okay?” Stiles asks, his hands
on Derek’s ass, spreading him.
“Yeah, Stiles,” he says. He wants to laugh, but he’s loose and pliant because
Stiles has been touching him all over for ages so it comes out as more of a
content sigh. He did this to Stiles yesterday, who had loved it so much he
insisted on trying. Derek doesn’t mind. Not when Stiles submits when it
matters. Power is a balance, after all. And then Stiles licks carefully over
his hole, as if it’s a first taste of an ice cream, and Derek grunts, pushing
into the pillow underneath his hips, the hunger flaring through him, up his
legs and through his stomach.
“Oh,” Stiles says and the puff of breath is cool, “it’s just you. It just
tastes like you, only more and it’s soft, I didn’t think it would be so soft.”
He carefully touches a fingertip against the tight muscle. “I was a bit
embarrassed when you did it last night but this is––“
“Stiles,” Derek growls at him, “stop talking.”
He doesn’t say that often, not anymore because he knows Stiles talks to make
room in his head for other things.
“Right,” Stiles says and then he’s pressing his tongue against Derek again,
thick and wet and hot, and Derek is fisting the sheets, because he wants to
push back against Stiles’ mouth so bad, like a bitch in heat, it makes his
cheeks burn. He’s about to ask for more, bites at his own lips so he can’t but
it’s like Stiles knows. He works his tongue inside, then pulls abruptly away
and returns a second later with a spit-slick finger. “Tell me,” he says
timidly, “if this is not––“
“It is,” Derek says, “it is.” He wants to lift his hips and jerk off but he
doesn’t. Instead he says, faster and harder and more until he comes from
nothing but Stiles’ fingers and tongue.
He’s a sweaty mess afterwards but he doesn’t care, because Stiles is straddling
his chest and looking so pleased with himself he’s shining. “Wow,” he keeps
saying. “That was, wow. I did that. Me. Derek, I––“
––love you Derek thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Instead he reaches up and drags
Stiles down, kissing him and commanding him to make himself come all over
Derek’s chest.
“I’m ready,” Stiles says, nearly a year after that first kiss that made Derek
laugh. Derek jerks the wheel so hard they nearly end up on the other lane. He
rights the car and just stares ahead.
“Are you sure?” Derek asks. It’s never been like this. Stiles has often asked,
are you going to like he’d be okay with it if Derek did, but he’s never said––
“I want you to.” He reaches out and puts his hand on Derek’s knee, squeezing
lightly. “I want you. If you do too.”
Always.
Derek takes Stiles to bed and makes him come in his mouth, so he’s nice and
relaxed. Derek fingers him, then, until there’s lube dripping down his wrist.
“Come on,” Stiles whines. He’s kneeling on the bed, body slumped forward and
face smushed into the pillows. He’s been begging for at least ten minutes now
and Derek wonders if he’s not being cruel. But no, he wants this to be good, he
wants Stiles to want more.
They’re both shaking by the time Derek lines up,––It’s easier if you lie on
your stomach. –– But I want to see you,–– and Derek expects Stiles to look away
when he pushes in, just the tip. He doesn’t, he just looks and looks until
Derek feels like he’s drowning.
“Okay?” he asks through gritted teeth because instinct tells him to take, to
claim, to mount, because finally, finally,.
Stiles winces a bit, but says, “Yeah. It burns a bit, but it’s good, I’m good.”
“Tell me if you’re not,” Derek manages, and he’s in deep enough that he can
support his weight on his arms now, bracing himself over Stiles. He’s so tight
it makes him ache. Derek doesn’t realize he has closed his eyes until Stiles
cups his face. His eyes are smiling, and, fondly, he says,
“I will. But I’m fine. I’m always fine when I’m with you.”
And just like that, Derek slides in all the way, a deep rumble vibrating
through his chest.
“Oooooh,” Stiles goes, back arching off the bed, his legs tightening around
Derek so he’s pushed in even deeper. Stiles’ hard-on had gone down a bit but
it’s completely back, dripping pre-come into his navel.
“Stiles,” Derek hisses, “I need to –– are you –– can I––”
“Yes, yes, Derek, anything, please, anything,” Stiles begs and Derek tries to
keep control but he completely loses himself. He’s not rough, Stiles isn’t the
kind he needs to be rough with, but he moves and he pushes and he pulls, he
holds on and on and on, dropping to his elbows so Stiles can kiss him whenever
he pleases. He’s moaning softly, each sound breaking off a bit with every one
of Derek’s thrusts and Derek thinks it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.
The air begins to smell sweet and a little bit salty and Derek thinks it’s the
scent of his broken heart shattering and another one growing in place. He
doesn’t know he’s talking until Stiles is answering.
“Yes,” he’s saying, voice breaking like this is something more for him too. And
of course it is, of course. Stiles, who trusts Derek implicitly, who taught
Derek to trust again in turn. Stiles, who mends people just by being near them,
who gives and hardly ever takes, who has lost so much and still gives all he
has, to Derek. “Yes,” he’s saying, “I’m yours, I’m yours, never anyone else’s.”
Tell me you’re mine.
Derek angles to find that bundle of nerves, knows he’s found it when Stiles
shouts –– he loves it when Stiles shouts, it doesn’t happen very often, but
when it does, it’s bliss –– and takes Stiles’ cock in hand.
Stiles is completely lost, his eyes fluttering behind his eyelids, hoarse
panting breaths being pushed out of him to Derek’s rhythm. His head is tilted
back on the bed and his throat is bared, so Derek sucks and bites at it and the
wolf within him howls. He fucks Stiles through his orgasm and needs every ounce
of self control to not take what he needs too.
“You didn’t come,” Stiles says when his breathing evens.
“No,” Derek grits out and he allows his eyes to bleed red to take some of the
edge off. Stiles doesn’t look afraid at all, just says, “Tell me what you
need,” and Derek gently pulls out, his legs shaking violently.
“Roll over.”
Stiles does, without asking questions and Derek pushes back into him, moaning.
He’s so hot and so wet and makes a surprised little noise when Derek pushes his
legs together.
“I won’t hurt you like this,” Derek says, and begins to move again. He doesn’t
hold back, he takes what he needs and bites down on his own arm, makes it bleed
when the pleasure hits him like a hurricane. He keeps rolling his hips, wanting
to draw it out as long as he can until he so sensitive it makes his entire body
shudder.
“Oh my god,” he can hear Stiles say through the fog in his brain. “Oh my
fucking god.”
“Did I hurt you?” Derek mumbles but Stiles shakes his head.
“No, that was, that was amazing. Derek, please.”
Derek doesn’t immediately gets what he wants until he opens his eyes and sees
Stiles look at him. He pulls out with a wince from both of them and rolls off
and Stiles is on him immediately, kissing his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth.
“I want this forever,” Stiles says, as if he knows that’s the question Derek
wants to ask most but never will. Derek says nothing, just smiles because he
can’t help it and Stiles beams at him, knowing exactly what that means.
Derek can’t promise forever, not with hunters out there and Kanima, and god
knows what. But he can promise that there will never be anyone else. Stiles is
his home, he thinks, breathing in deeply and the last of the smoke leaves his
nostrils.
End Notes
     The title is from Lover's_Eyes by Mumford and Sons (which is such a
     Derek song. If someone makes a Derek vid to that, I will write them
     all the porn in the world. Or angst. Derek angst. There can never be
     enough Derek angst.)
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