Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2604869.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, PWP, Derek_POV, I_Don't_Even_Know, Underage_Sex, like_pay
      attention_to_the_underage_thing_there_guys, that's_a_thing, in_this,
      Stiles_Is_Seventeen, derek_is, Not
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-12 Words: 5659
****** Wash the Rain ******
by BarlowGirl
Summary
     “Oh,” Stiles says, sharp and thin, more of a whimper than a word, his
     muscles going stiff and tight.
     Derek starts to check on him, and his gaze gets caught halfway, where
     a dark, wet spot is spreading across the front of Stiles’ underwear.
     So fucking easy, his brain says, and he has to breathe for a moment,
     in and out.
     “Oh my God.” Stiles’ voice is low, muffled. When Derek finally drags
     his eyes away from that wet spot, he has his arm across his eyes,
     hiding his face. “I’m sorry.”
     “Don’t,” Derek says, hiding a grin. “Don’t, it’s okay. You’ll last
     longer next time.”
     Stiles moans.
     OR: PORN
Notes
     Apparently this is a hard fic to tag and explain. Basically this is
     porn that focuses some on the age difference between Derek and
     Stiles, and Derek's enjoyment of... not exactly that age difference,
     but to some extend, Stiles' inexperience, enthusiasm, and, well, hair
     trigger. And, consequently, Derek's guilt over that enjoyment.
     Stiles is seventeen in this and Derek is god only knows what. When I
     do my headcanon math, I usually get around twenty-two or twenty-three
     so. Something like that. Your guess is as good as mine at this point,
     really.
     I have a Tumblr!
     Come_say_hi!
     Thanks to Memekon for your enthusiasm about this fic, 'cause it very
     likely wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been so excited with me
     about it, and to Elle for catching my typos and being lovely in
     general.
     And finally, the title of this is taken from a song. You win ten
     points to your house if you figure out what song!
“I hate you,” Stiles says.
He’s nearly blue, shivering, and dripping water and mud. Derek shoves him into
the car a little less than gently. Maybe a lot less than gently. The idiot wore
tennis shoes to hike through practically knee-deep mud, and a godsdamn hoodie
in the middle of a fucking typhoon. And Derek was in bed with a book and a cup
of tea when Scott called him from out of state begging him to go track down
Stiles.
“You break your head or anything?” Derek asks brusquely as he slams the
driver’s side door shut. Gods, his seats are never going to forgive him for
this. And soaked though he may be, he’s not as bad as Stiles, who’s positively
drenched and coated in mud from the thighs down, just to add insult to injury.
“No,” Stiles mutters, dark and irritated. “And I was fine, by the way.”
“You were lost in the woods.” Derek rolls his eyes. “The woods where, need I
remind you, you’ve almost been murdered multiple times. What were you even
doing out there?”
Stiles is silent for a long moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek can see
the slow bob of his throat as he swallows. Then, suddenly, there’s a soggy
piece of paper being shoved into his hand. He unfolds it, carefully, and it
immediately hits him in the stomach, like being punched or, you know, impaled
by a pipe.
“Deaton said–” Stiles’ voice cracks and he stops, says again, harder, “Deaton
said I had to pick it myself and it would–”
“I know,” Derek interrupts because he does, he knows better than anyone, but
suddenly he can’t bear to hear Stiles say it. “Deaton lies. Or omits, at least.
I’ll – I have some at the loft. I can – before I take you home, I can give you
some, if you want.”
For another excruciatingly long pause, Stiles says nothing. Derek clenches his
empty hand on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, wanting to say
something, everything, nothing, and finally, the kid nods.
Derek starts the car, turning up the heat because Stiles is still shivering.
 
 
“Here,” Derek says and throws a towel at Stiles. He turns away, but not before
catching the surprised look on Stiles’ face. It hurts, for some reason. He
clears his throat and opens the cupboard next to the sink, staring at the
window there, at the rain slamming against it. He can just barely see the
outline of Stiles’ body in the glass. “Steep it for ten minutes. One
tablespoon, one cup of water. Measure, don’t half-ass it. Boiling water. I
don’t know about – did Deaton tell you that it was safe with your meds?”
“You know what meds I’m on?”
Derek shrugs, weighing the small container in his hand. “Not really. I mean, I
assume… Ritalin?”
“Adderall.”
“Heard you mention the ADHD before,” Derek says. Carefully. Like he doesn’t
creepily eavesdrop on Stiles and Scott’s conversations. “You’re more manic when
you don’t take it. And you drink too much coffee. Redbull. All that shit. Anti-
anxiety meds?”
“Yeah.”
“Fear is a strong smell,” Derek says simply and turns around to face Stiles.
“You won’t dream at all,” he warns. “Don’t fight it when you’re falling asleep.
You shouldn’t use it more than two nights in a row a couple times a month.”
“Deaton already told me,” Stiles says.
Derek nods and walks over to him. He’s rubbing the towel listlessly over his
hair, still dripping mud and dirty rainwater everywhere else. His T-shirt is
soaked through, thin and nearly transparent, clinging to lean, pretty, useless
human muscles. Derek aches suddenly, deep and low in his stomach, and he wants,
and he hates himself for wanting.
Stiles takes the container, and stares down at it, long pale fingers wrapped
around it. Long pale fingers that Derek has to rip his eyes away from. “I –
Sorry you have nightmares.”
“You too,” Derek says and then – and then he leans in, ducking just a little,
and kisses him.
He’s wet with rain and cold and he gasps a little when Derek kisses him. He’s
seventeen and wracked with guilt and having nightmares about gods even know
what and Derek wants to find out every kind of noise the kid can make, naked
and spread out across Derek’s bed.
Derek jerks back. “I’m – I shouldn’t–”
He can’t do this to Stiles. He’s – he’s a kid and Derek is broken and jagged
inside and if he’s given half a chance, he’ll destroy every bit of goodness
left in Stiles. It’s what he does, and Stiles – Stiles deserve so much better
than that. Than him.
“What?” Stiles blinks, sluggish, pupils already blown. Flushed red on both
cheeks, lips pink and soft and trembling, and Derek deliberately doesn’t look
down. Doesn’t want to know if he’s half-hard already, if he’s that easy.
(Derek can smell him. Already knows he’s that easy.)
“No,” Stiles says, confused and maybe a little hurt. “No, it’s okay, I want
to.”
“You’re seventeen,” Derek says hoarsely.
“I know,” Stiles says. “I’m seventeen and I’ve never done this and I’m having
nightmares about the people I murdered.”
“You didn’t–”
“I know,” he interrupts, fingers scrubbing angrily through his wet hair. “God,
just stop, Derek. I’ve had a thousand year old demon in my brain. You wanna
talk – you – just don’t. I don’t need you to protect me. Can I just – can you
just drive me home because my Jeep is somewhere in the woods and I don’t even
know where…”
He shouldn’t – but he wants to anyways, Derek thinks. He wants to strip Stiles
down and tuck him into his own bed, make his skin smell like Derek so no one
else will ever touch him again, and worship every inch of pale skin with his
tongue. And it’s so wrong to want, but Derek – he does anyways.
“You could stay instead,” Derek says. He reaches forward and brushes his thumb
over a smudge of mud on Stiles’ cheek. “You leave in this weather you’re just –
you’re just going to end up getting sick.”
Stiles swallows, his eyes still flashing with anger. “Yeah. Yeah, I could
stay.”
 
 
He starts shivering again, the loft drafty and not all that warm, and him still
soaked to the bone. Derek ends up stripping him down, his fingers clumsy and
thick, revealing the newly-defined muscles that were only hinted at by his damp
T-shirt and pale, freckled skin.
Pale skin that pinks up in an extraordinarily pretty manner when Derek rubs a
towel over it. Which is knowledge that Derek files away in the back of his head
for later.
“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles says, his voice quiet as he stares at his
feet.
“I know,” Derek says and reaches for the button of Stiles’ jeans. “Here, you
should get these off before you chafe.”
It takes both of them to get his jeans off – when did Stiles start wearing such
tight jeans – plus the whole wet denim thing. He ends up knocked backwards onto
Derek’s bed, a laugh surprised out of him. He’s such an idiot, Derek thinks,
and part of him wishes the words didn’t sound so fond in his head. Part of him
– part of him probably enjoys the laughter too much.
Derek mutters a few choice words under his breath from where he’s kneeling
between Stiles’ feet, and takes off the idiot’s socks while he’s down here,
letting his thumb drift over the joint of Stiles’ ankle, that delicate, so
easily broken bone. He really needs to quit going into the woods when it’s so
dark.
Then he realizes Stiles isn’t breathing.
“You okay?” he asks, looking up.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, completely breathless. His heart is racing, pounding so
hard that Derek is actually a little worried about him.
For a moment, anyways. And then he gets distracted, because Stiles is basically
naked besides a damp pair of boxers with the fucking Batman logo over his hard
dick and gods, that’s so wrong, Derek’s going to hell. But Stiles is nearly
naked, and all soft, plump thighs, bare, delicate curve of his stomach moving
with his breath. There’s moles scattered over his pale skin, dark and sharp
against it, and Derek has to press his mouth to one, almost absently letting
his cheek rub against the bulge in Stiles’ underwear.
“Oh,” Stiles says, sharp and thin, more of a whimper than a word, his muscles
going stiff and tight.
Derek starts to check on him, and his gaze gets caught halfway, where a dark,
wet spot is spreading across the front of Stiles’ underwear. So fucking easy,
his brain says, and he has to breathe for a moment, in and out.
“Oh my God.” Stiles’ voice is low, muffled. When Derek finally drags his eyes
away from that wet spot, he has his arm across his eyes, hiding his face. “I’m
sorry.”
“Don’t,” Derek says, hiding a grin. “Don’t, it’s okay. You’ll last longer next
time.”
Stiles moans.
Derek sends Stiles into the bathroom to clean up, mostly because he’s flushed
red and as much as Derek kind of enjoys that, if he gets any more embarrassed,
he’s probably going to explode. A little belatedly, Derek goes over to the
stack of Ikea shelves that function as his closet – huge loft, absolutely no
storage, it sucks – and grabs a Henley and a pair of clean boxers. It’s all
probably too big, but as much as he wants Stiles naked in his bed… he’s
probably freezing his ass off.
“Thanks,” he says gratefully when Derek hands the clothes to him around the
door. His cheeks are still pink, and his nose, too. Derek pushes the word
“adorable” out of his mind, but only barely. “Freezing my ass off.”
“I figured, ” Derek says, dry.
Derek goes and checks the locks, throwing the extra bolts and chains. Stops,
adjusts his pants so they’re not so painfully tight. Turns on the security
system, and tosses Stiles’ wet clothes in the washing machine. They’re more mud
than fabric at this point. It’s still storming like the gods themselves are
angry at the sky, at the ground, at humanity. Whenever Stiles leaves, he’ll
probably end up soaked again, but maybe he’ll be cleaner, at least.
By the time he’s done that, there’s a Stiles more hidden than not under the
blankets of his bed. Derek toes off his socks and strips his jeans off, then
crawls under the covers, gently tugging them back enough to see Stiles. The
underwear is too big on the thighs, baggy at the waist, but the shirt isn’t as
big on him as Derek expects. His shoulders have gotten broader than they have
any right to be, and it doesn’t fit the image he has in his head. He keeps
expecting his shirt to be falling off Stiles, practically. Instead it’s simply
loose, long enough at the sleeves that Stiles has them bunched around his
knuckles, the neckline playing peek-a-boo with his collarbone. Absolutely
indecent, and Derek would probably murder anyone who looked at him wearing it,
but not so big that he’s swimming in it.
“Do you even wear these?” Stiles asks, bending a knee up. The boxers crease and
stretch against his thighs. “I’ve seen your jeans, man, how do you even…?”
“Not really,” Derek says with a shrug. He’s got on a pair of boxer-briefs,
favours those and Under Armour type things, but he has a few pairs of boxers
for lazy days. Sleeping. They’re comfortable.
And the ones he gave Stiles are a plain grey, thank gods, nothing to make this
worse.
“Can we…” Stiles swallows, glancing down at Derek’s mouth, and kind of flails
in the general direction of his face.
Derek nods and shifts, moving over him a little more. He kisses him, and
Stiles’ fingers find his jaw, helping angle things, and Derek is a little
surprised that he’s so damn good at this, and he hears himself make a noise
against Stiles’ soft, soft lips. When Stiles’ fingers slip into his hair and
tighten ever so slightly, he makes another pleased noise and arches his hips
without thinking, pressing his dick against the curve of Stiles’ stomach.
“Oh fuck, oh God,” Stiles blurts, jerking back to stare at him with wide,
shocked eyes. “You’re hard.”
“Yeah?” Derek says, frowning down at him. “That’s – that’s what usually
happens?”
“But I didn’t even – I blew it in like two seconds,” Stiles says, his cheeks
turning pink in the most delicious looking way.
Derek shrugs. “Yeah, well.” He ducks his head and indulges himself with a long
drag of his tongue over Stiles’ collarbone. “I nearly did, too.”
Apparently that’s all it takes to get Stiles hard again.
Soeasy.
He rubs his jaw lightly against Stiles’ throat, not hard enough to scratch him
with his stubble. Speaking of… “Do you know if you like being bitten?” he asks,
letting a hot breath wash over pale skin. “Has anyone ever marked you up?”
Stiles’ fingers move restlessly over Derek’s shoulder. “I don’t – I don’t know.
No one – no, no one. Just, ah…” He tilts his head back, swallowing hard. “Maybe
– maybe nothing obnoxious where people can see. My – my dad.”
Derek has a hot, deep rush of guilt in his stomach and nods, gently. “Let me
maybe…” He closes a hand in the side of Stiles’ shirt – his shirt, a voice in
the back of his mind says. Gloats. Gloats that even clean, it still smells like
him after too many wears to count, his scent soaked deep into the very fibres
of the fabric, and now rubbing off on Stiles’ skin so anyone with a half-decent
sense of smell will be able to smell Derek on him. Then he swallows, shoves the
thought to the back of his mind, and tugs on the shirt until Stiles’ shoulder
is bare.
“Let’s try this,” he says, thickly, and lays a long, sucking kiss onto that
skin, scraping his teeth into it, far too pleased with himself when Stiles
makes an inelegant, strangled noise. He grins against Stiles’ reddened skin.
“Yeah?”
“Oh holy God,” Stiles curses.
Derek will take that as a yes.
It’s almost painfully obvious when Stiles likes something. He positively stinks
of arousal, a thick, heady scent that Derek figures is probably the closest
thing he’ll ever feel to being drunk. But also he mumbles praise and demands
and curses and pleas to deities including a few Derek isn’t so sure he wants to
think about Stiles knowing, arches and jerks when Derek finds a good spot to
touch, grabs on with rough, impatient fingers when he wants more.
The kid is about the last thing from subtle and Derek hates himself for how
much he enjoys it.
Hating himself is a pretty normal thing, though.
And this is so much better.
At the sound of his name, hoarse and desperate, Derek looks up from leaving a
nice, deep bite in the soft, pale skin of Stiles’ thigh, one that’ll bruise up
dark and strong and leave a mark that the kid won’t be able to forget. Stiles’
face is darkly flushed, his eyes glittering between his lashes, lips red and
swollen from being kissed and his own teeth.
“You about to blow it again?” he asks, giving a pointed look to the wet spot on
the cotton over Stiles’ dick that’s been slowly growing for the last several
moments.
It’s been harder than he wants to admit to not put his mouth on it.
“Oh God, probably,” Stiles blurts, and his hand is shaking when he fists it in
the shoulder of Derek’s shirt. “I – I can’t – can’t think.”
“It’s okay,” Derek soothes, pressing a gentle kiss to the exposed skin of
Stiles’ stomach, bared by the shirt riding up. He’s still soft there, baby fat
clinging stubbornly to those last few places despite the muscles in his
shoulders and arms. “You want me to suck you off?” he asks curiously, smiles
just a little to himself when Stiles groans. He’s so fucking easy. Desperate
for it. “Or you could fuck me instead, if you want.”
Stiles wraps his fingers around the back of Derek’s neck, squeezing a little
too hard. Derek fights every instinct not to forget himself and sink into it.
He can’t – it isn’t time for that. Maybe later when Stiles has had more than a
half-minute of friction and a wet spot in his underwear. “I wouldn’t last a
minute.”
Derek shrugs. “Nothing saying we couldn’t wait and go again.”
“You’re going to fucking kill me,” Stiles says, half hoarse, almost laughing.
“I’m not superhuman here, I can die of dehydration!”
“There’s Gatorade in the fridge,” Derek says mildly. “Haven’t let you die yet.
You think you want me to fuck you?”
Stiles exhales, very quietly, and nods when Derek looks at him. “Yeah. Yeah.
Fuck me.”
His fingers slide into Derek’s hair, tightening sharply. It’s overenthusiastic
and probably more of a nervous reaction than anything, but Derek can’t help how
his eyelids flutter for a moment, how he moves towards the touch without
thinking.
And Stiles’ heartbeat goes wild.
“That’s okay?” he asks, ridiculously careful. Probably terrified of screwing
up, and Derek doesn’t know how to tell him that there’s basically nothing he
could do that could make Derek not want this. “I don’t know what you like.”
Stiles swallows, biting briefly at his bottom lip. “You should show me what you
like.”
Derek leans over him, letting some of his weight come down onto him. The kid
seems to find it reassuring, the tension throughout his body momentarily easing
somewhat. Derek read once about compression therapies. Somehow, he doesn’t
think it works quite like this. But, hey, if it makes him feel better, safer,
maybe…
“I like a lot of things,” he says, and kisses Stiles’ pretty red bottom lip,
all chewed up and bruised, and he probably makes it worse, honestly. It’s a
good look on him, though. “That’s one of them, sometimes. Depends on the
person.”
Stiles reaches up and touches the corner of his mouth, his touch oddly gentle.
“Am I one of those people you like it with?”
Derek shrugs. “Apparently.”
“Thanks for the enthusiasm,” Stiles mutters.
“I think,” Derek says, and pulls his shirt over his head, “that you have enough
enthusiasm for the both of us.”
For a moment, Stiles has an affronted look on his face. And then he looks down,
and groans. “Oh, fuck, I forgot you look like porn and I get to touch you.”
And suddenly Derek has clumsy, oh-so-enthusiastic hands on him. Hands that are
big like he’s still growing into them, like a puppy that’s yet to grow into its
paws, but rough in places with calluses and scars. Derek shivers when one
scrapes across his skin, and presses into the touch. He’s not good with them,
has no freaking idea what he’s doing, but maybe Derek’s just as easy as Stiles
because it’s hardly any time at all before he’s tugging the shirt off of Stiles
so they’re skin to skin. And Stiles has the softest skin, it’s not even right.
And then since the shirt is gone, it’s only natural to strip the boxers off,
rougher than he means to be, but apparently Derek’s desperate over this mouthy
little brat, gods help him, and he needs them off.
“Okay,” Stiles says when he’s down to his skin and nothing more, his voice
husky. “Naked time now.”
“Do you want to slow down?” Derek asks, focusing on Stiles’ face. Which is not
the easiest thing to do right now.
Stiles inhales, slow. “No. I’m okay. I’m okay. Just really naked.”
Derek doesn’t have words for this. He doesn’t know how to tell Stiles that his
body is good. Doesn’t know how to tell him how the muscles on his arms and
shoulders have gotten thick and strong in that pretty human way, useless
against anything stronger than a locker room bully, but pretty to look at, or
that the moles over his body are like constellations that Derek wants to map
from his pale chest to the spattering on the inside of his thigh, or that –
fuck, that his dick is flushed a really gorgeous red.
So he puts a hand right above both of Stiles’ hips and slides them up, slow,
lingering over the vulnerable skin where the curves of his ribs peek through,
such fragile bones with only a thin layer of skin and muscle to protect them.
Up to the soft undersides of Stiles’ arms, guiding them up as his hands move,
until he can link his fingers through Stiles’ fingers where they’re now resting
over his head. Such a pretty picture, he really is, and Derek will never be
able to find the words to tell him.
He kisses him, instead, until Stiles is shivering and clenching his fingers
around Derek’s.
“You’re not terrible to look at,” Derek says gruffly and leans away from him to
open the top drawer of his dresser. The lube’s easily at hand for obvious
reasons, but he doesn’t even remember the last time he saw the box of condoms.
Probably buried under books and spare change and gods only know what else.
When groping doesn’t turn them up, he mutters a curse and shoves himself
farther forward so he can see in the drawer.
A second later, there’s a hesitant touch against his back – and then the
unmistakeable sensation of a kiss pressed to his skin, to his tattoo, soft like
a whisper, soft like a promise, and Stiles saying, “What are you doing?”
“Condoms,” he mutters.
Stiles swallows audibly, his breath warm against Derek’s skin. “Are you – can
you carry anything?”
Finally, Derek finds the damn box and tosses it onto the bed along with the
lube. Then he moves back over Stiles, lightly nudging him back onto the
mattress.
“No, I can’t,” he says, absently cupping his hand over Stiles’ ribs. “But I
don’t – it’s different with humans,” he tries to explain. “It’s not – it’s how
you’re supposed to take care of someone. How you make them feel safe.”
“I feel safe,” Stiles says, picking up the box of condoms and playing with the
flap. Then he hands one to Derek. “You should, too.”
“Just…” Derek takes it and shoves the box out of the way. “Just let me take
care of you okay?” he asks, rubbing his hand down Stiles’ side and over his
hip. “Let me…”
“Okay,” Stiles says.
And then Derek eases his hand down, letting his palm glide over the soft,
pretty skin of Stiles’ thigh and the kid’s heart goes wild, slamming against
his ribs so hard Derek is almost concerned for those fragile bones. And then
his stupid, beautiful, petal pink mouth goes soft and lax, open on a silent
word, perhaps, when Derek brushes his knuckles up the length of his dick.
Two times this morning, three times last night. The words ring in Derek’s head,
ridiculous things he’s heard Stiles say carelessly, not even bragging, and he
almost wants to see if he can get him off again like this, with barely a touch.
See how many times he can get the kid off before he collapses.
“Have you ever tried this?” Derek asks, presses a hand against Stiles’ thigh.
He opens his legs so eagerly, and Derek has to hold himself back from telling
him how fucking good he is.
“Couple times,” Stiles says hoarsely. “The angle’s a bitch and I don’t usually
have the patience.”
Derek squeezes some lube onto his fingers. “You want me to walk you through
it?”
Stiles exhales and curls his arm over his head, fingers clenching in Derek’s
pillowcase. “No.”
“When you tried it, did you like it?”
“Kinda,” Stiles says.
“Tell me if it feels bad.” Derek pauses. “Tell me if it feels good, too.”
He fucking blushes, the little brat. Derek has him naked and spread out across
his sheets, cock leaking onto his stomach, and he’s blushing because Derek told
him to say when something feels good.
Gods help him, Derek thinks. The kid’s going to kill him.
“Breathe,” he reminds Stiles, and presses the tip of a slick finger into him.
Stiles is still for a moment, and then squirms.
Derek clenches a hand around his hip. “Easy. Bad or good?” he prompts after a
second’s thought.
“I don’t know.” Stiles rolls his head to the side, baring the long, pale length
of his neck. “Do – do some more and we’ll see.”
Derek laughs at that, soft and low, as he bends down to mouth at the gorgeous
skin that’s practically begging to be marked. Conscious of Stiles’ earlier
request to keep any marks where clothing can cover, he keeps it to just being
the soft scrape here and there from his stubble, because it makes Stiles shiver
and go boneless, and it’s easy then to press his finger deeper.
“Can you…” Stiles shifts his hips, bending a knee up until his foot is flat
against the mattress. “Can you move or – or more? I don’t – I don’t know… do
another?”
“If you want another.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, swallowing so hard that Derek can hear it like a gunshot.
Shaking like a leaf with each stroke inside him, with each fraction of an inch
Derek eases his fingers deeper. Stiles’ erection flagged some at the beginning,
but he’s hard again, leaking all over his stomach, and making the most
desperate little noises. Gasps, his breath catching in his throat, quiet curses
that are half-uncertain, half-blissful.
Derek – Derek wants to touch him. Everywhere.
But he’s red in the cheeks, going down his chest, twisting against the sheets,
and Derek is neither sure Stiles could handle more stimulation, or if – if he
can actually stop watching him.
“How close are you?”
Stiles shudders. “About a light breeze?” he says, and digs his fingers into
Derek’s shoulder.
“Do you like it?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles says again.
Derek pauses his hand. “Do you want–”
“Can you fuck me now?”
“What?”
“God, please?” Stiles says and his voice breaks. “I want it, I’m ready,
please.”
Derek hates everything a little right then. He hates how soft and hot and tight
Stiles is inside, he hates how the kid is fucking begging for it, he hates the
way he smells like come and lube, sex and desperation, he hates how Stiles
looks up at him, wild-eyed and panting, he hates how he – he hates how he
doesn’t hate anything about this at all.
“I’ll take care of you,” he says, his voice lower, softer than he means it to
be. “Like this?” he asks after a minute, settling his weight between Stiles’
legs. “It can be easier on your side.”
“Wanna see you,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Derek.”
 Derek soothes him, rubbing a hand over his hip. “Shh, I’m right here. I’ve got
you. I’ll make you feel good, I promise,” he says, gently pressing his palm
against Stiles’ thigh. “Keep breathing for me.”
“If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to cut your head off and shove
wolfsbane down your throat,” Stiles mutters, and Derek – Derek laughs, and
kisses him as he moves into place.
Stiles is scalding hot inside, tighter than he has any right to be. Too damn
tight, Derek thinks, watching his face for any sign of pain, any wince or gasp.
He’s still nervous, still far too anxious, and Derek doesn’t know how to make
him any less so. He smells like anxiety constantly, only now it’s mixed with
sex, and the blood hot and close to his skin, sweat and pheromones.
“You okay?” Derek asks, his voice tight even to his own ears.
“Uh-huh.” Stiles exhales shakily, pressing his mouth against Derek’s shoulder.
“Sex is really weird,” he says, half-laughing, trembling, beautiful.
He’s such a fucking teenager, Derek thinks. He’s fucking such a teenager.
“Maybe you just make everything weird,” Derek says.
This time Stiles flat-out laughs. His whole body goes tight and Derek – Derek
nearly dies.
“Stop laughing.”
Stiles’ voice goes high and rough. “Actually – actually, that felt okay,” he
says, rocking his hips experimentally. “Move – move a little?”
Fucking Stiles is… a little weird, Derek will admit. He wiggles completely
ungracefully, curses and laughs, giggles, when something feels good, touches
Derek everywhere, from the dip of his spine to the soft skin of his inner elbow
to back of his knee. They aren’t the most erotic touches, but they’re honest,
exploratory in a way that Derek can’t help but find sweet. And he moans and
whimpers and gasps, so noisy, but not – it’s like every noise surprises
him. And it’s not – it isn’t smooth with him. They don’t magically work
together, or anything. Derek hits an angle that’s either really bad or really
good, and Stiles bites down so hard on Derek’s lip that he draws blood, and
they have to stop for a moment until it heals and Stiles stops blushing enough
to tell Derek if it was good or bad. Stiles says the most ridiculous things
that aren’t the least bit sexy or even romantic and he has absolutely no rhythm
whatsoever.
But Derek didn’t suffer through four years of ballroom dancing lessons for
nothing. If a scrawny human can hold him up in a pool for two hours and nearly
drown himself doing it, he can lead the same rhythmless wonder. And when Stiles
stops trying to do… whatever he thinks he’s doing… and lets his body do what it
wants, it’s a lot easier, at least.
Then… then Derek thinks that’s when it starts to feel maybe a little more than
good. He grabs onto Derek’s shoulder with one hand so tightly Derek thinks he’d
have bruises if he were human, and presses the other into the mattress until
the muscles in his arm strain. Goes quiet with it, digging his teeth into his
bottom lip until Derek kisses him to distract him.
And then, just like that, he moans, soft and sweet against Derek’s mouth, and
spills all over his stomach.
“I lasted more than a minute,” Stiles says dopily.
Derek presses his face into Stiles’ shoulder and laughs through his orgasm.
 
 
“Was it okay?” Stiles asks later, cautiously.
Derek takes his face out of the pillow – that totally doesn’t smell like Stiles
and sex – and… okay, blinks a couple times until Stiles’ face is in focus. Then
he manages to raise an eyebrow. “You bit me and drew blood, you told me my
teeth were pretty, you can’t hold still to save your life.”
Stiles’ face falls. Gods, he’s an open book.
Derek tucks the pillow under his chin and closes his eyes. “Don’t change,
kiddo,” he says, briskly.
Kind of briskly.
…maybe he’s still a little orgasm-drunk.
When he lets one eye crack open a slit, Stiles is smiling. “Okay,” he says,
sprawling next to Derek.
Derek reaches over and rubs a hand over Stiles’ stomach. He still smells like
sex, and exhaustion, and Derek thinks he can stay for a while, if he wants.
“You want me to make you some of Deaton’s tea?”
When there’s no answer, Derek opens his eyes – and the kid’s out like a light.
“Okay,” Derek says, grinning a little, and pulls the cover over him. He turns
the lamp off and settles down against Stiles, letting his hands settle onto a
hip, a shoulder, wherever feels right. If Stiles can sleep here, he can sleep
as long as he needs. And if he has nightmares… well, Derek can’t fight his own
nightmares. Probably he can’t battle anyone else’s.
But he can make Stiles a cup of tea if he needs it.
And if he’s there in the morning, maybe Derek will make him breakfast.
 
 
He has nightmares. Wakes up gasping and shuddering. Starts to leave, to run
away, when Derek is still half-asleep and trying to figure out what to kill.
Derek soothes him, slow touches and soft words, until he settles. Offers to
make tea, until Stiles shakes his head and presses his forehead against Derek’s
shoulder. He falls asleep like that, tense and anxious, and it doesn’t seep
from his muscles from a long time.
Derek stays awake until it eases.
And he’s there in the morning, when the rain has stopped and the sun shines
through the windows of the loft.
Derek makes him breakfast. Eggs and bacon and toast, hearty, filling stuff.
Stiles talks with his mouth full, pops Adderall with his coffee and rambles
between six subjects until something starts to kick in, nearly falls off his
chair when Derek says something sarcastic that makes him laugh. He’s obnoxious
and too loud and when Derek goes down on him after breakfast, he blows it so
quickly and so hard he brains himself on the edge of the cupboard.
It’s every kind of wrong. He’s seventeen and more broken bits than not, hair
trigger and nightmares about the people his body killed.
“You stayed,” Derek says, pressing an ice pack against the lump on Stiles’
head. “Last night.”
“Yeah.” Stiles shrugs, twisting the drawstring of the sweatpants he’d borrowed
from Derek around his fingers. “I didn’t… I felt safe, I guess.” He makes a
face. “God, don’t make me get all sappy.”
Derek snorts. “Wouldn’t dare.” After a minute, he lifts the ice pack to check
the swelling on Stiles’ skull and hastily replaces the ice. “You can keep – you
can stay,” he says. “You can stay here when you want. However long you want.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, soft, and nods. And then winces and presses his hand over
Derek’s hand. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“Maybe I should get you a helmet for when you fuck me,” Derek muses, half-
serious.
He’s gotta keep the kid in one piece somehow.
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