“This is the opposite of what I wanted,” Stiles says, treading water.
He watches Derek shift his weight from one foot to the other, like... basically like a dog on the side of a pool trying to decide if it’s a good idea to jump for a tennis ball or not. Except instead of a tennis ball, it’s Stiles struggling against the current in extremely cold seawater and instead of a dog it’s an effing grownup who seriously needs to man up and jump in.
“Derek,” Stiles says, sputtering. He kicks his legs out and scoops his hands through the black water, trying to gain purchase against the narrow, slippery shelf of rock that ended up being more of a drop-off than a gentle slope.
The only light in the cave comes from the huge silver Maglite in Derek’s hands, so Stiles adds, “Oh my god put the flashlight down first,” since Derek looks like he’s about to jump.
“The tide will pull us both out,” Derek says. “You shouldn’t be in the water that long. Can you get close enough to reach for me?”
“Dude just super-swim or something. You can swim, right?” Stiles is already out of breath. It feels like he’s one of those infomercial lap pools with the endless current. They’re right. It’s a hell of a workout. “Please tell me you know how to swim.”
“Yes, Stiles. I can swim,” Derek says, barely forming the words around a tight-jawed glare.
Stiles is a strong swimmer. The only reason he didn’t join the swim team was Jackson. Specifically, Jackson’s personality. And, okay, also the part where he was expected to remove his body hair for competitions. Because no.
He can handle a little riptide. For a little while, anyway. It’s mostly that the coastal cave is really dark and the water is really cold and turbulent and the kelp feels like rubbery fingers trying to drag him under, and maybe he’s had nightmares about drowning lately, so maybe his panic is overtaking the whole strong swimmer thing. Just a little.
“Derek,” he says again. Except he doesn’t, because a wave hits him in the face and he chokes on water and goes under. When he bobs up, gasping, he sees Derek jumping for him, hands outstretched. Then he’s under again, dragged down by the sucking pull of another wave. He must be near the entrance to the cave, where the water was frothier and there were sharp rocks and oh god, he’s going to die in a cave like a fucking Hardy Boy.
Not that they died. They always survived, no matter how perilous the lighthouses and caves and mysteries were. Stupid, perfect-haired jerks in cardigans. They were obviously never dealing with this kind of bullshit.
Stiles really, really wants to survive. But he can’t even find the surface now. The water rushes around him, like muffled thunder, and he can’t find the surface. He can’t find Derek. He can’t breathe. He’s reaching as hard as he can, kicking and digging, kick and dig, kick and dig.
His lungs hurt. They hurt so much.
He’s kicking and reaching. Derek. He’d cry out if he could, he’d scream out his rage and terror, but he doesn’t want to open his mouth, he doesn’t want to let the water in, he doesn’t want to die.
When something wraps around his chest and tugs, he feels like a cartoon being dragged off a stage by one of those giant hooks, which probably means he’s losing it from oxygen deprivation. He breaks the surface and breathes. He just breathes, sucking down great big squeaky gasps of air. Air is good. Air is so, so good.
Then he hears Derek screaming his name. Sort of over and over. Which is weird, because wasn’t Derek there pulling him up out of the water?
When Stiles opens his eyes, his vision is spotty like a broken TV. He’s pressed against the side of the cave, on the placid end of it, where the tide isn’t so crazy but the water is definitely still really cold and huh, he’s got a big green tentacle wrapped around his chest below his armpits. Of course he does.
“Derek,” he yells. (It comes out like a pathetic groan.) Luckily it’s enough for Derek to hear, because the mournful, horrified-sounding screams stop. Thank god. “I’m over here.” With the tentacle.
He half-expects Derek to come dog-paddling over to him, but he’s actually a beautiful swimmer. He cuts through the water from behind one of the rock columns in the cave, all Olympics sort of shit with swooping, graceful motions and shoulders everywhere. About twenty feet from Stiles he pauses and treads water.
It’s so weird how Stiles can see him. Wasn’t it really dark in here before?
“Stiles,” Derek says carefully. The asshole isn’t even out of breath.
“Hey.” Stiles knows he should be concerned that he’s hanging limply by a warm green ropey thing, but he can’t bring himself to care, because he’s absolutely certain he’s too wobbly and weak to tread water, and he doesn’t want to go under again. Ever. So, props to the tentacle.
Sea monsters do, in theory, seem like bad guys, but this one saved his life and pinned him against the cave wall nice and gently so who is Stiles to judge? It probably has a great name like Cecil or Frank.
“Look up,” Derek says. “Slowly.”
Stiles looks up. Slowly. “Holy shit,” he says. The tentacle is attached to more tentacles which are attached to a giant glowing squid thing. “That is not the droid we were looking for.”
“Yeah. Are you hurt?” Derek asks.
Stiles tears his gaze away from the bulbous, freaky-ass creature. It’s like something from Bikini Bottom. “Nope. Frank is a gentle dude.”
Derek frowns. “Are you concussed?”
“I’m not going to rule that out,” Stiles says. “But I don’t remember hitting anything. Mostly flailing and drowning which, in case you were wondering, sucks.”
Another tentacle worms out of the water and slides up Stiles’ throat and across his cheek fondly, like it agrees. Stiles appreciates the solidarity despite questioning how much a sea monster can empathize when it comes to near-drowning.
Man, he feels wonky. “Derek,” he says, knowing he should feel more nervous and less blissed out. “It’s not going to eat me, is it?”
“No.” Derek sounds weary. “It likes you.”
“In the snacky way?”
“No.” Derek swims closer, glancing between Stiles and Frank’s huge, glowing presence along the black cave wall. “Not that way.”
“The passing notes in second grade way?”
Derek gives him a sassy look. It’s nice. He gets closer, but not quite in reach. Stiles wishes he were closer because he wants to grab him and kiss him. What?
“Oh,” Stiles says, putting something together. Four and four? Putting lots of tentacles together. “Huh. I’m being roofied by an octopus.”
Derek’s expression confirms it.
Stiles gives a little shrug and pats the tentacle holding his torso out of the water. “I’m not cold or anything now. It’s pretty great.”
“It transmits toxins—”
“—by skin contact. It’s not going to let you go until you... give it seed,” Derek says, cringing his way through the last word like a schoolmarm.
“Oh. Okay. Little help?” Stiles asks.
Derek stares at him blankly, his arms moving rhythmically as he treads water. It’s unfair how he looks hot even like this, all dripping wet and lit by a sickly green glow.
“With my seed,” Stiles says, glancing down at where the lower half of his body is under the black water. The way his arms are hooked over the tentacle holding him up, he’s not going to be able to reach his dick and if a quick jerk-off is what it takes to get out of here and go home, well, Stiles is just the man for the job.
“I don’t think it wants me to help,” Derek says. “If I touch you, it may attack.”
“What? Frank, don’t be possessive. It’s not a good look on you.”
Derek stares at him.
Stiles sighs. “The Detective Handbook didn’t cover this.”
The tentacle against Stiles’ face gives a reassuring pat against his cheek, and then touches his mouth, and then pushes into his mouth. Stiles gives a little mmph of surprise and feels his cheeks go as flushed as they can in the chill of the cave that doesn’t feel all that chilly anymore. He’s just barely lucid enough to register the fact that Derek’s watching him perform sexual favors on a giant appetizer.
They are definitely not telling Dr. Deaton about this. Or Scott. God, definitely not Scott.
“Stiles, breathe. Through your nose,” Derek says.
Thankful for the reminder, Stiles does as he’s told. He’d do anything Derek advised him to do right now. This is definitely what they should write about in school pamphlets about not doing drugs. Drugs make you want to kiss and rub werewolves when you’re being molested by sea monsters.
“Good,” Derek says, looking really serious and concerned. “Just try to relax.”
Stiles would tell his face to relax, but he’s busy fellating Frank. Which doesn’t seem super productive, cause as pleasant as the tentacle tastes and how gentle it is in his mouth, it probably isn’t going to do much in the way of coaxing Stiles’ seed out of his body. Stiles is a expert at coaxing seed out of his body. He knows.
“This is my fault,” Derek says. “I should have made you wait on the cliff with Allison.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. He gestures floppily at Derek, trying to tell him that the octopus drugs are totally negating angst and that Derek’s on drugs too if he thinks he could have convinced him to stay up on the cliff with Allison and her post-breakup Pandora station.
Frank’s tentacle slides out of Stiles’ mouth, leaving a sticky trail and a honeyed aftertaste. Stiles licks his lips. They feel numb and a little puffy. Stiles touches his mouth curiously. “Seriously though, have you heard what she plays? It’s like the sad girls with guitars channel. It brings me down.” He wiggles. “Oh my god.”
“What?” Derek splashes closer, going all uncoordinated.
There’s a tentacle in Stiles’ pants.
He’s super proud of himself for deciding not to tell Derek this at the last minute. Derek will probably go crazy and wolf out and sink, because for all Stiles knows, werewolves can’t swim. They definitely look pretty dense.
“What?” Derek asks again, more frantic now.
Stiles is giggling too hard to remember what Derek is asking about. Dense. Man, that was a good one.
When the tentacle presses at him, he remembers what Derek was asking about.
“Hey, so,” Stiles says, his voice breaking at the sensation of being fingered. It’s not a bad sensation at all but it’s definitely taking up most of his awareness and making him all stuttery. “How do you even know about Frank? About sea monsters. The sexual kind, you know, these ones. Ah—is this on Peter’s laptop?”
“People tell stories about them. I always thought they were making it up,” Derek says.
“Who would make that up? Is that like, werewolf bragging rights? I lost my virginity to a giant sea creature. It was so romantic.”
“Stiles,” Derek says. He looks so sad. Stiles would find it terrible if he didn’t feel so good, and so floaty and detached and warm and full.
“I’m fine,” Stiles says. “Except I wish we could touch. I’d like that. Plus you look like you’re getting tired.”
“I’m not getting tired. And you’re just affected by the toxins. You don’t really want that.”
“I totally—ah—want that. Fuck. Oh my god.”
“Is it hurting you?” Derek is churning up the water with his agitated treading. “Stiles! Is it hurting you?”
“Nope. Not. Not hurting.” Stiles cranes his neck and looks up at the creature's squid-y face. Or at least, he thinks it’s the face. It might be the butt. He’s not really up to speed on preternatural cephalopod anatomy. “Frank. Can I make out with Derek? I really want to. Not just because of your toxins though, I mean. I’m not gonna lie, it’s helping. But I’ve had a thing for him since tenth grade and this could go down in the history books as epic first kisses, you know? Am I right?”
He looks back at Derek, and Derek has dropped in the water so that only his eyes are above the surface. He’s like a mortified alligator.
Stiles doesn’t really think he’ll get an answer, but Frank’s loving thrusts don’t give him any indications that murder or attacks are going to happen. The tentacle inside of him feels like his fingers when he gets really ambitious in the shower. Except it’s longer and... undulates? It’s totally undulating.
“Someone should patent this thing,” Stiles says.
Derek moves toward him. Stiles blinks, realizing that Derek isn’t swimming toward him, he’s being dragged by a lasso of a tentacle.
“Aw, see?” Stiles says. “Frank can hang.”
Pushed up close, chest to chest with Stiles, Derek makes an anguished sort of sound and takes Stiles by the face like some serious The Notebook kind of shit and says, “I’m sorry, Stiles. You’ll be okay. I’m so sorry.”
Stiles wraps his arms around Derek. “You’re being really dramatic. Check it out. I am okay,” he says. Then he goes to kiss Derek and misses his mouth and ends up mouthing at Derek’s throat instead. Derek’s throat is super warm and salty-tasting and feels strong under the skin and Stiles is going to give him like a million hickies. “You’re okay too, right?” he asks, the words wet and muffled. “We’re okay.”
“Before it gets to me,” Derek says quickly, his mouth at Stiles’ ear. “This. You. I want it too.”
“It? Like making out?”
“You.” Derek makes a desperate sound, somewhere between a laugh and a porn star noise. He’s still touching Stiles, his hands free to rub him and clutch at him. He’s strong, and it feels good. “Stiles. You.”
“Let’s table that conversation for the ride home, yeah?” Stiles says, squirming to chew on Derek’s jaw. It’s awesome news but there’s a tentacle in his ass right now taking precedence.
Derek holds his face and kisses him. He uses a lot of tongue, prying Stiles’ mouth open and making it deep and filthy. Between having the warm, twisting tentacle in him finding his prostate like a boss and Derek kissing him like they’re making Internet porn, Stiles is getting pretty geared up for the whole coaxing of seed thing.
Stiles breaks out of the kiss to tell Derek, “It feels really good. Dude, fuck. It feels really good. It feels really good, Derek.” It’s super important that Derek understand this. It’s like when he saw The Dark Knight at midnight by himself and had to ride his bike straight to Scott’s to climb up to his bedroom and tell him how it awesome it was.
Nodding, Derek touches Stiles mouth with his thumbs. He opens Stiles’ mouth gently with his fingers and looks at him with this dazed, warm expression that Stiles is pretty sure he has too.
“Derek,” Stiles says, after pushing Derek’s fingers out of his mouth with his tongue. “Can you reach under the water?”
“Under the water?” Derek asks. He sounds like the prince guy in The Little Mermaid when he was all, marry this random chick, sure, let’s do that this morning, that’ll be awesome, blah blah mind control.
“Yeah man, focus. Can you reach my dick? I can’t, and with the kissing and the other thing, uh, happening, I think I could get off right now. Pretty hard.”
“I think about you all the time,” Derek says.
“Wow.” Stiles nods. “That’s... okay. You are stoned now. I need you to jerk me off, Derek. Just put your hand in the water and find my dick and let’s do this thing, yeah?” The only clarity Stiles can find is the narrow focus on how bad he needs to come. He needs to come really, really bad.
The tentacle in him isn’t too thick but it’s doing things that are making Stiles crazy rock hard and edging him toward an orgasm in a really tight, shivery way and he is going to implode if he doesn't get some relief. Then he’s going to go online and find out if this whole fucking-makes-your-dick-feel-awesome thing can be replicated under less aquatic circumstances. But first, “Derek, I need you. I need you.”
Derek’s obsession with kissing continues, muffling Stiles’ ability to encourage him to get the job done. Luckily, as he grips Stiles by the back of the neck and makes out with him like he’s trying to cause permanent beard burns, he reaches his other hand into the water and palms Stiles’ crotch. His werewolf-strength makes it nice and firm. Like, stars dancing across Stiles' vision nice.
"Derek," he says, bucking his hips into the touch and back into the pressure of the tentacle that's still twisting and fingering him. He feels so full of goodness, the pressure building through his body. This is going to be like one of those crazy orgasms that makes him whimper and noise into his pillow. "Derek. Derek."
He can feel his body clench up and tighten around the tentacle as he gets close. And he doesn't just noise, he yells and chokes and throws his head back and claws Derek's shoulders and comes like he's losing his mind.
Frank retreats in what Stiles can only describe as slithering out of him, which is the first not so awesome sensation he's felt since being rescued. Stiles hopes his jeans aren't torn where the tentacle worked into them.
"Okay, seed achieved," Stiles says, breathless and fuzzy. "We are badasses."
The tentacles don't let go though. And Derek still looks totally zoned out and horny. He's staring at Stiles and still petting his over-sensitized crotch.
"Oh crap," Stiles says. "I bet you have to pony up too."
Derek's eyes widen. Stiles thinks about Derek being fucked and almost blacks out. It's one of his private, in-the-dark masturbatory fantasies. Not so much with the tentacles, but definitely with the Derek getting nailed. Not that he's ever going to admit that— "Derek, oh god, let it fuck you, it feels so good." Oops.
Feeling like an expert on being penetrated by sea monsters, Stiles rests his forehead against Derek's and hangs onto Derek's neck. "You can do this," Stiles says.
It must be Frank's roofies; he knows that's what the creature intends to do. It needs their DNA. This seems like an odd thing and makes Stiles half-wonder if Frank has a laboratory under the sea where he plans on cloning (awesome) humans. But he's not going to question it. Frank's needs are one with his own. He needs Derek to come. It's as important as breathing.
"Higher," Stiles says, reaching. The angle's off and he can't quite get to Derek's crotch. The tentacles oblige, lifting Derek out of the water. Derek has a dozen wrapped around him, like one of those gorgeous bondage pictures Stiles has saved on his hard drive.
"Oh my god," Stiles says reverently.
Derek isn't saying much of anything because he's panting, open mouthed like he's overheated. He touches Stiles and kisses when their faces bump together, but mostly he seems drunk and faraway, tossing his head and groaning. Stiles cranes his neck to see that one of the thin, undulate-y tentacles has wormed into Derek's tight jeans. Derek hisses and whines and arches. It's kind of troubling for a second, like he's trying to get away, until Stiles sees that he's trying to get his legs parted more and he's trying to rub back against it.
"Holy shit," Stiles says. He thinks if things aren't ultra weird later, he's going to find a private place to get Derek naked and touch all over him. Derek could use it, he seems sort of affection-starved and weirdly shy about stuff. And Stiles is a little affection-starved too and also really curious about how bodies work and about what Derek's body would look like clutching his fingers. "Damn, I'm getting hard again. Frank, you're a menace!"
"Stiles," Derek says softly, his voice different than Stiles has ever heard. It's soft and a little broken and wet. "Please."
When Stiles reaches again, he has no trouble finding Derek's dick. It's trapped under freezing, wet denim, but even through the fabric, Stiles can make out the throbbing heat of him. He wonders if werewolf penises are extra strong or extra hot. They're definitely a good size. Really thick. "Can I open your jeans?"
"Yes," Derek says quickly.
That takes a little more wrangling, but after a solid minute of fighting the button and zipper and the elastic of Derek's boxer briefs, Stiles gets his hands on Derek's thick, blood-hot dick and works at it with eager pulls. Derek whines out a soft, swallowed sort of sound and nuzzles Stiles with uncoordinated nudges and pushes.
"Let go," Stiles whispers.
It's like doing magic; Derek's dick gets super hard in his hands and he comes with a barked shout that kind of sounds like Stiles' name.
Stiles grabs onto Derek tightly when they suddenly begin to move. This must be what toys in the crane machine feel like. Frank lifts them out of the water and hauls them across the cave, over the frothy dark water, and places them gently on the dry rock shelf they entered on before Stiles got overly bold and waded right into the riptide.
As soon as the tentacles are gone, Stiles feels sort of empty. It's like an immediate hangover. And he's cold again.
Derek doesn't look much better off. They strip silently, peeling off wet clothes and sopping shoes, and curl together under an overhang that shelters them from the whistling coastal wind that swirls from the cave's entrance. Stiles falls asleep shivering and knowing Derek will stay awake because he's stoic like that.
When he wakes up, Stiles is warmer and dry and Derek is holding him but also holding very still, like he's super uncomfortable. That's not shocking.
"We just made out a bunch," Stiles says, feeling sore and irritable. "You can chill out, you know. It's just cuddling."
"Our clothes are almost dry," Derek says.
Stiles narrows his eyes. It's a little brighter in the cave now, but Frank is gone. The light is coming from the early morning sun bouncing off the water at the cave's entrance. "Are you going to pretend none of that happened?"
"That seems for the best, doesn't it?"
It's annoying having an argument with his head pillowed against Derek's ludicrous shoulder muscles. "Why? Because it's embarrassing that we needed calamari matchmaking to get our shit together?"
"What are you talking about?" Derek asks, sounding tired.
"I mean I'm not exactly proud that it took magic drugs to get me to admit that I like you."
Derek shifts to look at Stiles' face. "You don't have to say that. Those toxins do strange things. I know you didn't mean any of it."
Stiles stares. If he wasn't so exhausted, he'd punch Derek right in his stupid ass face. "Um, I definitely meant it. As much as it pains me to say at the moment, I like you. I have an enormous amount of like for you, even when you're too busy chewing your angst cud to pick up on like, classic crush signals."
"Did you think, that whole time, that I was just saying it because the creature wanted me to say it?" Stiles asks.
Derek looks away.
"But." Stiles scratches his collarbone and sighs. "The things you said?"
"I meant it," Derek says, still avoiding Stiles' gaze.
It's the least dominant thing Stiles has ever seen Derek do and it sends a weird thrill up Stiles' spine. They're both stupid at this. It's even footing, which is more than Stiles is used to lately, with all the supernatural bullshit blowing up all over the place. He'll take it.
"You're okay then?" Stiles asks. "Other than, you know, terminal embarrassment?"
"Yes, I'm fine." Derek cups Stiles' chin, more cautiously than he did before, when everything was going sort of pon farr on them. He studies Stiles. "You are? Okay?" His alpha voice—equal parts caring and condescending—is returning. It's comforting in its familiarity.
"Yeah," Stiles says, biting back the impulse to tell Derek that he's not only okay, but has a metric buttload of careful Google searches planned, ranging from krakens to prostate milking to great ideas for first dates. "I'm good."