I Had It All Planned Out
Title: I Had It All Planned Out
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6500
Warnings: Underage, dub-con, magical influence
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: There are dead witches, and he's pretty sure he was perilously close to becoming some sort of sacrifice (and really, who the hell does that?)
AN: Written for the 'Love Spell/Potion Gone Wrong' for hc_bingo.
It's Derek that drags Stiles out of the circle. Because clearly they have some sort of timeshare rescuing thing going on, and it must be Derek's turn. Though if they're keeping score Stiles still thinks he's ahead.
There are dead witches, and he's pretty sure he was perilously close to becoming some sort of sacrifice (and really, who the hell does that?) So he's willing to give Derek two for this one, possibly even three. Screw it, maybe they're even after all. There's no one left to follow them, but Derek still drives like they're being chased, while Stiles scrubs still-tacky symbols off the bend of his arm, and the curve of his shoulder with a damp patch of sleeve. Whatever they painted him with smells like berries and blood, and there's no way on this earth he wants to put it in his mouth. Even without the possibility of any magical involvement that's probably freakin' human blood, and no one has any business putting that in their mouth - unless it's their own, and even then Stiles feels like there should be some pretty strict ground rules.
"There should be rules about giving people body art without their consent," he complains. Rubbing at a stubborn curve that looks like a scythe smeared into his wrist. "That is seriously not cool."
Derek reaches over, eyes off the road briefly, while he twists Stiles's arm until he can look at the half-smudged symbols.
"Ow, what?" Stiles doesn't know what he sees, doesn't know what Derek knows, because he doesn't exactly share. He is not a sharer. It's almost impossible to know when Derek is being mysterious for his own reason, or whether he just doesn't have a clue and isn't willing to admit to it.
"I don't know, I don't recognise any of these."
"What do you think they wanted me for?" Stiles asks, because witches, and no matter what anyone says, no one that kidnaps you, and strips you half naked, and puts you in any sort of circle has your best interests at heart. He knows they needed him for something, and judging by the things they'd done already it wasn't anything nice.
"I don't know." Derek's looking at the road again, and he doesn't say anything else. Though, honestly, when can Stiles ever convince him to say anything else when he's not in the mood to talk? Still, this isn't normal Derek quiet, this is a concerned, suspicious sort of quiet, and Stiles doesn't like it. He doesn't like it because he's jittery in a way he's mostly used to, but this feels more intense than usual. A restlessness that doesn't feel aimless, it feels like it's looking for something. He doesn't really feel like someone did something to him - he just feels more him than usual. That can't be bad - I mean there's no real way that could be bad. But it's still something.
They end up at the house, mostly because it's closer, and the witches had taken Stiles from his. He ends up sitting on the broken stairs, trying to text Scott with shaky fingers. There's no concise way to explain what happened, but he doesn't want to worry Scott for nothing, not if everyone's already dead. He's not quite sure how to phrase 'kidnapped by evil witches and almost sacrificed' in a way that Scott won't worry about. But he does his best. Derek has a short conversation with his puppies, and Stiles thinks the witch corpses are going to mysteriously disappear from the woods at some point in the night. He doesn't even realise he's been staring into space until Derek calls his name, once, twice.
"How do you feel?" From anyone else that would be a concerned question. Derek makes it sound a lot like a demand.
"Warm," Stiles says, because it's true. Though that seems to be the wrong answer because Derek's frowning at him, and then he has both hands on his face, huge and hot on his skin, and he's tipping his head back. Stiles is going to say something ridiculous about how the magic didn't do anything weird to him, he's scrubbed it all off. But there's no moisture in his throat, and Derek's eyes are so close and Stiles is - he's fine, he's just warm, he's just a little too warm. Sort of restless in his own skin but he's used to that. He's been feeling that forever, a distant, unsettled energy.
Derek's nostrils flare, and he goes very still.
"What did she do to you?" he asks, firm now, like he's accusing Stiles of something.
"Nothing, I mean they painted me up but they didn't have time to -" He stops, because Derek is still inhaling, frowning like there's something there he doesn't like. "Why are you doing the 'I'm freaked out by something I've smelled' face. That is not a good face. I hate that face. What do I smell like?"
"You smell like -" Derek's eyes go narrow, his jaw works silently for a moment. "You smell like sex."
Stiles's eyes widen.
"Whoa, ok, I'm absolutely sure that no one had sex with me," Stiles says firmly, because that is a scary thought. "I would definitely remember that. There was no inappropriate witch-touching ok. Besides I'm pretty sure they wanted me precisely because I was - ah - of the non-having-sex variety of person. Which you will not comment on - unless it turns out to be important, and then possibly only in subtle hand gestures." He shakes off Derek's fingers, because the touching is starting to weird him out. It's unfortunate how Derek throwing him against flat surfaces has become such a normal method of interaction that this is the thing that's disturbing. The concerned touching.
Derek stops touching, but he doesn't stop looking.
"It's not like that, it's more like the possibility of it, the tension, but not quite arousal." His mouth compresses. "It's hard to describe."
Stiles isn't really listening to the words any more. He's too busy noticing how dark Derek's hair is, and the way his eyes are almost two colours and not just one, he's noticed before but he's never really dared to look. Stiles can smell him now too, in a way that he's definitely never noticed before. He's moving his elbows forward, unconsciously leaning into Derek's space. He knows he's doing it, he just doesn't know why.
But Derek's face reacts like he knows, becomes all hard lines and tension. He leans back, away from Stiles.
"Stiles you have to get in your Jeep and drive yourself home, don't stop anywhere, shut yourself in your room -"
Stiles can't stop watching the way Derek's mouth moves, the curve and stretch of it. It fills him with a warm sort of buzzing, eager and restless. It makes his leg twitch, makes his fingers scratch against his jeans. There's something he's supposed to be doing, or not doing. He can sense it in the distance, though he's not sure how. It's like the smell of rain, or the calm before a giant wave, or maybe the quiet before a swarm of insects comes streaming over the horizon. Something heavy, and rolling, and potent.
"Are you even listening to me?" Derek's voice sounds thin and tight.
Stiles stops looking at Derek's mouth, and focuses on his eyes.
"Huh? Yeah - I mean, no. I have no idea."
Stiles blinks, wets his mouth, watches the way Derek watches it, and that rain/wave/insect feeling goes close and tight and warm.
"Can you feel that, or is that just me? It feels like insects, or rain." Stiles shakes his head to clear it.
"You have to go home." Derek just sounds numb now, like he can see something horrible coming and no way to stop it.
Which makes no sense. Because they did the thing - there was rescuing. Everything is ok now.
"Stiles." Derek makes his name sound so quiet and desperate, but still fierce like he might snatch him up and shake him.
Stiles stops fighting whatever it is that's making his leg twitch, and his eyes refuse to focus on anything. He stops fighting it, and he crawls into Derek's lap, pushing his hands down and pinning them to the floor, and he's ready for Derek to fight but he doesn't, he doesn't. Instead he tilts his head back and opens his mouth, and Stiles is kneeling over him, kissing down into him, in clumsy, hungry pushes. Stiles can't quite believe he's actually doing this, but it's without doubt the best thing he's ever done. He's leaning in, knees on the floor, legs spread round Derek's strong thighs. He would never have dared do this - thought about it maybe - but to move, and touch, and make it happen - no. His hands are holding, and pulling round Derek's wrists, mouth soft and rough and wet under Stiles's. He doesn't do this, he doesn't just do things like this.
Derek must know too, because he twists himself away - turns until Stiles's mouth ends up pressed against the pulse in his throat, breathing there. Derek smells warm and rich in a way that makes his mouth open instinctively. Stiles has never been this close to anyone in his life, and it probably shouldn't make him want to sink his teeth in quite so badly. It's amazing, and he can feel it under the skin, a low, burning rush of arousal and potential.
"Derek," he says, slow and quiet. Not like a question, more like a choice.
Derek tries to speak and fails, jerks back away from the pressure of his mouth - because it turns out that Stiles can't resist a little bit of biting - Derek hisses and pulls away from him completely.
"No, you're not doing this, this isn't you."
Stiles is pretty sure he's just saying that to get him to stop, because he feels good, he feels so much better than good. But it's Derek so he listens, he forces himself to listen to the words. Because he knows Derek wouldn't let anything happen to him. Derek is always trying to protect them, even though sometimes he's not very good at it. He still tries.
"What - what are you talking about?" Stiles manages, hands curling round Derek's shoulders which are almost too broad to hold, almost too hard to dig his fingers into, warm under his palms.
Derek's hands come up, snatch his own, and force them to stop touching him.
"She did something to you, she did something, or pulling you out of the circle did something - I can tell by the way you smell. Fuck - you have no idea what you smell like right now."
Which sounds good, it sounds like a good thing, and Stiles can't understand why Derek looks so horrified.
Derek shakes his head, then pushes him, he physically shoves him away, like he can't stand to touch him, hard enough that Stiles ends up with his hands on the dirty floorboards, knees jarred by the impact, and he's shaky with something that isn't just arousal - but might be anger, or hurt. Or a little of both.
"You're sixteen," Derek hisses. "I can't do this, you can't touch me right now."
It's almost as if Stiles hadn't even realised exactly what he wanted until then. Where touching would inevitably lead to. The thought of it should have terrified him, should have made him think, because he always thinks, thinks too much - and he is thinking, a confused, stuttered rush of half-thoughts. But mostly Stiles body just clenches at the thought of it, and his body is very loud right now. Derek should - he should do that.
"Yes, I want, please let me touch you." He doesn't mean to say it out loud, doesn't think he means to, he definitely doesn't mean for it to sound so raw, when he has barely any idea what he's even desperate for.
Derek snarls like he's doing it on purpose.
"You don't want that. You don't know what I'd do to you."
And, yes, Stiles absolutely does. Because there is so much difference between what he is and what Derek is, he knows, he's always known that. Even when he's tried to run with the wolves. Stiles knows how breakable he is. He's always been able to make his own space, through force of personality and sheer volume, or with a freakin' crowbar if necessary. But he knows how strong Derek is, knows he's been a werewolf his whole life, and he doesn't need to make his own space, because the world just lets him in. Stiles doesn't know what magic, or whatever this is, will do to that control, that control he's never once seen slip. But he's not moving from where he's knelt on the floor, hot all over because Derek's made him picture it. He's made him picture all of it in that one, fierce look. Of exactly how it could be, and now he can't breathe. He feels strangled and too hot, shoes too tight, sweat all along his spine, still feeling clumsy and awkward but he wants it all so much it hurts.
"Derek. Please"
Derek doesn't move from where he's half knelt at the bottom of the stairs, shoulders jerking like he wants to get up and walk away. But Stiles doesn't think he can.
"I can't, you've never done this before, and I wouldn't care. I wouldn't be in any state to be gentle with you. It would make it worse. Do you understand that. You're smarter than this. It wouldn't be gentle - I wouldn't be gentle. " The words are bitten out like they hurt.
Stiles swallows and swallows again, as his brain fills in the words, fills in the intent.
"Derek -" Stiles's throat clenches around his name.
"No," Derek says desperately, like he's hearing words Stiles isn't even saying. "You need to leave. This won't kill you - it won't hurt you, if you just - I could shut you somewhere. You don't want this." His voice is just a grate in his throat now.
"I think I do," Stiles says, quiet and thick. "I want that. Derek." He knows Derek could make that happen. Because Stiles can't, he's not strong enough to hold Derek down. He doesn't know the words to use to make him see that it's ok, he wants it. He can handle it. "Please stop talking, please, God, I can't talk right now."
The floorboards crack under Derek's fist, claws, Stiles can't even tell.
"In your right mind you wouldn't want this, and you are so far away from that right now - your fucking eyes, Stiles."
Stiles doesn't feel compromised. He knows it's not the thing that's making him want this. Because it's Derek, who's been slowly wearing down Stiles's ability to say no since he met him. This is Derek who's been rattling Stiles's already over-heated sex drive since he started throwing him into walls, and leaving bruises all over him. Because he bruises so easily, and Derek is so fucking strong. This just makes it easier, makes it sharper, makes it hurt a little bit to not have it.
"You should have left, I shouldn't have brought you here," Derek says, gritty and awful, as if all of this is his fault.
"I'm - " Stiles wants to say ok, but he knows suddenly that that's a lie. He knows that will be the biggest lie he's ever told. Derek is already dragging his way over to the wall, fist pressed into the floorboards so hard they're denting. Stiles follows him, can't help but follow him, fingers finding Derek's arm without having to look. It burns hot underneath them.
"Don't touch me," Derek snarls, and shoves him again. The rejection is like a slap, hurts more than the sting of his palms hitting the floor when he falls back, away from Derek.
"Fine," Stiles say, angry and breathless. "Fine, if you won't help me I'll find someone who will." He gets his feet under him, works out how to stand, clumsy and shaking with anger and arousal. He's so hot and so hard that it hurts to breathe. There's no way he can walk all the way back to his Jeep, but he's desperate enough to try. He gets as far as the door frame before there's a creak, and the dry scrape of boots on the floor. Before Stiles is pressed into the wood, not gently, nothing close to gently. The burn of the frame against his chest, face pressed to the wall, inhaling the soot and dust. He gives a little grunt, just before the weight of Derek crushes him there, tight and painful. One hand is pressed to the back of his neck, the other bunched in his shirt, tangled tight, stitches pop lazily. There's a flare of breath against the side of his face.
"What are you going to do? Let the first person you see bend you over and fuck you." The words are distorted around too many teeth, thick with something that sounds quietly savage. Stiles swallows, body jumping like it's a threat. Though judging by the way Derek grinds into the back of him he wants to do the same thing. It steals all the air from him, makes words impossible. But he groans, because the answer to that question is yes, even though he knows, distantly, that he'd hate himself for it. He'd hate himself for it more than he could bear. In a way that would feel sick and awful. He wants Derek, but if Derek won't - if Derek is so set against Stiles touching him then he'll find someone who will.
"Yes," he says thickly, and the growl against the back of his neck goes low and furious, fingers pressing in tight enough to hurt. "I need - fuck, I need it and you won't help me. The one time I need you and you won't." He knows that's unfair, but Stiles knows he'd let Derek do whatever he wanted, that he could just take from him, and he'd never hate himself for that. But he thinks Derek would hate himself, which might be worse.
Stiles wishes he could care right now. He really wishes he could, because Derek kind of needs someone to look out for him. Derek needs someone to look out for him, but Stiles can't. He can barely stay upright, and he's already pressing back into the shove of Derek's body. There are teeth so close to his throat, and Derek is shaking. He's stiff and brittle, in a way that still feels like he's trying to stop this. But Stiles doesn't want him to stop, can't bear the thought of him stopping.
"No," Derek says, like it's final, and then hisses as if he realises what that means. "You're staying, no one else is touching you. No one but me." It's flat, and rough, and painfully honest. Stiles has to drop both hands and grab for whatever parts of Derek he can reach, the fall of his fingers and the heavy material of his jeans, and he grunts agreement. Because he wants that, he wants the way Derek makes it sound, vicious and dirty and absolutely vital. He wants Derek to touch him, wants him to be the one to break him.
Derek makes a rough, satisfied noise at the fact that Stiles doesn't refuse, doesn't do anything but stay where he is, go soft and relaxed under Derek's body. Derek just buries his nose in Stiles's neck and inhales.
"Ah - fuck - would you have let me go?" Stiles asks. There are no words in answer, but the noise Derek makes is good enough. Stiles is satisfied but something in him - something that's always been him - makes him push. "Would you have ever let me leave?"
"No," Derek growls and drags him down to the floor, and it hurts, it jars his wrist and sends pain all along his back when he hits, and Derek's over him, hands fisted in his shirt. Which he just tears up the middle and leaves to hang limply. Derek's shuffling on his knees between Stiles thighs, until he can grasp at his neck and pin him still with his own weight, kiss him like he wants to eat him alive. It hurts and his stubble burns, and Stiles is trying desperately to wind his thighs around him and keep him there, pull him down, make him move. Something. How do people do this, how do they demand so people understand? His hands know what they want, but they're clumsy and they don't know enough, working on instinct and arousal and impatience.
Then Derek's hand is tugging off Stiles's sneakers, he hears one of the laces snap. He doesn't want to stop kissing, but Derek pushes him back and pins him to the floor with the flat of his hand.
"Stay," he says roughly, and Stiles grunts and does as he's told, because there's nowhere else to go. His hips jerk when Derek pulls his jeans open, before dragging both them and his underwear down and off.
Derek's spreading his thighs in one rough movement. In a way that makes Stiles's cock jerk against his stomach. Before Derek's pushing fingers into Stiles's mouth and he's biting down on them, helpless not to, and the noise Derek makes tells him there'll be no stopping this now. The fingers of Derek's other hand dig into his thigh, hard enough to bruise. He pushes it up and out.
"You think I've never thought about you like this," Stiles says shakily, when Derek's fingers slip free. The air's dusty and his voice is so rough. "That I've never thought about it, with the way you're always pushing me, like you own me, like you could just take anything you wanted. You'd be so wrong if you did, so wrong. I pretended that you wanted to take it, touched myself thinking about you, fingered myself in the shower - God, do you have any idea how hard that is. So good though, so good. The thought of you just using me. You could do it - fuck - you could bruise me, if you wanted, I'd let you do that, I bruise so fucking easily, you have no idea."
Derek's growling, low and hard, face pressed tight into Stiles's neck, and he should be afraid because he knows there are fangs barely any distance at all away from his jugular. He's naked and pinned to the floor, and that's how he finally understands that there's something really wrong with him, because he's not embarrassed, or afraid, he's hot like a furnace, and when Derek drags one of his legs over his shoulder it's the hottest thing he's ever seen. His fingers lift and pull through Derek's hair, push his head back until red eyes are locked on his, and suddenly it's hard to breathe.
"Want to see you," Stiles says desperately. "Fuck, please, just let me."
Derek eases back, tears at the button and zipper on his jeans, he shoves them down his hips, half way down his thighs and Stiles's whole body jerks, and tightens, and wants. He makes a noise, something strangled and desperate. Derek wraps his hands round his thighs and pulls him closer, then rubs hard at his hole, pushes a finger in, buries it in him. Stiles's breath falls out in a rush, it's just gone and he's shifting his thighs open wide, not even caring what it looks like, what it makes him look like.
"Are you going to fuck me?" Stiles asks, soft and thready, already knowing the answer, somewhere between terrified and desperate. He's perched perilously on the edge between the two. His body wants it, but his mind is twisted into knots, writhing like snakes, frantic and uncertain and confused.
"Yes," Derek says thickly. Stiles can see his arm working, can feel every push, the lazy, reluctant stretch of his body. It's not comfortable, but the thought of it, the careless urgency behind it, makes his hand drop and squeeze his cock. Derek groans, low and utterly human. Stiles thinks this is going to hurt, the first time. They say it always hurts the first time. His mind may be only half on the tracks, warm and desperate - not all the connections entirely there, but he can still feel everything. He can feel the way Derek eases another finger in, the way he spits wetly where he's pushing Stiles open. Stiles takes it, grunts under the sting of it - of another finger added too soon after. He tenses his thighs and watches Derek, who's not looking at him any more, focused on where he's pushing Stiles open instead, which makes something inside him go loose and hot. Before Derek's fingers are sliding free.
Derek rolls him over, catches his hips and pulls him up to his knees, and Stiles's breath hitches in his throat at how vulnerable the position leaves him. Derek's murmuring 'fuck' against the back of his neck, over and over. Pushing his thighs open with shaking hands and there's a moment of stillness, where Stiles can feel cold air on his skin, and the grain of wood under his fingers, before Derek's pressing in, right there, so much more than Stiles was bracing himself for. Stiles isn't slick enough, he's not stretched enough, and it burns, enough that he makes an instinctive attempt to pull away. But there's a hand on the back of his neck, holding him still, holding his head down. There's no way to get away from the slow, steady push. He's shaking, breathing 'Derek' and 'yes' and 'please' into the floor, but they're choked out around broken noises of pain and discomfort. He feels like he's two people. One who wants it so much he can't breathe, and one who doesn't know if he's ready for it, who wants to pull away from the hurt of it, but trusts Derek to get him through it.
Derek folds over his body like he wants to get closer, like this isn't close enough, buried all the way inside him. Maybe Stiles feels it too because he's begging, quiet and ragged, words tripping over each other. Derek's hands slide on his skin, catch tight every time he says his name. Hold him and pin him, make him feel solid and real in a way he doesn't really understand.
He's slipping on the floor, wood biting into his knees, palms aching, and it goes on. One hard push after another, still sharp and uncomfortable, but Stiles is hard anyway, heavy and aching. The jolt of it, of Derek's body into his, foreign and strange and too much. But he's still giving wet, fractured sobs that aren't protest, like his body needs this and it doesn't care what the rest of him thinks.
Derek doesn't speak, there's just the rough sound of his breathing, the low vibrating cut of noise from his throat, that isn't human at all. The wet, heavy press of them together. Stiles is distracted by the sound of it, awkward and dirty, and completely obscene. Until Derek pulls him back into his lap, knees spreading wide, and the angle is strange and hard and uncomfortable, but Stiles is already too close, fingers clenching on the tense muscle of Derek's arm, and he doesn't even care about the noise he makes when he comes. The way Derek wraps a hand round his ribcage and his shoulder and fucks up into him while it happens, thighs and stomach wet, hoarse little strangled noise caught in his throat. Everything is over-sensitive and sharp.
His head's pushed forward, bent until it's almost uncomfortable, and then there are teeth in the back of his neck, a clench that's hard, that has purpose, and he's not even going to be relieved that they're human teeth, because it fucking hurts. Stiles stiffens, adrenaline turning the shuddering end of release into a cry as he tightens all over.
And then the teeth are gone, and he feels the stutter of Derek's hips, the rough grind and then the moment of stillness. It doesn't feel like an ending, it feels loose and intimate and strange.
Derek very carefully eases him back up onto his knees, pulls out - strange empty ache that he's not expecting - and then Derek moves away. Stiles can hear the thud of his boots on the floor as he sinks down into the boards, sweat cooling on his back, hips stiff and tight.
Stiles's brain is full of static, but he can feel everything there, just waiting to come back. The deafening crash of it, and he knows it will start with the slam of his heartbeat. But his body is so much louder right now, shocky and sweat-damp, slippery and sore in strange places. He tries to stay calm. He tries to breathe, though judging by the shuffling behind him, the sound of jeans being dragged back up, and skin on wood. He thinks Derek's already freaking out. Usually Stiles is the one that's freaking out. Even when it's in a quiet, proactive sort of way. This is more of a slow avalanche, heavy and huge. This is real, the sweat cooling on his skin, the rough, scraped feeling in his knees, the way his throat feels sore and dry, the sharp stretch inside him. It's all real.
He knows that whatever magic it was that did this has gone. This is going to be...bad...he doesn't even know. It's going to be something.
He pushes himself over onto a thigh, feels the first genuinely painful twinge of his body reacting to being - Jesus - pretty thoroughly fucked. He'd thought that would take a while to sink in, but it's just there now. It's just one more thing that's happened to him, and yeah, it kind of hurts. He can see Derek now too. Derek doesn't look like he's freaking out, he's sitting on the floor, arms draped over his knees, the juts of his spine stand out starkly. His back is damp, and so are the ends of his hair. His face is half-covered by a hand.
He looks fucking broken, and that's when Stiles's heartbeat starts jumping, makes it all feel real, makes him think about what this means.
"Derek?" His voice cracks.
Stiles is already trying to work out how to sit up, or get his legs under him, or not be sprawled on the floor while they have the awkward, horrible conversation they're clearly going to have.
He's pretty sure he's going to make an idiot of himself trying to get his jeans back on. In the movies people are always so classy when they redress after sex. But Stiles's legs feel rubbery, and he hurts in a way he knows isn't going to enjoy moving, or stretching, or bending. But laying here naked is so much worse now he can feel it all. Now he's aware of it all. Derek looks like he doesn't want to touch him any more. But when Stiles fails his third attempt to put his shirt back on Derek helps him. Hands slow and careful. His jeans are harder but he figures it's all done now and no one cares whether he's sexy or awkward any more, and messy. So messy.
It hurts to stand, deep and uncomfortable, and Derek's hands on his bare waist send little prickles of sensation all the way through him. Until Derek pulls his hands away and then clenches them, stares at them like he wants to cut them off, which is kind of awful.
"Would you stop that please, you're making me feel like a -" Stiles can't finish that, he feels strangely fragile, made up of pieces that don't quite fit right any more. The thought that he might have made Derek do this - there's a word for that, a horrible word, and it's just going round and round in his head, making him feel sick. "If I made you -" Stiles starts awkwardly, because how do you apologise for something like this. "I think I made you, and I would never have done that if I wasn't out of my mind, and I know that doesn't make it any better. But I should have listened to you when you said something was wrong."
Derek looks wrecked, his mouth is just a thin, bruised line and his hair is going in a million directions. He looks kind of stupidly beautiful and really young. But of course he's going to take absolutely all of this on himself. Derek's life wasn't awful enough already. Of course he's adding 'statutory rape' to his list. Or possibly actual rape, and just, no, Jesus no, that is not fucking happening. Because it was messed up but it wasn't that. It wasn't that.
"I'm not - you were affected by whatever the hell that was too, so it's not your fault. I can see you blaming yourself for this. Which is stupid. Just stop. Don't - don't punish yourself for anything." Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair. He really needs - he really needs words for this. The one time he needs to get things right and he's barely managing to be coherent. "You tried to stop me, tried to make me leave, and I should have listened. I should have been able to listen. I didn't exactly see my first time happening because of evil witches. But I'm not hurt - I'm not bleeding, or anything, or y'know." Traumatised, he thinks, but he doesn't say it.
Derek winces, and Stiles can't help but feel shitty, because Derek's acting like this is something terrible he's going to have to punish himself for forever. But Stiles knows he's going to be picturing it every time he closes his eyes, so now Derek's made sure he's going to feel guilty about it every time.
"It shouldn't have been me," Derek says harshly.
Which is just bullshit.
"Y'know, everyone makes this huge deal about virginity, but it isn't special, or magical, in any way. Aside from the very real virgin sacrifice circumstances which may or may not have led to this. I mean, like I haven't been having inappropriate erections around you since you started throwing me into things. I'm a teenage boy, and you're ridiculously hot, tendency to lurk creepily like a serial killer aside. Don't even pretend you had standards when you were my age -" Stiles abruptly realises what was happening when Derek was his age. "I don't mean - that's not what I meant. I'm sorry I know you really don't want to be reminded of that right now."
Derek doesn't comment on that, or he can't comment on that, he just thins his mouth impossibly further and shakes his head.
"The fact that you thought about it doesn't make it ok, the fact that you - that you might have thought you wanted it doesn't make what I did ok." Derek says, hard. "Nothing makes this ok."
Stiles takes a step towards him, stops when Derek's shoulders stiffen, like he wants to fling himself away. Or like he thinks he should. Which is kind insulting and upsetting, because Stiles feels weird and shocky, and sort of like he's not attached to anything, and he thinks he'd really like someone to touch him right now. He doesn't know whether that's messed up or not.
"I never said that would make it ok, I'm just saying it was better that it was you, and not some random person who found me wandering in the woods." Because even the thought of it. Stiles tenses up all over, and then relaxes. "I'm pretty sure that would have been really awful. If my first time was like that, with some complete stranger who didn't care at all - a whole entire world of awful." Stiles is still shaking a little, which he's telling himself is the cold, and a little bit because he still hurts.
"Don't make it sound like I did it to protect you," Derek says, like it's some big, horrible secret. "Jesus, I wasn't protecting you." Derek looks away, like he's reached his quota of words and Stiles just isn't going to get any more.
He officially has a sex life, and it's already a total disaster.
"Can we please stop arguing about this? We had sex -" Stiles stumbles over that a little, even now, because they did, and it sounds so real said out loud. "And, yes it was kind of coerced and under the influence, you feel awful about it, and we'll probably never speak of it again. But the witches are dead and it's all done and - can we please just move on and -" Stiles exhales, because he doesn't know what comes next, and he's limping and he's kind of afraid people will be able to tell what that means, that they'll somehow know what happened and blame Derek for it. Because they're stupid werewolves that have unfair advantages, but they're also stupid werewolves sometimes. They were essentially both drugged. Which, yeah, he's pissed about and sure, it would have been nice if his first time had involved less uncomfortable floorboards and more lubricant. But he can deal with this.
He shudders out a breath, which turns into a weird laugh.
"Jesus it's cold in here, can I - just." Stiles doesn't know what else to do so he just awkwardly shuffles closer to Derek. He's still inhumanly warm and Stiles feels kind of weird about having his hands on Derek's skin, because he barely got to touch him, he lost his virginity and he didn't even really get to touch him, and that's a special, messed-up kind of unfair. He lets his hand open, fingers spread on the side of Derek's waist. Derek flinches like he wants to pull away. But Stiles just relaxes his hand and tries to feel as non-threatening as possible. Which is pretty hilarious considering.
Derek's stiff and horrible for a long moment. It's awkward and Stiles is about a second away from saying 'will you please just fucking hug me.' Which will probably defeat the whole purpose of this, and probably draw attention to how young he is again. Which he is absolutely not doing. But then Derek awkwardly loops an arm around him, the other lifting the cup the back of his neck. Where the bite's still sore and hot. Derek's fingers stray over it, like they can't help it.
Derek tips his face down into his throat. "I fucked up," he says, and he doesn't sound like Derek at all. It's so quiet.
"We both did. But I don't blame you, and it doesn't have to be horrible. It doesn't have to be bad -" Stiles swallows until he can get his throat to work again. "Please don't make it bad."
Derek's fingers slip from his neck, like he still thinks he's not allowed to touch him, he makes a noise like it already is.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6500
Warnings: Underage, dub-con, magical influence
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: There are dead witches, and he's pretty sure he was perilously close to becoming some sort of sacrifice (and really, who the hell does that?)
AN: Written for the 'Love Spell/Potion Gone Wrong' for hc_bingo.
It's Derek that drags Stiles out of the circle. Because clearly they have some sort of timeshare rescuing thing going on, and it must be Derek's turn. Though if they're keeping score Stiles still thinks he's ahead.
There are dead witches, and he's pretty sure he was perilously close to becoming some sort of sacrifice (and really, who the hell does that?) So he's willing to give Derek two for this one, possibly even three. Screw it, maybe they're even after all. There's no one left to follow them, but Derek still drives like they're being chased, while Stiles scrubs still-tacky symbols off the bend of his arm, and the curve of his shoulder with a damp patch of sleeve. Whatever they painted him with smells like berries and blood, and there's no way on this earth he wants to put it in his mouth. Even without the possibility of any magical involvement that's probably freakin' human blood, and no one has any business putting that in their mouth - unless it's their own, and even then Stiles feels like there should be some pretty strict ground rules.
"There should be rules about giving people body art without their consent," he complains. Rubbing at a stubborn curve that looks like a scythe smeared into his wrist. "That is seriously not cool."
Derek reaches over, eyes off the road briefly, while he twists Stiles's arm until he can look at the half-smudged symbols.
"Ow, what?" Stiles doesn't know what he sees, doesn't know what Derek knows, because he doesn't exactly share. He is not a sharer. It's almost impossible to know when Derek is being mysterious for his own reason, or whether he just doesn't have a clue and isn't willing to admit to it.
"I don't know, I don't recognise any of these."
"What do you think they wanted me for?" Stiles asks, because witches, and no matter what anyone says, no one that kidnaps you, and strips you half naked, and puts you in any sort of circle has your best interests at heart. He knows they needed him for something, and judging by the things they'd done already it wasn't anything nice.
"I don't know." Derek's looking at the road again, and he doesn't say anything else. Though, honestly, when can Stiles ever convince him to say anything else when he's not in the mood to talk? Still, this isn't normal Derek quiet, this is a concerned, suspicious sort of quiet, and Stiles doesn't like it. He doesn't like it because he's jittery in a way he's mostly used to, but this feels more intense than usual. A restlessness that doesn't feel aimless, it feels like it's looking for something. He doesn't really feel like someone did something to him - he just feels more him than usual. That can't be bad - I mean there's no real way that could be bad. But it's still something.
They end up at the house, mostly because it's closer, and the witches had taken Stiles from his. He ends up sitting on the broken stairs, trying to text Scott with shaky fingers. There's no concise way to explain what happened, but he doesn't want to worry Scott for nothing, not if everyone's already dead. He's not quite sure how to phrase 'kidnapped by evil witches and almost sacrificed' in a way that Scott won't worry about. But he does his best. Derek has a short conversation with his puppies, and Stiles thinks the witch corpses are going to mysteriously disappear from the woods at some point in the night. He doesn't even realise he's been staring into space until Derek calls his name, once, twice.
"How do you feel?" From anyone else that would be a concerned question. Derek makes it sound a lot like a demand.
"Warm," Stiles says, because it's true. Though that seems to be the wrong answer because Derek's frowning at him, and then he has both hands on his face, huge and hot on his skin, and he's tipping his head back. Stiles is going to say something ridiculous about how the magic didn't do anything weird to him, he's scrubbed it all off. But there's no moisture in his throat, and Derek's eyes are so close and Stiles is - he's fine, he's just warm, he's just a little too warm. Sort of restless in his own skin but he's used to that. He's been feeling that forever, a distant, unsettled energy.
Derek's nostrils flare, and he goes very still.
"What did she do to you?" he asks, firm now, like he's accusing Stiles of something.
"Nothing, I mean they painted me up but they didn't have time to -" He stops, because Derek is still inhaling, frowning like there's something there he doesn't like. "Why are you doing the 'I'm freaked out by something I've smelled' face. That is not a good face. I hate that face. What do I smell like?"
"You smell like -" Derek's eyes go narrow, his jaw works silently for a moment. "You smell like sex."
Stiles's eyes widen.
"Whoa, ok, I'm absolutely sure that no one had sex with me," Stiles says firmly, because that is a scary thought. "I would definitely remember that. There was no inappropriate witch-touching ok. Besides I'm pretty sure they wanted me precisely because I was - ah - of the non-having-sex variety of person. Which you will not comment on - unless it turns out to be important, and then possibly only in subtle hand gestures." He shakes off Derek's fingers, because the touching is starting to weird him out. It's unfortunate how Derek throwing him against flat surfaces has become such a normal method of interaction that this is the thing that's disturbing. The concerned touching.
Derek stops touching, but he doesn't stop looking.
"It's not like that, it's more like the possibility of it, the tension, but not quite arousal." His mouth compresses. "It's hard to describe."
Stiles isn't really listening to the words any more. He's too busy noticing how dark Derek's hair is, and the way his eyes are almost two colours and not just one, he's noticed before but he's never really dared to look. Stiles can smell him now too, in a way that he's definitely never noticed before. He's moving his elbows forward, unconsciously leaning into Derek's space. He knows he's doing it, he just doesn't know why.
But Derek's face reacts like he knows, becomes all hard lines and tension. He leans back, away from Stiles.
"Stiles you have to get in your Jeep and drive yourself home, don't stop anywhere, shut yourself in your room -"
Stiles can't stop watching the way Derek's mouth moves, the curve and stretch of it. It fills him with a warm sort of buzzing, eager and restless. It makes his leg twitch, makes his fingers scratch against his jeans. There's something he's supposed to be doing, or not doing. He can sense it in the distance, though he's not sure how. It's like the smell of rain, or the calm before a giant wave, or maybe the quiet before a swarm of insects comes streaming over the horizon. Something heavy, and rolling, and potent.
"Are you even listening to me?" Derek's voice sounds thin and tight.
Stiles stops looking at Derek's mouth, and focuses on his eyes.
"Huh? Yeah - I mean, no. I have no idea."
Stiles blinks, wets his mouth, watches the way Derek watches it, and that rain/wave/insect feeling goes close and tight and warm.
"Can you feel that, or is that just me? It feels like insects, or rain." Stiles shakes his head to clear it.
"You have to go home." Derek just sounds numb now, like he can see something horrible coming and no way to stop it.
Which makes no sense. Because they did the thing - there was rescuing. Everything is ok now.
"Stiles." Derek makes his name sound so quiet and desperate, but still fierce like he might snatch him up and shake him.
Stiles stops fighting whatever it is that's making his leg twitch, and his eyes refuse to focus on anything. He stops fighting it, and he crawls into Derek's lap, pushing his hands down and pinning them to the floor, and he's ready for Derek to fight but he doesn't, he doesn't. Instead he tilts his head back and opens his mouth, and Stiles is kneeling over him, kissing down into him, in clumsy, hungry pushes. Stiles can't quite believe he's actually doing this, but it's without doubt the best thing he's ever done. He's leaning in, knees on the floor, legs spread round Derek's strong thighs. He would never have dared do this - thought about it maybe - but to move, and touch, and make it happen - no. His hands are holding, and pulling round Derek's wrists, mouth soft and rough and wet under Stiles's. He doesn't do this, he doesn't just do things like this.
Derek must know too, because he twists himself away - turns until Stiles's mouth ends up pressed against the pulse in his throat, breathing there. Derek smells warm and rich in a way that makes his mouth open instinctively. Stiles has never been this close to anyone in his life, and it probably shouldn't make him want to sink his teeth in quite so badly. It's amazing, and he can feel it under the skin, a low, burning rush of arousal and potential.
"Derek," he says, slow and quiet. Not like a question, more like a choice.
Derek tries to speak and fails, jerks back away from the pressure of his mouth - because it turns out that Stiles can't resist a little bit of biting - Derek hisses and pulls away from him completely.
"No, you're not doing this, this isn't you."
Stiles is pretty sure he's just saying that to get him to stop, because he feels good, he feels so much better than good. But it's Derek so he listens, he forces himself to listen to the words. Because he knows Derek wouldn't let anything happen to him. Derek is always trying to protect them, even though sometimes he's not very good at it. He still tries.
"What - what are you talking about?" Stiles manages, hands curling round Derek's shoulders which are almost too broad to hold, almost too hard to dig his fingers into, warm under his palms.
Derek's hands come up, snatch his own, and force them to stop touching him.
"She did something to you, she did something, or pulling you out of the circle did something - I can tell by the way you smell. Fuck - you have no idea what you smell like right now."
Which sounds good, it sounds like a good thing, and Stiles can't understand why Derek looks so horrified.
Derek shakes his head, then pushes him, he physically shoves him away, like he can't stand to touch him, hard enough that Stiles ends up with his hands on the dirty floorboards, knees jarred by the impact, and he's shaky with something that isn't just arousal - but might be anger, or hurt. Or a little of both.
"You're sixteen," Derek hisses. "I can't do this, you can't touch me right now."
It's almost as if Stiles hadn't even realised exactly what he wanted until then. Where touching would inevitably lead to. The thought of it should have terrified him, should have made him think, because he always thinks, thinks too much - and he is thinking, a confused, stuttered rush of half-thoughts. But mostly Stiles body just clenches at the thought of it, and his body is very loud right now. Derek should - he should do that.
"Yes, I want, please let me touch you." He doesn't mean to say it out loud, doesn't think he means to, he definitely doesn't mean for it to sound so raw, when he has barely any idea what he's even desperate for.
Derek snarls like he's doing it on purpose.
"You don't want that. You don't know what I'd do to you."
And, yes, Stiles absolutely does. Because there is so much difference between what he is and what Derek is, he knows, he's always known that. Even when he's tried to run with the wolves. Stiles knows how breakable he is. He's always been able to make his own space, through force of personality and sheer volume, or with a freakin' crowbar if necessary. But he knows how strong Derek is, knows he's been a werewolf his whole life, and he doesn't need to make his own space, because the world just lets him in. Stiles doesn't know what magic, or whatever this is, will do to that control, that control he's never once seen slip. But he's not moving from where he's knelt on the floor, hot all over because Derek's made him picture it. He's made him picture all of it in that one, fierce look. Of exactly how it could be, and now he can't breathe. He feels strangled and too hot, shoes too tight, sweat all along his spine, still feeling clumsy and awkward but he wants it all so much it hurts.
"Derek. Please"
Derek doesn't move from where he's half knelt at the bottom of the stairs, shoulders jerking like he wants to get up and walk away. But Stiles doesn't think he can.
"I can't, you've never done this before, and I wouldn't care. I wouldn't be in any state to be gentle with you. It would make it worse. Do you understand that. You're smarter than this. It wouldn't be gentle - I wouldn't be gentle. " The words are bitten out like they hurt.
Stiles swallows and swallows again, as his brain fills in the words, fills in the intent.
"Derek -" Stiles's throat clenches around his name.
"No," Derek says desperately, like he's hearing words Stiles isn't even saying. "You need to leave. This won't kill you - it won't hurt you, if you just - I could shut you somewhere. You don't want this." His voice is just a grate in his throat now.
"I think I do," Stiles says, quiet and thick. "I want that. Derek." He knows Derek could make that happen. Because Stiles can't, he's not strong enough to hold Derek down. He doesn't know the words to use to make him see that it's ok, he wants it. He can handle it. "Please stop talking, please, God, I can't talk right now."
The floorboards crack under Derek's fist, claws, Stiles can't even tell.
"In your right mind you wouldn't want this, and you are so far away from that right now - your fucking eyes, Stiles."
Stiles doesn't feel compromised. He knows it's not the thing that's making him want this. Because it's Derek, who's been slowly wearing down Stiles's ability to say no since he met him. This is Derek who's been rattling Stiles's already over-heated sex drive since he started throwing him into walls, and leaving bruises all over him. Because he bruises so easily, and Derek is so fucking strong. This just makes it easier, makes it sharper, makes it hurt a little bit to not have it.
"You should have left, I shouldn't have brought you here," Derek says, gritty and awful, as if all of this is his fault.
"I'm - " Stiles wants to say ok, but he knows suddenly that that's a lie. He knows that will be the biggest lie he's ever told. Derek is already dragging his way over to the wall, fist pressed into the floorboards so hard they're denting. Stiles follows him, can't help but follow him, fingers finding Derek's arm without having to look. It burns hot underneath them.
"Don't touch me," Derek snarls, and shoves him again. The rejection is like a slap, hurts more than the sting of his palms hitting the floor when he falls back, away from Derek.
"Fine," Stiles say, angry and breathless. "Fine, if you won't help me I'll find someone who will." He gets his feet under him, works out how to stand, clumsy and shaking with anger and arousal. He's so hot and so hard that it hurts to breathe. There's no way he can walk all the way back to his Jeep, but he's desperate enough to try. He gets as far as the door frame before there's a creak, and the dry scrape of boots on the floor. Before Stiles is pressed into the wood, not gently, nothing close to gently. The burn of the frame against his chest, face pressed to the wall, inhaling the soot and dust. He gives a little grunt, just before the weight of Derek crushes him there, tight and painful. One hand is pressed to the back of his neck, the other bunched in his shirt, tangled tight, stitches pop lazily. There's a flare of breath against the side of his face.
"What are you going to do? Let the first person you see bend you over and fuck you." The words are distorted around too many teeth, thick with something that sounds quietly savage. Stiles swallows, body jumping like it's a threat. Though judging by the way Derek grinds into the back of him he wants to do the same thing. It steals all the air from him, makes words impossible. But he groans, because the answer to that question is yes, even though he knows, distantly, that he'd hate himself for it. He'd hate himself for it more than he could bear. In a way that would feel sick and awful. He wants Derek, but if Derek won't - if Derek is so set against Stiles touching him then he'll find someone who will.
"Yes," he says thickly, and the growl against the back of his neck goes low and furious, fingers pressing in tight enough to hurt. "I need - fuck, I need it and you won't help me. The one time I need you and you won't." He knows that's unfair, but Stiles knows he'd let Derek do whatever he wanted, that he could just take from him, and he'd never hate himself for that. But he thinks Derek would hate himself, which might be worse.
Stiles wishes he could care right now. He really wishes he could, because Derek kind of needs someone to look out for him. Derek needs someone to look out for him, but Stiles can't. He can barely stay upright, and he's already pressing back into the shove of Derek's body. There are teeth so close to his throat, and Derek is shaking. He's stiff and brittle, in a way that still feels like he's trying to stop this. But Stiles doesn't want him to stop, can't bear the thought of him stopping.
"No," Derek says, like it's final, and then hisses as if he realises what that means. "You're staying, no one else is touching you. No one but me." It's flat, and rough, and painfully honest. Stiles has to drop both hands and grab for whatever parts of Derek he can reach, the fall of his fingers and the heavy material of his jeans, and he grunts agreement. Because he wants that, he wants the way Derek makes it sound, vicious and dirty and absolutely vital. He wants Derek to touch him, wants him to be the one to break him.
Derek makes a rough, satisfied noise at the fact that Stiles doesn't refuse, doesn't do anything but stay where he is, go soft and relaxed under Derek's body. Derek just buries his nose in Stiles's neck and inhales.
"Ah - fuck - would you have let me go?" Stiles asks. There are no words in answer, but the noise Derek makes is good enough. Stiles is satisfied but something in him - something that's always been him - makes him push. "Would you have ever let me leave?"
"No," Derek growls and drags him down to the floor, and it hurts, it jars his wrist and sends pain all along his back when he hits, and Derek's over him, hands fisted in his shirt. Which he just tears up the middle and leaves to hang limply. Derek's shuffling on his knees between Stiles thighs, until he can grasp at his neck and pin him still with his own weight, kiss him like he wants to eat him alive. It hurts and his stubble burns, and Stiles is trying desperately to wind his thighs around him and keep him there, pull him down, make him move. Something. How do people do this, how do they demand so people understand? His hands know what they want, but they're clumsy and they don't know enough, working on instinct and arousal and impatience.
Then Derek's hand is tugging off Stiles's sneakers, he hears one of the laces snap. He doesn't want to stop kissing, but Derek pushes him back and pins him to the floor with the flat of his hand.
"Stay," he says roughly, and Stiles grunts and does as he's told, because there's nowhere else to go. His hips jerk when Derek pulls his jeans open, before dragging both them and his underwear down and off.
Derek's spreading his thighs in one rough movement. In a way that makes Stiles's cock jerk against his stomach. Before Derek's pushing fingers into Stiles's mouth and he's biting down on them, helpless not to, and the noise Derek makes tells him there'll be no stopping this now. The fingers of Derek's other hand dig into his thigh, hard enough to bruise. He pushes it up and out.
"You think I've never thought about you like this," Stiles says shakily, when Derek's fingers slip free. The air's dusty and his voice is so rough. "That I've never thought about it, with the way you're always pushing me, like you own me, like you could just take anything you wanted. You'd be so wrong if you did, so wrong. I pretended that you wanted to take it, touched myself thinking about you, fingered myself in the shower - God, do you have any idea how hard that is. So good though, so good. The thought of you just using me. You could do it - fuck - you could bruise me, if you wanted, I'd let you do that, I bruise so fucking easily, you have no idea."
Derek's growling, low and hard, face pressed tight into Stiles's neck, and he should be afraid because he knows there are fangs barely any distance at all away from his jugular. He's naked and pinned to the floor, and that's how he finally understands that there's something really wrong with him, because he's not embarrassed, or afraid, he's hot like a furnace, and when Derek drags one of his legs over his shoulder it's the hottest thing he's ever seen. His fingers lift and pull through Derek's hair, push his head back until red eyes are locked on his, and suddenly it's hard to breathe.
"Want to see you," Stiles says desperately. "Fuck, please, just let me."
Derek eases back, tears at the button and zipper on his jeans, he shoves them down his hips, half way down his thighs and Stiles's whole body jerks, and tightens, and wants. He makes a noise, something strangled and desperate. Derek wraps his hands round his thighs and pulls him closer, then rubs hard at his hole, pushes a finger in, buries it in him. Stiles's breath falls out in a rush, it's just gone and he's shifting his thighs open wide, not even caring what it looks like, what it makes him look like.
"Are you going to fuck me?" Stiles asks, soft and thready, already knowing the answer, somewhere between terrified and desperate. He's perched perilously on the edge between the two. His body wants it, but his mind is twisted into knots, writhing like snakes, frantic and uncertain and confused.
"Yes," Derek says thickly. Stiles can see his arm working, can feel every push, the lazy, reluctant stretch of his body. It's not comfortable, but the thought of it, the careless urgency behind it, makes his hand drop and squeeze his cock. Derek groans, low and utterly human. Stiles thinks this is going to hurt, the first time. They say it always hurts the first time. His mind may be only half on the tracks, warm and desperate - not all the connections entirely there, but he can still feel everything. He can feel the way Derek eases another finger in, the way he spits wetly where he's pushing Stiles open. Stiles takes it, grunts under the sting of it - of another finger added too soon after. He tenses his thighs and watches Derek, who's not looking at him any more, focused on where he's pushing Stiles open instead, which makes something inside him go loose and hot. Before Derek's fingers are sliding free.
Derek rolls him over, catches his hips and pulls him up to his knees, and Stiles's breath hitches in his throat at how vulnerable the position leaves him. Derek's murmuring 'fuck' against the back of his neck, over and over. Pushing his thighs open with shaking hands and there's a moment of stillness, where Stiles can feel cold air on his skin, and the grain of wood under his fingers, before Derek's pressing in, right there, so much more than Stiles was bracing himself for. Stiles isn't slick enough, he's not stretched enough, and it burns, enough that he makes an instinctive attempt to pull away. But there's a hand on the back of his neck, holding him still, holding his head down. There's no way to get away from the slow, steady push. He's shaking, breathing 'Derek' and 'yes' and 'please' into the floor, but they're choked out around broken noises of pain and discomfort. He feels like he's two people. One who wants it so much he can't breathe, and one who doesn't know if he's ready for it, who wants to pull away from the hurt of it, but trusts Derek to get him through it.
Derek folds over his body like he wants to get closer, like this isn't close enough, buried all the way inside him. Maybe Stiles feels it too because he's begging, quiet and ragged, words tripping over each other. Derek's hands slide on his skin, catch tight every time he says his name. Hold him and pin him, make him feel solid and real in a way he doesn't really understand.
He's slipping on the floor, wood biting into his knees, palms aching, and it goes on. One hard push after another, still sharp and uncomfortable, but Stiles is hard anyway, heavy and aching. The jolt of it, of Derek's body into his, foreign and strange and too much. But he's still giving wet, fractured sobs that aren't protest, like his body needs this and it doesn't care what the rest of him thinks.
Derek doesn't speak, there's just the rough sound of his breathing, the low vibrating cut of noise from his throat, that isn't human at all. The wet, heavy press of them together. Stiles is distracted by the sound of it, awkward and dirty, and completely obscene. Until Derek pulls him back into his lap, knees spreading wide, and the angle is strange and hard and uncomfortable, but Stiles is already too close, fingers clenching on the tense muscle of Derek's arm, and he doesn't even care about the noise he makes when he comes. The way Derek wraps a hand round his ribcage and his shoulder and fucks up into him while it happens, thighs and stomach wet, hoarse little strangled noise caught in his throat. Everything is over-sensitive and sharp.
His head's pushed forward, bent until it's almost uncomfortable, and then there are teeth in the back of his neck, a clench that's hard, that has purpose, and he's not even going to be relieved that they're human teeth, because it fucking hurts. Stiles stiffens, adrenaline turning the shuddering end of release into a cry as he tightens all over.
And then the teeth are gone, and he feels the stutter of Derek's hips, the rough grind and then the moment of stillness. It doesn't feel like an ending, it feels loose and intimate and strange.
Derek very carefully eases him back up onto his knees, pulls out - strange empty ache that he's not expecting - and then Derek moves away. Stiles can hear the thud of his boots on the floor as he sinks down into the boards, sweat cooling on his back, hips stiff and tight.
Stiles's brain is full of static, but he can feel everything there, just waiting to come back. The deafening crash of it, and he knows it will start with the slam of his heartbeat. But his body is so much louder right now, shocky and sweat-damp, slippery and sore in strange places. He tries to stay calm. He tries to breathe, though judging by the shuffling behind him, the sound of jeans being dragged back up, and skin on wood. He thinks Derek's already freaking out. Usually Stiles is the one that's freaking out. Even when it's in a quiet, proactive sort of way. This is more of a slow avalanche, heavy and huge. This is real, the sweat cooling on his skin, the rough, scraped feeling in his knees, the way his throat feels sore and dry, the sharp stretch inside him. It's all real.
He knows that whatever magic it was that did this has gone. This is going to be...bad...he doesn't even know. It's going to be something.
He pushes himself over onto a thigh, feels the first genuinely painful twinge of his body reacting to being - Jesus - pretty thoroughly fucked. He'd thought that would take a while to sink in, but it's just there now. It's just one more thing that's happened to him, and yeah, it kind of hurts. He can see Derek now too. Derek doesn't look like he's freaking out, he's sitting on the floor, arms draped over his knees, the juts of his spine stand out starkly. His back is damp, and so are the ends of his hair. His face is half-covered by a hand.
He looks fucking broken, and that's when Stiles's heartbeat starts jumping, makes it all feel real, makes him think about what this means.
"Derek?" His voice cracks.
Stiles is already trying to work out how to sit up, or get his legs under him, or not be sprawled on the floor while they have the awkward, horrible conversation they're clearly going to have.
He's pretty sure he's going to make an idiot of himself trying to get his jeans back on. In the movies people are always so classy when they redress after sex. But Stiles's legs feel rubbery, and he hurts in a way he knows isn't going to enjoy moving, or stretching, or bending. But laying here naked is so much worse now he can feel it all. Now he's aware of it all. Derek looks like he doesn't want to touch him any more. But when Stiles fails his third attempt to put his shirt back on Derek helps him. Hands slow and careful. His jeans are harder but he figures it's all done now and no one cares whether he's sexy or awkward any more, and messy. So messy.
It hurts to stand, deep and uncomfortable, and Derek's hands on his bare waist send little prickles of sensation all the way through him. Until Derek pulls his hands away and then clenches them, stares at them like he wants to cut them off, which is kind of awful.
"Would you stop that please, you're making me feel like a -" Stiles can't finish that, he feels strangely fragile, made up of pieces that don't quite fit right any more. The thought that he might have made Derek do this - there's a word for that, a horrible word, and it's just going round and round in his head, making him feel sick. "If I made you -" Stiles starts awkwardly, because how do you apologise for something like this. "I think I made you, and I would never have done that if I wasn't out of my mind, and I know that doesn't make it any better. But I should have listened to you when you said something was wrong."
Derek looks wrecked, his mouth is just a thin, bruised line and his hair is going in a million directions. He looks kind of stupidly beautiful and really young. But of course he's going to take absolutely all of this on himself. Derek's life wasn't awful enough already. Of course he's adding 'statutory rape' to his list. Or possibly actual rape, and just, no, Jesus no, that is not fucking happening. Because it was messed up but it wasn't that. It wasn't that.
"I'm not - you were affected by whatever the hell that was too, so it's not your fault. I can see you blaming yourself for this. Which is stupid. Just stop. Don't - don't punish yourself for anything." Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair. He really needs - he really needs words for this. The one time he needs to get things right and he's barely managing to be coherent. "You tried to stop me, tried to make me leave, and I should have listened. I should have been able to listen. I didn't exactly see my first time happening because of evil witches. But I'm not hurt - I'm not bleeding, or anything, or y'know." Traumatised, he thinks, but he doesn't say it.
Derek winces, and Stiles can't help but feel shitty, because Derek's acting like this is something terrible he's going to have to punish himself for forever. But Stiles knows he's going to be picturing it every time he closes his eyes, so now Derek's made sure he's going to feel guilty about it every time.
"It shouldn't have been me," Derek says harshly.
Which is just bullshit.
"Y'know, everyone makes this huge deal about virginity, but it isn't special, or magical, in any way. Aside from the very real virgin sacrifice circumstances which may or may not have led to this. I mean, like I haven't been having inappropriate erections around you since you started throwing me into things. I'm a teenage boy, and you're ridiculously hot, tendency to lurk creepily like a serial killer aside. Don't even pretend you had standards when you were my age -" Stiles abruptly realises what was happening when Derek was his age. "I don't mean - that's not what I meant. I'm sorry I know you really don't want to be reminded of that right now."
Derek doesn't comment on that, or he can't comment on that, he just thins his mouth impossibly further and shakes his head.
"The fact that you thought about it doesn't make it ok, the fact that you - that you might have thought you wanted it doesn't make what I did ok." Derek says, hard. "Nothing makes this ok."
Stiles takes a step towards him, stops when Derek's shoulders stiffen, like he wants to fling himself away. Or like he thinks he should. Which is kind insulting and upsetting, because Stiles feels weird and shocky, and sort of like he's not attached to anything, and he thinks he'd really like someone to touch him right now. He doesn't know whether that's messed up or not.
"I never said that would make it ok, I'm just saying it was better that it was you, and not some random person who found me wandering in the woods." Because even the thought of it. Stiles tenses up all over, and then relaxes. "I'm pretty sure that would have been really awful. If my first time was like that, with some complete stranger who didn't care at all - a whole entire world of awful." Stiles is still shaking a little, which he's telling himself is the cold, and a little bit because he still hurts.
"Don't make it sound like I did it to protect you," Derek says, like it's some big, horrible secret. "Jesus, I wasn't protecting you." Derek looks away, like he's reached his quota of words and Stiles just isn't going to get any more.
He officially has a sex life, and it's already a total disaster.
"Can we please stop arguing about this? We had sex -" Stiles stumbles over that a little, even now, because they did, and it sounds so real said out loud. "And, yes it was kind of coerced and under the influence, you feel awful about it, and we'll probably never speak of it again. But the witches are dead and it's all done and - can we please just move on and -" Stiles exhales, because he doesn't know what comes next, and he's limping and he's kind of afraid people will be able to tell what that means, that they'll somehow know what happened and blame Derek for it. Because they're stupid werewolves that have unfair advantages, but they're also stupid werewolves sometimes. They were essentially both drugged. Which, yeah, he's pissed about and sure, it would have been nice if his first time had involved less uncomfortable floorboards and more lubricant. But he can deal with this.
He shudders out a breath, which turns into a weird laugh.
"Jesus it's cold in here, can I - just." Stiles doesn't know what else to do so he just awkwardly shuffles closer to Derek. He's still inhumanly warm and Stiles feels kind of weird about having his hands on Derek's skin, because he barely got to touch him, he lost his virginity and he didn't even really get to touch him, and that's a special, messed-up kind of unfair. He lets his hand open, fingers spread on the side of Derek's waist. Derek flinches like he wants to pull away. But Stiles just relaxes his hand and tries to feel as non-threatening as possible. Which is pretty hilarious considering.
Derek's stiff and horrible for a long moment. It's awkward and Stiles is about a second away from saying 'will you please just fucking hug me.' Which will probably defeat the whole purpose of this, and probably draw attention to how young he is again. Which he is absolutely not doing. But then Derek awkwardly loops an arm around him, the other lifting the cup the back of his neck. Where the bite's still sore and hot. Derek's fingers stray over it, like they can't help it.
Derek tips his face down into his throat. "I fucked up," he says, and he doesn't sound like Derek at all. It's so quiet.
"We both did. But I don't blame you, and it doesn't have to be horrible. It doesn't have to be bad -" Stiles swallows until he can get his throat to work again. "Please don't make it bad."
Derek's fingers slip from his neck, like he still thinks he's not allowed to touch him, he makes a noise like it already is.