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His Hands Illuminate

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Stiles is totally keeping it together, even though it's his first heat. He's... he's doing fine. Super. Super-fine. He isn't going crazy, at all, even though he's been hard for what feels like eleventy-million hours and his brain's leaking out of his ears.

The reason he's doing fine is because he isn't at school, where there are girls - and boys - and surfaces - and desks - and things. Scents. People being stupid enough to make out in corners, giving off a heavy, sweet, sodden scent that smells a hell of a lot like Stiles imagines a tropical flower would smell like, except he's never been to the tropics. Or to Mrs. Argent's designer greenhouse. Because Mrs. Argent is scary. (And also hot, whispers a horrifying, traitorous part of his mind, which he immediately shuts down by sheer force of will, because his mind isn't exactly a discerning judge of hotness, right now. He's very carefully not thinking about Mrs. McCall, or her nurse's uniform, or her - oh, fuck, no. No.)

He's also sane because Dad's not home, and he can't possibly imagine surviving with his sanity intact if he actually has to explain to his Dad why he's hard. In front of his Dad. That's - that's just so many kinds of wrong that just thinking about it makes him want to puke, except that wanting to puke also makes him want to come, because his wiring's all messed up and every single sensation or urge makes him want to fuck and thrust and come his brains out, including the sensation of stomach-crawling terror and the urge to hang himself in self-disgust.

Too bad he doesn't have a girlfriend. Like Lydia. Or a boyfriend. Like Danny. Or just a friend, like Scott, and - no, ew, wrong. WRONG, even, god, that thought deserves a caps lock. Not that it was a thought. It wasn't a thought. It was a non-thought. It was never a thought. It never even occurred; it was a non-event in the time-space continuum; it didn't leave a single ripple in the fabric of the universe.

Physics. He has to think about Physics, has to think about Math, has to think about every subject he can't stand and every gross, bald-pated teacher he hates, except that ohgodnonono, fuck, he can't even - he can't think about anyone without his dick twitching, this is ridiculous -

Breathe. Breathe.

He's… fine. He's just fine. He's going to - clear his mind. Buddha-style. He's not going to think about anyone, especially not the person his dick most wants him to think about, most wants him to rub against, most wants him to come against, jizz slicking that leather jacket, thighs straddling denim-clad legs, hands clawing those massive, perfect, boulder-like shoulders.

He's - he's jerking himself off. Just like that, he's jerking himself off, down on the floor of his bedroom with his face pressed to the boards, underwear shoved down and off his feet, and the floor isn't cold enough to leech the heat out of him, isn't rough enough for him to hurt himself with, isn't implacable enough to make him stop -

No. No. He'd promised not to jack himself off, because he knows he won't be able to come unless it's with someone else, and, shit, he really will drive himself insane, but now that his hand's down there, he can't stop, and he's leaking so much pre-come that the sound of his palm moving on his own cock isn't just slick, it's fucking sloppy, and it makes him whimper and stare down at himself and want someone else doing that, someone else having that, someone else having him -

- not -

- not the owner of the shoes that've just appeared at the door to his bedroom, except that it's exactly the person he's been thinking of, the same denim-clad legs, the leather jacket, the overwhelming scent of aftershave and soil and rabbit-blood and male.

His male. His Alpha, and he shouldn't think like that, because it's not allowed, because he's just an Omega, just a... a thing, an extra thrown in with Scott, someone that wouldn't even belong in the pack if Scott hadn't joined it, first.

Which is why he has to deal with this alone, has to prove he can deal with it alone, prove he doesn't need to be locked up like a rabid dog in the Hale house or driven to some far-off brothel so some particularly unfortunate whore can 'take care' of him before he goes batshit and grows fur and slaughters the whole town.

Scott has Allison. Jackson has Lydia. Everyone has someone, except for him, and he can't take the thought of them knowing, the pity in their eyes...

In Derek's eyes.


Derek's here.

Derek's here, and he's looking at Stiles, and Stiles is sprawled half-naked on the floor with his own hand moving on his dick, and he can't stop it - can't turn over, can't hide himself, can't cover himself up.

"You should have told me." Derek's voice is - it's Derek's voice, and Stiles shudders, shoots another string of pre-come over his knuckles.

"I - I - "

"Hush." Derek's crouching. Derek's hand is on his leg - fuck, he's going to come, he's going to -

He does, quaking from head to foot, and a bit of stray semen lands on Derek's shirt, but Derek doesn't even flinch, just drags him closer.

Drags him closer by the ankle, and, shit, he's hard again -

"N-no. No, please - "

"You should have told me," Derek repeats, implacably, and his palm slides to the inside of Stiles's thigh. Stiles can't stop shaking. Can't stop gasping - "You can't survive your first heat alone."

"D-don't. Don't need a pity fuck - "

"Is that what you think this is?" Derek's head tilts, and he actually looks curious, but then his free hand's undoing his belt, and Stiles's eyes fly down to it, to that glimmer of metal in the near-darkness, to the source of that sound, of that terrifying, echoing clink.

He's coming again, he's -

Derek's whole forearm is wet, now, wet with Stiles's come, and the sight and the smell of it makes his hips judder, makes his mind go blank.

He was supposed to be saying no, he was - he was supposed to be saying something -

"This is the quietest I've ever seen you," Derek murmurs, almost contemplatively, but it turns out that he wasn't taking off his own belt to get naked, after all, because he just presses it against Stiles's mouth.

Forces it upon his mouth, between his lips, and it hurts.

"Bite down on this," Derek says, and forces it in still further, until Stiles's jaw unlocks, and it's -

It's right there, taste of old leather and Derek's sweat, and it's making him hard again, making saliva pool in his mouth.


"Mngh," says Stiles, and bites, because - because Derek told him to, because his Alpha told him to, because, even though he wants to wrench away, he can't say no.

"Do you know why you need that?" Derek's question is almost idle.

Stiles can't even reply, can only writhe with his feet scrabbling against the boards, the belt growing damp and rank upon his tongue. He needs to come. He needs to keep coming -

"You'll scream." Derek's hands are the exact opposite of soothing on his skin. "That's why. Can't have you waking up the neighborhood… It's a good thing your father's on the night-shift."

The words make no sense. All Stiles knows is that Derek is touching him, that Derek's here, that Derek's hard, too - Stiles can pick up the scent -

Stiles's legs spread. They spread almost without his volition, and Stiles can barely comprehend this, can barely understand what's happening or why, but his hips arch and his thighs twinge and he knows he looks like a slut, like a bitch, but he's presenting himself, spreading as wide as he can and showing Derek his hole, hoping that Derek will smell it, that Derek will want to fuck it. The fact that Stiles is doing this, the fact that he's acting like this, is a shock and a humiliation that makes him turn his head against the floor, makes his face flush and tears leak out of his eyes.

"No. No, Stiles." Derek's voice is gentle, and Stiles wants to fucking kill him for this, for showing up like this, for getting Stiles to act like this - "Not now. I won't - not like this. Not when you can't - "

Can't what? Can't spit the belt out and ask for it? Beg for it? God, he wants to - has to - but his Alpha has commanded him to keep the damn belt between his teeth and that's exactly what he's doing, he can't do otherwise, even though what he wants is to cry out in a never-ending litany of fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme, or maybe just shove Derek back and tear off his jeans and spear himself on Derek's dick -

"Stiles. Listen to me."

He can't. His body keeps moving for him, dry-fucking the air in obscene, aborted motions and his legs keep spreading. Shit, he's going to sprain something...

"Stop." And suddenly, there's a pressure on his belly that takes Stiles a moment to identify as Derek's hand, because Derek's holding him down with fingers splayed on his stomach, and Stiles -

Stiles growls, he can't help it, and his fangs slide out of his gums in a slow, burning ache that doesn't lessen when they bury themselves in Derek's belt.

Derek wants him. Derek wants him, and it's probably just the Alpha bond and basic empathy, but Derek could fuck him, and isn't fucking him, and all Stiles wants to know is why -

"Stay. Stay." Derek's words are implacable, imbued with power, and his eyes are red, and he's -

He's so beautiful, he's -

Stiles stays. He stays, hips stuck to the floor, and now he can't even thrust, can't even move, can't even -

Screw the Alpha and his goddamn sadistic commands.

"Stiles. I'll take care of you. I promise."

Fuck me, you bastard, is all Stiles can think, and it's not much to ask for, surely. He only needs Derek in him, rutting into him, coming inside him, marking him; he only needs Derek hurting him, bruising him, killing him, his fangs buried in Stiles's throat -

Kill me, Stiles is thinking, and it doesn't make any sense, but it's true, and he hopes the Alpha can fucking hear him - Kill me. Killmekillmekillme, fuck me -

Derek snarls. His eyes are blazing red, now, and he's staring down at Stiles, like -

Like he wants to do what Stiles wants him to, wants to hurt Stiles, want to tear him apart - but then Derek's eyes are clearing, and they're narrowing, and, shit, Derek's fangs are going back in.

"Greedy little bitch," Derek mutters, and smiles, and it's the same smile that had petrified Stiles, once, that had made him realize how being the Alpha would change Derek, would change them all.

There's a low, continuous whine rising from Stiles's throat.

"Good boy. Good boy, just - stay put and let me do this for you - "

And then Stiles is choking on his own spit, because Derek's down there, hands cupping the backs of his knees and pushing them up and apart, even further apart than Stiles had managed at his most desperate, far enough apart to feel the stretch like he can feel his hunger, unbearable and knife-sharp and taut.

"The way you smell," says Derek, and his breath's so warm, close and moist against Stiles's cock, as Derek's hair brushes his inner thighs. "I can always smell you, you know that? But not like now, not like - fuck, you're so - you make me want to give you what you need."

Then give it to me, Stiles can't say, but he can moan, and Derek's hands actually tighten on him, hard enough to leave bruises, to leave what will be rings of painful, discolored flesh that Stiles will touch once this is done and jerk himself off all over again.

"And I will, once you're old enough, once you're - you're still a child."

Stiles glares mutinously at that. What the hell? Children don't get hard-ons - okay, they do, but -

- fuck. Fuck. Derek is breathing on his dick. He's -

"Nn," says Stiles, when what he wants to do is scream, and Derek was right, Derek was -

Derek is mouthing Stiles's dick. He's - he's got a (rough, callused, painfully dry) fist wrapped around the base, and it's like the best (worst) vise ever, because it's keeping Stiles from coming, and it's -

Derek's mouth is so hot -

Stiles can feel his stubble. The sandpaper rasp of it, followed by a licking flame of tongue -

"Mnh," and he's... he has to thrust, has to, but he can't, because his Alpha told him to stay still.

Derek takes his mouth away. Stiles whines, but then Derek takes his hand away, too, and it's like the fall of a fucking axe, because, sudden as a decapitation, Stiles comes.

He comes like something's being torn out of him, and he yells through the belt's gag, because his body's shuddering like it's in shock and his legs are twitching like he's been electrocuted. His jizz splatters on his bared stomach and soaks into the T-shirt rucked up on his chest, dampening the cotton like drops of the heaviest, warmest rain.

"Good," says Derek. "Good. Once more."

And Derek's going down again. Again, as hot and perfect as before, more perfect, because this time, Derek sucks - and it's exactly like dying, it's better than dying, Stiles doesn't know what dying is like but if it's like this, he sure as hell needs Derek to kill him.

Derek's fist is back, too, holding Stiles's dick steady, because it keeps jumping and leaking and fuck, the sounds Derek makes are sloppier than the ones Stiles'd made before.

He comes, the moment Derek takes his mouth and hand away, and then Derek's back, doing it all over again, over and over again, and it's starting to goddamn hurt but Stiles can't stop. His come hits his chin more often than not, and he can feel Derek's spit sliding down his balls, dripping off them, and he's... He's juddering, helpless, gone...

That fist, that mouth, that fist - catch and release, catch and release -

Please, he's thinking, please, but he can't say it.

Coming is worse every time - tendrils of black edging into his vision. It's still good but it's bad, and then, after a couple times, it isn't good at all. Stiles hadn't even known sex could be like this, but all he wants right now is for it to stop.

The skin of his cock is fucking sore with friction, scalded, and there's a sharp, lancing pain in his jaw (clenched tight around the belt) and in his crotch, deeper than the flesh, like there's a metal wire in him that's burning hotter by the minute and is being pulled out, inch by lightning-red inch, out of his dick.

It hurts, it hurts so much, and he can't stop coming and can't stop screaming and can't stop crying, eyeballs boiling in his skull and in their own tears, swollen to what feels like the weight and consistency of rocks. His whole body's swollen, overheated and fighting a losing battle, sweat pouring off it in waves of agony that never, ever cool him - and he's coming through it all, coming so many times that he loses count, drowning in the thick scent of his own semen, suffocating in it until he wants to hurl. His stomach twists inside of him and bile rises in his acid-choked throat.

"One more time," says someone, voice smoke-heavy and scratchy, like it's been dragged over glass. "You're doing fine. You're doing fine..."

Fuck no, he's not. He's - oh, he's sobbing, he can hear himself.

Down. Down again, coming again, but this time, there's nothing bursting out of him, nothing yanked out of him. His dick jerks, scraped raw and what feels like bloody, but there's no ejaculate, and his balls ache like bruises.

He's -

- black -


- black -

"Stiles. Stiles!"

"...nhuh. fuh - Der - " The belt's fallen out of his mouth. Oh, shit. Dis - disobedience is -

"Wake up. Wake up - "

"'m. Sorry. S-sorr - "

"Don't. Don't talk. Breathe. Just breathe..."

Stiles breathes, blinking up at the ceiling, which sparks and heaves like a midnight sea, like a skein of starry cloth, like -

His entire face is wet, and he isn't even sure if what he's smelling is come or tears or his own saliva.

Now that the gag's not in his mouth, he's drooling all over himself.

His dick's fucking abraded.

He feels... He feels...





He feels -

- a palm stroking through his hair.

Derek's looking down at him.

"Hey," says Derek, softly, except that it doesn't sound like Derek. It sounds like a guy who's given… how many blowjobs in how many hours? What time is it? Could Dad even be home, yet? Shit.

"'ey," rasps Stiles, and looks around him. The room's - like a room again. He feels like a person again. A very… sticky person. Covered in all kinds of things. He reeks. "M' Dad'll think I had an orgy in here," he manages, finally, even though he still can't get his voice to work right, can't get it to be anything other than broken and patchy and weird.

Derek snorts. "He'd be right."

Heh. Stiles should probably find that even funnier, except for the sick, odd feeling he has that he's actually just lost his virginity, and it was to Derek, and it was so fucking horrible that he's not even sure he'll ever want to have sex, again.

Not that it was Derek's fault - Derek was just helping him - but that makes it more awful, somehow, like... like it was only duty. It wasn't even with someone Stiles had had sex with before, so that he had something for comparison's sake, something to comfort himself with, something with which to tell himself, Hey, it actually feels great. Most of the time.

If the heat is always so bad, how the hell do werewolves even reproduce? There oughta be, like, werewolf monasteries, or something. Maybe there even are. How many years has Derek gone without a mate? He sure seems to have mastered the Zen of Abstinence, or whatever it is. Or maybe Kate traumatized him so bad, he's biologically repressed his own heat. Or maybe he just locks himself up and claws the walls of the Hale house to shreds.

Like he's going to have to claw his jacket to shreds.

Jesus. Poor bastard; Stiles totally ruined his jacket. No way can Stiles afford to pay for the dry-cleaning, though; he's already used up his allowance for the month.

"Stiles," Derek says.

Possibly Stiles's head is lolling. Possibly Stiles's body is trembling - or it wants to tremble. It's too exhausted to actually do it, but Stiles can feel it happening anyway, somewhere under his skin. In his veins. In his blood.

"You'll be okay."

Yeah, right, he'll be okay. Just a flesh wound. Just a...

He's laughing. Croaking, maybe, and, shit, he'd thought he'd drained himself of tears, but, whaddaya know, here they are again -

Derek touches his face. Just... touches it, with his fingers lightly resting underneath Stiles's eyes, and then he's sitting up. Stiles watches him, hiccuping, breathing, hiccuping, trying to breathe -

He's so tired he can barely stay conscious.

Derek strips him. Drags Stiles's T-shirt right off of him, Stiles's arms uncooperative and easily tangled. Then, Derek gathers Stiles to himself, like a pup or a child, and carries him to the bed.

Stiles flops like a goddamn pancake that's been cooked too long; his limbs hang off the mattress until Derek arranges them for him. Like Stiles is a corpse. A corpse in a freaking coffin, and Derek's the creepy mortician that's going to… put funeral make-up on him, or something.

Whoa, his brain's so weird. Even when he's…

What is he?

The breeze from the open window is cool. It's so good, so sweet. It's the best thing ever, the - oh, even cooler, now, because it's damp, because Derek's - Derek's got a damp cloth from somewhere and is wiping him clean.

A few hundred maximum-intensity showers won't be enough to get the smell off him, Stiles suspects. Lydia and Scott and Jackson will immediately know, as soon as he gets to school on Monday. It's a Saturday night. He has one more day. One more day to wish this had never happened, to wish he'll never have to look Derek in the face, to wish he'd damn will chosen to stay a human being -

"Stop," says Derek. Whispers, really. "Stop thinking. You need sleep."

"Mm." The cloth's so nice - a cold, moving trail of relief, of - if not being clean, then, at least, being cleaner -

Stiles's eyes are drifting shut. They prickle with still-unshed tears, and he feels achey and numb and disembodied, but... Derek's right. He needs sleep, and he needs -

He needs his dad.

He needs to be left alone.

He needs -

He needs to sleep.

So, as the washcloth leaves him, he drifts off.

And barely notices the creak of the window-sill when Derek climbs onto it, pauses, and leaps into the night.



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