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A Wild of Nothing

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The house is doing that middle of the night, ‘let’s freak out some small children’ pop-shift-groan thing that had Stiles scared of the dark for way longer than was age appropriate as a kid. Ok, fine, so he’s still scared of the dark – now it’s completely justified. Back then he was just imagining monsters creeping around the shadows, nowadays he spends his time getting up close and personal with them.

It’s closing in on two in the AM, and the pound of his feet on the stairs sounds like an elephant is making a run for his room. Luckily his dad’s on the late shift tonight because, hey, whaddaya know, there’s been another set of mysterious events that keep sending local residents to the hospital. Stiles is working that case too, but from the other side – the side where he actually knows what the fuck is going on and can do something about it. It’s sort of a father-son bonding moment, minus the part where his dad doesn’t know any of it’s going on.

The light from his phone paints the hall in muted shades of blue, screen almost blinding in the dark as he taps out a response to Scott’s message about the pack heading up to the Hale property to look for Derek again. He’s got to give it to the witch bitch, turning Derek feral did make for a hell of a distraction, even if, so far, Derek hasn’t shown much of an interest in people. Which is to say – he’s Derek, only less talkative. Stiles didn’t even know that was a thing that could happen.

He’s also proven impossible to catch, because he’s the freaking alpha, and of course he is, why would anything in Beacon Hills be easy to handle?

--On my way-- he sends, rounding the corner into his room. Pauses for a second to think before adding, --Need an- and has a moment to regret how much time he spends texting instead of talking because if he was actually on the phone with Scott right now, the whole pack would be racing over to keep Derek from killing him.

Then he hits the floor.

Red eyes gleam out of the darkness above him, the rest of Derek a deeper patch of night where he’s crouched over Stiles, unnervingly familiar hands pinning him to the carpet by his shoulders. He can’t feel whether Derek’s nails are wolfified but he’s going to take it on faith since Derek’s growling at him like a very scary outboard motor from his perch on Stiles’ thighs.

“Derek,” Stiles squeaks outs around all the cardiac muscle trying to jam its way up his esophagus. Talking is one of Stiles’ four primary responses to danger – there’s also running, screaming and falling. Occasionally, flashes of brilliance, too, but he tries not to bank on that one since the second he did, he’s sure it would let him down. Plus, maybe if he can get Derek to recognize the sound of his voice, he won’t have to stick his dad with the trauma of coming home to find his only son half eaten on his bedroom floor. Not being eaten is always high on the priority list.

“Derek,” he tries again, zero percent steadier. “C’mon, man, you know me. Friend not food, ok?”

There’s a dark instant where Derek blinks and makes another rumbly noise in his chest. Fuck, Stiles can feel it vibrating right into his marrow from this position.

“Alright, maybe not friend. But, like, grudging acquaintance who’s saved your life on multiple occasions. That’s got to count for something, right?”

Derek makes that sound again and oh, crap, wait, not supposed to stare a wolf in the eyes, dominance challenge equals dead human, abort, abort. Stiles tips his head back to stare into the deeper recesses of his room instead. His eyes are starting to adjust now, and from what he can make out, Derek’s done a serious number on his living space. God he hopes his laptop is ok. And, you know, himself, because his laptop getting out unscathed without him would just be adding insult to injury. His mourners so do not need to know the specifics of Stiles’ viewing proclivities.

“Look, Derek, I don’t know if you’re getting any of this, but this isn’t you, ok? I mean it is, I guess, maybe, I don’t really understand how the whole wolf-human multiple personality id-expression thing works, but I think you’re in there somewhere and I don’t think you want to kill me. Not seriously anyway. You threaten me a lot, but I like to think of that as our thing, you know? Like how Lydia ignores me and Scott expects me to solve his life problems. It’s, like, how you show affection because you’re a big furry ball of emotional dysfunction, and I’m, like, pack and oh god, oh god.”

Derek is leaning forward, hands pressing Stiles’ shoulders into the floor hard enough that the joint grates. Rough bristles rasp at his jaw and that’s the moment he realizes that he just bared his throat to a wolf.

Hot breath whuffs against his skin, wet from Derek’s open mouth, and this is the part where Stiles should start to fight, but ha! Yeah, that’s going to work. He can’t even keep Derek from shoving him into walls when Derek has full control of his faculties. So he makes himself stay still, belly up, neck vulnerable, submitting. The alpha won’t kill a submissive. Hopefully.

Sharp, warm points drag against his throat, and Derek probably doesn’t even need to hear the staccato of Stiles’ heart, although he’s sure he can. Can probably feel Stiles’ jugular doing a tap dance against his tongue. If he wasn’t about to die horribly, Stiles might laugh. All the hours he’s spent imagining Derek’s mouth on him and he’s finally got it.

The air pushing out of his lungs shreds into a wet sound. He can feel Derek’s jaw tighten, tips of fangs digging in, splitting skin, and instead of his life flashing before his eyes, Stiles has this fucking Dali surrealist moment of feeling guilty that once the pack figures out how to fix Derek, the poor guy is probably going to torture himself over murdering a defenseless human for the rest of his life and what the fuck is that about?

The next breath he sucks in shocks Stiles’ pulse into a stutter. His neck is suddenly cool, sticky with spit and getting worse because Derek has left off from the bite debate and started licking.

“D-Derek?” See, talking in response to danger. It would be cool if he could say something other than Derek’s name, but whatever. Derek makes another one of those sounds, only this one seems happier, like the canine version of a purr with a little ‘shut up’ thrown in.

Derek spends longer than Stiles would have thought possible giving his neck an incredibly thorough tongue bath. It falls somewhere on the spectrum between feeling really good and tickling like hell and freaking him the fuck out. Of the many things Derek may be, liberal with physical affection isn’t one. Even with the pack – the real glowy-eyed, lupine-oriented pack, not the extended family of assorted whatits they call a pack – he’s more about the occasional shoulder bump and protective looming. So what, exactly, is this?

And why does it involve Derek sniffing his chest. And his pits. And now his stomach. Oh this is not ok.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Stiles makes it a quarter of the way to a sitting position before Derek slaps a hand to the middle of his chest and smacks him flat to the carpet again. The bottom part of his face is bandit-masked by Stiles’ shirt where he’s nosing the hem higher on Stiles’ torso, but his eyes are still two bright laser points. He’s got this sniff, huff, lick thing going on, liberally sprinkled with interludes of rubbing some beard burn into Stiles’ skin. It’s not as sexy as it sounds, but Stiles hasn’t managed to convince his dick of that yet.

Oh yeah, his dick? Totally down with the creepy werewolf meet and greet. In fact, it’s thinking that they need to move this soiree southward about a foot. Seriously, this is his life. With psychosexual responses this fucked, he probably won’t even be able to get it up if he ever convinces another human being to put their hands on his body.

Mouthing at Stiles’ belly button – he is going to be raw for a week; note to self, purchase razors, teach Derek to use them – Derek makes a completely foreign noise. Considering all the time Stiles has spent around werewolves at this point, he’s something of an expert on the non-verbal communications, but this one is bizarre, like a whimper and a howl had a baby and it was born really tiny and soft. It is not, in any way, a Derek Hale kind of sound. It seems hurt and lost, both of which are good descriptors for Derek most of the time, but not things he’d ever say within hearing distance of the guy. Derek’s all about the silent manpain.

Naturally, it makes Stiles feel like he should do something about it, because Derek’s his… scary stalker dude who shows up in his bedroom with alarming frequency and sometimes saves him from mortal peril. They need to come up with a shorter relationship title. Put a pin in that for some time when Derek’s got use of the human part of his brain again. But yeah, Derek’s somebody who Stiles would prefer not feel hurt and lost, and since his threshold for normal social interactions went out the window when he started spending all his time around creature-people, of course that means Stiles is compelled to stroke his hands over Derek’s hair.

Also, Stiles may have some kind of unexpressed death wish.

Derek freezes at the touch, eyes darting up at him under the dimly visible hang of his eyebrows. There’s a lot less red going on now, but not so much because they’re less luminescently terrifying as because Derek’s pupils are eating up a lot of the space. Well, it is dark in here, that makes sense, he guesses. Also totally a pre-attack thing and hey, at least his dick’s hard enough he’s probably not going to pee himself. Small victories.

Stiles’ holds his breath, like maybe he can pull the whole Jurassic Park deal and Derek won’t be able to see him if he’s really still. Not that Stiles has ever successfully been really still, but worth a shot. Derek huffs and rubs his chest –Stiles should not in any way be surprised Derek’s shirtless – against the exposed parts of Stiles’ belly and then his head is butting back against Stiles’ hands, turning his face into one to nuzzle at his palm. And lick it. Of course. There’s been more licking action in the past five minutes than the whole first sixteen years of his life combined.

For a reason that probably makes sense in the Call of the Wild deleted scene Derek’s acting out but Stiles has no hope of keeping up with, the hand thing seems to get Derek really worked up. Stiles keeps petting at him because it seems safer than stopping, but he may have to reevaluate his opinion on that one because he suddenly finds himself making an incredibly undignified chirp as Derek goes facedown in his groin.

Crotch sniffing. It’s happening. It’s a thing. Crotches are being sniffed. Sweet sugar-dipped deep fried fuck.

He can feel Derek’s mouth moving, how it’s open and he’s chuffing and rubbing and fucking breathing all over Stiles’ hard-on, which he could rent out as a concrete drill right now. Alright, yes, he’s had more than his share of inappropriate thoughts about Derek, but he’s a person with eyes, so it’s not like that’s his fault. Derek’s the one who walks around like he has a life-threatening shirt allergy. And Stiles never actually considered any of it happening. There may have been a few moments where some hate-kissing seemed like a possibility, but Derek is mind-bendingly hot and old enough to buy beer and mind-bendingly hot. Stiles can’t even get people his own age to realize he’s alive, no way was there ever a shot of Derek Hale macking on him.

Except for how he’s licking Stiles’ cock through his jeans. He can't feel the wetness through the fabric, but there's all this warm, humid pressure and he can hear the scrape of Derek's tongue on denim. Every now and again a harsher tattering sound when sharp canines catch and pull, a prayer away from doing real damage. All this slurpy grunting like all Derek wants out of life is to suck Stiles off through his pants.

A thrill like white-hot wire wound all through his system hisses and sizzles under Stiles' skin, tangled up around his organs like knotting fishing line. Derek's barely even doing anything and it's still the best… the only… Stiles is going to hyperventilate and pass out and it will be the greatest tragedy in the history of ever, bar none.

An abandoned kitten mewl explodes out of him when Derek tears his face away from the spread of Stiles’ legs – all you can eat buffet kind of spread, fucking virgin smorgasbord up in here – but then he’s shoving back between them, with his hips this time and-

“Oh baby.” Jesus, was that Stiles’ voice? He sounds like he took up sword swallowing in his ample spare time. Maybe that's because of how dry his mouth has gone, or how his throat keeps spasming like he's choking to death because he can't get enough air. Derek pulls that growly purr business, right up in Stiles’ space like he owns the acreage.

Choppy and stuttered, Derek grinds down into him, spilling all these hot, ravenous snarls everywhere as he nuzzles at Stiles’ face. The friction is electric, and he can feel Derek’s cock, how hard it is, how hard for Stiles, as if that’s not the most insane idea. And it’s kinda wrong, only without the side order of ‘kinda’, because Derek doesn’t know what he’s doing and he’d definitely disapprove of doing it with Stiles under normal circumstances, he's sure, but Stiles can’t very well do anything to stop him, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

He brings his hands down onto Derek’s back only to be stunned by the feel of the bare skin under his palms. It’s as fever hot as all the wolves run, but smooth too, unexpectedly soft when that’s the last concept anybody would ever ascribe to Derek. The feel of silk over sunbaked stone and Stiles could get lost in it so easily. Does, he guesses, because the next thing he knows he’s got a handful of Derek’s ass, pulling him down harder into this filthy dry hump thing they’re doing and holy fuck, Derek’s naked. When did Derek get naked? Did he show up naked? Has he been naked this whole time?

Naked Derek Hale is getting all up on Stiles’ junk. This might be a sign of the apocalypse.

Derek’s stubble scrapes at him again, his fucking ear this time, and he’s starting to wonder whether it’s on purpose. Scott never feels the need to leave weird scratches all over Allison’s body, to the best of Stiles’ admittedly limited knowledge, but maybe he just keeps a handle on the instinct. Or maybe Derek just fucks rough and likes to leave the people he does marked up and obvious. Stiles’ doesn’t know of Derek sleeping with anybody in the time they’ve known each other, so he doesn’t have any solid data to go by, but it sorta makes sense, the alpha marking his territory.

Shit. Stiles just managed to turn himself on in the middle of getting off. His sexual responses are so stupid-fucked.

Like the massive and difficult to explain tongue kink he’s going to have after this is over. Derek is licking his hairline. This should not be sexy but Stiles’ head keeps running off on these tangents about tasting his sweat and grooming and mating displays and somehow it’s just painfully hot.

He wishes there could be kissing, though. He likes kissing. Probably. In theory he likes kissing. The entirety of his experience comes from making out with his pillow – generally when he’s asleep – and that one time when he was eleven and convinced Scott that they needed to practice, which they both refused to count as their first kiss. Regardless, he has a feeling it would be right up his alley, especially where Derek's involved.

Somewhere in the middle ground between those two ideas is the place where Stiles' hind-brain decided it would be a good idea to lick Derek back. Because it's kind of like kissing, and hey, tongues are his new obsession. Stiles is pretty sure that's not a logical argument, but Derek's still fucking at him like he neither notices nor cares that Stiles' jeans are in the way of this being legit sex, so logic might as well live on fucking Pluto for how far out of reach it is.

The first rasp of his tongue across five o'clock shadow is like licking really sexy sandpaper. It's all salt bursting across his tastebuds and that woodsy, wet dirt and cinnamon and dude smell that Derek has. He's gonna assume Derek likes that because he makes another one of those pitiful noises and then there are big hands lighting up his skin like a touchscreen. His arms, his ribs, palming the back of his head, Derek's all over the place, touching him everywhere, punctuating the trippy, gut-punch bliss of contact with papercut jolts when claws catch.

Stiles is working to give as good as he gets, which he probably isn't, like, at all, but Derek doesn't seem to mind being pawed by a klutzy teenager. He's got great hair and goes into overdrive with the snuffling when Stiles tugs at it a little, busy memorizing the exact taste of the dip between Stiles' collarbones.

Either his backpack has become sentient and thrown itself at his head, or else they're creeping their way across the floor with Derek's thrusts. That's going to mean some serious rug burn on his back tomorrow, but hell, his front's already going to look like somebody took a Brillo pad to him, so why not. Right now his attention's too focussed on his dick to feel it away.

The buck of Derek's hips is too hard, random enough that every time Stiles thinks yeah, right there the next one skids wide. Like Derek's as clueless and desperate as Stiles is here, even though that denim's got to be chafing something awful. Like he couldn't stop himself from fucking Stiles up if every last hunter on the planet came busting into the room. It's on the verge of hurting more than it feels good and Stiles might actually, literally die if it stops.

His dick is so hard he can feel his heartbeat there better than the pounding in his chest, the throbbing in his temples. Inside his jeans, everything's wet and sticky from precome and sweat, fucking disgusting if it wasn't so hot, and his chest is sizzling under the scrunched up wad of his tee, lungs burning up with every geriatric wheeze of breath. In about a minute, he's going to lose it like the hair-trigger wonder he is and there's a chance he's going to cry because then it will be over.

Searching for something to focus himself with, Stiles ends up stuck on the ball of Derek's shoulder, mainly because it's about a centimeter from jamming straight up his nose. He buries his mouth against it instead, feeling his lips go hot and thick when Derek doesn't back down from where he's snaking his arms under Stiles' body to pull him down into shorter, more hectic thrusts. The skin here is just as perfect as it felt under his hands, salt stinging against a scraped mark on his chin. That place at the base of his spine where all the pressure build feels like it's been tied in a bow and set on fire.

He's gonna lose it. He's gonna lose it in his fucking jeans like a kid and Derek's not going to stop because Derek isn't there enough to care. Is just gonna keep using him even after Stiles is all spent and oversensitive and pliant. Just make Stiles take it until he gets what he wants because he's a wild fucking animal in there and- shit, shit.

Not even close to thinking, let alone considering consequences, Stiles bites down around the flesh in his mouth as his dick starts spilling in his underwar. The mess of it is sticky, thick, pushing back all around him and coating him in it so the last couple of spasms feel tight and wet, almost too good to stand. And then there's even more of it, spattering over his belly and seeping into the waistband of his jeans while Derek grinds out a deep, sub-sonic howl he can feel reverberating through the floorboards.

Jesus fuck, he just got Derek off. Possibly with his teeth. He's not far enough out from orgasm to handle these levels of sexy.

Also, the pack probably knows where Derek is now. Stiles is going to get around to caring about that in a minute.

For now he lets himself flop limply against the floor. Derek's still going at it, albeit at a much slower, lazier tempo. He's mostly camped out on top of Stiles - and damn but they weren't kidding about muscle weighing more than fat - puffing out hard breaths against his neck and swivelling his hips. Every now and again, he hunches up and goes tense like-

"Oh my God, are you still coming?" If Stiles thought his voice was wrecked before, it needs to be sent to the scrap yard now. It's all roughed up, an octave too deep, like his body can't find the energy to stretch for his upper range. Fucked out. This is how he sounds fucked out. Awesome.

Derek, of course, doesn't answer, what with the whole not remembering how to talk deal. Still, there's a ticklish trail of fluid starting to slide a path down Stiles' side and a lot more gumming up the works between their stomachs. This isn't really something he ever thought he'd need to know about, but now he's regretting not doing more research on werewolf orgasms.

Midway through the face portion of the second round of tongue bathing - this might not be as appealing when Stiles isn't hard, but his dick is willing to put in the extra effort to enable his shiny new fetish - Derek jerks back, cocking his head toward the door. Even fully adjusted, Stiles' eyes aren't good enough to make out the expression on Derek's face in this light, but with the way he's growling he doesn't need to either.

Distantly he hears the sound of car doors slamming - multiple, not his dad, thank fuck - and then the rattle of keys echoing through the silent house. An icy-hot dump of adrenaline splashes down in his veins as he tries, ineffectually to wriggle his way free, but then Derek's barking a sharp noise at him before hunkering down, caging Stiles' body with his own. Covering him, protective. Stiles takes a second to be flattered before he hears the front door bang open and Scott's voice shouting his name.

Freaky-swift werewolf feet tromp up the stairs, down the hallway and Stiles can feel a blush rising before several sets of shoes shuff to a stop in front of his bedroom door. Derek saves anybody from seeing Stiles' burning cheeks by cradle-forcing Stiles' face against his neck and roaring a challenge. Stiles kind of doubts that this is the less humiliating option.

From here he can't tell what's happening, but it doesn't sound to his lowly human ears like anybody's moving. Gasping, yes. Definitely some sniffing. General shuffling and murmurs. Somebody just whistled. Fantastic.

The way Scott says, "Stiles?" makes it sound like he thinks Derek killed Stiles and then molested his body. Or possibly just that he thinks that would have been preferable to their current predicament.

Just in case, Stiles gives a little wave to let them know he's still warm and breathing, although hello, heartbeat, you can hear that shit, Scott. Worst werewolf ever. Except for the big naked one still on top of Stiles The Jizz Puddle, growling at everyone they know. Close contest.

"So, anybody know how to get me out of here?" he asks hopefully. That dirty, fucked out thing his voice was doing has officially evaporated. Now he just sounds squeaky again.

Well, this is going to be awkward.