Kink Bingo: Never Been (Teen Wolf)
Jul. 22nd, 2012 04:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scribblinlenoreTitle: Never Been
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: Explicit
Word count: 4,200
Summary: Stiles gets snared in a virgin trap. Derek to the rescue!
Notes: This is for the Virginity/Celibacy square of my Kink Bingo card. Thank you to my dearno_detective for the beta. You can also read it at AO3. Contains "something made them do it" trope dubcon.
Never Been
By Lenore
Contrary to what some people might believe—and "some people" of course means Stiles—Derek doesn't actually keep a list of things he hates, sorted in order of "I want to rip that apart with my really sharp werewolf claws." If he did keep such a list, witches would certainly place high on it, although not quite as high as teenagers.
Teenagers—especially ones who don't fucking do as they're told—might actually top the list.
"When my parents said things like, 'stay away from that cave by the old knotted tree, it's dangerous,' I actually listened."
The words make Derek feel like an asshole even as they're coming out of his mouth, because he's hardly parental and also he's way too young—by a good two decades—to go around saying things like "in my day" and "back when I was your age." Then again, his ragtag not-quite-a-pack of hormonally challenged trouble magnets is aging him by the moment.
It's Stiles who pipes up. Of course, it is. "You didn't even give us a chance to explain!" The rest of them have the good sense to look sheepish or at least to keep their stupid mouths shut. But not Stiles. Never Stiles.
"A chance to explain why you've come to the one place in the entire forest that I told you was off limits?"
If Derek didn't have werewolf eyesight, he might miss the way Stiles's pale skin turns pink with outrage at the unfairness of it all. "It wasn't like that—"
Derek cuts him off. "Don't think I don't know that this was your idea."
"An idea that kept the psychotic hunters from cutting us all in half!" He darts a semi-apologetic look in Allison's direction, as if "psychotic" isn't a perfectly accurate description of demented groups who go around bisecting people.
Argents. Add that to the long, dark list of things Derek hates.
"They just weren't stupid enough to follow you in here," Derek tells Stiles flatly.
Stiles puffs up, as if to argue, but it's half-hearted. He's too smart not to realize when he's been a moron—at least in hindsight.
"Hey, you weren't there," Scott says with a flare of anger, because of course he's going to take up for Stiles. Also, he lives to be a contrary little thorn in Derek's side. "If you'd been around, taking care of alpha business, maybe this wouldn't have happened." He shoots a glance at Stiles and crinkles up his forehead, and just watching him try to figure things out is painful. "I still don't get why only Stiles is trapped."
Neither does Derek, but he can feel the invisible hum of energy, stronger whenever Stiles edges closer to the cave's entrance. Apparently, Stiles got thrown on his ass three times and inspected every inch of the cave for clues before finally accepting that he wasn't walking out of here without help and agreeing to let Erica go find Derek. Stiles is nothing if not persistent.
"We think it might have something to do with this inscription." Allison sweeps the beam of her flashlight over what looks like a third-grader's script roughly carved into the stone above the cave's entrance, in a language Derek doesn't recognize. "I've been studying archaic Latin with Lydia, but some of these words—" She shakes her head. "Never been—something." She blinks and darts a glance at Stiles, awareness dawning. "Oh."
Scott is a step behind his girlfriend, as usual. "But what has Stiles never done that the rest of us—" He doesn't clap his hand over his mouth when he gets it, but he definitely looks like he wants to.
Isaac snickers. Erica seems like she might be interested in helping to remedy this never situation. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. Werewolves can't get headaches, and yet.
"Thanks for that, buddy," Stiles tells Scott. "Awesome way to overshare with the group."
How Stiles can still be a virgin when he spends at least ninety percent of his time thinking about sex is beyond Derek. But there's no doubt that he is. Derek can smell it on him, soured milk frustration tangled up with desire as sticky as cotton candy and a leafy sort of innocence.
"Why does a place like this even exist?" Stiles complains. "Urban Dictionary has an entirely different definition of 'virgin trap'. Oh my God, is this because there are actual sacrifices? Tell me there are no sacrifices."
I will sacrifice you personally if you don't shut up. The fact that Derek doesn't say this out loud is a new achievement in self-restraint. He congratulates himself. Maybe he won't go down in werewolf history as the first alpha ever to off his entire pack.
"It doesn't matter why it's here," Derek says, without snarling, but just barely. "Only what we're going to do about it. Although given how well you listen to me, maybe I should just leave you here."
Stiles glowers. "Like I left you in that swimming pool? Oh, wait."
"Maybe my family has information?" Allison ventures. "Maybe we can break the spell?"
Maybe, but Derek doubts it. If the hunters understood the secret of this place, they would have known it posed no danger to them. They would have followed the pack inside and slaughtered them.
That only leaves one solution.
"Get out," he orders. "All of you."
It's almost comical the way they freeze at the bark of his voice, eyes cartoon-big with surprise. Eventually, they start filing out, a slow shuffle, made all the slower by many curious backward glances. Scott, of course, hunkers down stubbornly.
"You too," Derek tells him.
Scott has years to go before glaring makes him look anything but mildly put out, but Derek can feel waves of protectiveness coming off him, as clearly as he can feel the shimmer of the spell that's stranded Stiles here.
"You can take care of the problem yourself or you can get out," Derek says, clipped, in no mood for Scott's posturing. "Those are the options."
"Um." Scott blinks, deer in the headlights. "Stiles?"
There's some complicated silent communication back and forth between the two, consisting of raised eyebrows and significant looks. Derek is hardly an expert at interpreting it, but from what he can make out, Stiles is assuring Scott that he'll be okay and Scott is wondering if Stiles has lost his mind.
"Dude. Go." Stiles waves his hand. "And let us never speak of this again."
Scott scuffles away, and somehow that makes the cave feel even smaller, a claustrophobic little world of two. Stiles nervously licks his lips, and Derek thinks, not without bitterness: He has no idea how he looks when he does that. Beacon Hills High must be populated with idiots if no one has ever touched him.
Stiles is his usual live-wire self, fidgeting and balling his hands in his T-shirt. "We could still wait for Allison to see if her parents know how to get rid of the spell?"
"Yes." Derek takes a step toward him. "Or we could do this the simple way."
"Simple?" Stiles's voice squeaks.
The look on his face is yearning and a little afraid and so desperately young, and the wolf in Derek wants to lunge, greedy and predatory. This part of him likes knowing that Stiles is defenseless against him, that Derek could do anything. That's probably how Kate felt, some decent corner of his brain reminds him.
The thought lingers like a bad taste in the mouth.
Clearly, he's not the right person to do this to Stiles. For Stiles. Do this for him. Derek can't even get his prepositions right. How could he be the right person? Unfortunately, he's all Stiles has got.
Business-like. That's what this needs to be, Derek decides.
He grabs Stiles by the arm, the touch purely pragmatic and, if Stiles's indignantly yelped "Hey!" is any indication, a little too rough. Derek said that this was simple, and that's how it's going to be. No more virginity. No more trap. That's all, nothing more. He yanks Stiles's jeans and underwear down to his knees.
Stiles lets out a strangled sound, and there's a surge of lust and fear on the air, and then just lust as Derek drops to his knees.
"Oh God," Stiles gasps out as Derek drags his tongue the length of Stiles's cock, once, and then again, getting his taste. "Oh God, oh God." Stiles's voice shakes, and his body shakes, and he's nothing but trembling, pliant need.
It's just a problem, and this is the simplest solution, Derek reminds himself, as he takes Stiles into his mouth, up and down with long pulls, his lips firm, his tongue stroking. Of course, Stiles can't keep anything to himself, even when he's too stunned to actually speak. Sensation swamps Derek: the many textures of Stiles's taste and layer upon layer of scent, the drumbeat of Stiles's heart and the windy rush of his breath.
Derek holds Stiles carefully by the hips, because he knows that he could touch him anywhere, do anything. Stiles is too far gone to protest, or maybe he would even like it. Derek tightens his grip, fingers pressed into the grooves of Stiles's hipbones. He can feel the minute tension in Stiles's thighs, the little hitch that is Stiles wanting to thrust and holding himself back. Stiles's hands curl and uncurl at his side, as if he doesn't know what to do with them. Maybe he's not sure what's allowed. Maybe he thinks Derek will tear his throat out if he does something wrong.
One thing is certain: Stiles's knees aren't holding him up all that steadily anymore. Derek guides Stiles's hand to his shoulders. Stiles breathes out a little hiccup of relief and grabs onto Derek and clings. Derek urges him on, and Stile's hips stutter forward.
"Derek." He sounds lost, utterly wrecked.
Derek's wolf likes that. He can feel instinct trying to take control, his claws extending, skating over Stiles's pale, smooth skin. He's already hard—has been since he knew he was going to get to do this, put his mouth on Stiles's eager, untouched cock. It's a relief when Stiles proves that he is only exceptional in some ways and comes just like a sixteen-year-old boy, too quickly, no stamina at all.
Derek spits out and wipes his mouth and keeps his head turned while Stiles zips up. Now they can get the hell out of here.
Except. He can still feel the shimmer of energy, almost hear its low throb. "Stiles—"
"Can we just get on with the leaving part? Put some distance between us and the epicenter of recent awkwardness. Not that it wasn't—because it really, really was, but, well, you know what I mean," Stiles babbles away, not listening to Derek as usual.
He goes crashing into the invisible barrier, round number four of being thrown on his ass.
"That is seriously getting old," Stiles groans.
Derek rolls his eyes, but he does offer Stiles a hand up.
"So. That didn't work so much," Stiles helpfully states the obvious. "Do you think this is because we're two dudes? I mean, if the point is to catch virgins—like serious, never-did-anything-with-anybody virgins—how does it help the diabolical cause to have a heteronormative definition of virginity-losing?"
Derek only half listens. He knows what the problem is. Him. He's not the right person. He doesn’t have any claim to Stiles.
"Maybe it needs to be someone else." He tightens his jaw and makes himself say the rest of it, "I could go get Lydia."
Stiles goggles at him, open-mouthed, for an annoyingly long moment. "I would seriously pay money to hear that conversation."
Derek lets out his breath. "Fine. Someone else then. I think it needs to be—it should be someone you want."
Stiles dips his head, and Derek can feel the intake of his breath, and he says in a small voice, "Then it should have worked with you." He braves a look at Derek.
This is the thing about Stiles that makes Derek alternately want to keep him forever and shake him until some sense snaps into his head: the way he's always throwing himself into the middle of things he doesn't understand, taking ridiculous risks that he doesn't even realize are risks, getting in way over his head.
"Maybe it would work if—" Stiles bites his lip, his gaze still fastened on Derek, eyes big and hopeful. "Maybe there needs to be reciprocation."
Using werewolf senses on Stiles is overkill at least ninety-five percent of the time. If he doesn't provide a detailed commentary of his every thought, it's all reflected right there in his face. At the moment, his expression is bright with expectation, and there's also a touch of uncertainty and that mulish determination that is either the most annoying thing ever or the most endearing, depending on Derek's mood.
It occurs to Derek, rather belatedly, that he's taken Stiles's virginity without even kissing him, and now all Stiles wants is the chance to reciprocate. So not the right person for this job. That doesn't stop Derek from grabbing Stiles by the wrist and pulling him in.
Stiles goes easily, pressing close, arms messily tangling around Derek's neck, eager for whatever Derek will give him. Derek presses his thumb against Stiles's jaw and kisses his mouth and behind his ear and the hollow of his throat where Derek can practically taste the pumping blood beneath thin skin. Stiles lets out a breathy "oh," and he tips his head back, going slack in Derek's arms. There's nothing quite as sweet as surrender, and the wolf in Derek wants to take, to claim, to own. The urge to bite—Derek squeezes his eyes shut and fights it down.
"Derek." There's a hitch in Stiles's voice, and if he had any sense, it would be fear, the terrified recognition of how much danger he could be in. But Stiles just lifts his mouth, begging for kisses. Derek gives him what he wants, letting Stiles kiss back in greedy gulps, and when Derek drags his thumb across Stiles's pretty little mouth, wet and even darker pink than usual, Stiles goes heavy-lidded, his breath catching at the touch.
It's painfully clear that he's never been kissed before either.
Derek frowns at that. Maybe—but no, it couldn't be—except that it is. There's no more shimmer of energy. The barrier's gone.
"I really hate witches," he says, taking a step back from Stiles.
Stiles looks confused by this, not to mention disappointed that the kissing has stopped. "You mean—oh my God, I'm starring in a bad remake of a Drew Barrymore movie, with witches instead of mean girls. If you say it's totally rufus that I can get out of here now, I'll—I don't know. Okay, probably nothing. But don't say that." At Derek's blank look, he adds, "Seriously? Have you never seen a movie ever?"
"Come on." Derek grabs Stiles by the arm and drags him, because sometimes manhandling is just the easiest way to deal with him.
The others are still loitering around outside, a fact that Derek has of course been aware of, but it comes as a surprise to Stiles apparently. A blast of heat catches Derek squarely between the shoulder blades. If the force of adolescent embarrassment could only be harnessed, Derek thinks, it could power small cities.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" Derek snaps at Isaac and Erica.
Isaac smirks. "And miss this?"
"Go back to the den." When they don't immediately jump to, Derek adds with a snarl, "Now."
This gets their attention at last, and they slink off, although not without a parting leer or two.
"You." Derek turns to Scott, sternly. "Take him home. And try keeping him safe this time."
"Still standing right here," Stiles interjects dryly.
Derek points a finger at him. "You stay out of trouble for once."
It's a futile warning, he knows, even as he's saying it, and he wonders why he even bothers when he gets a wave of sticky, candy-scented desire in the face, Stiles's body broadcasting "sex, sex, sex" on all frequencies. Derek's wolf paces restlessly, aggressive and eager to throw Stiles to the ground and shred his clothes and give him exactly what he's begging for.
Derek is just barely holding onto the civilized part of him—not that there's much of that to begin with—and Stiles, the idiot, takes a step closer, wafting more of his fuck-me scent at Derek.
Before Stiles has a chance to say anything, Derek snaps, "Sometimes I really don't know how you're still alive."
He takes off through the forest, four-legged for speed, not because he's running away, but because someone needs to be the adult in this situation, and these days that's Derek's job, however hilarious he may secretly find that.
In no way does Derek avoid Stiles in the aftermath of what Isaac insists on calling "the hookup at the virgin trap" until Derek loses his temper and flings him into the nearest wall. Derek is the alpha, and this is his territory, and no mere human will keep him from going wherever he wants.
He simply chooses not to seek Stiles out. There's a difference.
One that completely escapes Scott. Big surprise. He shows up at Derek's den with his disapproving face on. "You've been avoiding Stiles."
Derek crosses his arms over his chest. "How about I give you a reason to avoid me?"
Unfortunately, threats don't work on Scott as well as they used to. He merely scowls and looks more aggravatingly determined. "You—" He flails his hands. "Did stuff to him. And now he's all—I don't know. You really should talk to him." When Derek just stares at him in the clearest get out way possible, Scott stomps off, muttering about stupid, stubborn werewolves under his breath.
Takes one to know one. If only Derek weren't supposed to be the adult here.
Of course, the fact remains that Derek does need to address the Stiles situation, even if he would never give Scott the satisfaction of admitting it. Stiles can be a valuable ally when he's not being just totally infuriating. If Derek has done something to jeopardize that—well, he's the alpha. It's his responsibility to deal with it. For the good of the pack.
Sheriff Stilinski is on duty the next evening; Derek has memorized his schedule as a precaution against hard-to-explain run-ins when Derek is slipping out of his son's window. He finds Stiles at his desk, restlessly jiggling his leg up and down as he types away at his computer, working on what appears to be a history paper. Derek stalls in the window frame, having one of those moments, the kind where he wonders: How did this become my life?He really needs to start spending time with people who don't have homework.
It takes Stiles an unacceptably long time to realize he has company—they seriously need to work on his situational awareness—and then he nearly pitches off his chair.
"Jesus, Derek," he mutters, and Derek can practically taste the sudden thunder of blood as his heart races. "A little warning next time. What are you doing here?"
Derek paces around the room, taking in the artifacts of Stiles's boyhood, not that he hasn't seen it all before of course: the Mets pennant, the back issues of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit edition that are not nearly as well hidden as Stiles thinks, the framed photographs of Stiles and his dad and a smiling woman with a kind face and intelligent brown eyes that are eerily familiar. God. What is Derek doing here?
"Scott said we should talk."
Both of Stiles's eyebrows shoot up, as if this is the least likely thing he's ever heard. "I thought maybe you were here to settle that reciprocation business." He looks at Derek hopefully.
Derek stops in his tracks. Clearly, Scott doesn't know his best friend as well as he thinks. Stiles isn't having messy teenaged emotional fallout that Derek needs to manfully suffer through in an ill-fated attempt to help since he's the one responsible for it. No. Stiles, the little shit, is happy.
"How stupid can you possibly be?" Derek barks at him.
There is nothing to be happy about here. This is a situation where you deny, deny, deny, and maybe occasionally jerk off to furtive memories if you really must. Stiles is supposed to be the bright one of the group. Having his judgment disastrously impaired by his dick is Scott's job. Derek is really not okay with being surrounded by idiots who have no idea what's good for them.
"You've clearly forgotten what it's like to be a teenage boy," Stiles informs him. "I lost my virginity to the hottest, if possibly also the grumpiest, guy in town. Which is pretty much the best thing that's ever happened to me. The only thing that could be better is—" He leans forward, and his heartbeat picks up, and he looks so nervous and eager and just, just wrenchingly trusting. "If I get to keep having sex with you."
The fact is, Derek remembers being a teenage boy far too well. He knows exactly what Stiles has been doing in that innocent-looking twin bed of his, touching himself and thinking about Derek and getting his spunk all over the sheets. The wolf snarls at the image of Stiles sticky with his own come. The wolf thinks that Derek should be the one who gets Stiles messy.
Stiles watches and waits, eager and also terrified of rejection, as if that's the worst thing that could happen to him. He doesn't believe that Derek could ever hurt him. Could ruin him. He can't imagine how this could all go so horribly wrong.
Derek presses his mouth into such a harsh line his jaw aches. "You can't make mistakes like this."
"Not your call, dude."
Derek doesn't know what to do with that. At all.
"Then I won't make that mistake," he says at last and heads for the window.
"Okay, maybe I'm overstepping here in a tear-your-throat-out kind of way," Stiles says, and Derek stops, rolls his eyes that the possibility of getting his throat torn out is never enough to shut Stiles up. "I just feel it should be said. You're not like her. You're really not, Derek."
Fury blinds Derek, the color of blood on his retinas, and he digs his claws into the sheetrock to hold onto himself. He's not sure what makes him angrier: that Stiles knows about this or that he would dare to bring it up.
"Yeah, sorry," Stiles say, although he doesn't sound it. "Those were some big, obvious dots. Kind of hard not to connect them."
"Then you should know better than to jump into things," Derek says, when he's calmed down enough to use his words.
"My sense of self-preservation is fully functional. I'd go so far as to call it advanced. And that reciprocation offer is still on the table, just so you know." He says it with typical Stilesian bravado, but then he freezes, and Derek can see the self-doubt rush in, the realization that he might have interpreted the situation wrong. "I mean, you know, if you want it to be," he adds more quietly, lowering his eyes.
Derek remembers being sixteen far too well. He remembers believing that nothing bad could ever happen to him, just like Stiles believes it. This doesn't stop him from placing one foot in front of the other, back over to Stiles, tipping Stile's chin up and kissing away the uncertainty. He doesn't want to be the bad thing that happens to Stiles. He's just not sure how to prevent it.
Stiles is smiling when Derek finally stops kissing him, as if he's won something. As if Derek is any kind of prize.
"You're ridiculous," Derek informs him.
"No, you're ridiculous," Stiles counters.
No you, no you, no you. Being the adult kind of sucks, Derek decides.
He climbs back out the window and strides way down the street, head up, shoulders back, as if he's not going to return, probably embarrassingly soon, to commit an E-class felony at the sheriff's home. Housebreak, Derek knows from his angry, juvenile delinquent days, is gaining access to a dwelling for the purpose of committing a crime. The things Derek wants to do to Stiles's underage body are far, far from legal.
Stiles is still up there in his room, Derek knows, not finishing his history paper, probably smiling at the empty air like a dork.
Derek is torn, as he so often is, between wanting to kiss Stiles until he's breathless and adorably pink-cheeked and Derek's, Derek's, no one but Derek's, and yelling at him to stop being such a dumbass. Derek lets out a sigh. Apparently, this is just going to be his life now: charmed and exasperated by turns and doing his best to pretend that he doesn't love every moment of it.
Might as well make his peace with it, he supposes.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: Explicit
Word count: 4,200
Summary: Stiles gets snared in a virgin trap. Derek to the rescue!
Notes: This is for the Virginity/Celibacy square of my Kink Bingo card. Thank you to my dear
no_detective for the beta. You can also read it at AO3. Contains "something made them do it" trope dubcon.Never Been
By Lenore
Contrary to what some people might believe—and "some people" of course means Stiles—Derek doesn't actually keep a list of things he hates, sorted in order of "I want to rip that apart with my really sharp werewolf claws." If he did keep such a list, witches would certainly place high on it, although not quite as high as teenagers.
Teenagers—especially ones who don't fucking do as they're told—might actually top the list.
"When my parents said things like, 'stay away from that cave by the old knotted tree, it's dangerous,' I actually listened."
The words make Derek feel like an asshole even as they're coming out of his mouth, because he's hardly parental and also he's way too young—by a good two decades—to go around saying things like "in my day" and "back when I was your age." Then again, his ragtag not-quite-a-pack of hormonally challenged trouble magnets is aging him by the moment.
It's Stiles who pipes up. Of course, it is. "You didn't even give us a chance to explain!" The rest of them have the good sense to look sheepish or at least to keep their stupid mouths shut. But not Stiles. Never Stiles.
"A chance to explain why you've come to the one place in the entire forest that I told you was off limits?"
If Derek didn't have werewolf eyesight, he might miss the way Stiles's pale skin turns pink with outrage at the unfairness of it all. "It wasn't like that—"
Derek cuts him off. "Don't think I don't know that this was your idea."
"An idea that kept the psychotic hunters from cutting us all in half!" He darts a semi-apologetic look in Allison's direction, as if "psychotic" isn't a perfectly accurate description of demented groups who go around bisecting people.
Argents. Add that to the long, dark list of things Derek hates.
"They just weren't stupid enough to follow you in here," Derek tells Stiles flatly.
Stiles puffs up, as if to argue, but it's half-hearted. He's too smart not to realize when he's been a moron—at least in hindsight.
"Hey, you weren't there," Scott says with a flare of anger, because of course he's going to take up for Stiles. Also, he lives to be a contrary little thorn in Derek's side. "If you'd been around, taking care of alpha business, maybe this wouldn't have happened." He shoots a glance at Stiles and crinkles up his forehead, and just watching him try to figure things out is painful. "I still don't get why only Stiles is trapped."
Neither does Derek, but he can feel the invisible hum of energy, stronger whenever Stiles edges closer to the cave's entrance. Apparently, Stiles got thrown on his ass three times and inspected every inch of the cave for clues before finally accepting that he wasn't walking out of here without help and agreeing to let Erica go find Derek. Stiles is nothing if not persistent.
"We think it might have something to do with this inscription." Allison sweeps the beam of her flashlight over what looks like a third-grader's script roughly carved into the stone above the cave's entrance, in a language Derek doesn't recognize. "I've been studying archaic Latin with Lydia, but some of these words—" She shakes her head. "Never been—something." She blinks and darts a glance at Stiles, awareness dawning. "Oh."
Scott is a step behind his girlfriend, as usual. "But what has Stiles never done that the rest of us—" He doesn't clap his hand over his mouth when he gets it, but he definitely looks like he wants to.
Isaac snickers. Erica seems like she might be interested in helping to remedy this never situation. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. Werewolves can't get headaches, and yet.
"Thanks for that, buddy," Stiles tells Scott. "Awesome way to overshare with the group."
How Stiles can still be a virgin when he spends at least ninety percent of his time thinking about sex is beyond Derek. But there's no doubt that he is. Derek can smell it on him, soured milk frustration tangled up with desire as sticky as cotton candy and a leafy sort of innocence.
"Why does a place like this even exist?" Stiles complains. "Urban Dictionary has an entirely different definition of 'virgin trap'. Oh my God, is this because there are actual sacrifices? Tell me there are no sacrifices."
I will sacrifice you personally if you don't shut up. The fact that Derek doesn't say this out loud is a new achievement in self-restraint. He congratulates himself. Maybe he won't go down in werewolf history as the first alpha ever to off his entire pack.
"It doesn't matter why it's here," Derek says, without snarling, but just barely. "Only what we're going to do about it. Although given how well you listen to me, maybe I should just leave you here."
Stiles glowers. "Like I left you in that swimming pool? Oh, wait."
"Maybe my family has information?" Allison ventures. "Maybe we can break the spell?"
Maybe, but Derek doubts it. If the hunters understood the secret of this place, they would have known it posed no danger to them. They would have followed the pack inside and slaughtered them.
That only leaves one solution.
"Get out," he orders. "All of you."
It's almost comical the way they freeze at the bark of his voice, eyes cartoon-big with surprise. Eventually, they start filing out, a slow shuffle, made all the slower by many curious backward glances. Scott, of course, hunkers down stubbornly.
"You too," Derek tells him.
Scott has years to go before glaring makes him look anything but mildly put out, but Derek can feel waves of protectiveness coming off him, as clearly as he can feel the shimmer of the spell that's stranded Stiles here.
"You can take care of the problem yourself or you can get out," Derek says, clipped, in no mood for Scott's posturing. "Those are the options."
"Um." Scott blinks, deer in the headlights. "Stiles?"
There's some complicated silent communication back and forth between the two, consisting of raised eyebrows and significant looks. Derek is hardly an expert at interpreting it, but from what he can make out, Stiles is assuring Scott that he'll be okay and Scott is wondering if Stiles has lost his mind.
"Dude. Go." Stiles waves his hand. "And let us never speak of this again."
Scott scuffles away, and somehow that makes the cave feel even smaller, a claustrophobic little world of two. Stiles nervously licks his lips, and Derek thinks, not without bitterness: He has no idea how he looks when he does that. Beacon Hills High must be populated with idiots if no one has ever touched him.
Stiles is his usual live-wire self, fidgeting and balling his hands in his T-shirt. "We could still wait for Allison to see if her parents know how to get rid of the spell?"
"Yes." Derek takes a step toward him. "Or we could do this the simple way."
"Simple?" Stiles's voice squeaks.
The look on his face is yearning and a little afraid and so desperately young, and the wolf in Derek wants to lunge, greedy and predatory. This part of him likes knowing that Stiles is defenseless against him, that Derek could do anything. That's probably how Kate felt, some decent corner of his brain reminds him.
The thought lingers like a bad taste in the mouth.
Clearly, he's not the right person to do this to Stiles. For Stiles. Do this for him. Derek can't even get his prepositions right. How could he be the right person? Unfortunately, he's all Stiles has got.
Business-like. That's what this needs to be, Derek decides.
He grabs Stiles by the arm, the touch purely pragmatic and, if Stiles's indignantly yelped "Hey!" is any indication, a little too rough. Derek said that this was simple, and that's how it's going to be. No more virginity. No more trap. That's all, nothing more. He yanks Stiles's jeans and underwear down to his knees.
Stiles lets out a strangled sound, and there's a surge of lust and fear on the air, and then just lust as Derek drops to his knees.
"Oh God," Stiles gasps out as Derek drags his tongue the length of Stiles's cock, once, and then again, getting his taste. "Oh God, oh God." Stiles's voice shakes, and his body shakes, and he's nothing but trembling, pliant need.
It's just a problem, and this is the simplest solution, Derek reminds himself, as he takes Stiles into his mouth, up and down with long pulls, his lips firm, his tongue stroking. Of course, Stiles can't keep anything to himself, even when he's too stunned to actually speak. Sensation swamps Derek: the many textures of Stiles's taste and layer upon layer of scent, the drumbeat of Stiles's heart and the windy rush of his breath.
Derek holds Stiles carefully by the hips, because he knows that he could touch him anywhere, do anything. Stiles is too far gone to protest, or maybe he would even like it. Derek tightens his grip, fingers pressed into the grooves of Stiles's hipbones. He can feel the minute tension in Stiles's thighs, the little hitch that is Stiles wanting to thrust and holding himself back. Stiles's hands curl and uncurl at his side, as if he doesn't know what to do with them. Maybe he's not sure what's allowed. Maybe he thinks Derek will tear his throat out if he does something wrong.
One thing is certain: Stiles's knees aren't holding him up all that steadily anymore. Derek guides Stiles's hand to his shoulders. Stiles breathes out a little hiccup of relief and grabs onto Derek and clings. Derek urges him on, and Stile's hips stutter forward.
"Derek." He sounds lost, utterly wrecked.
Derek's wolf likes that. He can feel instinct trying to take control, his claws extending, skating over Stiles's pale, smooth skin. He's already hard—has been since he knew he was going to get to do this, put his mouth on Stiles's eager, untouched cock. It's a relief when Stiles proves that he is only exceptional in some ways and comes just like a sixteen-year-old boy, too quickly, no stamina at all.
Derek spits out and wipes his mouth and keeps his head turned while Stiles zips up. Now they can get the hell out of here.
Except. He can still feel the shimmer of energy, almost hear its low throb. "Stiles—"
"Can we just get on with the leaving part? Put some distance between us and the epicenter of recent awkwardness. Not that it wasn't—because it really, really was, but, well, you know what I mean," Stiles babbles away, not listening to Derek as usual.
He goes crashing into the invisible barrier, round number four of being thrown on his ass.
"That is seriously getting old," Stiles groans.
Derek rolls his eyes, but he does offer Stiles a hand up.
"So. That didn't work so much," Stiles helpfully states the obvious. "Do you think this is because we're two dudes? I mean, if the point is to catch virgins—like serious, never-did-anything-with-anybody virgins—how does it help the diabolical cause to have a heteronormative definition of virginity-losing?"
Derek only half listens. He knows what the problem is. Him. He's not the right person. He doesn’t have any claim to Stiles.
"Maybe it needs to be someone else." He tightens his jaw and makes himself say the rest of it, "I could go get Lydia."
Stiles goggles at him, open-mouthed, for an annoyingly long moment. "I would seriously pay money to hear that conversation."
Derek lets out his breath. "Fine. Someone else then. I think it needs to be—it should be someone you want."
Stiles dips his head, and Derek can feel the intake of his breath, and he says in a small voice, "Then it should have worked with you." He braves a look at Derek.
This is the thing about Stiles that makes Derek alternately want to keep him forever and shake him until some sense snaps into his head: the way he's always throwing himself into the middle of things he doesn't understand, taking ridiculous risks that he doesn't even realize are risks, getting in way over his head.
"Maybe it would work if—" Stiles bites his lip, his gaze still fastened on Derek, eyes big and hopeful. "Maybe there needs to be reciprocation."
Using werewolf senses on Stiles is overkill at least ninety-five percent of the time. If he doesn't provide a detailed commentary of his every thought, it's all reflected right there in his face. At the moment, his expression is bright with expectation, and there's also a touch of uncertainty and that mulish determination that is either the most annoying thing ever or the most endearing, depending on Derek's mood.
It occurs to Derek, rather belatedly, that he's taken Stiles's virginity without even kissing him, and now all Stiles wants is the chance to reciprocate. So not the right person for this job. That doesn't stop Derek from grabbing Stiles by the wrist and pulling him in.
Stiles goes easily, pressing close, arms messily tangling around Derek's neck, eager for whatever Derek will give him. Derek presses his thumb against Stiles's jaw and kisses his mouth and behind his ear and the hollow of his throat where Derek can practically taste the pumping blood beneath thin skin. Stiles lets out a breathy "oh," and he tips his head back, going slack in Derek's arms. There's nothing quite as sweet as surrender, and the wolf in Derek wants to take, to claim, to own. The urge to bite—Derek squeezes his eyes shut and fights it down.
"Derek." There's a hitch in Stiles's voice, and if he had any sense, it would be fear, the terrified recognition of how much danger he could be in. But Stiles just lifts his mouth, begging for kisses. Derek gives him what he wants, letting Stiles kiss back in greedy gulps, and when Derek drags his thumb across Stiles's pretty little mouth, wet and even darker pink than usual, Stiles goes heavy-lidded, his breath catching at the touch.
It's painfully clear that he's never been kissed before either.
Derek frowns at that. Maybe—but no, it couldn't be—except that it is. There's no more shimmer of energy. The barrier's gone.
"I really hate witches," he says, taking a step back from Stiles.
Stiles looks confused by this, not to mention disappointed that the kissing has stopped. "You mean—oh my God, I'm starring in a bad remake of a Drew Barrymore movie, with witches instead of mean girls. If you say it's totally rufus that I can get out of here now, I'll—I don't know. Okay, probably nothing. But don't say that." At Derek's blank look, he adds, "Seriously? Have you never seen a movie ever?"
"Come on." Derek grabs Stiles by the arm and drags him, because sometimes manhandling is just the easiest way to deal with him.
The others are still loitering around outside, a fact that Derek has of course been aware of, but it comes as a surprise to Stiles apparently. A blast of heat catches Derek squarely between the shoulder blades. If the force of adolescent embarrassment could only be harnessed, Derek thinks, it could power small cities.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" Derek snaps at Isaac and Erica.
Isaac smirks. "And miss this?"
"Go back to the den." When they don't immediately jump to, Derek adds with a snarl, "Now."
This gets their attention at last, and they slink off, although not without a parting leer or two.
"You." Derek turns to Scott, sternly. "Take him home. And try keeping him safe this time."
"Still standing right here," Stiles interjects dryly.
Derek points a finger at him. "You stay out of trouble for once."
It's a futile warning, he knows, even as he's saying it, and he wonders why he even bothers when he gets a wave of sticky, candy-scented desire in the face, Stiles's body broadcasting "sex, sex, sex" on all frequencies. Derek's wolf paces restlessly, aggressive and eager to throw Stiles to the ground and shred his clothes and give him exactly what he's begging for.
Derek is just barely holding onto the civilized part of him—not that there's much of that to begin with—and Stiles, the idiot, takes a step closer, wafting more of his fuck-me scent at Derek.
Before Stiles has a chance to say anything, Derek snaps, "Sometimes I really don't know how you're still alive."
He takes off through the forest, four-legged for speed, not because he's running away, but because someone needs to be the adult in this situation, and these days that's Derek's job, however hilarious he may secretly find that.
In no way does Derek avoid Stiles in the aftermath of what Isaac insists on calling "the hookup at the virgin trap" until Derek loses his temper and flings him into the nearest wall. Derek is the alpha, and this is his territory, and no mere human will keep him from going wherever he wants.
He simply chooses not to seek Stiles out. There's a difference.
One that completely escapes Scott. Big surprise. He shows up at Derek's den with his disapproving face on. "You've been avoiding Stiles."
Derek crosses his arms over his chest. "How about I give you a reason to avoid me?"
Unfortunately, threats don't work on Scott as well as they used to. He merely scowls and looks more aggravatingly determined. "You—" He flails his hands. "Did stuff to him. And now he's all—I don't know. You really should talk to him." When Derek just stares at him in the clearest get out way possible, Scott stomps off, muttering about stupid, stubborn werewolves under his breath.
Takes one to know one. If only Derek weren't supposed to be the adult here.
Of course, the fact remains that Derek does need to address the Stiles situation, even if he would never give Scott the satisfaction of admitting it. Stiles can be a valuable ally when he's not being just totally infuriating. If Derek has done something to jeopardize that—well, he's the alpha. It's his responsibility to deal with it. For the good of the pack.
Sheriff Stilinski is on duty the next evening; Derek has memorized his schedule as a precaution against hard-to-explain run-ins when Derek is slipping out of his son's window. He finds Stiles at his desk, restlessly jiggling his leg up and down as he types away at his computer, working on what appears to be a history paper. Derek stalls in the window frame, having one of those moments, the kind where he wonders: How did this become my life?He really needs to start spending time with people who don't have homework.
It takes Stiles an unacceptably long time to realize he has company—they seriously need to work on his situational awareness—and then he nearly pitches off his chair.
"Jesus, Derek," he mutters, and Derek can practically taste the sudden thunder of blood as his heart races. "A little warning next time. What are you doing here?"
Derek paces around the room, taking in the artifacts of Stiles's boyhood, not that he hasn't seen it all before of course: the Mets pennant, the back issues of Sports Illustrated's swimsuit edition that are not nearly as well hidden as Stiles thinks, the framed photographs of Stiles and his dad and a smiling woman with a kind face and intelligent brown eyes that are eerily familiar. God. What is Derek doing here?
"Scott said we should talk."
Both of Stiles's eyebrows shoot up, as if this is the least likely thing he's ever heard. "I thought maybe you were here to settle that reciprocation business." He looks at Derek hopefully.
Derek stops in his tracks. Clearly, Scott doesn't know his best friend as well as he thinks. Stiles isn't having messy teenaged emotional fallout that Derek needs to manfully suffer through in an ill-fated attempt to help since he's the one responsible for it. No. Stiles, the little shit, is happy.
"How stupid can you possibly be?" Derek barks at him.
There is nothing to be happy about here. This is a situation where you deny, deny, deny, and maybe occasionally jerk off to furtive memories if you really must. Stiles is supposed to be the bright one of the group. Having his judgment disastrously impaired by his dick is Scott's job. Derek is really not okay with being surrounded by idiots who have no idea what's good for them.
"You've clearly forgotten what it's like to be a teenage boy," Stiles informs him. "I lost my virginity to the hottest, if possibly also the grumpiest, guy in town. Which is pretty much the best thing that's ever happened to me. The only thing that could be better is—" He leans forward, and his heartbeat picks up, and he looks so nervous and eager and just, just wrenchingly trusting. "If I get to keep having sex with you."
The fact is, Derek remembers being a teenage boy far too well. He knows exactly what Stiles has been doing in that innocent-looking twin bed of his, touching himself and thinking about Derek and getting his spunk all over the sheets. The wolf snarls at the image of Stiles sticky with his own come. The wolf thinks that Derek should be the one who gets Stiles messy.
Stiles watches and waits, eager and also terrified of rejection, as if that's the worst thing that could happen to him. He doesn't believe that Derek could ever hurt him. Could ruin him. He can't imagine how this could all go so horribly wrong.
Derek presses his mouth into such a harsh line his jaw aches. "You can't make mistakes like this."
"Not your call, dude."
Derek doesn't know what to do with that. At all.
"Then I won't make that mistake," he says at last and heads for the window.
"Okay, maybe I'm overstepping here in a tear-your-throat-out kind of way," Stiles says, and Derek stops, rolls his eyes that the possibility of getting his throat torn out is never enough to shut Stiles up. "I just feel it should be said. You're not like her. You're really not, Derek."
Fury blinds Derek, the color of blood on his retinas, and he digs his claws into the sheetrock to hold onto himself. He's not sure what makes him angrier: that Stiles knows about this or that he would dare to bring it up.
"Yeah, sorry," Stiles say, although he doesn't sound it. "Those were some big, obvious dots. Kind of hard not to connect them."
"Then you should know better than to jump into things," Derek says, when he's calmed down enough to use his words.
"My sense of self-preservation is fully functional. I'd go so far as to call it advanced. And that reciprocation offer is still on the table, just so you know." He says it with typical Stilesian bravado, but then he freezes, and Derek can see the self-doubt rush in, the realization that he might have interpreted the situation wrong. "I mean, you know, if you want it to be," he adds more quietly, lowering his eyes.
Derek remembers being sixteen far too well. He remembers believing that nothing bad could ever happen to him, just like Stiles believes it. This doesn't stop him from placing one foot in front of the other, back over to Stiles, tipping Stile's chin up and kissing away the uncertainty. He doesn't want to be the bad thing that happens to Stiles. He's just not sure how to prevent it.
Stiles is smiling when Derek finally stops kissing him, as if he's won something. As if Derek is any kind of prize.
"You're ridiculous," Derek informs him.
"No, you're ridiculous," Stiles counters.
No you, no you, no you. Being the adult kind of sucks, Derek decides.
He climbs back out the window and strides way down the street, head up, shoulders back, as if he's not going to return, probably embarrassingly soon, to commit an E-class felony at the sheriff's home. Housebreak, Derek knows from his angry, juvenile delinquent days, is gaining access to a dwelling for the purpose of committing a crime. The things Derek wants to do to Stiles's underage body are far, far from legal.
Stiles is still up there in his room, Derek knows, not finishing his history paper, probably smiling at the empty air like a dork.
Derek is torn, as he so often is, between wanting to kiss Stiles until he's breathless and adorably pink-cheeked and Derek's, Derek's, no one but Derek's, and yelling at him to stop being such a dumbass. Derek lets out a sigh. Apparently, this is just going to be his life now: charmed and exasperated by turns and doing his best to pretend that he doesn't love every moment of it.
Might as well make his peace with it, he supposes.
| ageplay | double penetration | spaces scenes and settings | emotion play | object penetration |
| dressup | bondage (wrist / ankle restraints) | writing on the body | masters doms slaves and subs | suspension |
| caning | virginity / celibacy | wildcard | plushie or furry kink | sex toys (non-penetrating) |
| painplay (other) | fisting / stretching | tattoos / tattooing | pervertibles | bodies and body parts |
| roleplay | anonymity | voyeurism | sleepy / unconscious | collars |