“You really didn’t have to do this, you know. How much did it cost, anyway?”
“You’re right that I didn’t have to, but I did. And we’re going. And don’t you worry about the cost – that’s my job. A Mom Job.”
The windshield wipers squeaked through the raindrops as mile 30 approached on the highway, asphalt shining and sky grey. Stiles propped her feet up on the dashboard, trying yet again to get comfortable and failing when Mom shoved at her Chucks with a put-upon sigh.
“Ow, rude,” said Stiles, dropping her phone into her lap with Bubble Mania still running and plunking her feet back on the floor of the car.
“You know the rules, kiddo.” Stiles’ mom tucked her sandy hair behind one ear and peeked in the rearview before passing around a crummy looking Passat. Her wedding band flashed as they drove through a brief patch of sunlight before the rain picked up again. “Airbags only do so much,” she continued, eyebrow quirked.
“Uh-uh, I’m not Sheriff today,” her mom tisked.
Stiles slumped in her seat and yanked her hair into a half-assed braid as she tilted her head toward the window. The trees looked like blurry green mountains from this side of the rain-speckled glass.
“I’m just a regular, ol’ civilian going on a spa retreat with her daughter. Right?”
Stiles picked up her phone with a suffering sigh, wondering if Scott’s date had tanked already. She glanced up at her mom who was holding a hand out patiently for her to take, other hand curled around the steering wheel. Even as a civ she had her shirt tucked in and her boots on. She always looked like a cop. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if the Sheriff’s jacket and badge were tucked in the trunk, just in case. She wiggled her square fingers, and Stiles sighed. Had to get Stiles with the cheesy family moments when she was trapped in a car going 60, didn’t she?
“Better be quick or the moment will pass, Wiesła—”
“Mom.” Stiles couldn’t even imagine her face getting any glare-y, but then Mom started chuckling. “Mom.”
“Take my hand, squirt, and I’ll let it go.” Stiles squeezed her mom’s hand and hoped that this spa trip, however nice it would be for Mom, would be over quickly. It was Stiles’ birthday, but Mom deserved more of a treat than anyone in the world. They slowed when they reached Exit 291, and Mom threw her another considering look.
Stiles raised her eyebrows.
“You look so much like your dad sometimes. He did that same thing.”
“Dude, you’re such a sap—” Stiles let go of her hand. “If your deputies knew…”
“Dude, for a legal adult, you have got some 15-year-old attitude.”
Stiles carefully placed her feet back on the dash, watching Mom’s eyes narrow. “What’s the plan for today again?” she asked, twirling the end of her braid around a finger.
“Are we recapping or were you just not listening to me when we got in the car this morning?”
Stiles waited until her mom made eye contact again before offering her a shit-eating grin.
The spa was super nice—all parchment walls and greenish sofas and chairs that could swallow you up, and the robes were fuzzy and the pillows were purple—but Stiles was a little weirded out by the whole, ya know, nakedness equals being relaxed thing. Shimmying out of her threadbare jeans, ‘I’m A Noun’ tee, and bra and undies even, which were plaid and batman respectively, was only fun when she had Young the Giant blaring as she hopped into the shower at 11:30 on a Sunday morning. Gliding around in just a robe with all these other women sipping champagne and talking about their jobs, or their spouses, or their kids—ugh—it wasn’t exactly, like, yoga-pants-chill. Stiles might as well have been the youngest person in a five-mile radius.
Admittedly, Stiles’ mom was a little uncomfortable too, by the looks of it, eyebrows perpetually raised as she sipped on a spinach smoothie and flipped absently through a magazine. They’d had their toes done earlier, Mom picking a dark red and Stiles picking mint green, before moseying in their foamy flip-flops to the Ladies’ Lounge. When the attendant came around, Stiles had tried for a mimosa but her mom’d ratted her out and made her get orange juice instead, because she was negative fun.
Speaking of negative fun, Scott was probably at the cinema by now, maybe drooling over how Allison’s hair smelled like rainbows. Stiles sneaked her phone out of her pocket and tapped a little at the screen before Mom smacked her knee with Better Homes & Gardens and gave her a look.
“Fine,” Stiles mouthed, then scooted very elegantly to the edge of her lounge chair.
“Where’re you off to?” her mom whispered.
Stiles mimed as best she could to explain “toilet,” but eventually her mom just shooed her out. The ladies with champagne were not amused.
After too short a time, Stiles gave up on snapchatting with Scott as a lost cause, since a picture of herself panicking in her robe in the changing rooms only got a couply pic of him and Allison—with their stupid cheeks and their squinty happy eyes and Scott’s inability to not take a blurry picture—in line for snacks at the movies in response. So, Stiles wandered back out to the lounge to steal her mom’s magazine, just annoy her a little more for kicks. Stiles’ mom was nowhere to be seen, though, and she was left standing in the middle of the room.
Maybe she’d join the ladies in the corner and tell them about her children, freak them out a bit before heading to her massage?
Woah. Stiles had a massage next. She’d agreed to it because her mom said it would be nice, but shit, now there’d be someone touching on her. Shit. What if it was a scary Brunhilda type? What if it was a hot lady? Oh god, oh god, oh god—
Stiles pulled her robe more snugly around herself and looked over at the doorway to the rest of the spa, in which stood a dude.
A dude. Who was like, chiseled as fuck. Oh god, oh god. Even worse.
Stiles swallowed. “Uh, yes—yeah. That’s me.”
The guy, who was making use of his seriously serious eyebrows, frowned more deeply—maybe Stiles sounded even stupider to other people than she did to herself—before nodding and offering a hand to her.
“I’m Derek and I’ll be taking care of you today.”
Taking care of… Stiles took his hand, watching his face as he smiled briefly. Stiles wondered if coming in contact with beauty this advanced had side effects. Like acute brain cell loss.
“Please—I mean, yes. Good, thanks.”
Derek, whose shoulders were entirely too big for the black polo shirt tucked into his comfy looking khakis, smirked at her. He let go of her hand, drawing her eye to his forearms dark with hair, and his big biceps. He was unreasonably attractive, and Stiles felt her heartbeat pick up at the thought of his hands on her. Did she accidentally step into another universe where her life was a porno? Holy crap.
“First massage?” he asked as he led her down a dark hall to a small room with mud-colored walls. Stiles blushed a little under his gaze as he, after a moment of deliberation, picked lavender oil off the shelf and turned to her.
“Does it show?” she asked, shifting from foot to foot. She wasn’t hot enough to be in a porno. This wasn’t fair. She needed six months notice to at least think about working out!
“A little.” He looked down at the clipboard the front desk had given him. “Joanne?”
“No, that’s my mom. I’m Stiles,” she muttered.
“Gee, don’t wear it out or anything,” she said, tugging at her braid nervously when he snorted. No one except Scott thought Stiles was funny, usually. At least Derek wasn’t the complete wall of stoicism his jawline made him out to be. The fact that this guy was at least a little amused by her felt a little like her stomach was performing gymnastics. Exhilarating and nauseating. Stiles looked around the dimly lit room as Derek made some last-minute preparations. The table in the middle was covered in a thick white blanket that looked soft as clouds. “That blanket looks like clouds,” she said when the silence had gone on too long, closing her eyes in shame as soon as the words left her mouth. Way to go, Stilinski.
His eyes lingered on her for a moment before picking up the clipboard. “I think I accidentally got the wrong papers. Anything you want me to focus on, today?”
“Uhm. My body?”
Another, surprised laugh. “Of course.” Derek walked toward the door, lips quirked like he was hiding a smile. Stiles looked up at him, mind running over the fact that Derek would see her naked in like, T minus 60 seconds. Oh god. “I’m gonna leave the room,” he said quietly, “and you can get comfortable under that cloud blanket. Face down. I’ll knock when I’m back.”
When the door shut, Stiles threw off her robe and clambered into place. With a deep breath, she tucked her face into the donut-shaped attachment at the head of the table, and prayed to Jesus that she wouldn’t make an ass of herself.
“Cloud blanket,” she muttered. “Face down. Fuck.”
Stiles blinked her eyes open, mumbled an affirmative, and did as instructed when Derek poured some lavender oil into his hands and waved them in front of her face. Deep breaths. Everything smelled like flowers. Mm.
And then it was happening.
His slick hands were warm as they swept across the breadth of her shoulders in long, slow patterns, pressure steadily growing as he figured out exactly how much time Stiles spent in front of her computer. (It was a lot.) Stiles held her breath when he pushed slowly through a knot and let it out when his hands brushed down her arm to her spindly fingers.
And despite trying her hardest, Stiles was curious, and catalogued every moment. For science.
After working at her hands on either side, reducing Stiles to a puddle of goo and sharing what Stiles would surely be thinking of as intimate hand-holding moments afterwards, Derek pulled the cloud blanket back over her shoulders and then moved away.
No, come back.
Derek did, because he was clearly catering to her every whim, and Stiles hummed quietly when he pulled the blanket down to her—woah—to the base of her spine and pumped more oil into his hands. Stiles got a nice view of his shoes, which were funny grey Nike sneakers, and his khaki legs, but then regretted her decision to open her eyes because his hands swept down her back, and holy god those hands could travel and this was real. The heels of his palms dug into the muscle at the dip of her spine, fingers sweeping for a small moment over the curve of her ass under the blanket, and Stiles whimpered.
“Pressure okay?” Derek asked, clearing his throat.
Stiles nodded, watching him shift his weight, tensing for the next moment. This was affecting her more than she’d anticipated. She’d expected more eh-stranger-touches than ooh-Adonis-touches.
He moved around again, pressing his forearms up her ribcage and over her shoulder blades to her neck, and Stiles could feel the knots in her back releasing. She shook a little, because it hurt but in a good way. Really fucking good. Too good.
Stiles pressed her legs together.
“Relax,” Derek said, voice gravelly. “Take deep breaths.”
Stiles moaned a little as he pressed his thumbs into the dip of her back again, her fingers clenching in the blanket.
For what seemed like an eternity his hands moved over her, up the muscles alongside her spine and into her hair, raking down her neck and brushing away any tension she had even thought of holding in her muscles. She was floating. Derek made her floaty. And goosebumpy. Derek was awesome. Every press of his fingers into her lower back, every accidental brush of his clothes against her skin, fed into on loop of pleasure-pain and awesome.
But then, air hit the back of her legs, and Stiles was suddenly, totally awake again. The music, which had been playing some sort of plinky piano cover of Enya or something, changed to a waterscape with synthy starburst noises and panpipes—and you know, Stiles couldn’t even bring herself to care, because Derek was digging his knuckles into the flat of her foot, then the other, and then his hands were sweeping up her legs.
Stiles huffed out a breath, biting her lip as his hands traveled higher and higher, and then his fingers were moving up her inner thigh, and Stiles was wet, oh god. Derek could probably—
There was a stutter of a moment where Derek’s breath went a little odd, and then he was squeezing the meat of her thighs a little harshly. Stiles moaned again, back arching even as she tried to keep quiet, and then Derek’s hands were retreating. Stiles took another breath. Derek began on her calves next, and Stiles was wired with how good Derek’s hands felt on her. This was unreal.
“Turn over,” Derek said, and lifted the blanket to cover her when Stiles leaned up on shaky arms and steeled herself. Her face was likely tomato red. Stiles turned over, taking a deep breath and wiping at her face before lying on her back. Derek was looking at her like, almost like she was a drink of water in a desert or something. A buzzing rush started in her pit of her belly and sizzled up along her spine and to her knees. She stared up at him, at the deep furrow between his dark eyebrows, at his parted lips and the flick of his eyes as he looked down at her. Stiles must’ve made a noise, because he was suddenly looking at her, eyes widening, then he was staring resolutely at the far wall.
Stiles looked away. The blanket came down to rest over her skin, and Stiles felt the cooler air settle against her. She shivered, and her nipples tightened, and her hands flattened against the table.
Derek’s jaw was clenched as he took more oil into his hands and slipped them under her shoulders. Stiles couldn’t help but watch him with lips parted as he worked, hands working more magic on her tense shoulders, dragging knuckles and strong fingers. When he hit a good spot, Stiles couldn’t help another gasp, and their eyes met again.
And hell, Stiles thought, if there was any time that her life could be a porno, it should be now when this hot dude was clearly fighting how into her he was.
Stiles was nothing if not an opportunist and a very lucky girl. She lifted a hand from beneath the blanket, and slipped her fingers around his warm wrist. The movement arched her back a little, and Stiles felt the blanket shift down her chest. Goosebumps erupted across the newly exposed skin. His fingers bit into the cords of her shoulder muscles, before he bent over her and fit his lips to hers.
Stiles’ “Oh!” was muffled against him. It was weird to kiss someone upside down, although Stiles had always thought kissing itself was a bit strange—if terrifyingly amazing once you started kissing people who weren’t eighth grade Scott. Derek’s lips were soft and he cupped her face once he remembered to stop squeezing the hell out of Stiles’ shoulders. His tongue was pretty great, too.
She’d just got her hands into his soft dark hair when he pulled back. “Sorry—is this okay—”
“Yes, no keep kissing me!”
Stiles moaned, blanket falling a little too far down her torso to be PC anymore (but this whole event probably didn’t pass as PC anyway), and Derek made a noise in the back of his throat. He moved to her side so they weren’t Spiderman-kissing anymore—check that milestone off the list—and then his palm was sliding down her breastbone and pushing the covers off of her. Stiles broke off the kiss, watching her tummy twitch as he swept his hand across it to the curve of her hipbone. He stopped at her waist as he kissed below her ear, but the blanket was so low Stiles could just see the shadow of her pubic hair beneath the blanket. If he just—
“So pretty,” Derek said, tracing a cluster of moles over her ribs and then meeting her eyes again. He leaned over and kissed her again, and then Stiles could swear he was like, growing limbs because his hands couldn’t get enough.
“You too,” Stiles said dumbly, and wrapped an arm around his neck. His hands swept up her stomach to her breasts cupping them and squeezing, thumbing her nipples, and he pressed a kiss under her jaw when she gasped. Stiles couldn’t help but shake as she pushed her hands back into his hair, amazed how Derek looked now—devastated, absolutely wrecked. Stiles pressed her thighs together with a moan when he kissed down her chest and sucked a nipple into his mouth. Stiles had never paid much attention to her boobs unless they were pillowing Scott’s wibbly face as he whined about Allison, but damn, boobs were great. She was shivering and hot all over and her toes were curling and, god, she just wanted to get her fingers on her clit—
“Can I, can I touch you—I should’ve…” Derek said, forehead resting on her sternum. “I shouldn’t.”
“You so should,” Stiles moaned, and then he was fitting his big hand between her legs, fffff—“fuck! Oh…”
Derek straightened up and leaned on the table so he could watch her move, fingers rubbing slick against her pussy. Stiles closed her eyes and let her legs fall open, grabbing at the table and pressing up into the pressure of his fingers until Derek made a tortured sort of sound—
Stiles opened her eyes, spotting him leaning against the table, an obvious bulge in his stupid khakis. She reached out and cupped the curve of his dick through the material, but he distracted her by slipping a finger against her wet slit, teasing for only a moment before slipping into the tight heat of her pussy.
“Unh—Derek,” Stiles moaned pitifully when he started fucking into her slowly. His thumb found her clit and began to tease in small circles, making her shudder.
“Shh,” he said, and broke into a little smile when Stiles sat up and kissed him again. He rewarded her with another finger once she was so distracted she started kissing his chin. Her hips kind of were doing their own thing as she grabbed a hank of his hair and held on, and his other hand came up around her waist, cradling her against him. Stiles was a tall girl, but Derek made her feel nice and delicate in his arms.
“Make me come?” Stiles said, lips against his neck, and that must’ve broke something in Derek because he just started talking. Whispering things like:
“Fuck, if I could get my hands on you all the time…” or “…had more time, I’d taste you” and the like, which were kinda funny in porn, but when they came outta his mouth—judging how wet Stiles was they worked just fine. Derek echoed her sentiments with a barely audible, “So wet,” as Stiles shook under his hands. He crooked his fingers up and Stiles could’ve sworn she was seeing stars. “Train you up, you’d come so good for me.”
“Holy—god, oh!” Stiles arched her back, overwhelmed and frankly blindsided by what was happening. She stroked her hands down his arms corded with muscle, tanned and warm. He leaned over her more, shushing her, pressing his nose to her temple before she moaned again and he had to kiss her to shut her up. Stiles had negative complaints, other than the fact that Derek wasn’t even remotely naked.
“Take these—” She managed to tug at the sleeve of his polo, and he groaned a little.
“I can’t—I can’t,” he complained, slipping another finger inside her and crooking up into that perfect spot that made her feel all at once wound tight and spread thin.
Stiles went silent, mouth and eyes wide, before shaking her head and demanding, “Let me see your dick, yo. Eye for an eye.”
“I don’t think that phrase means what you think it means,” said Derek, smiling as she pulled at his shirt.
“Whatever, Inigo Montoya. Let’s be fair though.” Derek huffed, slowing his fingers as she wrestled valiantly with his belt and khakis, and then shoved his polo up his chest so she could see him. He was as hot as she’d suspected, pecs lightly furred and abs cut like marble. “Oh, my god, how are you real?” she whispered, running her fingers through the dark trail of hair that disappeared under the waistband of his pants.
That wouldn’t do at all. With some quick maneuvering Stiles soon had a fat, pretty dick in the circle of her hand, and Derek was making small noises of his own. He was a little wet himself, cock red and thickening as she stroked him to full hardness. Dicks are better in person, she thought absently, and then Derek distracted her by thumbing at her clit in tight little circles.
“Gotta come for me first,” Derek said, renewing his efforts, but Stiles was stubborn, grabbing his shirt in her fist, pressing into him, and jerking him with her free hand. “Oh, is it a race now?” he laughed a little, breathless when she rubbed over the head of his dick, glancing down to see a bead of precome slip over her knuckles.
“I’m—oh,” Stiles whined quietly, shivering and writhing on the table. She was so close, and damn it but her forearms did not have enough jerk-off experience. “I’m going to lose,” she said, and Derek held her tighter as she let go of his dick and grabbed his arm instead, “I don’t even know why I—ah!”
“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek growled. He sucked a kiss into her neck before whispering, “Come on.”
Stiles seized up, nerves on fire as she clenched around his fingers, gasping, head falling back. For a moment, even the room seemed to tilt, but Stiles held tightly to Derek, pressing crescent moons into his skin with her fingernails until her body stopped shaking. Things were a little fuzzy after that.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Derek said, kissing her and pulling her closer to him, fingers slipping out and rubbing her clit softly, setting her off a little, again.
“Stop that,” she groaned as her legs juddered, giggling when she saw the smug smile on his face. Stiles let herself be rearranged until he was leaning into the vee of her legs, still standing. Cupping her face, he kissed her languidly, and Stiles let her hands rove down his chest as he jerked himself off. Stiles thought about how his dick might feel fucking into her, and the thought was dizzying. She slipped her hands around to his lower back, feeling the curve of his firm ass, tugged him close and squeezed.
“I’d let you put your hands on me all the time, just saying. I’d let you… I wanna feel your dick inside me,” she whispered, fingers scraping across to his abs and down the tops of his thighs, and Derek was coming over his fist, some of it catching on her stomach, her thigh. He gasped out a tortured little sound, and then his face cleared.
“Shit, I’m so fired,” he said after a moment, looking dazed.
“Shh, no, you’re fine. I’m gonna shower, erase the evidence, you’re gonna go on with your life, seducing all your clients—”
Stiles looked up at him, sliding to the edge of the table and into his space, pressing into him.
“I’ve never done that before,” he said, frown returning. “You seduced me, god, with your moaning and your flirty jokes…” He ran a hand through his hair and looked away before his eyes found their way back to Stiles, sitting like the cat that got the cream, head tilted, braid mussed, the vee of her legs still pink with arousal.
Stiles felt a little bit of fondness nestle in her chest. “You sure do know how to make a girl weak in the knees.” He looked up at her face, and she took note of his amazing eyes. Nothing about this was reasonable. “I mean, if you hadn’t already done so with your magic fingers, that line woulda got me. I’ve never done that either, by the way.”
Derek swallowed and looked away, tucking himself in, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Why? Ten out of ten would do again,” Stiles said. “Really though, you probably deserve style points, too.” Stiles nobly resisted making massage jokes.
Seemingly despite himself, Derek snorted a little in laughter. Stiles watched as he tucked his shirt in and washed his hands. Realizing a little too late she was still super naked, she put her robe on, but not before tracing a finger through the tacky mess on her stomach. Huh.
“See you never, I guess?”
Derek’s shoulders tensed. He took the pen off his clipboard and stormed across the room. Stiles raised her eyebrows at him as he grabbed her hand and wrote his number on her wrist. Stiles gaped at him until he raised his eyebrows, shaking her arm a little for emphasis.
“Thanks for the massage, Derek.”
“You’re welcome,” he muttered. Stiles leaned up and kissed him, letting him know how much she meant it, before he opened the door and watched her walk back to the women’s locker room.
Stiles did shower and get rid of the evidence, but not before putting Derek’s number into her contacts and texting Scott, because bros were bros. And, you know, she had to tell someone how much pure magic had just happened—because it was not going to be her mom.
Stiles collapsed on the bench in front of her locker, staring at her phone, and then at her wrist.
Derek gave Stiles his number. After mind-blowing, unprofessional, massage sex.
i think i just lost my virginity? Stiles typed to Scott as she pulled on her clothes, trying to keep her balance even though her legs were wobbly and her brain was fuzzy and her endorphins were kicking her butt in the best way. well… half-way virginity? yea
WHAT. STILES WHAT HAPPENED ARE YOU OKAY!?
dude, so okay rn u don’t even kno
HOW DID YOU
I’M GONNA CALL YOU TONIGHT OMG
“Stiles, kiddo,” her mom called, walking in from the lounge with her robe still on and her hair an oily mess sticking out at all angles.
Stiles straightened up, braiding her hair after stuffing her phone into her jacket pocket. She smiled at her mom, silently pleading that she wouldn’t ask too many questions. Please please please.
“Massages are great, aren’t they?” her mom asked, as if Stiles would ever doubt her again. And then she was unlocking her locker and sluggishly putting her clothes back on.
“They are so—” Stiles flailed out an arm, knocking her mom’s purse off the bench. She scrambled to pick it up. “Yes. They’re great!” Her mom glanced at her, quirking an eyebrow. She fished her hairbrush out of her purse and quickly pulled it through her hair. “Best birthday present ever,” Stiles continued with a wide grin, and turned away to roll her eyes at herself. Apparently Derek did cause brain cell loss.
On the way home, she texted Derek.
You’re the best, Inigo! ;) We should schedule another massage soon. Or just a coffee? Movie? Whatever you want I’m clearly easy.
Derek’s response was golden.
As you wish. - Derek