Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/720481.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf), Sheriff
      Stilinski, Various_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Fuck_Or_Die, Dubious_Consent, Anal_Sex, Frottage, Blow_Jobs, Rimming,
      Barebacking, mild_D/s_themes, Pining, First_Time, Loss_of_Virginity,
      Canon_Divergence, Kidnapping, Violence, Angst, Happy_Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-14 Words: 23764
****** When the Dust Settles (I'll Still Love You) ******
by mysecretashes
Summary
     Stiles had imagined his first time many different ways, but never
     like this.
Notes
     So I wrote this way back in November, when I was in the middle of
     marathoning all the episodes and reading all the fic and having ALL
     THE FEELS. Because of this, there are certain characters that appear
     who won't be in S3. :( (Which is also the reason for the Canon
     Divergence tag.) Set in the nebulous ~future, with no spoilers for
     S3.
     Beta'd by filmatleven, who is the awesomest.
The powder is bright red, which should be Stiles' first clue.
At the time, however, he's slightly distracted by his efforts to get the fuck
away from the crazy-ass witch with her claws an inch deep in his upper arm and
also not get in the way of the very angry werewolf with his teeth bared. It all
happens so fast – one second Derek is fifteen feet away, the next he's ripping
(literally, oh my god ow) Stiles free, and then they both have a face full of
red powder.
Stiles gasps automatically, inhaling and then spluttering and coughing because
seriously, no air. The powder clings to him, settling thickly on his skin, and
the most coherent thoughts he has are something along the lines of what the
fuck and oh, look, it matches the blood trickling down my arm. Derek doesn't
seem very affected, which is no surprise and also not fucking fair, and is busy
making sure the witch can never terrorize anyone ever again.
Stiles scrunches his eyes shut and turns away, because no, seeing someone's
throat ripped out is not something he will ever get used to.
"You okay?" Derek asks, and it's only because Stiles knows him that he hears
the hesitance in his voice.
"Yeah." Stiles swallows, shakes his head. "No. My arm hurts. And this powder
shit is making me itch."
Derek steps into view, claws and teeth retracted but a hint of red still in his
eyes. A faint shimmer on his neck and face is the only evidence that he's also
been hit by whatever the witch threw at them. He scans Stiles from head to
foot, likely using his super werewolfy senses to make sure he really is okay.
"Let's go," he finally says. "The others should be back by now, and Deaton can
patch up your arm and maybe tell us what this stuff is."
*
By the time they reach the clinic Stiles thinks he's going to crawl out of his
skin. It feels tight and confining, stretched over bone and muscle like it no
longer fits. The itch is constant now, almost burning, and from the way Derek's
jaw is clenched and his hands are balled into tight fists, he isn't as
unaffected as it previously seemed.
"Is she dead?" Scott asks the second they walk through the door, Erica, Isaac,
and Boyd all crowding close behind him. The witch had been terrorizing each of
them for weeks with nightmares and hallucinations, slamming the images into
their heads whenever she pleased and making it impossible for them to fight
her. Derek and Stiles had been the only two she couldn't get to, for whatever
reason, so it had been they who tracked her to the cave she had been living in
deep in the woods.
Stiles still isn't sure why she hadn't been able to get to him and Derek, but
at this point he really doesn't give a fuck.
Derek grunts out a non-answer to Scott and pushes his way through his pack,
dragging Stiles along behind him.
"Extremely," Stiles calls back as they pass, and can almost feel the tension
release from the four of them.
Deaton is in his office, fully engrossed in some old-looking book, but he looks
up when Derek barges through the door, pulling Stiles around and making him
squawk as he tries to keep from tripping over his own feet.
"Jesus Christ, Derek, I can actually walk on my own –"
"What is this?" Derek interrupts, shoving Stiles' arm at Deaton's face, and
wow, rude on so many levels.
Deaton raises his eyebrows but doesn't comment, leaning forward to try and get
a better look at the red, shimmering powder. "Where did this come from?"
"The witch threw it at both of us," Stiles answers, shifting uncomfortably.
"And honestly, it's driving me so insane I want to scratch my skin off, but
I've also got five very painful puncture wounds in my arm and no freaky healing
powers, so if I could have some medical attention that would be great."
Deaton frowns. "You both have this on you?"
Derek nods sharply and Stiles scowls, because didn't he just say that?
"Have a seat," Deaton says, and stands to turn and start looking through the
numerous books on his bookshelves.
Stiles sighs and drops down into one of the chairs; this is going to take a
while.
*
He snorts when Derek shakes him awake a few hours later, flailing slightly
before he realizes he isn't going to fall out of his chair. His eyes are still
heavy with sleep and he blinks, the burn on his skin quickly cutting through
the fuzziness to remind him that he probably doesn't want to rub his eyes. He
must have been more exhausted than he realized to have actually fallen asleep.
"Wha-" he starts, then pauses to swallow and wet his dry throat before trying
again. "What's going on? Did you find something?"
Derek is in the chair next to him, and Deaton is back in his seat behind his
desk, a different book open in front of him. They're both frowning and Derek
won't meet his eyes, gaze locked on the book Deaton is reading. Something heavy
settles in the pit of Stiles' stomach. This can't in any way be good.
"Oh my god, are we going to die?"
It's only half a joke, but he's still surprised when Derek flinches and Deaton
looks at him with something close to pity.
"That depends."
Stiles stares at him, not sure he's comprehending those words correctly. He did
just wake up. "Depends," he repeats. "On what?"
He glances over at Derek and is surprised to see his face pinched into a pained
grimace (actually no, that's not surprising at all) and an honest-to-god blush
on his cheeks. Deaton clears his throat and Stiles looks back at him, fingers
tightening on the arms of his chair. After everything that's happened, it seems
unbelievable that he could die from some stupid red powder.
"What the witch threw on the two of you is a magical dust that – well. It
causes immense pain – not immediately, as you can probably tell, but it
increases over a short period of time – and ultimately death if not taken care
of. The only way to reverse the effects and save your life is to –"
He breaks off, looking more uncomfortable than Stiles has ever seen him.
"Is to what?" Stiles demands, staring hard at him. "Bathe in goat's milk? Dance
naked under the full moon? Just tell me, I can handle it –"
"We have to fuck," Derek says, voice flat and hard.
Stiles gapes at him. "I'm sorry," he says slowly. "Could you repeat that?
Because there is no possible way I heard you correctly."
Derek growls.
"He's telling you the truth, Stiles," Deaton says quietly, and suddenly the
heavy weight at the bottom of his stomach explodes into full-out dread.
"But –"
"It's either we have sex or you die," Derek says, and he's still not looking at
Stiles. "I won't die, but the pain would just continue getting worse until it
drove me insane. And no, before you ask, it can't be with other people. It
doesn't work that way."
Stiles wasn't going to ask, actually, but he doesn't say that. "How, uh –" he
clears his throat, "how long do we have to – um."
"It needs to be tonight," Deaton answers. "The longer you wait the more pain
you'll be in and the less likely you are to…succeed."
"Oh," Stiles whispers, glancing over at Derek again. His fists are clenched,
jaw set, shoulders stiff, and Stiles wants to curl up into a ball and die.
Oh, the irony.
Derek suddenly stands, eyes fixed on the far wall. "Is there anything else we
should know?"
"Take a shower first," Deaton says, "or you'll be right back in the same
situation. The only other thing is that – well. Penetration is necessary and
there shouldn't be any, er, barriers. Full contact is the only way to break the
spell."
No barriers? Stiles thinks, confused, but then –
Oh.
Oh.
No condoms.
He can feel his face go red, heat traveling up his neck, and this is hands down
the most humiliating thing to ever happen to him.
Derek nods curtly at Deaton before turning on his heel and stalking towards the
door. "Come on," he snaps at Stiles, and doesn't wait on him before
disappearing down the hall.
Stiles moves more slowly, not quite believing this is happening. But his skin
is on fire, the itch deeper than it was before, and oh fucking hell, he's going
to have to have sex with Derek.
Sex.
With Derek.
"Where are the others?" he asks inanely, his brain immediately trying to shy
away from this overwhelming thought.
"Derek sent them home a few hours ago," Deaton answers. "And he patched up your
arm while I was searching."
Stiles looks down at his arm in surprise, pulling up the torn sleeve, and yep,
a clean white bandage is wrapped around where the witch had been holding him.
He can barely feel the tingle of Deaton's special salve on his skin, the
burning itch overpowering it.
"Huh," he says.
"Are you going to be okay, Stiles?" Deaton asks, sounding concerned.
Stiles thinks about that before answering. "No," he finally says. "Probably
not."
He doesn't say anything else as he turns and walks out, clenching his fists to
keep them from shaking.
*
They go to his house, because his father's pulling a late shift and won't be
back until the next morning. It's eerily quiet when they walk in, and Stiles
curses the way his heart rate suddenly picks up, knowing Derek can hear it.
Neither of them has said a word since leaving the clinic, and they both remain
silent as Stiles leads the way up the stairs.
He pauses in front of his bedroom door, staring hard at it, and clears his
throat, gesturing toward the bathroom. "You can shower first. I need to, uh –"
He swallows thickly, shakes his head, and nearly runs into his room, shutting
the door behind him before Derek can follow. His hand stays tightly wrapped
around the knob and he leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes
and taking slow, deep breaths. There are a few minutes of complete silence, and
then he hears the bathroom door shutting and the shower coming on.
"Oh my god," he whispers, not caring if Derek can hear him.
This is a fucking disaster. He's imagined losing his virginity a countless
number of times – many of those times including Derek – but not like this. He
straightens, glaring at his door like it's the one at fault, and sees a faint
shimmer of red. Fuck. He's going to have to go back and very carefully clean
every fucking little thing he's touched.
By the time Derek steps out of the bathroom – wearing nothing but a towel tied
around his waist, holy fucking god – Stiles has cleaned the front door, the
stairs, the hall carpet, and his own door. Derek's chest is still damp, hair
wet and messy, and Stiles nearly chokes. The itching burn intensifies, and he
gasps, weaving where he stands.
"Go," Derek snaps, pointing at the bathroom, and Stiles doesn't argue, dropping
his scrub brush and stumbling past him, kicking the door shut. The mirror is
fogged over with steam, and all he can smell is his own body wash, which means
Derek smells like him. Stiles groans, turning the shower back on and stripping
his clothes off, adding them to the pile Derek left on the floor. He'll have to
figure out how to wash them later.
The water does nothing to ease the burn, and when he finally shuts the shower
off he can't stop shaking. He grabs a towel and dries off as quickly as he can,
using it to wipe the knob clean before opening the door, not bothering to wrap
it around his waist. Full contact, he thinks, and tries to ignore the
bitterness settling at the back of his tongue.
He's about to have sex with Derek, which would be a literal fantasy come true
under different circumstances, but right now Stiles just wants to have a life
that isn't quite so fucked up.
Derek is in Stiles' room, lying back on his bed, scowling at the ceiling. The
towel is on the floor, and Stiles' breath catches in his throat. He slowly
pushes his door shut and leans back against it, just staring. There's no
possible way Derek doesn't know Stiles is there, but he doesn't react, staying
still as Stiles takes in the sight of him naked on the bed.
"Do you, uh –" Stiles stops, clears his throat. "How do you –"
The burn suddenly pierces through his stomach and he cries out, doubling over.
Derek is there in an instant, sliding an arm around his waist as his knees give
out.
"Oh, fuck," Stiles gasps, vision blurring. "That hurts."
"On the bed," Derek orders, maneuvering them towards it. His voice sounds
strained, his skin hot and flushed, and Stiles vaguely wonders if he's in as
much pain.
Stiles collapses onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, fingers twisting into
his sheets. This is really happening; Derek is going to fuck him and Stiles
will no longer be a virgin, but in the end he won't have anything he actually
wants.
Well, except for his life, of course.
"Stiles," Derek says, and he sounds almost apologetic. "I wish we could go
slow, but –"
"It's fine," Stiles manages, squeezing his eyes shut. "I don't – it's fine."
Derek doesn't say anything but there's a dip in the mattress as he climbs on.
He nudges Stiles' knees apart, and then he's leaning down, pressing his nose
into the crook of Stiles' hip, breathing in deep. Stiles draws in a sharp
breath of his own, his soft cock stirring with interest for the first time
since this whole thing started.
"I know this isn't what you want," Derek says against his skin, "but I'm going
to try to make you feel good."
Stiles' stomach clenches, and before he can say anything, wet heat surrounds
his dick. His hips buck and his eyes fly open, a strangled noise wrenched from
his chest. He hardens almost instantly, the sight and feel of Derek's mouth
around him the hottest thing in the history of ever.
"Fucking –" Stiles gasps, and whines when Derek pins his hips to the bed,
sucking as he pulls back.
As soon as he releases him the burn crashes over Stiles, making his entire body
jerk, and he realizes that it had faded when he was in Derek's mouth.
"Shit," Derek breathes, flinching visibly.
"As incredible as that was," Stiles says, and then immediately wants to hit
himself, "we should probably get on with it –"
"Lube?"
Stiles waves in the general direction of his nightstand, and Derek leans over
him to pull open the top drawer. His legs are still spread open, and when
Derek's hard dick brushes against his Stiles arches up, hips stuttering and a
moan escaping through his clenched teeth. Derek glances down at him, and even
though his expression is unreadable, this close Stiles can see how his pupils
are blown wide.
Derek sits back, half-empty bottle of lube clutched in one hand. He flips open
the top and pours some onto his fingers. Stiles closes his eyes again, wincing
as his heart begins to pound wildly.
"Stiles –"
"Sometime before I actually die would be nice," Stiles says, shifting to spread
his legs further, ignoring the way his face becomes hotter than the rest of
him.
Derek sighs, and then there's a slick finger pushing into him. It feels –
really fucking weird, but it doesn't hurt, at least not yet, and Stiles
relaxes, letting out a shallow breath. The burn on his skin fades just
slightly, and then Derek's adding a second finger, twisting them, pushing in
deep. Stiles breathes slow and even, concentrating on staying relaxed. It
works, at least until Derek adds a third finger.
"Fuck," Stiles gasps, face scrunching as he tenses.
"Try to relax," Derek says softly, and Stiles does try, he really does, but his
legs are shaking and his skin is burning and Derek has three large fingers
stretching him open where nobody else has ever been.
It's too much, and Stiles' throat feels tight and achy.
"Stiles, I have to –"
"I know," Stiles says, and barely recognizes his own voice. "You – you can. Go
ahead."
Derek pulls his fingers out, and he's slow but Stiles still hisses. He keeps
his eyes squeezed tightly closed, hears the lube bottle being opened and closed
again, and tightens his fingers where they're still twisted in his sheets. A
moment later he feels the head of Derek's dick at his entrance, pressing
lightly. He can't stop a whimper from escaping; he's both terrified and
excited, his stomach in knots and his hard dick leaking against his skin.
Derek's hands are on his thighs, holding him open, blunt fingers digging into
his flesh. "Look at me," he says, and Stiles has to take several deep breaths
before he can open his eyes. Derek's eyes are dark, a hint of red behind his
pupils, and as soon as Stiles focuses on him he pushes in, steady and sure and
slow, not stopping until he's balls deep.
Stiles chokes, one hand coming up to grasp desperately at the pillow beneath
his head. Oh god, it hurts.
But the itching burn on his skin is fading again, and Jesus fucking Christ,
Derek's dick is inside of him. Stiles breathes out sharply through his nose,
whining when Derek makes a small roll of his hips.
"Hold on," Derek says, and fuck, his voice sounds wrecked. "Just hold on."
There's nothing Stiles can do except wait it out; he keeps his eyes locked onto
Derek's, his entire body trembling as it tries to adjust. Derek keeps his hips
moving, small, hitching movements giving way to longer, smoother strokes.
Finally, the pain starts to fade, and it's still uncomfortable and weird but
there's something nice about it too, something that's starting to feel really
good.
Derek shifts, and his dick drags over Stiles' prostate.
"Fuck!" Stiles shouts, arching up as his eyes roll back. "Oh my god, do that
again."
Derek makes a desperate-sounding noise, and starts pushing in deeper and
harder. His pace quickly gets erratic, pulling out almost all the way before
slamming back in, over and over until Stiles thinks he can't possibly take any
more. The pain has completely disappeared and the burning is almost gone and
Stiles is so, so close to coming. Derek's eyes have drifted closed but Stiles
can't stop staring, focusing on remembering every detail of this moment.
His dick throbs and he can't wait any longer; he reaches down and strokes
himself hard, from tip to base, shuddering. Derek opens his eyes and growls but
doesn't stop him, and Stiles can feel where Derek's fingers are more sharp than
blunt against his skin. The edge of his orgasm shivers through him, hot and
electric at the base of his spine, and when Derek gives a hard snap of his hips
Stiles falls, dick pulsing as he comes all over his stomach.
Derek groans, low and rough, throwing his head back. He slams in a few more
times before he stills, grinding his hips against Stiles' ass.
"Oh god," Stiles breathes out.
Derek stays like that for a few more moments, and when he finally – slowly –
pulls out Stiles can feel the now-faint burning fade completely. No more fire
under his skin; it had worked.
Neither of them speak for several minutes, Stiles not sure he could move if he
tried and Derek shifting to sit on the edge of the bed. Both of them avoid
making eye contact, and Stiles thinks this couldn't possibly be more awkward.
Derek clears his throat. "I need to borrow some clothes."
Oh, what do you know. Things can get more awkward.
"Right," Stiles says faintly, and pushes himself off the bed, trying not to
wince. He pulls on a random pair of pajama bottoms lying on the floor and then
paws through his dresser until he finds a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that
might fit Derek. He tosses them onto the bed and then rubs his hand over his
head, staring at the floor. "I'll, uh, just go get your clothes. Put them in a
bag or something."
He doesn't wait for Derek's answer, spinning on his heel and booking it out of
his room. "Use gloves," he hears Derek call after him, and can't stop a
muttered, "Obviously."
When he gets back to his room, trash bag full of Derek's clothes in hand, his
heart drops a little at the sight of Derek dressed and waiting by the window.
He's not surprised, really, but a small part of him had hoped.
"Here," he says, thrusting the bag at Derek. "I suggest dumping them straight
into a washer. Or burning them."
Derek frowns. "Stiles –"
"You should go," Stiles interrupts, not wanting to hear any kind of apology.
Derek's frown deepens and he doesn't move, staring hard at Stiles until he
flushes and shifts his gaze to the far wall. There's a few more seconds of
silence and then the sound of his window being opened. When he finally looks
back, Derek is gone.
Stiles takes a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut and willing his
heart to stop racing. He's completely exhausted, both physically and
emotionally, but he can't risk this happening again so he forces himself to
open his eyes and go finish cleaning the bathroom. He carefully throws his
clothes in the wash and then scrubs everything down with bleach, blaming the
fumes for the way his eyes sting. At the last minute he remembers the Jeep, and
groans as he drags himself outside to clean it too.
When he's finally done he stumbles his way back to his room and falls onto his
bed, buries his face in his pillow, and tries not to think about how it smells
like Derek.
*
He doesn't answer anyone's calls for the rest of the weekend (they're mostly
from Scott anyway), and only texts Scott back with a short not feeling good,
see you on Monday because he can't handle the incessant ringing of his phone
anymore. He takes probably ten showers, which makes his father give him odd
looks, but he has to scrub the smell of Derek off him before going around the
rest of the pack again. Whether they know or not, it will make things easier to
ignore if he only smells like himself.
On Monday morning he leans against the bathroom sink and stares at himself in
the mirror. He doesn't look any different, and if he's honest he doesn't feel
much different either, at least physically. Any soreness had completely faded
by yesterday, and he knows Derek had been careful not to leave any marks.
"Man up," he tells his reflection. "You lost your virginity to Derek. Maybe the
circumstances weren't ideal, but it wasn't like it was torture. He didn't force
you to do anything, and it wasn't his fault. He saved your life, and just
because he doesn't want more doesn't mean you aren't still friends." He pauses.
"Or something vaguely similar, anyway."
There's a knock on the door and Stiles jumps, knocking several things off the
sink and onto the floor.
"Stiles?" his father asks. "You alright in there? I thought I heard you talking
to someone."
Stiles swears under his breath. "I'm fine," he says, bending down to pick up
the mess. "Just, uh. Giving myself a pep talk before school." He winces. "Big
test today."
"Okay, well," his father says after a moment, sounding doubtful. "If you need
anything you know you can call me anytime."
"I know, Dad," Stiles says. "Have a good day at work."
"Good luck on your test," his dad says, and Stiles holds his breath until he
hears the front door close. He slumps down on the floor and bangs his head back
against the wall, closing his eyes.
"Get it together, Stiles," he mutters.
He sits there another few minutes before he makes himself get up and finish
getting ready for the day, trying to ignore the hollow ache inside his chest.
*
"Hey," Scott says, joining Stiles as they walk into the school. "You okay?
Because of Friday night, I mean, and whatever that stuff was that Derek was
freaking out over. What was it, anyway?"
Stiles shrugs. "Not sure," he says, which is technically the truth since Stiles
had been sleeping in Deaton's chair at the time, and ignores the other
question. "Deaton told us how to get rid of it, though, so it's all good."
"Good," Scott says, and gives him a push. "Scared us all, dude. From the way
Derek was acting we thought you were going to die."
Stiles laughs, and tries not to wince at how fake it sounds. "Nope, no dying
here. Definitely not dying."
Scott gives him an odd look. "Right. Why do you smell different?"
Stiles chokes. "What? What do you mean I smell different?" He raises his arms
and sniffs at his armpits. "I took a shower, I swear!"
"No, I mean," Scott pauses, frowns, "you still smell like you, there's just
something kind of off about it. Not a bad off, just…"
He shrugs.
"Oh." Stiles has absolutely no idea what to say to that. Does virginity have a
smell? Or non-virginity?
"Hey, look," Scott suddenly says, and Stiles stops breathing, "Derek said to
tell you that we're having a cook out this weekend, and your ass better be
there. Pack bonding, or something."
Goddamn it, the last thing he wants to do is go to Derek's. There's no way he
can get out of it without it being too suspicious, though, so he adjusts his
backpack and says as casually as he can, "Yeah, okay. Sounds good."
"Great, I'll let him know," Scott says, suddenly sounding distracted.
Stiles follows his gaze and sees Allison at her locker. He snorts and gives
Scott a push. "Go say hello before class."
Scott flashes him a grin and wanders off, leaving Stiles to let out a sharp
breath. This weekend is going to be hell.
*
Somehow Stiles makes it through the week, and by Saturday he almost feels back
to normal. When he pulls up in front of Derek's newly remodeled house, he lets
the engine idle for a few minutes while he gathers up the nerve to get out and
join the rest of the pack.
You can do this, he thinks, because there's no way he's talking to himself out
loud with several super-hearing werewolves nearby. It's just a cookout; no big
deal.
He cuts the engine and gets out before he can change his mind.
Everybody except Derek and Boyd are in the living room when he walks in; Lydia
and Jackson are cuddled up in a huge armchair, Allison and Scott are in their
own little world on the couch, and Erica and Isaac are standing in front of the
TV, arguing about which movie to watch.
"Hey," he says to the room at large. Nobody answers him and he rolls his eyes,
dropping down on the couch as far away from Scott and Allison as he can get.
"Stiles!"
He jumps at the sound of Derek's voice, heart stopping for a split second
before slamming against his ribcage at a frantic pace. Shit.
"Get your ass out here and help!"
"Why me?" he says irritably, but gets up anyway. "There are plenty of other
capable people here who can help."
Derek shoves a plate of raw burgers at him as soon as he steps from the kitchen
onto the back deck. "You're on grill duty. Don't burn them."
"Yes, sir," Stiles says sarcastically, taking the plate. Derek goes still,
staring at him oddly, and Stiles grimaces. "What?"
Derek scowls and stalks into the kitchen, leaving him alone with Boyd, who just
shrugs at his questioning look.
"Don't ask me. He's been in a bad mood all week."
Stiles snorts, and starts putting burgers on the hot grill. "I thought 'bad'
was his default mood."
"I heard that," Derek yells from inside.
"Good," Stiles yells back, just because, and then grins at Derek's answering
growl.
Maybe things won't be too bad after all.
*
Once the burgers are done Stiles stacks them on a clean plate and takes them
back into the kitchen, setting them on the center island next to the buns and
numerous amounts of toppings. Derek is at the counter, finishing up what looks
like potato salad, and Stiles just stands there for a minute, watching the way
his shoulders move under his black t-shirt.
"Burgers are done," he finally says, which is stupid because Derek probably
knows that already.
Derek turns to set the – yep, potato salad on the island, giving the burgers a
once over. He nods, which is almost a compliment, and Stiles gives him a smug
grin.
"Didn't burn them," he points out, just because Derek had thought he would.
Derek looks at him for a moment, and then he grins back, a hint of wickedness
making Stiles blink.
"Good boy."
Stiles' eyes go wide, breath punched from his lungs as heat creeps through him,
twisting his stomach and making the back of his neck hot. "What – but you – I
don't –"
Derek's grin widens, but instead of saying anything more to Stiles he turns and
calls for the others to come eat. They pile into the room and start filling
their plates, and Stiles jerks into motion, reaching for the stack of nearby
paper plates. Before he can grab one, a warm body is pressed up against his
back and a familiar hand is taking one of the plates off the top. Stiles bites
down hard on his bottom lip to keep from making whatever sound is probably
about to escape.
"Sorry," Derek says, breath brushing against Stiles' ear. "I'm ravenous."
Stiles chokes back a laugh. "That was so bad."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Derek says easily, moving away, and
Stiles lets out a slow breath, glancing around at the others. He flushes when
he catches Scott giving him an odd look, but none of the others seem to have
noticed.
Or they're just pretending not to notice, in which case Stiles so owes them.
He busies himself by making a plate, trying to calm his racing heart (oh my
god, there's no way the others don't hear it, Jesus fucking –) and telling
himself that Derek is just being his usual, asshole self. It doesn't mean he
actually wants Stiles.
Nothing has changed.
*
Somehow, some way, he ends up squished between Derek and the arm of the couch.
They're pressed together from hip to knee, and the only reason their shoulders
aren't touching too is because Stiles has slowly leaned away, trying to pretend
that he has to balance his plate on the arm as an excuse. Derek has refused to
look at him since they ended up this way, going from his I-have-no-emotions
face to his scowly grump face, picking at his food and resolutely staring at
whatever inane movie is playing on the TV.
Which is very fucking confusing, thank you very much.
The others seem unaware, talking and eating and not really paying any attention
to the movie at all, and Stiles tries desperately to keep his breathing even
and his heart rate steady. He's also desperately trying to keep his dick from
getting hard (okay, harder; he's been at half-mast since that whole whatever-
it-was in the kitchen, because apparently now his body thinks he's going to get
some happy fun Stiles time, and he's sorry to disappoint it, but no).
It's fucking frustrating, and also causes a sharp twisting thing to happen in
that hollow place in his chest. None of it is fair, and Stiles is used to his
life being unfair, he really is, but it's even worse now because he's actually
had Derek but isn't allowed to have him anymore.
It's like giving someone a spoonful of their favorite ice cream and then
telling them they can't have any more for the rest of their lives.
Okay, Stiles is bad at analogies, whatever, it's still awkward and painful and
just. Not. Fair.
He tries to concentrate on the movie, but his mind keeps drifting back to
Friday night, the way Derek had felt against him, inside of him, and he curls
his fingers into the fabric of the couch in an effort to stay grounded. He's in
a room full of werewolves who can smell arousal, and he's probably already
humiliated himself enough. No need to push it and have them start asking
questions he –and probably Derek – doesn't want to answer.
He picks up his burger and takes a big bite – and promptly chokes on it when
Derek's hand suddenly settles on his thigh.
"You okay?" Isaac asks, glancing over, and Stiles waves him away, face turning
red.
"Fine," he mumbles around his food, and Lydia wrinkles her nose.
"That's disgusting, Stiles," she says, and all he can do is shrug an apology.
They turn back to the movie and Stiles carefully sets his burger down, wiping
his mouth with his sleeve. Heat is pooling on his leg where Derek's hand still
rests, and he carefully glances over at him. Derek's gaze is focused on the TV,
his other hand is held loosely around his fork. The only thing that even
remotely gives away that he knows what he's doing is the tiny smirk curling his
lips.
The real problem here, Stiles thinks while trying not to panic, is not that
Derek is touching him. No, it's that his hand is so high on his leg that all he
has to do is slide it over a few inches and he would be touching Stiles' dick.
Which is not okay, because hello, room full of werewolves.
Stiles slowly reaches over and grasps Derek's wrist, trying to lift it off his
leg without drawing attention to the two of them. Derek doesn't budge, of
course, and Stiles lets out a frustrated huff. He's beyond confused at this
point, and so turned on it's kind of ridiculous even for him, and honestly,
he's starting to get a little bit pissed off. It's not like Derek to play
games, and there's only so much Stiles can be expected to take.
"Problem?" Derek asks quietly, still staring at the TV.
Stiles glares at him, but instead of answering he picks up his burger and takes
another bite. Derek's smirk grows just a tiny bit.
*
By the time the third movie ends Stiles has gotten used to the feel of Derek's
unmoving hand on his thigh, but he's also gotten extremely restless because,
seriously, three movies? Pack bonding is one thing, but this is bordering on
torture. He's been shifting around in his seat (well, as much as he can while
pressed up against Derek) since a quarter way through the second movie, and if
he doesn't get up and move soon he's going to start…doing something. He's not
sure what but it won't be pretty.
"Okay, everybody out," Derek suddenly says, leaning down to pick the remote up
from the floor and clicking the TV off.
Jackson and Lydia untangle themselves from their armchair, and Erica stretches
where she's splayed out on the floor, nudging at Isaac with her foot until he
grunts and sits up, blinking sleepily. Boyd grabs his jacket and pulls it on,
and Scott helps Allison up from the couch, their fingers curling together as
they make for the door. Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief for getting
through the day, and makes a show of stretching where he sits, trying to
dislodge Derek's hand. It works, except –
Except Scott grimaces at him as he passes, Jackson rolls his eyes, Boyd smirks
just a little, Isaac carefully avoids his gaze, and Erica flat out grins
wickedly.
"Have fun," she sing songs at him as she walks by, and Stiles closes his eyes
and wonders if he can get away with smothering himself with a couch cushion.
"Out," Derek insists, and shoos them all out the door, shutting it behind them.
"Right," Stiles says after a moment of silence. "I should probably get going
too, you know, it's late and tomorrow's…Sunday."
He winces at how absolutely idiotic he sounds. He should be used to it by now,
but he's mortified enough as it is.
"Or you could stay," Derek says, and it's not a question, not really, but
Stiles knows it's meant as one.
The problem is that he's still really fucking confused, and Derek asking him to
stay makes it worse.
"Okay, I don't get it," Stiles says, pushing up from the couch and spinning to
face Derek fully. "What the hell, Derek? Last Friday was…well, it was what it
was, and that's okay, but I figured that was it. I figured we'd be a little
awkward around each other for a while before things got back to normal, but
then today – I'm just really confused and I don't have any fucking idea what
you're trying to do."
Derek stares at him, and instead of being angry like Stiles expected, he just
looks uncomfortable, like he's actually trying to figure out the best way to
answer. Finally, when Stiles is about to reach the point of no return and walk
out, Derek frowns and opens his mouth.
"Last Friday shouldn't have happened the way it did. I just wanted to see if
maybe you'd be interested in, I don't know, something you actually have a
choice in."
Stiles isn't sure what to say to that, mostly because he isn't sure he heard
correctly. "Are you saying that you want to have sex again? And if you are, is
it because you feel guilty or because you actually want to?"
"Yes," Derek says, which is more of a non-answer than anything.
"Are you kidding me? Yes what? Look, I don't want you to have sex with me again
just because you feel guilty about having to take my virginity under extreme
circumstances and want to fix it or what the fuck ever. I'm a big boy, I can
handle it. No pity fucks are going to be happening, okay?"
Derek raises his eyebrows, and then he's right there, backing Stiles against
the wall and pinning him in with hands braced on either side of his head.
"Oh, wow, okay," Stiles says, heart picking up speed. "I should go, I think –"
Derek leans in and noses under Stiles' jaw, breathing in deep. "You want me; I
can smell it. And I don't do pity fucks." Stiles makes a desperate noise in the
back of his throat. "If you want to deny yourself, I won't stop you; the door's
right over there. I'm not going to force you into anything. But I wouldn't have
offered if I didn't want to."
Stiles closes his eyes, trying to calm down. His dick is rock hard inside his
jeans, and oh god, Derek is mouthing at his neck, tongue warm against his skin.
It's not everything he wants – he wants actual emotions and other things he'll
never admit to – but if Derek is offering sex without being forced into it by
some freaky magic shit then Stiles is damn well going to take what he can get.
"Okay," he breathes, and Derek grins against his neck before dragging his
tongue along his jaw to Stiles' mouth.
Derek kisses him, and it's hard and messy and wet, and Stiles feels a small
bubble of hysteria grow in his chest when he realizes that they had sex before
they had their first kiss. Derek licks his way into Stiles' mouth, chasing the
thought away with a moan, and Stiles makes a noise of his own, raising his
hands to bury them in Derek's hair. The wall is hard against his back, and he's
grateful for its presence when Derek suddenly presses his entire body against
him, placing his hands on Stiles' waist and rolling their hips together.
Stiles breaks the kiss, head falling back to hit the wall as he gasps. "Oh my
god, oh my god, Derek –"
Derek's mouth is back on Stiles' neck, his hands sliding from Stiles' waist to
his ass to the back of his thighs, and Stiles is only half expecting it when he
lifts him up. He flails just a little, hands clutching at Derek's shoulders and
legs automatically wrapping around Derek's waist. Derek reaches up with one
hand and presses it against the back of Stiles' head, pulling him down into
another kiss. Stiles whimpers, opening his mouth and letting Derek's tongue in;
he slides his hands down Derek's chest and slips them under Derek's shirt,
dragging his nails lightly over warm skin. He feels Derek shudder, and then his
legs are being pushed at, so he drops his feet back to the floor. Hands are
immediately at his belt, and he groans in anticipation, his dick jerking
against his boxers. They're still kissing, Derek's mouth a bruising pressure
against his, and Stiles can feel Derek's heart beating steadily against his
chest.
When Derek's hand slides in and grips his dick, Stiles thinks he might actually
come on the spot. He desperately wants to touch Derek, to feel their dicks
pressed together, so he mumbles, "You too," against Derek's lips and slides his
hands down to fumble with the button on Derek's jeans. Derek groans, nipping at
his bottom lip, and Stiles tries to ignore the way his hands shake as he pushes
clothing out of the way and wraps his fingers around Derek's hard dick.
"Fuck, Stiles," Derek says, breaking away, and shifts just enough to remove
Stiles' hand from him.
A sudden spike of panic hits his chest and for a second Stiles can't breathe,
but Derek just kisses him gently and moves closer again, pushing Stiles' jeans
and boxers down and pressing their dicks together, rolling his hips.
"Oh – oh, fuck," Stiles groans, hips jerking as Derek starts to grind against
him. "Oh god, I'm going to come." Derek chuckles, moving back just enough that
they're not touching anymore, and Stiles whines. "Wait, no, I didn't mean stop
–"
His hands scrabble at Derek's t-shirt and Derek grins, grabbing Stiles' wrists
and lifting them to pin to the wall above his head. Stiles tugs and Derek's
grip tightens as he lets out a low growl.
"Oh my god," Stiles breathes out, far more turned on than he thinks he should
be.
Derek leans in and kisses him again, deep and rough, and slots their hips
together. Their dicks slide against each other, precome from both of them
making it easier, and Stiles moans, a shudder wracking his body. He's so
fucking close he can feel sparks going off in his spine. His dick is throbbing,
achingly hard, and Derek is slamming his hips against Stiles', pushing them
together in a steady rhythm. He's going to have bruises later, and a thrill
goes through him at the thought; he'll have proof this actually happened, even
if only for a few days.
Derek suddenly bites down on Stiles' bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, and
it sends Stiles right over. He comes, dick jerking, hot liquid pulsing out of
the tip and dripping over both of them. Derek groans, his own dick sliding
through the mess, and Stiles has gone boneless, Derek's hands and hips the only
thing keeping him on his feet. He closes his eyes, leaning his head back
against the wall, and can do nothing but whine as Derek's cock pushes against
his, over-sensitized and still half-hard.
Derek's hips are jerking erratically and he moves his mouth to Stiles' neck,
teeth slightly sharper than usual as they press against skin. He growls low and
deep, and comes, shuddering as it adds to the mess between them.
Neither of them moves, Derek's weight holding Stiles against the wall.
Eventually he releases Stiles' wrists, bringing them down and rubbing his
thumbs over them gently.
"I'm okay," Stiles says, opening his eyes, his voice just slightly slurred.
"I'm – more than okay."
Derek glances up, and after a brief moment he nods, letting go completely and
stepping back. Stiles shivers, feeling cold where Derek's body had just been.
"You can shower if you want," Derek says, looking down as he pulls up his
clothes and tucks himself back in. "I don't mind going second."
Stiles' stomach suddenly clenches, and awkwardness settles over him. It's a
familiar feeling, but entirely unwelcome at the moment. "What time is it?" he
asks, looking anywhere but at Derek as he adjusts his own clothing. He grimaces
at the cold, sticky feeling of drying come pulling at his skin.
"About ten-thirty," Derek answers, and Stiles pulls his phone from his pocket
to double check.
"I should go ahead and go home," he says, and finally looks up. Derek is
watching him, expression unreadable. "Clean clothes, you know? I mean after I
shower."
Derek looks like he's going to say something, but then his mouth turns up at
one corner and he just nods. Stiles hesitates, not sure how goodbyes are meant
to be handled in this kind of situation, but Derek leans in and gives him a
quick kiss, just a press of lips on lips.
"See you later?"
"Yeah," Stiles breathes, heart suddenly pounding. "Definitely."
Derek turns and disappears through the living room door and up the stairs,
leaving Stiles to stumble his way to the front door. He steps out into the cool
night air, climbs into his Jeep, and manages to make it all the way home and
park in his driveway before bursting into hysterical laughter. He laughs until
he cries, but then the laughter fades and his eyes still sting, so he closes
them and rests his forehead against his steering wheel, breathing deeply.
He wonders if this was a one-time thing or if Derek will want to continue
having sex with him. He can't imagine that Derek would, but if he does then
Stiles knows he won't say no; no is not even remotely an option.
He sits up and presses the palms of his hands against his eyes until the
stinging fades. The thought of long-term sex with Derek makes his heart pound
in excitement, but knowing a real relationship will never come from it hurts
more than he wants to admit.
Pros and cons, he tells himself as he opens his door and jumps down. And right
now the pros outweigh the cons.
*
Stiles wakes the next morning to the smell of his dad cooking breakfast. He
rolls out of bed and stumbles his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind
him before stripping off his clothes and staring at himself in the mirror.
There are bruises on his hips, blooms of yellow and green, and finger-shaped
marks on his wrists. On his neck is the faint shape of Derek's teeth, and he
trails his fingers over it.
He sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes, pretending for just a moment
that Derek had done it all on purpose, to mark him as his.
A knock sounds on the door, making him jump, and his eyes fly open to see his
flushed cheeks reflected back at him.
"You in there, kiddo? Breakfast is almost ready."
Stiles clears his throat. "Yeah, I'll be down in a few."
His dad walks away and Stiles moves to turn on the shower, making the water as
hot as he can stand it. He'll have to find something to wear that covers the
bruises on his wrists and neck; he's not quite ready for that conversation with
his dad just yet.
Maybe not ever.
*
It's not until later that Stiles remembers his clothes that Derek still has.
The thought that Derek hadn't mentioned them just so Stiles would leave is like
a punch to his chest, knocking the air from his lungs and making him unsteady
on his feet.
*
The bruises haven't faded by the time school starts on Monday, but fortunately
the weather is cool enough for him to get away with wearing a hoodie. Scott
still gives him an odd look as he walks by to take the seat behind Stiles,
leaning forward to speak directly in his ear.
"So this thing with Derek –"
"It's not a thing," Stiles interrupts, because he is not talking about this.
"Your heartbeat says otherwise," Scott points out.
Stiles kinds of hates him.
"Okay, I don't know if it's a thing," Stiles says, and he really doesn't so
Scott can just fuck right off. "And I don't want to talk about it."
"Look, I'm just saying –"
"Oh my god."
"I'm just saying that you know Derek's not my favorite person but whatever it
is that's between the two of you, you're my best friend and I'll support you no
matter what. Whether that means you and Derek never speak to each other again
or get married and have lots of little werewolf puppies. Okay?"
Stiles nearly chokes on his tongue at that image. "Jesus Christ, Scott, I am
not going to have puppies! What the hell."
He twists in his seat to glare, and finds Scott giving him a shit-eating grin.
"But you'd marry him, right?"
"You are evil, and I hate you," Stiles says flatly, completely serious.
Scott just laughs, and Stiles turns back around, determined to ignore him for
the rest of the day.
"Hey," Scott says, poking him in the back. Stiles clenches his teeth together
and doesn't respond. "I mean it. No matter what."
Stiles stares down at his desk, fiddling with the cuff of his hoodie, rubbing a
finger over the hidden bruise on his wrist. "Thanks," he finally whispers.
Scott doesn't say anything else, but Stiles feels his hand squeeze his
shoulder, and he has to take a deep, steadying breath.
*
Derek is waiting in the parking lot after lacrosse practice, and as much as
Stiles' heart jumps in hope, the scowl on Derek's face makes it fall again. He
exchanges a look with Scott and they jog over to where Derek is leaning against
the hood of the Camaro. Something unsettling creeps into Stiles' bones.
"What's wrong?"
"Have either of you seen Isaac today?" Derek asks, and the pit of Stiles'
stomach drops.
"I haven't," Scott says, and looks at Stiles. "Have you?"
Stiles shakes his head.
Derek pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to them.
"This was shoved under my door when I got home half an hour ago. I've been able
to locate everyone except Isaac."
Scott opens the note and Stiles reads out loud over his shoulder.
"You took mine so I took yours. What the fuck does that even mean?"
"It smells like magic," Derek says darkly, and Stiles' head snaps up to stare
at him.
"The witch –"
"The one you killed last week?" Scott asks, frowning.
"Not her, but someone she was close to," Stiles says, trying to ignore the
panic that shivers down his spine. "You took mine so I took yours. Revenge."
Scott crumples the note in his fist. "We have to find him before she kills
him."
"Find Jackson; I'll get Erica and Boyd," Derek says, and looks at Stiles. "Meet
me at the cave."
Stiles nods and grabs Scott's arm, dragging him toward the Jeep. If Isaac is
hurt, he's going to rip someone's fucking head off, human or not.
*
"It's not your fault, you know," Scott says, grabbing onto the top of his door
as Stiles takes a curve a little too fast. Jackson curses in the back seat, but
they both ignore him.
"I should have noticed," Stiles says, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard
his knuckles turn white.
"We should have noticed," Scott says, and Stiles shakes his head but doesn't
argue.
The rest of the ride is silent.
*
They get there at the same time Derek does, with Erica and Boyd in tow.
"Do you really think whoever it is would bring Isaac here?" Stiles asks,
nervously pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands.
Derek nods, looking at the cave entrance. "He's in there. I can hear his
heartbeat."
"Then let's get him out and find the bitch who took him," Erica snaps, stalking
towards the opening.
Derek growls, throwing a hand out to stop her. "We can't just all run in there.
There needs to be at least two look outs to let us know if anything happens out
here. Stiles –"
"Not a fucking chance," Stiles snaps.
"Fine," Derek says after a moment, talking through clenched teeth and glowering
at him. "Jackson and Boyd, you stay. Scott, Erica, and Stiles, follow me."
The cave is as damp and creepy as Stiles remembers, and he barely suppresses a
shudder as they walk towards the back. If he sees even a hint of red powder
he's getting the fuck out of the way.
"He's over there," Derek says quietly, and it's probably for Stiles' benefit,
seeing as he's the only one without super werewolfy hearing.
"This is too easy," Stiles whispers back, and low laughter immediately echoes
from a shadowy corner.
The others tense, all of them starting to growl, and Stiles realizes they
hadn't known she was there.
"How did you do that?" he asks, and a flare of light suddenly brightens the
cave. He can see Isaac unconscious against one of the cave walls, for the most
part looking unharmed. The witch is in the corner, dark hair wild around her
face. Her smile is blank and deadly.
"Just a little spell I know," she said, voice sing-song. Her smile drops. "Kind
of like this one."
Derek jumps at her but he's too late; she opens her mouth wide and a high-
pitched wail echoes through the cave. Stiles winces and covers his ears, but
when he looks at the others he freezes. Scott and Erica have curled in on
themselves, screaming, and Derek is not much better off, face shifting back to
human as he ducks down, covering his head. Even Isaac – still unconscious –
jerks and moans, hands twitching.
And then Stiles sees the blood beginning to leak from their ears and noses.
Panicking, Stiles looks around for something, anything that he can use as a
weapon, and finding nothing he does the next best thing – he runs straight at
her, tackling her to the ground with an angry yell. The wailing stops, but she
lets out a screech of rage, and suddenly Stiles feels her sharp nails sink into
the flesh of his side.
He cries out, trying to jerk away, but she just laughs and leans up, placing
her mouth next to his ear.
"Three's a charm," she whispers.
Stiles doesn't have time to wonder what that means before he's being snatched
away, a dangerous, angry sounding snarl echoing through the cave. He lands on
his back and slides a few feet, stopping near Isaac's body.
"Fuck," he gasps, trying to sit up despite the pain in his side.
Scott appears next to him, pushing down on his chest. "Don't move," he orders,
pulling up Stiles' shirt and pressing gently against the puncture wounds.
Stiles hisses, but lets him poke and prod; from the corner of his eye he can
see Erica lifting Isaac and heading toward the entrance, and he can hear the
disgusting sounds of Derek ripping into the witch.
This is becoming a habit Stiles doesn't really want to continue.
"I'm fine," he finally says, batting Scott's hands away. "Just help me up."
When he's on his feet he lifts his shirt and looks down at the holes in his
side; they're not too deep, thank fuck, and should heal quickly enough with
some of Deaton's salve. Still hurts like a motherfucker.
"Why is it always me who ends up with the puncture wounds?"
"Because you're the only one stupid enough to get close without a way to
protect yourself," Derek says, coming up next to them with a scowl on his face.
He's covered in blood, and Stiles tries not to grimace.
"Thank you, Stiles, you saved our asses, Stiles," he says, putting as much
sarcasm behind the words as he can. "I'm glad you're not dead, Stiles."
Derek rolls his eyes and grabs him by the arm, dragging him towards the
entrance, Scott following close behind. When they step out of the cave they see
Erica, Boyd, and Jackson surrounding a conscious but drowsy-looking Isaac.
"Fuck, my head," Isaac mumbles, dropping it into his hands.
"What the hell was that?" Jackson asks, scowling at them like it was their
fault. "I thought my brain was going to explode."
"Banshee's wail," Derek says, letting go of Stiles and crouching down next to
Isaac. "Are you okay?"
Isaac doesn't answer right away, and Stiles feels a sharp stab of fear.
"I think so," he finally says, blinking as he looks up. "I'm not sure what she
did or how she did it, but the last thing I remember is walking through the
front door of the school."
"I'm going to take you to Deaton," Derek says, helping him up. "Let him check
you over and make sure you're really okay. Stiles, can you take everybody
home?"
Stiles nods and waits until Derek's guided Isaac into his car before shooing
the others toward his Jeep.
"Shotgun!" Jackson calls, taking off. "I'm not sitting in that piece of shit
back seat again."
Scott makes an indignant sound, running to catch up. "No fucking way, best
friend automatically gets dibs on the front seat!"
"Too late," Erica says, sliding into the seat before either of them can get
there.
Boyd just rolls his eyes and climbs into the back.
"How is this my life," Stiles mutters, shoving at both Scott and Jackson until
they get in.
He's going to go home and sleep for ten days.
*
Except when he finally gets home, Derek's there, splayed out on his bed, eyes
closed. He's obviously showered; his clothes are clean and there's not a drop
of blood on him, his hair damp where it curls against his temple. Stiles
swallows, and drops his bag on the floor.
"Ten minutes," he says, and Derek cracks open an eye to look at him. "I
seriously need a shower."
Derek closes his eye again, which is as good as an agreement as Stiles will
probably get, so he grabs some clean clothes from his dresser and heads into
the bathroom. When he steps back through his door, dressed in sweats and a t-
shirt and hair damp against the back of his neck, Stiles pauses to just stare.
Derek is still on his bed, and the only sign that he's moved at all is his
leather jacket, now hanging over Stiles' desk chair.
He's asleep.
Or at least, Stiles thinks he's asleep, what with the soft snores and relaxed
expression. Moving slowly, Stiles shuts his door and walks to his bed, nerves
making his stomach jump. Derek doesn't even twitch, and Stiles wonders if he
should wake him up. There has to be a reason he's here, right?
Except maybe that reason is to tell him that Saturday was a mistake and that it
can't happen again, which Stiles would very much like to put off for as long as
possible. So he should just let him sleep for now. Right?
But then again, he has homework to do and his dad will be home soon which means
he needs to start dinner and also get Derek out.
A wave of exhaustion suddenly hits him, and it's probably mostly emotional but
he didn't sleep much last night and lacrosse practice had been brutal and then
he'd had to tackle an insane Banshee-wailing witch and got puncture wounds in
his side for his trouble and they really hurt and all he wants to do is lie
down next to Derek and sleep.
"Fuck it," Stiles mutters, and crawls onto the small space Derek isn't
currently occupying. He hisses in a sharp breath when his side pulls, glancing
at Derek's face to make sure he didn't wake him, and when all seems clear he
settles down, turning to face the door with his back to Derek.
Derek immediately rolls over, throwing one leg over both of Stiles' and sliding
an arm around his waist, fingers trailing over his stomach. Stiles stops
breathing, because what the fuck, Derek is spooning him, and he's pretty sure
Derek is still asleep, if the even breaths puffing against the back of his neck
are anything to go by.
"Okay," Stiles whispers, and tries to relax. "Okay."
He closes his eyes, focusing on keeping his own breathing steady, and
eventually the warmth of Derek at his back lulls him into sleep.
*
It's dark outside his window when he wakes up, and the space where Derek had
been is cold. He's not surprised, but it still hurts, and he has to swallow
past the sudden tightness in his throat. Pushing himself up, Stiles sees a note
on the nightstand, and his heart jumps in hope as he grabs it. It's from his
dad, though, and he wonders when he'll ever learn.
You looked exhausted so I didn't want to wake you. There's pizza in the fridge.
Dad
p.s. Do your homework.
It makes him feel slightly better that Derek apparently left before his dad
could find him cuddled up to Stiles in his bed, but only slightly. He tosses
the note back onto his nightstand and leans his elbows on his knees, dropping
his face into his hands. He's such an idiot; of course Derek wouldn't stay.
His stomach rumbles loudly, and Stiles doesn't have much of an appetite but he
stands anyway and stretches, knowing he has to eat. Something pulls at the skin
on his side and he pauses, lifting his shirt to look down at where the witch
had shoved her nails into him. Instead of the puncture wounds he sees a white
bandage, and he realizes the pain has faded.
"Huh," Stiles says quietly, and lowers his shirt back down.
He glances over at his closed window, the half-moon shining through, and a
small smile tugs at his lips.
*
Stiles doesn't see Derek for the rest of the week, and by the time Saturday
rolls around he's swinging back and forth between terrified, pissed off, and
depressed. They all put him in a bad mood, because seriously, pathetic, and
eventually Scott stops the movie they're trying to watch and gives him a look.
"What?" Stiles says irritably.
Scott shakes his head. "Get your ass up, get in your Jeep, and go see him."
"What?" Stiles blinks at him.
"Derek," Scott clarifies, speaking slowly as though Stiles is being purposely
stupid. "You're driving me insane. Go."
"But –"
"I swear to fucking god, Stiles, I will drag your ass over there and abandon
you."
Stiles scowls. "I hate you."
"Liar," Scott says, smirking.
Stiles grumbles under his breath as he gets up and pulls on his jacket,
sticking his tongue out at Scott just before he closes the door.
He doesn't actually intend to go to Derek's, fully aware that he has no excuse
for showing up out of the blue. He drives around aimlessly for a while, trying
not to drown in all of these fucking feelings, and when he actually decides to
pay attention to where he's at, twenty minutes have passed and he's almost at
Derek's.
"Great," Stiles mutters to himself. "Just great. Way to do the thing you didn't
want to do."
He doesn't bother turning around; he's obviously some sort of emotional
masochist or something, because his heart speeds up in excitement.
Derek's Camaro is parked out front, and Stiles sits in his Jeep for a few
minutes, trying to get his heartbeat to slow down. Finally, he takes a deep
breath and climbs out, making his way to the front door. He doesn't bother to
knock; Derek will know he's there, and if he wanted him to leave he would have
met him on the porch.
Except when he walks in he can hear two voices talking. Stiles frowns,
following the sound to the kitchen, and stops in the doorway when he sees Peter
sitting at the center island. Derek is standing on the opposite side, arms
crossed and looking annoyed.
"Hello, Stiles," Peter says, smiling in that creepy way he has. "I'd say it's a
surprise to see you, but I could hear you a mile away."
Stiles flushes. "Good for you." He glances at Derek and gestures back toward
the front door. "I didn't know you were busy. I'll just come back later. Or
something."
"You can stay," Derek says, frowning.
"Yes, do," Peter says, looking like Christmas has come early.
"I don't want to intrude –"
"Peter was just leaving, actually," Derek says pointedly, glaring at his uncle.
"I was? I could have sworn we were in the middle of –"
Derek's glare turns murderous and he growls warningly.
Peter sighs, but there's a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Yes, alright, if
you insist." He slides off the stool and gives Stiles a wide smile. "I hope
Derek realizes how lucky he is."
"Get. Out."
Peter laughs, and raises his eyebrows at Stiles as he passes. Neither Stiles
nor Derek moves until they hear the front door shut, and then Derek holds up
his hand, cocking his head to listen.
"Okay, he's gone," he says after a minute.
Stiles has absolutely no fucking clue what to say. Derek stares at him,
obviously waiting, and Stiles shifts from foot to foot. "My clothes," he
suddenly blurts, and feels a rush of relief at having thought of an excuse for
being there. "I, uh, came to see if I could have my clothes back."
Derek raises an eyebrow, looking amused. "Really?" he asks. "That's why you're
here?"
Goddamned werewolf senses.
"Yes," Stiles says stubbornly, ignoring the way his face heats. "That was my
favorite shirt."
"What shirt was it?"
Fuck.
"Um," Stiles says.
Derek looks like he's trying not to laugh. "Okay," he says, shrugging, and
heads toward the door. He brushes past Stiles and pauses just long enough to
lean close and say, "They're in my room. You'll have to come if you want them."
Stiles' breath hitches and he catches the flash of Derek's wicked grin a second
before he's left alone in the kitchen.
"Holy god," he breathes, arousal twisting hotly through his stomach, and he
swears he hears Derek chuckle on his way up the stairs.
Stiles turns to follow, stumbling slightly over his own feet, and has to force
himself not to run all the way to Derek's room. As soon as he steps inside
Derek is on him, slamming the door shut and crowding him against it, kissing
him like he's trying to drown himself, lips and tongue and teeth invading
Stiles' mouth and stealing his breath. Stiles makes a startled noise, hands
flying up to grasp at Derek's hair, back arching off the door as he tries to
get closer. Derek's arms wrap tightly around Stiles' back, hands sliding under
his jacket and fingers twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt.
The kiss lasts so long Stiles is dizzy when he finally breaks away for air, and
Derek lets out a low growl, ducking his head to nip sharply at Stiles' neck.
His tongue dips into the hollow between Stiles' collarbones, teeth scraping
along skin, and Stiles can't do much except hold on and hope his knees don't
give out. His dick is so hard it hurts, and even biting down on his bottom lip
doesn't stop desperate little whines from escaping.
Derek's hips are pushing against his, hitching little movements that send fire
through Stiles' veins. He groans, sliding his hands down to Derek's fly, and is
suddenly struck with an idea that makes his stomach flip with a combination of
nerves and excitement.
"Wait, wait," he gasps, pushing gently at Derek's chest.
Derek pulls back to look at him, and Stiles makes a noise in the back of his
throat. His eyes are glazed, hinting at red, his lips swollen, hair a mess from
Stiles' hands, cheeks flushed, and Stiles' heart literally skips a beat.
"What is it?" Derek asks, and oh god, he already sounds wrecked and they just
started. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Stiles says, shaking his head. "I just…"
He's not sure how to finish that sentence, and he hesitates just long enough
that Derek's expression begins to shut down and no. No, that's not going to
happen. So he takes a deep breath and slowly falls to his knees, keeping his
eyes locked onto Derek's.
"Please," Stiles whispers, heart pounding wildly, hands trembling as he
clenches them into fists.
"God, Stiles," Derek says, voice low and rough, and he reaches down to cup
Stiles' jaw with one hand.
Stiles closes his eyes and leans into the touch, tongue flicking out to lick at
Derek's thumb when it trails over his bottom lip. He hears Derek draw in a
sharp breath, and he swallows.
"Look at me," Derek says, and Stiles opens his eyes, sees Derek staring down at
him, gaze dark and a hungry expression on his face. "Take me out."
Stiles feels like he can't breathe, he's too hot, hands still trembling as he
reaches up to fumble at the button on Derek's jeans. It takes him a few tries
and he flushes, but Derek just strokes his cheek and waits patiently, until
Stiles pulls Derek's jeans and underwear down and wraps his hand around his
dick. Derek lets out a loud breath, like he'd been holding it, and Stiles wants
to look up at him but he can't take his eyes off Derek's dick. It's right at
eye-level, thick and heavy and so, so hard, and Stiles nervously licks his
lips.
Derek's thumb traces his bottom lip again, gently pushing inside. "Let me," he
says, more question than command. "Let me teach you."
Stiles moans, looking up at him as Derek opens his mouth, thumb pressing down
on his teeth and brushing against his tongue. He lifts his hands to grip
Derek's hips, waiting, listening to Derek's breath go ragged. His heart settles
into a steady thump, thump, thump, rhythm faster than normal but not because of
fear or doubt.
The head of Derek's dick touches his bottom lip, tapping gently, and Derek
slides his thumb out as he pushes in, slow and shallow. Stiles closes his eyes
and breathes through his nose, trying not to gag, but he's never had something
so big in his mouth and it's a really weird feeling.
"Tighten your lips and suck," Derek says, threading his fingers through Stiles'
hair.
Stiles obeys, the slick slide of spit and precome making it easier for Derek to
push in and out, and they both moan. His dick is rock hard inside his jeans,
and he thinks he could probably come just from this.
"God, your mouth," Derek says, thumb sliding back to the corner of Stiles'
lips, pushing gently and breaking the suction. "Open, as wide as you can."
Stiles relaxes his jaw, trying to do as he's told, and above him Derek groans,
pushing a little deeper. Derek's hand tightens in Stiles' hair, holding him in
place. Stiles' fingers dig into Derek's hips, desperately trying to stay still
as Derek begins to rock, steadily pushing into Stiles' mouth, going a little
bit deeper every time.
There's spit running down Stiles chin and his eyes are watering and oh god,
Derek is fucking his face and Stiles' dick is throbbing, aching for him to
touch, but when he reaches down Derek growls out a dangerous sounding –
"No."
– so Stiles whimpers and curls his hands into fists, twisting them in the hem
of Derek's t-shirt.
"Good," Derek mummers, free hand stroking down the side of Stiles' face. "So
good for me."
Stiles makes another whimpery noise, and he'd be embarrassed except Derek seems
pleased. His jaw is starting to ache and he can't feel his tongue anymore and
his dick hurts, but he doesn't care because Derek is still in his mouth.
Derek suddenly growls above him, his fingers tightening almost painfully in
Stiles' hair, and he shoves deep, deeper than before. Stiles chokes, struggling
for air, and there's something hot sliding down his throat. It only takes him a
second to realize that Derek is coming, and his own orgasm slams into him, dick
twitching and pulsing as he makes a mess in his boxers, completely untouched.
Derek pulls out carefully and Stiles gasps in a breath, looking up at him with
wide eyes.
"Holy shit."
Oh god, his voice sounds wrecked. Derek makes a noise, closing his eyes for a
second, and then reaches down to help Stiles to his feet.
"Did I hurt you?"
Stiles shakes his head, holding tight to Derek's arms until he's sure his legs
won't collapse under him. "No," he says, and fuck, he's not going to be able to
talk to anyone else for the rest of the day. "I am definitely not hurt in any
sort of way."
Derek studies him for a moment, probably checking his heartbeat, and Stiles
meets his gaze directly. Finally, Derek nods, a small smile curling his mouth
up.
"You can have your clothes back now," Derek says, amusement lacing his words,
and Stiles flushes.
"Jerk face," he mutters, but he feels far too good to actually be angry.
Derek laughs, and turns him in the direction of the shower. "I'll bring them to
you. If you want to stick around and wash these we could watch a movie or
something while we wait?"
Stiles blinks at him. "Okay?"
Derek nods, looking satisfied, and starts fixing his own clothes, leaving
Stiles to wander away in confusion.
*
He ends up dozing off in the middle of the movie, feet propped up on Derek's
lap. It's a few hours later when Derek shakes him awake, handing him a stack of
clean, dryer-warm clothes. Stiles yawns and stretches, pulling his phone from
the pocket of his sweats to check the time.
"I've got to go," he says, not meaning to sound as regretful about it as he
does.
Derek helps him up, tangling their fingers together as he walks Stiles to the
door and then all the way outside to his Jeep. He takes the clothes from Stiles
and tosses them into the passenger seat, and then pushes Stiles against the
side, kissing him slow and deep. Stiles feels boneless, clinging to the front
of Derek's t-shirt, letting out a little sigh when Derek pulls away to pepper
kisses down his jaw.
Finally Derek steps back and raises his eyebrow.
"You do know you don't have to make up stupid excuses to come over, right?"
Stiles shifts uncomfortably, shrugging; he doesn't really know what to say to
that. Derek sighs, shaking his head, and gives Stiles one last kiss before
opening his door and pushing him towards it.
"Go home, before I change my mind."
Stiles' heart stops for a split second, and he busies himself searching his
pockets for his keys so he doesn't have to look at Derek. "Right," he says,
laughing nervously. "No chance of that happening. So I'm just…going to go."
Derek huffs but doesn't argue, stepping back so Stiles can shut his door and
buckle up. He starts the engine and gives Derek a little awkward wave through
the window, refusing to let himself look in the rearview mirror as he makes his
way down Derek's long-ass driveway.
He replays the last several hours in his head as he drives home, trying to make
sense of it. Derek being teasing and seductive, Derek being sexy as fuck, Derek
being sweet and cuddly. It's like a movie in his head, one he can't understand
no matter how many times he watches it.
His dad's asleep on the couch when he gets home, and Stiles picks up the remote
from where it's fallen on the floor, clicking the TV off. He grabs a blanket
and tosses it over his father before heading upstairs to his room, collapsing
onto his bed and staring at the ceiling.
It takes him a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally does his dreams
are more of a jumbled mess than usual.
*
Stiles wakes the next morning to his phone buzzing on his nightstand. He
reaches for it blindly, narrowing bleary eyes at the screen until he can make
out the name Scott. He groans, considers ignoring it, and answers anyway.
"Yo."
"So how'd it go?"
Stiles blinks up at his ceiling, trying to clear his head. "How did what go?"
Scott huffs. "Yesterday, with Derek. Remember? I made you stop moping around
and go talk to him?"
"Oh," Stiles says, because right. Derek. Blowjobs. The movie and semi-cuddling
on the couch. The goodbye kiss. He swallows, remembering how his voice had
sounded, how he'd come without being touched, the floaty, spacey feeling that
had lasted for so long afterwards.
"Stiles?"
"What? Oh, yeah. It, uh, it went fine."
"Fine? That's it?"
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Do you want details, Scott? Because I could give you
details, but I don't think you'd like to hear them."
"Never-talking-to-each-other-again details or no-longer-a-virgin details?"
"How about the none-of-your-business details?"
"Ha!" Scott crows. "I knew it! You're totally in love with him."
"Last time I checked, sex does not equal love."
"You're a moron."
"Is there a point to this conversation?" Stiles asks, irritated.
"It's my duty as your best friend to annoy the fuck out of you for any reason
involving sex, especially sex with Derek. What other point do I need?"
"I'm hanging up now," Stiles says, and hits end on Scott's laugh.
He lays there for a minute, contemplating going back to sleep, but now that
he's been reminded of yesterday his brain seems to think it has permission to
replay all of it. Groaning, Stiles covers his face with his pillow, ignoring
the way his morning erection twitches. He can't decide if he should be
humiliated at how he practically begged Derek to let him suck him off, or if he
should be amazingly turned on at how Derek reacted.
And then there was Derek's teasing before and softness after, both of which
were, quite frankly, really fucking weird. It was like he was still Derek,
except not. Stiles pushes his pillow out of the way and picks his phone up from
where he'd dropped it on his chest, opening a new text.
did you get replaced by an alien? or wait, a changeling? those exist, right?
Derek texts back almost immediately, making Stiles heart jump into his throat.
You're a moron.
Stiles huffs. That's the second time in twenty minutes he's been called a
moron, and honestly, it doesn't make him feel much better about his life at the
moment.
temporary insanity?
Derek doesn't answer this time, not that Stiles expects him to. He tosses his
phone back onto his nightstand and gives in to his dick, sliding his hand into
his sweats to stroke himself off. When he comes, it's to the memory of Derek's
dick in his throat, and he can't decide if that's hot or depressing.
*
His dad is just putting breakfast on the table when Stiles finally makes his
way down to the kitchen.
"Pancakes!" he says, grabbing a plate and filling it with glee.
Dad looks amused, grabbing the orange juice from the fridge and filling a
glass, setting it on the table in front of Stiles. "Hungry, son?"
"Just a little," Stiles says cheerfully. He adds bacon and eggs to his plate
and then drowns it all in syrup, ignoring the grimace his dad makes.
"So what did you do yesterday?" Dad asks, taking the seat opposite and making a
plate for himself. "You went to Scott's, right?"
Stiles nods, because it's true, but he keeps his eyes on his food. "Yeah, we
watched a movie."
Which isn't entirely a lie; he and Scott had tried to watch a movie, and Stiles
hadn't specified exactly who we was.
"You got home pretty late for just watching a movie," Dad points out, taking a
bite of his bacon and watching Stiles carefully.
Stiles clears his throat, which reminds him of exactly what he was doing
yesterday. "Well, you know, we hung out a bit too. Didn't really do much." He
looks up and points his fork at his dad. "And I was in before curfew, which you
would know if you hadn't fallen asleep on the couch. You shouldn't do that,
it's bad for your back."
Dad gives him a look. "Don't lecture me about where I choose to sleep.
Lecturing is my job."
"I'm not lecturing," Stiles argues – or tries to around a mouth full of
pancakes. "I'm just saying. Couches are not for sleeping, beds are for
sleeping."
"And only sleeping," Dad says pointedly.
Stiles flushes. "What – of course! I mean, what else – no, never mind, don't
answer that."
"Stiles –"
"I can't hear you over the sound of my chewing," Stiles says loudly, stuffing
another big bite into his mouth and making exaggerated eating noises.
Dad rolls his eyes. "Fine, we'll talk about something else. For now, at least."
Stiles sags in relief, and gestures for his dad to continue.
"You sound hoarse this morning; are you getting a cold?"
Stiles chokes, coughing violently. Dad raises an eyebrow and nudges Stiles'
glass of orange juice closer, waiting as he takes several big gulps.
"Sorry," Stiles finally wheezes. "Too much food at once."
"Nothing new there," Dad teases, and Stiles laughs weakly.
The rest of breakfast passes without incident, and Stiles eventually relaxes
enough for his heart to quit racing. His dad asks about school and lacrosse and
how Scott and Allison are doing, and he tries to answer as honestly as
possible. They haven't talked much over the past few weeks, what with Stiles
being an angst-basket over Derek, and it feels nice to reconnect.
When they're both finished, Stiles stands to start cleaning up –
– and is hit with a sudden wave of dizziness, the room taking a wild spin
around him, and he stumbles. The plate in his hand crashes to the floor,
shattering, and he desperately grabs onto a chair to try and keep his balance,
but it's a pointless effort because he ends up on his ass on the floor anyway.
His hands land on pieces of the broken plate, cutting into his palms, and the
very top of the chair back hits him across the temple.
"Stiles," Dad says, right in his face, and when did that happen? "Stiles, are
you okay?"
"Oh god," Stiles manages, pulling his knees up and dropping his head down on
them. The room is still tilting all over the place. "Dizzy."
"Okay, don't move," Dad says, and pushes the chair out of the way. He takes
Stiles' hands and examines them, poking until Stiles hisses in pain. "I don't
think you'll need stitches, but we'll need to bandage these. Come on, let's get
you up."
Stiles isn't much help as his dad carefully pulls him to his feet and deposits
him into one of the other kitchen chairs. The room is slowing down slightly, so
Stiles breathes deep and tries to focus on a single point. Dad quickly sweeps
up the broken plate and tosses it into the trash, disappearing for a few
minutes before returning with the first aid kit.
"What the hell happened?" he asks, righting the fallen chair and pulling it in
front of Stiles. He takes one of Stiles' hands and starts cleaning it with
alcohol.
"Oh my freaking –" Stiles starts, and tries to yank his hand away. "That
hurts."
"Necessary," Dad says shortly, not letting go. "Answer my question."
"I don't know," Stiles says, wincing at the sting. The room is finally
beginning to still. "I just got dizzy all of a sudden. I think you're right,
maybe I am coming down with something."
Dad frowns. "Maybe I should take you to the doctor."
"Dad, I'm fine," Stiles says, biting down on his tongue as his dad moves to his
other hand.
"You were fine five minutes ago. That was not fine."
"Dad." Stiles waits until he looks up and catches his eye, and he can see the
deeper fear behind the immediate concern over his son's welfare. "It's probably
just a cold. If it keeps happening I'll go to the doctor, okay?"
His dad hesitates, then nods shortly, focusing on bandaging Stiles' hands. "I
want you to stay home today."
"Dad –"
"Stiles. Just…for once. Do what I ask."
Stiles pauses, glancing down at his hands. "Okay," he finally says, quiet, and
feels a stab of guilt when his father visibly relaxes.
When his dad finishes wrapping up his hands Stiles takes a couple of Tylenol
and heads back up to his room. As soon as he steps through the door he realizes
he's exhausted, so he collapses face down on his bed and immediately falls
asleep.
*
He feels a little better Monday morning, but by the time lunch rolls around he
can't quite catch his breath and his hands are trembling just a little. He
pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his bandages and eats his lunch,
doing his best to pay attention to the rest of the pack's conversations around
him.
*
On Tuesday, he drops three different vials in Chemistry, can barely make it up
the stairs without crawling, and the trembling that started in his hands has
now spread to the rest of him.
Scott drags him into the bathroom between classes, frowning as Stiles leans
against the wall and drops his backpack to the floor.
"You look like hell."
"Just a cold," Stiles says, grimacing. "I haven't been sick in ages, dude. This
sucks."
"Are you sure it's not something else?" Scott asks. "Something, you know…"
He wiggles his eyebrows hilariously, and Stiles snorts, somehow managing to
lean down and pick up his bag without falling over.
"I'm sure," he says, because he is. "This is probably the worst of it. I'll be
fine by the end of the week."
"If you say so."
*
By Wednesday afternoon, he wants to crawl into bed and never get back out.
Lacrosse practice starts in five minutes, but the closest he's come to gearing
up is sitting on the bench in front of his locker and staring at it
pathetically.
"Dude," Scott says, sitting next to him in his uniform. "You're like, ten times
worse than you were yesterday. Go home, I'll explain to Coach."
"No, it's just a cold –"
"More like the flu or something," Isaac says, appearing on Stiles' other side
and making him jump. He leans down and looks into Stiles' eyes. "You're
definitely sicker than a cold would make you."
Stiles squints at him, because honestly, he's like one big blur. "I'm fine."
"What you are is disgusting." Jackson leans around the side of the lockers to
scowl at them. "Go home, Stilinski. Some of us – meaning you – aren't as lucky
as others, and actually do get sick."
Stiles flips him off, but it's half-hearted at most. He stops protesting,
though, and lets Scott pull him to his feet. "Sleep," he says, and Scott pats
his shoulder, guiding him toward the locker room door.
"Yes, sleep. Leave your bag here; I'll bring it by your house after practice,
okay?"
"'K," Stiles mumbles, and focuses every tiny bit of energy he has left on
making it to his Jeep.
When he finally collapses into the front seat, pulling the door shut behind
him, he thinks he might die on the spot. He's struggling for every breath, his
chest aching with the effort, and sweat is sliding down the side of his face.
It takes him several minutes to catch his breath enough to fumble through his
pockets and pull his keys out, and quite a few tries to just get the Jeep key
in the ignition.
Fuck; there's no way he can drive like this. He searches through his pockets
until he finds his phone, pulling it out and hitting Derek's speed dial.
Derek doesn't answer.
Stiles calls back, then again and again, but Derek never picks up. Something
uneasy and wrong settles at the pit of his stomach, and he tosses his phone
onto the passenger seat before turning the key over and starting the engine. He
knows he shouldn't even try to drive right now – his head is spinning and his
vision is both blurry and double – but Derek never ignores so many calls in a
row.
His tires squeal as he leaves the parking lot, automatically turning in the
direction of Derek's home. The grip he has on his steering wheel is painful,
the cuts on his hands still not fully healed, and he struggles to stay focused
on the road. The edges of his vision are starting to darken, and pure panic has
his heart racing and his stomach in knots. He fights it, breathing as deeply as
he can, but the closer he gets to Derek's the harder it is to stay conscious.
He's almost there when the darkness bleeds over and his hands loosen on the
wheel. He's already floating away when the Jeep hits something big and hard and
unmoving, and he hears the crunch of metal and glass, the sudden, forceful stop
sending him into the steering wheel and the rest of the way out.
*
Stiles wakes up very, very confused. His head is throbbing and he's cold,
uncontrollable shivers wracking his body. He hurts all over and his mind is
fuzzy, the headache not helping in the slightest. He takes a deep breath and
tries to get his bearings; he's on a hard floor, and a mental check assures him
that nothing's broken.
Except the Jeep. Oh god, the Jeep. His dad is going to actually kill him.
Stiles groans and tries to open his eyes. They're heavy, like they've suddenly
turned into lead, and he has to struggle not to let himself slip back into
unconsciousness. When he finally gets them open he has to blink several times
to clear his vision, and even then there's still a blurriness to it that
shouldn't be there.
He doesn't move, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness as he tries to figure
out where he is. It looks like a single, empty room; the floor is covered in
dirt and leaves, and the roof is mostly intact except for one caved-in spot in
the corner. There's a tiny window on the far wall, the late-afternoon sun
filtering through trees outside and casting shadows around something just
beneath it.
It looks like a body, and Stiles feels his heart slam against his chest. He
blinks a few times more, trying to focus, and sees a familiar leather jacket
that makes his pounding heart stutter to a sudden stop. The t-shirt under the
jacket is just as familiar, as are the dark jeans and the black boots, and when
he finally looks up and sees Derek's face he stops breathing, everything around
him falling away to nothing.
"No," Stiles whispers, struggling to push himself up. "No."
A booted foot appears out of nowhere and slams down on his hand. Stiles cries
out, collapsing back to the floor on his stomach, eyes burning and panic
threatening to overwhelm him. He can't look away from Derek, even long enough
to see who is holding him down. He puts his other hand on the boot, pushing
hard, his sneakers sliding on the floor as he fights to get free, but he just
doesn't have enough strength.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," a woman's voice says from above, and fingers pat over
his hair in a mockery of comfort. "He's alive. You know how that whole werewolf
healing thing works."
Stiles chokes on a sob, forcing himself to drag his eyes up to the woman. "Who
are you? What the fuck did you do to him?"
She smiles down at him, cold and sharp. "I think he's got the same sickness you
do, sweetheart." She pauses, looking thoughtful. "Or maybe it was the way I hit
him over the back of the head with that crowbar."
Stiles makes a horrified noise, eyes snapping back to where Derek is splayed
under the window.
The woman sighs as though she's trying to explain something to a child. "Like I
said, he'll be fine. At least for now." Her foot lifts from Stiles' hand but
before he can move she's crouching down, and he gasps, feeling five sharp
fingernails dig into the back of his neck, holding him in place. "As for who I
am…well. My name is Lona, but that's not really what you're asking, is it?
Maybe this will give you a clue."
She reaches into one of her boots and pulls out a tiny, clear bag, dropping it
on the floor directly in front of Stiles' face. It's filled with a familiar
shimmery red powder, and Stiles freezes, every muscle in his body tensing.
"She's dead," he chokes out, staring at the little bag.
Lona's fingers dig a little deeper. "Believe me, I'm aware," she says, voice
gone flat and hard. "She was my sister, as was the other witch your little
Alpha boyfriend ripped to pieces."
"He's not –" Stiles starts to say, and realizes how utterly stupid that sounds
right now. "You're a witch, too."
"Nice deduction there," she says sarcastically, and Stiles feels a bubble of
hysterical laughter lodge itself in his chest.
"So this is for revenge?"
Lona chuckles darkly. "Not quite. I can't deny I'll take pleasure in killing
you both, but no. You see, this was the plan all along."
"The plan was for your sisters to die? That's a pretty fucking bad plan,"
Stiles can't help but bite out, and is rewarded with Lona's fingernails sinking
in even further. He makes a pained noise, eyes beginning to sting, and stays
very, very still.
"You think you're funny," she says, and Stiles can hear the fury in her voice.
"Okay; I'll give you something to laugh at." She picks up the bag of powder and
lets it swing directly in his face. "This stuff right here? It had an extra
little charm worked in. When you and Mr. Werewolf over there had to fuck that
first time to save your life, it didn't stop after that. It got into your skin,
into your blood, and it made you hot for each other. I'm going to go out on a
limb and say the two of you haven't been able to keep your hands – or anything
else – to yourself since that first time."
Stiles' hands have started shaking, and he curls his fingers into the hard wood
of the floor beneath him. She's lying, she has to be.
Lona chuckles softly, letting the bag fall back to the floor. "Yes, that's
right. He never really wanted you; you were just a convenient way to get him
here."
Stiles breathes slow and steady, chest tight. "I don't believe you."
"I don't much care if you believe me," she says easily. "But – and this is just
a wild guess – you've had sex three times, now, right?"
He doesn't answer.
"That's what I thought. And that third time? That's what finished off the
charm, what has made the two of you so sick, so vulnerable – so easy to catch."
"That makes no sense," Stiles forces out, trying his best to stay calm. "Why
would you do something so elaborate just to – to get to Derek. For what reason?
Did the three of you have an actual death wish?"
"Come on, you're smarter than that," Lona taunts, shaking his neck a little and
making him hiss. "Make the rest of your pack useless so we can get to just you
and him, hit you both with the charmed powder, and then sit back and wait." Her
voice gets harder when she continues, dropping low with anger. "We
underestimated your Alpha's reaction the first time; my older sister's death at
his hands was unexpected."
"Well that was stupid," Stiles mutters before he can stop himself, and then
cries out when Lona uses her grip to pull him up and then slam his face onto
the floor. Pain explodes across his cheeks and he feels blood gush from his
nose; he groans, back bowing out as he tries to curl into himself.
"My younger sister was the stupid one, actually," she says casually, as though
she hadn't just broken Stiles' nose. "Taking your pack mate wasn't part of the
plan; she wanted an eye for an eye, and didn't have the patience to wait on the
charm to work the rest of its magic. But don't worry, you'll both pay for her
death, too."
Stiles spits out a mouthful of blood, pain radiating through his head. "You
still haven't said why you've done all this – oh, wait, psychotic bitches don't
need an excuse, right?"
Lona laughs, unperturbed. "Don't worry, darling, you'll find out soon."
And with that she finally slides her nails out of the back of Stiles' neck,
patting the puncture wounds left behind before straightening to a stand. Stiles
immediately scrambles away, twisting around until he's sitting up and facing
her.
"I'd tell you not to bother trying to escape, but it would be cliché and
pointless," she says. "This cabin is surrounded by Mountain Ash, and I know you
won't leave your werewolf behind to try to go for help. If you did, he would be
truly dead by the time you returned. And just in case you don't believe me…"
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small black pouch, opening it and
pouring the familiar powder in a thick line on the floor directly in front of
the door. She smiles at him and closes the pouch, sliding it back into her
pocket.
"Fuck you," Stiles says, and hates the way his voice breaks.
She looks amused, and glances at where Derek's lying. "I'd take you up on that
offer, but I'm not interested in unwanted sloppy seconds."
Stiles curls his fingernails into his palms, focusing on the sting where they
dig into his cuts. Lona's smile grows, evil and twisted, and he meets her gaze
defiantly.
"Don't worry," she says. "The last of the charm will wear off soon and your
werewolf will heal. Then the real fun can begin."
He doesn't respond, and she gives him a wink before whirling around and
disappearing through the only door. When she's finally gone Stiles gasps in a
breath, struggling to fill his lungs past the crushing weight on his chest. His
stomach rolls, and he barely makes it to the corner before losing it, vomiting
up what little he's eaten before it turns to dry heaves that make his sides
hurt.
When it's finally over he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie and
crawls over to where Derek is still unconscious, sitting next to his head and
leaning his back against the wall. He reaches over and places one hand on
Derek's chest, holding his own breath until he feels the shallow rise and fall
of Derek breathing and the faint but steady beat of his heart.
None of it had been real – none of Derek's seductive teasing and soft kisses
and fucking cuddling, not a single goddamned bit of it had meant anything.
Stiles had begun to think that maybe he had a chance, maybe he could eventually
convince Derek to move beyond just the hot sex to something more like an actual
relationship.
He'd begun to hope.
God, he was so stupid. Of course Derek wouldn't really want him.
"Nobody ever wants Stiles," he whispers, and the thought has never hurt more
than it does now.
*
"Stiles. Stiles, wake up."
He groans, pushing weakly at the hand shaking his shoulder. He blinks his eyes
open to darkness, moonlight falling over him, and his hip is cold where he'd
been pressed against Derek's head, which means –
He focuses on the dark shape crouched in front of him and sees Derek, looking
agitated. A breath catches in his throat, eyes automatically scanning Derek's
body for any unhealed injuries.
"Where the hell are we?" Derek says, scowling fiercely.
"A cabin in the woods," Stiles says flatly. "Which not only happens to be
surrounded by Mountain Ash, but the only door is blocked by it as well. Not
that I could have possibly dragged your unconscious ass out of here anyway."
"So why didn't you leave?" Derek snaps, glare sharpening. "You know, gone for
help?"
Stiles glares back. "Because the bitch would have killed you, that's why. No,
shut up, you were out cold. You couldn't have possibly defended yourself. I
have no idea how far out we are or which direction I'd have to go in to even
find someone who could help. So stop looking at me like this is all my fault,
because there's not a goddamned thing I could've done."
 
Derek's scowl deepens and he looks away, something like guilt flashing across
his face. "I know it's not your fault. What I don't know is whose fault it is."
Stiles laughs, and it sounds hollow and empty. "It's a long fucking story."
"So explain," Derek says through clenched teeth. "So we can start working on a
way to get the fuck out of here."
Stiles' stomach clenches and he swallows, hoping he doesn't get sick again.
"The red powder that first witch threw at us had an additional charm in it that
we didn't know about. It's the reason you've been all over me lately – " Derek
freezes, giving him an incredulous look, and Stiles has to close his eyes to
keep going, " – and that last time is why I've been so sick the past few days."
"I was sick too," Derek says, and it sounds like an automatic response, blank
and empty. "I've never been sick before."
"It was to make us both weak," Stiles continues, trying to keep his voice
steady. "There were three witches, all sisters, and the third is the one who's
trapped us here. She – she hit you in the back of the head with a crowbar."
"I remember," Derek says darkly, and Stiles finally opens his eyes to look at
him. "I was so weak I couldn't fight her off." He shoots a look at Stiles,
frowning. "How did you get here? Did she hit you too?"
He leans in closer, fingers gently prodding at the back of Stiles' skull.
"I'm fine," Stiles snaps, shoving his hands away. Derek looks startled, and
then he sits back, face going blank, and Stiles has to clench his hands into
fists to keep from reaching for him. "I felt so bad at school I skipped out on
lacrosse practice. I tried to call you to come get me because I didn't think I
should drive, but you didn't answer. I wrecked the Jeep on the way to your
house, and woke up here."
He doesn't mention the way he saw Derek's body lying still and lifeless on the
floor, or the way terror had made him go cold all over, panic pushing down on
his lungs until he had to struggle to breathe.
"And the witch was here, too?" Derek asks, and Stiles nods. "She's the one who
told you –"
"That everything that's happened is because of that fucking powder and you
don't actually want me?" Stiles finishes bitterly. "Yeah."
"And you believed her?"
Stiles breathes deep, staring at the ceiling. "You can't deny that it makes
sense."
Derek is silent, and Stiles tries not to flinch when he moves to sit on the
floor beside him.
"Maybe you're right," Derek says after another moment, quiet. "Maybe me giving
in and risking everything to be with a seventeen year old is caused by nothing
more than some magical red powder."
Stiles' heart drops, and he suddenly feels cold all over. He swallows, throat
clicking dryly, and struggles to draw in a breath.
"Let me ask you something," Derek says after another minute. "I never forced
you into anything, so do you believe that you sleeping with me was because of
the charm?"
Fuck.
"Yes," Stiles says, and knows Derek will know he's lying.
"Stiles –"
"Don't," Stiles says harshly, closing his eyes. "Just…don't."
Derek falls silent, and they sit there in the dark and cold.
"We can't just do nothing," Derek says eventually. "I can't get out the door
but these walls are thin; I can probably break through one of them."
"Have at it," Stiles says, waving at the far wall. "But that won't help us get
past the Mountain Ash on the outside."
Derek climbs to his feet, flexing his hands as he stares at the wall. "She was
probably lying."
"Right," Stiles bites out. "Because the silly little human who can't hear
heartbeats is just that gullible."
Derek's jaw goes tight and he glares down at Stiles. "Because she was playing
with your emotions."
Stiles shakes his head, pushing to his feet and wincing at the ache of what
feels like every muscle in his body. "Go on," he says, waving at the wall
again. "Not like we have anything to lose at this point."
Derek scowls at him again but doesn't say anything else, turning back to the
wall and pausing for just a second before running full tilt at it. He crashes
through and Stiles flinches, because werewolf strength or not that had to hurt.
He walks over to the large hole where wall used to be and peeks out; Derek is
brushing off his jacket, covered from head to foot in dust and little bits of
wood.
"Let's go," he says, and Stiles steps through to follow him.
They make it ten feet before Derek suddenly weaves and stumbles back, cursing.
Stiles looks down and sees a smooth line of Mountain Ash, disappearing through
the trees on both sides of them.
"I feel seriously vindicated right now," he says.
Derek narrows his eyes. "Can you break it?" he asks shortly, hands clenching
into fists.
Stiles doesn't answer, crouching down in front of the dark line. He holds his
hands over it, like he did before, and tries to separate it. Nothing happens,
so he does the next best thing and sweeps his hand through it – or tries to. It
doesn't budge.
"Nope," he finally says, standing. "That's some solid magic right there."
"Fine," Derek says, and grabs him by the back of his hoodie. Stiles makes a
noise of protest, but Derek is too strong and too fast and has sent him
stumbling over the line before he can even begin to fight.
"What the hell, dude," Stiles says angrily once he's found his balance,
straightening his clothes.
"You need to go find help," Derek says. "I'm not unconscious anymore; I can
defend myself. Find the others if you can, they're the only ones who can –"
"No," Stiles snaps, and then again when Derek starts to protest, "No. You're
not getting rid of me that easily. We stick together, you asshole."
"Stiles, we don't have time for this," Derek says, low and strained. "You need
to go. Now."
"Too late," a familiar voice says, and Lona steps out of the shadows of the
trees. She's got a large gun in her hand, and it's pointing at Stiles.
Stiles tenses, stumbling back several steps.
"Stiles, get behind me," Derek says, but before Stiles can even begin to move
Lona pulls the trigger.
There's a sharp stab in Stiles' right shoulder and he jerks back, blinking.
Derek is yelling at him and Lona in turns, snarls and growls and his eyes going
red and canines sharpening, but it all comes at Stiles in a vague, fuzzy sort
of way. He looks down and instead of seeing blood and a bullet hole, he sees a
large needle sticking out from his shoulder.
"Oh," he says. "Fuck."
His legs give out and he tumbles to the ground, darkness closing in on him once
again.
*
Stiles wakes slowly, head throbbing. He's groggy and disoriented and his
shoulder hurts like a motherfucker.
"Fuck," he groans, struggling to remember why he feels the way he does.
"Look who's awake," a female voice says, and she sounds familiar in a
terrifying sort of way.
Stiles freezes, memories flooding back, and he struggles to open his eyes and
sit up. "Where's Derek?" he slurs, digging his fingers into dirt as a wave of
dizziness hits him and he sways.
"Don't worry," Lona croons, sliding the back of her hand down his face. "You'll
get to see him in just a few minutes."
Stiles jerks away, giving her an unfocused glare. "What the fuck did you do?"
"To you?" she asks. "Just a little tranquilizer; you'll be fine before the game
begins. Had to get your wolf to be agreeable somehow, didn't I?"
"Game," Stiles repeats. He blinks, his vision starting to clear and the
throbbing in his head growing weaker. "What game?"
Lona laughs delightedly. "Did I happen to mention that I'm only half witch?"
"So the fuck what?" Stiles says. "You're all the way crazy, so –"
"My mother was a witch," she continues as though he hadn't spoken. The smile
she gives him is wide and triumphant, a hard glint in her eyes that makes
Stiles shiver with dread. "My father, on the other hand, was a hunter."
Oh fuck.
"Oh fuck," Stiles says.
Lona's smile widens even further, making her look as demented as she actually
is. "Take a look around. Tell me what you see."
Stiles looks. It's still night and they're outside, in a huge clearing
surrounded by trees; the two of them are in some sort of cage, which is
connected to a larger – much, much larger – fenced off area. Bars of tall,
heavy iron surround the space, and there are dark places in the dirt that
Stiles is pretty sure are dried blood. He stands, slow and unsteady, and curls
his hand around one of the bars between the cage and the bigger space.
"What is this?" he asks, a sudden spike of fear twisting through his stomach.
"Can't you tell?" Lona practically purrs. "It's an arena, and we've got the
prime seats. Pretty soon your Alpha will be out there with one of my best pets,
fighting to claim the winner's prize." She leans in and whispers against his
ear. "You."
Stiles thinks he might throw up. "If Derek loses –"
"You'll go to my pet. He's never had a human before, and he's quite excited
about the prospect. Very enthusiastic to get this fight started."
"And if Derek wins?"
Lona laughs, as though that's not even an option. "In that very unlikely case,
you'll go back to your wolf and he will become one of my pets."
"So either way I'm not leaving," Stiles says flatly, and Lona pats his head.
"Don't worry, it's not so bad. You'll get food and water and a good fuck every
night."
Stiles jerks away, clenching his teeth together. "Your 'pet'," he says, forcing
the words out. "I'm assuming he's another werewolf?"
"Oh yes, they all are," Lona says. "Caught and restrained with a combination of
magic and hunter knowledge. A way to honor both my parents, if you will."
"You're sick," Stiles chokes out.
Lona shrugs. "I prefer to think of it as ingenious. Now hush; it's time to get
this round started."
She opens her mouth and lets out a shrill bird call. Stiles winces, but in the
moment that follows he can hear cheers going up from the trees. He sucks in a
breath, tensing, and watches as various supernatural creatures – some human
looking, some definitely not – flood into the clearing and surround the arena.
They're laughing and wild, many of them pointing and staring at him.
Lona repeats the bird call and the audience falls quiet. She smiles around at
them, and Stiles shudders, swallowing back the bile that rises in his throat.
"Bring out the wolves!" she suddenly shouts, and the cheering and yelling start
up again, louder than before.
The crowd shuffles around, parting like water, and a gate on the far end opens
just enough for a body to be shoved through before slamming shut again. It's
Derek, and Stiles wants to scream at him to get away, jump the top of the
barred fence and escape, but the words catch in his throat, choking him.
Derek pushes up from where he's landed in the dirt, slow to climb to his feet,
and as he lifts his head and looks directly at Stiles, the black and silver
collar around his neck becomes visible.
"What the hell is that?" Stiles asks, unable to tear his eyes away.
"Just a little something to keep him in line," Lona says, sounding gleeful.
"It's got a touch of wolfsbane woven in; enough to stop him from getting too
strong, but not enough to weaken him so much he can't fight. What would the fun
be in that?"
Stiles is shaking, fury and fear and pure hate making his blood run hot through
his veins, his heart pounding in his ears. Derek is still staring at him, his
expression indecipherable, and Stiles leans his forehead against the bars in
front of him, desperately trying not to cry.
Another gate suddenly opens and a man – werewolf – walks in, arrogant leer on
his face as the crowd cheers for him. He's huge, bigger even than Derek, and
he's wearing nothing but a worn pair of jeans. He flexes a little, clearly
showing off, and as he turns he catches sight of Stiles. His smirk grows, turns
nasty, and he saunters over, stopping just in front of where Stiles has reared
back.
"So you're going to be my prize, huh?" he says, and the rough, torn quality of
his voice makes Stiles shudder in disgust. "My very own human to play with. I'm
going to mark you up real good – hold you down and fuck that pretty little ass
until you break. Maybe I'll even give you the bite, make you my little bitch –"
Something hits him hard from the side, and Stiles has just enough time to
realize it's Derek before they're rolling away in the dirt, violent growls and
snarls barely audible over the din of the crowd. Stiles feels utterly helpless,
more than he ever has before; all he can do is watch, hands shaking as they
cling to the bars. His eyes never leave the two of them, dust billowing through
the moonlight as they slam each other into the ground over and over.
"Isn't this exciting?" Lona says from beside him, and Stiles wants to punch her
so much it physically hurts not to. It would probably make things ten times
worse if he did, though he's hard pressed to think of how that could be
possible.
"Why Derek?" Stiles asks.
"Do you mean why an Alpha? Because they're more fun. Your betas are still too
young, too weak." She smiles. "And without their Alpha, they'll be even weaker,
and far easier to catch and train."
You don't know our betas, he thinks, but bites down on his tongue to keep the
words in.
Stiles sees a quick flash of claws, and a split second later Lona's pet roars
in pain, four bloody marks slicing down his back, and then Derek is flying
through the air, back hitting the iron bars before he falls to the ground,
curling in on himself.
"Derek!" Stiles cries, panic pressing down on his chest and making it hard to
breathe.
Lona cackles beside him as her werewolf advances, slower than before and
looking a cross between smug and angry. Derek coughs, struggling to get to his
feet, and shakes his head as though to clear it. The other wolf takes off,
running straight for him, and Derek jumps out of the way just in time. He
twists around, hand coming down hard on the back of the man's head, slamming
his face into the iron bars.
Lona's wolf lets out another loud snarl, nose gushing blood for a second, and
then he's wolfing out, coming at Derek with red eyes and fangs bared. Derek
shifts too, and jumps high at the last minute, landing on the wolf's back and
kicking out with his legs, forcing him to go sprawling and sliding through the
dirt.
"Come on," Lona yells, making Stiles jump. "You're being pathetic; quit fucking
around and show him what you're made of, you piece of shit."
The wolf climbs to his feet, eyes on Derek and mouth curling dangerously around
his fangs. They circle each other for a minute, growling and snarling and
snapping, and then they're running at each other. Stiles winces as Derek is
slammed into the ground, and then watches in horror as the huge wolf pounds his
fists into Derek's face over and over again. Derek fights back as best he can,
claws scratching at the wolf's face and torso, but he can't move otherwise.
The crowd is yelling and shouting and jeering them on, and Lona is watching
with a dark smile on her face. Stiles can't breathe; there's blood everywhere
and Derek's movements are getting weaker and shakier and he can't –
– he can't just stand there and do nothing, he has to – to find a way to help,
to save Derek and save himself but he's locked in this fucking cage and he
can't breathe –
Stiles fights the panic, lets the rage steady him, steady his thoughts, and he
glances quickly at Lona. She's not paying him any attention, focused completely
on the fight, and Stiles takes a step back, looking around at the ground of the
cage. There's nothing there but dirt and for a moment the panic takes over, but
then he looks a little further, just outside the bars and there –
It's a rock, small enough for him to fit in his hand and pull through the bars
but big and heavy-looking enough to do some damage. He glances at Lona again,
edging toward the back of the cage. Derek is still fighting, he hasn't given up
yet, but it looks like one of his arms is broken, and Stiles chokes back a sob.
He crouches down and slowly – slowly reaches through the bars, shooting quick
looks back and forth between the rock and Lona.
It's just out of reach. Stiles bites down hard on his bottom lip, tears of
frustration and desperation and complete, utter fear filling his eyes. He
blinks them back, breathing slow and deep, and carefully flattens himself on
the ground, stretching his arm through the bars until he thinks he might
dislocate his shoulder. His fingers brush over the rock and he closes his eyes,
struggling, making himself push just a little farther.
His hand closes over the rock and he lets out an involuntary sound of relief.
Fuck.
He opens his eyes just in time to see Lona spinning around, expression
contorting into one of fury. She comes at him with a yell of fury, but it's too
late, he's got the rock and he's not letting go. He pulls his arm back through
the cage bars and swings upward, slamming the rock across her face and sending
her stumbling over and onto the ground.
Her hand flies up and she howls in pain, blood leaking through her fingers.
Stiles rolls away and pushes to his feet, clutching the rock tightly as Lona
screams in rage. She leaps up and runs at him, and Stiles is done sitting back
and watching as shit happens around him and Derek fucking dies. He meets her
halfway across the cage and slams the rock into her face again, knocking her
off balance.
Lona stumbles and falls, eyes going unfocused, and Stiles doesn't let himself
think about what he's doing. Instead, he thinks about Derek in that arena,
fighting for his life and for Stiles'. He thinks about Isaac being taken by the
other witch and he thinks about the red powder and how he should have had a
choice, goddamn it, no matter how much he loves Derek.
The rock comes down again and again, the bones in her face and skull crunching
under the force, blood splattering everywhere.
When he's positive she's dead – when Lona goes still under him and her eyes
stare at nothing – he drops the rock and scrambles away, a sob escaping as he
tries not to hyperventilate.
A sudden anguished roar comes from the arena and Stiles snaps his head around,
seeing Lona's wolf staring at them. Derek is still beneath him, and he's bloody
as hell but he's still moving, twisting away.
The other wolf seems to have forgotten Derek's there, and Stiles watches as he
roars again, shifting into full Alpha form. He runs straight at the cage, mouth
open in a wild snarl, and Stiles instinctively pushes himself into the back
wall of bars, shoes sliding through the dirt and blood as his body tries to get
as far away as possible.
The wolf leaps, aiming for the top of the high bars, and then yelps as he falls
back into the arena, an arrow lodged into his heart. Stiles stares, completely
dumbfounded, but then Derek is up and on the wolf, claws slicing clean through
his throat and blood spurting onto the ground.
"Stiles! Stiles!"
He blinks, looks around, and sees Scott running towards him. Scott, which means
the rest of the pack must be here, and the arrow must have been Allison's.
"Are you okay?" Scott asks when he reaches the cage, eyes dark with worry as he
scans Stiles from head to foot.
"I'll survive," Stiles says. "Please just get us out of here."
Scott nods and then everything falls into chaos. Someone has opened one of the
gates leading into the arena and Derek is no longer in there. The collar,
however, is lying on the ground, ripped in two. The crowd's yells have changed
to ones of fear, many of them running as an angry pack of werewolves starts to
tear through them. Others stay and fight but they don't last long.
Stiles can't do anything but watch, still locked inside the cage with Lona's
dead body. He doesn't look at it but he can smell the blood, and he swallows as
his empty stomach rolls. Outside the cage he can see flashes of his pack,
Erica's blonde hair or Derek's leather jacket, and he's so relieved that Derek
is alive he can't bring himself to care that he's not out there fighting with
them.
Eventually, it all ends. The last few stragglers run for the woods, stumbling
over the bodies of their comrades as they make their desperate escapes. Stiles
uses the bars of the cage to pull himself up, eyes scanning the clearing as he
searches out everyone, making sure they're all alive.
Jackson is nearby with Lydia, checking bodies to make sure they're either dead
or in need of help, Stiles isn't sure. Scott is helping Allison collect her
arrows, and Erica and Isaac are tending to a slightly injured Boyd. Derek –
"Derek?" Stiles whispers, heart stopping as he scans the clearing again, panic
threatening to close his throat.
"I'm right here," Derek says from behind him, and Stiles spins around, clinging
to the bars to keep himself from literally collapsing in relief.
"Jesus Christ," Stiles breathes, taking him in. There's blood drying on his
face, his white shirt torn to pieces and now rust colored, and there's even a
large rip in the shoulder of his jacket. Most of his weight is settled on his
right leg, and his left arm is held close to his side, oddly angled and
obviously not quite healed.
"Are you hurt?" Derek asks, and Stiles shakes his head.
"Aside from a broken nose, the holes in the back of my neck, several other cuts
and abrasions, and a lingering concussion, I'm physically fine," he says, and
then continues seriously, "Pretty sure I'll have nightmares for the rest of my
life, though."
Derek's mouth thins, and he reaches up with his good hand to grab the padlock
Stiles hadn't even noticed until that moment. He yanks hard and it breaks off,
the door to the cage swinging open.
"Oh, thank god," Stiles says, stumbling out as fast as his shaky legs can carry
him. Derek catches his arm, helping him get steady, and doesn't let go even
when Stiles looks up at him.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Derek asks, and Stiles swallows.
"Yeah," he says quietly, nodding once. "I'll be fine."
Derek continues to stare at him, and Stiles stares back.
"Stiles, I –"
"We've checked all the bodies," Jackson says as he and Lydia suddenly appear.
"Anybody who survived is long gone."
Derek's hand briefly tightens on Stiles' arm before he lets go, turning away
and making Stiles suddenly feel alone and empty. He glances over and sees Scott
and Allison walking towards them, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd not far behind.
"What now?" Scott asks.
"Go home," Derek orders. "There's no way we can take care of this many bodies.
I don't even think we're in our territory anymore."
"We're not," Jackson says. "We're about fifty miles north."
"Out of Argent territory, too," Allison adds.
"Then there's nothing more we can do," Derek says. "We just need to go home and
lay low until we've all healed. Nobody has to know we were here."
"Uh, hello?" Stiles says, waving a hand. "Injured human without super awesome
healing powers here. I can't exactly go home and lay low."
"No, you really can't," Scott agrees, sounding apologetic. "Your dad is
frantic, dude; they found your Jeep but not you, and he's got every able bodied
person out there looking for you right now."
Stiles groans. "Shit."
"Who drove?" Derek asks, and Scott and Jackson both raise their hands. "Okay,
let's go. We'll get everybody home and then Scott can drive Stiles to the
hospital. We'll think of something not supernatural related on the way."
Stiles doesn't argue, trailing behind the rest as they lead the way to where
their cars are hidden.
*
In the end, the easiest explanation is also the most believably obvious –
Stiles was sick, passed out, wrecked the Jeep, and when he came to he was so
confused he wandered off and got lost. There's a lot of room for questions and
doubt, but his dad just nods and pulls him into a hug so tight Stiles thinks he
might not ever let go.
*
He stays Thursday and Friday in the hospital just for observation, and then
holes up in his room for the weekend. Scott drops by once to make sure he's
really okay, and surprisingly Lydia calls him, and unsurprisingly everyone else
except Jackson texts him at least once.
He doesn't hear a single thing from Derek.
*
Monday sees him back at school, and he does his best to act normal. If he's a
little quieter, a little less sarcastic, the others don't comment.
*
Two weeks go by. Then three.
His injuries heal and he gets his Jeep back from the shop.
It's like Derek has dropped off the face of the earth, and Stiles thinks it
must be nice to just forget.
*
He waits another week, and then he wonders what the fuck he's waiting for.
Derek might be able to just pretend it never happened, but Stiles can't do
that. Even if it hurts, he's got to hear Derek say it, he needs to hear Derek
tell him it was just the magic and that it's never going to happen again.
He leaves his dad a note just in case he gets home early, then jumps in his
Jeep and drives to Derek's. He goes slow and careful, hands gripping the wheel
just a little tighter as he passes the tree he hit. When he pulls up in Derek's
yard Stiles is unsurprised to see him waiting outside, leaning against the hood
of the Camaro. His expression is pinched, his arms are crossed defensively, and
he doesn't move when Stiles parks directly in front of him and kills the
engine. Stiles just stares at him for a few minutes, heart pounding nervously.
Finally, he takes a deep breath and steps out, shoving his hands deep into his
jacket pockets.
"Hi," Stiles says, walking until he reaches the front of his Jeep and then
stopping, unable to bring himself closer.
"Hi," Derek says.
A truly awkward silence falls, and Stiles fidgets. He opens his mouth several
times only to snap it shut again, for once at a complete loss of words. Derek
waits, looking like he would rather be anywhere else, and Stiles huffs in
irritation at himself, at Derek, at this entire fucked up situation.
"Okay, look," Stiles finally says. "I just – I just need to know if –"
He breaks off, struggling to find the right words.
"You need to know if it really was all because of the magic," Derek finishes
for him, quiet.
Stiles swallows and fixes his gaze on a far tree, nodding shortly. "I just need
to – to hear you say it. And then I'll leave you alone, I swear. Despite my
long and painful history of unrequited love, I do actually know how to step
back and take a hint."
Derek draws in a sharp breath and stares at Stiles, wide eyes scanning his face
as though seeing him for the first time. Finally, after a painfully long
silence, he answers.
"No."
Surprised, Stiles shifts his gaze to Derek's. "What? What do you mean, 'no'?"
"I mean," Derek says, and oh, okay, he's in Stiles' personal space, that's –
"No. I'm not going to say it. No, it wasn't all because of the magic. No, your
feelings are not unrequited."
Stiles is, to put it simply, completely and utterly flabbergasted. "I don't
understand. I got sick, you got sick. The charm made us –"
"Stop." Derek shakes his head, leaning his arms on either side of Stiles,
boxing him in against the hood of the Jeep. His eyes are dark, expression
pained, and his frown has twisted into something unhappy. "I won't deny that
the charm probably did affect me –"
The hope that had risen in Stiles' chest plummets again, and he scowls.
"Goddamn it, Derek, don't fucking do that."
"I'm not finished," Derek snaps, and straightens, taking a visible breath. "It
affected me because I didn't want to take advantage of you but I did anyway.
You needed time and I was willing to wait. I was waiting, until you were old
enough, until you knew for sure what you wanted. I'm pissed off that the choice
was taken from both of us, from you, but Stiles, I didn't do anything I didn't
already want to do."
Stiles stares, jaw hanging open. "So you – you wanted –"
"You," Derek says. "I still do, if you haven't changed your mind."
"Changed my –" Stiles starts, and then makes an annoyed sound and reaches for
Derek, gripping his shirt and pulling him into a hard kiss.
Derek makes a noise, and Stiles thinks it maybe sounds like relief. He parts
his lips, letting Derek slide his tongue in and deepen the kiss, letting Derek
claim his mouth. He can't believe this is happening, can't believe that Derek
actually wants him –
Derek nips at Stiles' bottom lip and then sucks it into his mouth, making
Stiles groan. Stiles arches his back, pressing himself against Derek, feeling
his erection through their jeans.
"I want to fuck you," Derek mumbles, releasing Stiles' lip and then staring at
it like he wants it back. "I haven't fucked you since that first time, and I
want to right now."
"Oh my god, yes," Stiles breathes, hard dick twitching. "Yes, yes, please –"
Derek growls and kisses him again, spinning them around and pushing until
Stiles stumbles and his ass lands on the hood of the Camaro. Oh god, he's going
to get fucked on Derek's sexy as hell car. The thought makes him groan loudly
and he leans back, dragging Derek with him. He wraps his legs around Derek's
waist, hands scrabbling at his t-shirt until Derek pulls back just enough to
pull it over his head and drop it to the ground. Stiles immediately pulls him
back into the kiss, Derek's mouth against his hot and wet and perfect.
The air is chilly but Derek doesn't seem to mind, Stiles' hands sliding over
bare skin, tracing the tattoo on his back. He's rocking his hips into Stiles'
but the angle is wrong and there's too many layers still between them. Derek
makes a frustrated noise and breaks away, straightening and pulling Stiles up.
"Wait, no, don't stop, why are you stopping," Stiles says, dragging in deep
breaths.
Derek grins and pushes Stiles' jacket off, and then he's reaching for Stiles'
fly. "Can't fuck you with clothes on."
"Right," Stiles breathes, and starts fumbling with the button on Derek's jeans,
hand brushing against his hard dick.
Derek groans, hips hitching, and Stiles bites down on his bottom lip as Derek's
hand slides into his boxers and wraps around his dick. He gasps, giving up on
Derek's jeans, and places his hands on the Camaro, head falling back and hips
bucking. Derek leans in and starts mouthing at Stiles' neck, hot and wet, teeth
dragging along skin. His jeans and boxers fall down his legs to pool at his
ankles, Derek's hand sliding along his dick, spreading the precome gathering at
the tip.
"I love when you're like this," Derek says in between biting a line of kisses
along his collarbone. "So hard for me, so good."
Stiles whimpers, pushing himself through Derek's fist, and Derek squeezes him
harder, twisting his wrist. "Oh my god, I'm going to come –"
Derek lets go, and Stiles chokes, whining in protest.
"You're going to come on my dick," Derek says, and reaches to finish undoing
his fly.
Stiles drags in a breath, shaking as he tries to reign himself in. Derek is
pushing his clothes down, dick big and hard as he palms it, and something
occurs to Stiles.
"Wait. We need something – lube –"
Derek pauses, frowning slightly, and then a wicked expression crosses his face.
He grabs Stiles' elbow and pulls him up, only to spin him around and push him
face down onto the hood of the Camaro. Stiles grunts, and for a split second
he's taken back to the cabin and Lona holding him down on the floor, and he
tenses. Derek must feel it because his hand curls gently around Stiles' hip.
"Are you okay?"
Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reminding himself that this is
Derek and Derek won't hurt him. He relaxes and opens his eyes, looking back
over his shoulder.
"Yeah," he says, and then more firmly, "Yes. I'm okay, just please don't stop."
It's not a lie, and Derek nods after a second, some of the wickedness returning
in the form of a smirk. "Don't move," he says, and Stiles licks his lips,
nodding.
Derek leans over him and kisses the back of his neck, open and wet, hands
pushing Stiles' t-shirt up around his ribs. Derek moves down, placing another
hot kiss to the small of his back, making Stiles groan and squirm, dick trapped
between his stomach and the Camaro. Derek huffs lightly, and Stiles hears the
crunch of leaves as he – drops to his knees?
Oh, god.
Stiles' breath catches in his throat and he holds as still as possible, not
daring to hope. He feels Derek's hands kneed his ass, pulling the cheeks apart,
and he lets his forehead fall against the Camaro's hood. Warm breath brushes
over his hole and he groans, long and low, shuffling his feet as he spreads his
legs as far as they'll go with his pants still around his ankles.
"Stop teasing me, oh my god," he says, and Derek chuckles.
"How do you even know what I'm going to do?"
"Porn," Stiles says. "Internet porn. Very informative. Derek, please –"
Derek bites lightly at Stiles' ass and then drags his tongue right over his
hole. A strangled noise is torn from Stiles' throat, hips stuttering, and he
barely has time to take a breath before Derek's tongue is on him again. Derek
doesn't hold back, firm little licks tracing Stiles' hole, dipping inside,
teeth scraping against sensitive skin. Hot sparks of pleasure pool at the base
of Stiles' spine and he feels like he's been punched in the solar plexus. He's
whining desperately and his dick is so hard it hurts, a throbbing ache that
makes him rock against the Camaro.
Derek's fingers dig into his ass cheeks and he growls warningly, making Stiles
curl his hands into fists as he forces himself to stop moving. His legs are
trembling, balls high and tight, and he has to bite down on his fist to keep
himself from crying out. Derek doesn't stop, pushing his tongue in deeper, his
spit making Stiles wet and slick. He lets go of Stiles' ass with one hand and
then a finger is sliding in beside his tongue.
Stiles gasps, arching back, pushing into the combination. It's good, so fucking
good, and Derek groans as he adds a second finger. He twists them around,
stretching Stiles open and licking in between, pumping his fingers in and out
around his tongue.
"F-fuck," Stiles gasps when he feels a third finger, eyes rolling back. Derek
pulls his mouth away, pushing his fingers in deep, all the way to the knuckle,
and a broken groan is wrenched from Stiles' chest.
"God," Derek breathes. "I bet you could come from my fingers alone. You could,
couldn't you? I could just fuck you with my fingers until you were such a mess
you couldn't remember your own name. Maybe three would be enough, but I think I
could fit four, stretch you out wide –"
"Oh god, oh god," Stiles says, hands scrabbling on the Camaro. "Derek – Derek,
please –"
Derek groans and slides his fingers out, leaving Stiles feeling empty. His
hands slide up Stiles' ass to his hips as he mouths his way up his spine. He
settles his body over Stiles', hands splayed wide around his waist, dick
pressing against his hole. Stiles whimpers, pushing back, wanting Derek inside
of him now –
Derek pushes in, past the tight outer ring, hitching little movements that take
him deeper each time. Stiles groans, turning his head to press his cheek to the
Camaro's hood. It burns but it isn't as bad as the first time, and he just
breathes until Derek is buried balls deep, hips pressing against his ass. He
feels split open, stuffed full; Derek's dick is stretching him wide and it's so
fucking good.
Derek starts to move, rolling his hips, and Stiles braces his hands against the
Camaro. Each push in is harder than the last, until the air is being punched
from Stiles' lungs, and his lips part as he gasps. Derek's fingers dig into
Stiles' hips, a bruising force holding him still, dick pounding into him over
and over. He barely realizes he's moving – being fucked so hard he's sliding up
the hood – until his feet slip out from under him and he lands hard on the car.
Derek groans and moves his grip from Stiles' hips to his hands. He tangles
their fingers together and presses his body over Stiles' again, driving into
him. The angle changes and Derek's dick drags over his prostate, making Stiles
cry out, dropping his forehead onto the Camaro. Derek growls low and dark,
thrusting even harder, and Stiles starts to shake at the constant waves of
pleasure. He's completely pinned, his toes barely touching the ground, his
aching dick trapped against the metal beneath him.
"Please, please, please," Stiles begs, voice choked. "I'm so close, Derek
please –"
Derek leans down and presses blunt teeth to Stiles' neck, biting down hard, and
Stiles comes with a shout. His whole body jerks, dick pulsing out onto the car,
and Derek doesn't let go as he pushes in and holds, grinding his hips against
Stiles' ass as he comes.
They stay that way for a few minutes, and Stiles is glad because he thinks he
might float away if Derek moves. Eventually, though, he does, licking lightly
at the place where he bit Stiles before slowly pushing himself up and pulling
out. Stiles realizes a second too late that he has nothing holding him up now,
and slides down the Camaro's hood, shaky legs failing him. He lands on his bare
ass on the cold ground, and blinks in surprise before beginning to laugh.
"Oh my god," he wheezes. "We are so doing that again."
Derek holds out his hand and helps Stiles up, looking smugly satisfied as he
has to hold him steady. When Stiles finally finds his balance he reaches down
and pulls his boxers and jeans up, buttoning them with trembling fingers.
"We are doing that many, many times," Derek says, adjusting his own clothes.
"On my car, in my car, in my bed, against the kitchen counter –"
Stiles kisses him, a firm press of their lips, licking into Derek's mouth for
just a second before pulling away. He looks Derek straight in the eyes and
hopes he doesn't ruin everything with his next question.
"So is this just a sex thing? Or is it maybe a relationship thing?"
Derek lifts both hands and cups Stiles' jaw, pulling him into another soft
kiss. "It's a you and me thing," he says.
And, well, Stiles thinks that sounds kind of perfect.
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