This is not the way Stiles planned on losing his virginity. First off, the person is all wrong. It was going to be Lydia, or at least someone who was, you know, human. It wasn't going to be a werewolf who was five years older than him.
Derek tilts Stiles' head back a little farther and Stiles can't hold back a moan. It's heat and fire and this aching want like nothing he's ever experienced, probably because he's never experienced this before.
The fact that it's Derek instead of Lydia isn't the only problem. There's also the location. It isn't like Stiles was planning on, like, a five star hotel or something for his first time. But a bed would've been nice. Or at least someplace that didn't smell like burnt lumber.
Derek's hands trace Stiles' scalp over and over again, fingers twitching into something between petting and scratching. Stiles' whole body goes lax, eyes closing and mouth opening and arms dropping from where they'd been running over Derek's back a minute before.
There are other problems too, things like how cold it is, how Stiles can feel his body shaking not just from lust but from the wind blowing through the cracks in the house. Part of Stiles wanted to have his first time in front of a roaring fire. Instead he gets the faint hint of snow on the air.
Derek mouths at Stiles' lower lip, bites it hard enough to sting. He pushes himself up and then there's a tongue slowly licking its way into Stiles' mouth.
Stiles moans around it.
The biggest problem of all, probably, is the lack of love. Not that Stiles was planning on having a repeat of the 'epic romance of Scott and Allison,' but he would've liked something, some kind of wooing. Instead it's just a night like every other night.
Derek's hands have migrated. They're tracing the back of Stiles' shirt now. It feels… It feels like a path of ice—a path of fire. It feels like being owned, possessed. When Derek's fingers move to unbutton Stiles' shirt, it's almost too much. He shakes, head to toe, like a frightened cat—like cornered prey.
And then Derek's hands, his huge palms, are rubbing over his shoulders, over his belly, over his back. The shaking stops.
It's too bad. Really, it's too bad that it's not love. Stiles could see how in another world, another life where they were both human or both wolf, it could be love. Or, if not love, it could be something more than what it is.
Stiles moves Derek's hands lower. It's strangely intimate, makes him realize Derek hasn't had his hands below Stiles belt up to this point. Derek's hands close around Stiles' hips, tighten, thumbs digging into hipbones. While Derek's busy, Stiles pulls his t-shirt over his head, flings it to the other side of the room.
Derek makes a noise, low in his throat, then he's tracing Stiles' belly again, skin against skin this time. It feels—Stiles' breath comes in gasps, words trying to come out but getting lost in the feeling.
And that's the problem. It's just feeling. Not 'feelings,' like what Scott has for Allison, but feeling, touching, petting. It's how, whenever Derek touches Stiles, Stiles goes weak in the knees. How every time Stiles touches Derek, Derek's wolf comes out, hungry and possessive.
Stiles touches Derek again, urges him up, up high enough to get his shirt off. Derek growls in irritation, ends up ripping it in his haste, tatters of black falling around them. Then it's skin against skin, Stiles tracing his fingers over and over and over the swirl of Derek's tattoo. He sucks on Derek's shoulder. Derek bites his neck.
Stiles groans and winces at the same time. It hurts, but it feels so good. It hurts so good.
They tried to stop touching, tried to stay out of each other's presence. It wasn't possible. Pack and friendship and a million other little things all worked to throw them together, time after time.
Stiles slips his hands to Derek's pants, thumb over the button-hole. "Don't," Derek says. Stiles freezes. "We—" he stops, gasps—"we shouldn't."
"Why?" Stiles asks, running his thumb over the button, over and over and over.
Derek twitches. He says, "Stiles," then bites his tongue. "It's a bad idea."
"What? Because I'm younger than you?" Stiles asks.
Stiles sweeps his thumb down, traces the zip. "Because I'm smaller than you? Not as smart as you? Why, Derek?"
"Because you're not a wolf," Derek says on a sigh. His eyes are closed, hiding. "Because I don't trust myself around you."
Stiles strokes the whole length of Derek's cock, hard. Derek groans. "Yeah, right, that's a good decision. That's what got us into this in the first place, you being a wolf. It's not a reason to stop it now."
Derek sighs again, defeated this time. "I don't know what you want."
"Everything," Stiles says, and opens Derek's jeans.
Derek's cock is there, lying there, tight against Derek's body. It's thick and long and Stiles's mouth waters. Stiles' ass clenches, wanting, wanting to be taken. Wanting to feel owned for the first time.
And that's the thing, that right there. Stiles' doesn't love Derek. Hell, on a bad day, Stiles doesn't even like Derek very much. But every time Stiles sees him, he feels this uncontrollable urge to just roll over and take it. To lose himself in skin and sweat and biting.
Stiles shoves Derek's pants down, out of the way. Derek doesn't wear underwear, why would he? So all that's standing between them now are Stiles jeans and boxers. And Stiles can take care of that easily enough. He goes to unzip his own jeans, but Derek's hands are there, stopping him.
"We don't have to do this," Derek says, giving Stiles' hands a sharp tug.
Stiles tugs back, and Derek must not really be trying to hold him back because it's easy to get free. "Don't you dare try to get out of this now, Derek Hale," Stiles says, unzipping his jeans and shucking them off his legs. "If you walk away from this now I'm going to tell my dad you were the one who attacked Lydia."
Derek freezes and then his eyes are flashing red. It's like something else takes over his body. He grabs Stiles boxers, shreds them beyond recognition. And then he's grabbing Stiles himself, turning him, upending him. He shoves Stiles onto his knees and pushes until Stiles' legs are spread. And then he's panting at Stiles' back, licking a trail down, down until he's circling Stiles' hole.
Stiles shivers again. Says, "Derek—"
"Shut up Stiles," Derek says, voice gone all wolfy and low.
He licks in, inside Stiles, into where Stiles wants something, needs something the most. Stiles whines, he can't help it.
And then Derek is licking and tonguing and biting and panting and Stiles—Stiles just turns into a quivering mass of need. He says, "I—" and he says, "Derek!" and he says, "Please."
And like that, just like that, Derek is turning him, flipping him, softer but not gentler. "What?" he says, tracing a thumb over Stiles' cheek. "What do you need?"
Stiles reaches down, tugs on Derek's cock. Derek closes his eyes, a look crossing his face like it hurts or something. And then he's pushing forward, kissing Stiles' cheek. "Okay," he says, rasps, in Stiles ear. "Okay. I've got you."
He grabs Stiles legs, twines them around his body. And then he's reaching down, moving Stiles' hand away. There's a second of nothing, nothing at all, and then there's something at Stiles' hole. It's big and blunt and too much for a second, but then Derek is in him, actually in him. It goes from too much to not enough. "More," Stiles says.
Derek starts up a rocking motion, steady and comfortable and not enough, nowhere near enough. "More!" Stiles says again, more insistent.
Derek shifts forward, thighs bracing under Stiles' thighs. He stays that way for a second, the two of them just connected. And then he's shoving in and out, quicker than before, and it's better, so much better. And then he hits this place inside Stiles that just lights him up from the inside out. "Oh my god, what is that?" Stiles says, breathless.
Derek just grins down at him, eyes flashing red again.
Derek's hips work faster and faster, running into that spot over and over and over until Stiles' eyes roll back in his head and his dick tries its damndest to come already. But it's not enough, not quite.
Stiles runs a hand down his body, grips his dick in a fist too lax from sheer bliss. Derek reaches down and covers Stiles' fist with his own and like that Stiles is coming, pleasure too much to hold back.
It takes a second for Stiles to come back to himself, but when he does it's easy to see something's not right. Derek's eyes are huge, not in red-eyed anger, but in fear. Stiles looks over his shoulder, certain he'll see Mr. Argent there with a shotgun, or maybe another wolf, and that's when he feels it.
It's hard to tell at first. He's sore already from being fucked out of his mind, but the soreness starts to intensify. It starts to feel—
"What is that?" Stiles asks, starting to share Derek's panic.
"My knot," Derek says, not a trace of wolf left in his voice.
"Wait, what?" Stiles says, because he knows about the principle of the knot, knows how big it is, how it could just tear someone right open. "Why didn't you tell me you had a knot?" Stiles asks, anger replacing fear.
"I shouldn't have one. I've never had one before," Derek says, shifting a little, and suddenly the feeling goes from ow, ow, ow to oh, oh, oh.
Dereks' knot is pressing right there and it's perfect and Stiles knows there's something he should be talking about, but he can't care about that right now. "More," he says.
"Stiles," Derek says, voice shattered. He grabs Stiles' hands, locks them with his own. "Stiles, I can't do this."
"What?" Stiles asks, fighting his way through the haze of pleasure. He sees Derek above him, face shrouded in concern. "What's wrong?"
"The knot," Derek says, shifting in Stiles again. Stiles bites his lip to keep from getting lost in the pleasure. "It's only—"
"It's only what?" Stiles asks, worry starting to grow to mirror Derek's.
"We only knot with our mates," Derek says, looking away.
Stiles' whole body clenches then and he's coming without being touched, coming for no reason but—
"Mates?" Stiles asks when he's able to concentrate again.
"Mates," Derek says, no longer looking quite so worried.
Stiles smiles, lying back and basking in the weight of another naked body on top of him. It's only after Derek not moving for another five minutes that Stiles pokes him and says, "Wait, how long do we have to stay like this?"
Derek bites his lip and looks away.
"Less than an hour. Tell me it's less than an hour," Stiles says.
Derek's face scrunches up.
"Oh my god," Stiles says, throwing himself flatter to the ground. "I hate you so much right now."
Derek looks down at him, really looks at him, and then he's smiling. "I love you too Stiles."
And that—that was what he was expecting—what he was hoping for from his first time. Love.