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Location Is Everything

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The hotel room is shit. It's one of those cheapo places that still uses an actual key for the room, rather than a key card. The carpets are shag and definitely haven't been replaced, or even shampooed by the looks of it, since the place was built. The paint is chipped and peeling, probably lead-based too.

"This is charming," Stiles comments, flicking the light on and then back off again when the fixture hums annoyingly as it attempts to light up.

Derek grunts, vocal as ever with his monosyllabic narrative. "Your idea," he reminds unkindly, glaring at the single queen-sized bed on the opposite side of the room.

"Hey, I don't see you coming up with any better options." Derek's eyebrows rise slightly as he gives Stiles a look, and before he has a chance to even open his mouth, Stiles is saying, "And no, the middle of the woods is definitely not a better option than a hotel room."

Derek huffs, glowers in Stiles' general direction, and then growls. "It stinks in here. At least the woods wouldn't smell like the hundreds of people and their fluids that came here before us, literally."

Stiles wrinkles his nose, eyeing the bed speculatively. "Dude, I am not losing my virginity in the woods. And we already paid. Come on, just turn off the wolfy senses and take off your clothes."

But Derek, he's a predator. He knows an easy kill when he sees it, can probably smell Stiles' weakened resolve. He moves closer, curves a giant hand over the jut of Stiles' hip. "It'll just be us out there. No one else's scent, just you and me and nature. Nothing to worry about, no one to catch us or overhear us. Just you and me. Come on, it'll be perfect," he says quietly, lips brushing over the skin beneath Stiles' ear.

"That's not fair. That's cheating," Stiles accuses, bending his head further to the side to expose more of his neck to Derek's mouth. Derek grins before he kisses Stiles there, rubs the roughness of his stubble against Stiles' skin and steps completely up against him. He breathes in deeply, nose pressed to the pulse point at Stiles' throat and breathes out raggedly, growling as he bites at the corded tendon stretched tight beneath his lips.

"Say yes," he demands roughly, fingers kneading firmly at the softness of Stiles' belly. He must sense Stiles' hesitance to give in, because he abandons the belly rub much quicker than usual and moves down to Stiles' balls and rubs those instead. Even through the two layers of offending fabric it feels good.

Stiles knows he's lost already. Choking out a few expletives, he elbows his way away from Derek. Wiping the spit off his neck and adjusting his half hard dick in his jeans, he turns to face Derek, wagging his finger at him accusingly. "You are a bad dog," he scolds, ignoring Derek's scowl. "I cannot believe I'm agreeing to this.” Sighing, he stalks his way across the room toward the door. “I hope you realize you are shattering all of my hopes and dreams, here. I don't know why I even like you. Dumb werewolf with your dumb instincts and your dumb need to have sex outside like an animal. I'm not an animal, Derek!"

Rather than address any of that, Derek grabs his hand and drags him from the room.

Apparently Derek has a place in mind because he tears out of the hotel parking lot and takes an immediate right without so much as a thought. As they're driving through town, headed south toward the less populated part where the houses thin and the trees thicken, Stiles spots a CVS and groans, slapping Derek on the arm.

"You forgot the lube in the room, grumpy."

Derek frowns at him and Stiles shrugs. "Don't look at me, you're the one who dragged me out of there like a caveman."

Grumbling to himself, Derek whips into the Walmart parking lot on the edge of the city limits and turns in his seat to stare at Stiles.


Derek glances toward the store and back to Stiles. Stiles blinks. Again, Derek looks at the Walmart door labeled 'Entrance' and back at Stiles, more aggressively this time. In return, Stiles looks at his crotch and then back at Derek.

There's a twitch in Derek's right eye as he glares at Stiles' crotch all of three seconds before getting out of the car. Smirking, Stiles leans back against the soft leather seat, stretching his legs out as far as the Camaro's interior allows.

Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket, tapping out a text to Derek once he's inside the store.

Get blankets. You're not banging me in the dirt.

Lots of blankets.

Also disinfectant.

Maybe a pillow???


Can you see if my prescription is in at the pharmacy?

Probably should grab a bottle of Tylenol.

Do we need condoms

I hope you got the good lube not the cheap stuff my ass deserves only the best don't be a tight ass that's my job hahahaha

Get me a sandwich.

Get yourself a sandwich too. I am not fucking you if you start munching on stray deer.

Stiles has just hit send on a request for a couple liters of Mountain Dew when the driver's side door opens. Derek throws six bags into the backseat and angrily climbs in, slamming the door shut behind himself.


Derek's phone chimes with Stiles' text and Derek audibly grinds his teeth together, ignoring the alert in favor of trying to murder Stiles with the power of his mind.

Stiles smiles. "Did you get everything?"

"Yes," he answers tersely.

Stiles doesn't really believe him. Climbing up onto the seat, and ignoring the way Derek looks ready to literally rip his throat out with his teeth for putting his feet on the upholstery, Stiles starts digging through the bags.

There are about five microfiber down blankets, an overstuffed pillow, a tube of Neosporin and a box of bandaids, warming personal lubricant... And three boxes of Her Pleasure condoms.

"Really?" Stiles asks, not amused.

"Only the best for His Royal Tightass," Derek says through a forced smile.

Stiles snorts, flopping himself back into his seat, but not before smacking a kiss to Derek's stupidly attractive, stubbled cheek. "I knew you secretly cared," he crows happily.

Derek doesn't even try to deny it, so Stiles counts it as a win, grinning to himself as Derek speeds out of town.

Where they're headed, Stiles isn't entirely sure. The Hale property is in the opposite direction, so clearly that's not their intended destination. Stiles would ask, but he doesn't altogether care where they end up. Trees are trees; dirt is dirt. It hardly makes a difference which side of town they're going to be on if the result is the same.

He's spent a lot of time protesting the whole doing-it-in-the-wild thing. It's not really all that surprising that he still managed to lose that battle. Because, really. Where else are they going to go?

The Hale House is so off limits, Stiles can't even. He refuses to be intimate with Derek there ― the burnt-out shell of his family home, where everyone he loved was brutally murdered. Stiles has had his own fair share of bad memories in that house, he can't even imagine how terrible it must feel for Derek to be there.

Stiles' home had been working out for a while. Derek kissed him for the first time in Stiles' bedroom, pressed up against the door. A lot of cuddling happened there, and touching, and blowjobs. But when it came down to it, the Sheriff was already suspicious because of the number of times Stiles washed his bedding in a week. Stiles learned how to jerk off without making a mess years ago, so the recent routine of changing his sheets every few days definitely has his dad on the alert. He's already taken to showing up at the house at random times during his shifts, making excuses for being home while he's still on the clock, though it's perfectly obvious he's only there to check in on Stiles.

Stiles is not willing to risk the tenuous trust he only just earned back by being caught losing his virginity to the creepy, murderous, older Alpha werewolf in town.

With Stiles' bedroom off the table, and Derek's house absolutely not in the consideration at all, there isn't really many options left. The hotel thing, maybe, would have worked for anyone who wasn't Derek. Stiles had only picked the skeeziest hotel in town because it seemed more likely that no one would recognize him there. Admittedly, he hadn't taken into account Derek's super-senses ― the fact that he probably could actually smell everyone who had been there before them, and exactly what they'd done, wasn't really a turn-on. Especially not to Derek, who practically humped every surface of Stiles' bedroom to make sure it smelled like him.

And the cars. No. Stiles is not going to be a walking cliché and loose his virginity in the backseat. He just isn't.

Of course, there's always the option to just wait. To wait until Stiles is old enough and can tell his dad the truth without having to worry about Derek being thrown in jail ― again, because of Stiles. To wait for Derek to finally get his shit together and find someplace reliable to sleep that isn't Stiles' bed. To wait for college, when Stiles would inevitably move out and get his own place ― or at least a place with a more understanding housemate than his father.

But Stiles is tired of waiting. He's ready now. And even if Derek hasn't said so himself, Stiles knows he's ready too. Not that he's pressured Stiles at all, not ever, but Stiles knows he's eager for it. To have Stiles be his in every way, to claim him as his own, to go where no man has ever gone before. Yeah, Stiles is ready for that.

The location, in the long run, doesn't matter. Derek had a point with his unfair neck-mauling argument. At least the woods will allow them some freedom, some privacy. They won't have to worry about a thing.

“This was totally your plan all along. You knew you were going to get your way,” Stiles accuses, simply out of boredom, because they're still driving. He's getting antsy. Derek just side-eyes in his direction like he has no idea what Stiles is talking about. “Dude, it's the middle of mating season and you are about to deflower me in the woods. Don't tell me you didn't plan this. Oh my god, are you like in heat?”

Derek shoots him a confused, possibly offended glare, before shaking his head and turning his eyes back to the road. “One, males don't experience heat cycles. Two, werewolves don't experience heat cycles. Three, neither of us is capable of pregnancy, mating, in that sense, would not happen. Four, if either of us could mate, we would have... Are you getting– Why do you suddenly reek of arousal?”

Groaning, Stiles pushes the heel of his hand against the bulge behind his zipper. “I don't know, oh my god. Shut up, I'm just really horny, okay. Maybe I'm in heat. Could you drive faster? Are we almost there yet?”

A disbelieving laugh bursts from between Derek's lips and Stiles groans again, pushing back against the hand Derek's slipped around the back of his neck. It's not a mean laugh, even though he's without a doubt laughing at Stiles, but Stiles can't bring himself to care. He really loves Derek's laugh, it's all soft and deep.

Squeezing gently at Stiles' neck, Derek says, “Yeah, we're almost there.”

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles sighs dramatically as Derek signals for a left turn.

The road is clearly abandoned and unused, overgrown with weeds and paved with dirt instead of gravel, but Derek maneuvers his way down the path, careful of the thicker underbrush and deep ruts. He drives until he can't anymore, parking the car in a spot that will allow him to turn around, far enough out that the car won't be able to be seen from the road, deep enough in that someone won't be likely to stumble upon it if they're curious about the fresh tracks.

But where they've parked isn't where they'll be stopping. Derek gathers the bags from the backseat, and then he starts walking deeper into the woods.

“Are you serious right now? What's wrong with right here?” Stiles questions indignantly, tripping over a downed branch as he trudges along after Derek.

“Just come on,” Derek says.

“You better have bought bug spray or something. I'm gonna end up with mosquito bites on my testicles and then we'll have problems.”

It would seem Derek has nothing to say to that, but Stiles can practically hear his eyes rolling. And Stiles has never been all that great at walking through the woods ― which makes running through it even more fun ― so it really only takes a couple minutes for Derek's patience to run out entirely when Stiles is bitching and moaning as he stumbles his way along.

Derek mutters something to himself that Stiles is sure he would have liked to hear, if only so he could comment on it, and shifts half of the bags he's carrying to his other hand, freeing up one to wrap tightly around Stiles' waist.

“Why are we still walking? I'm tired of walking. Just set up camp here and do me already.”

“Do you,” Derek says flatly.

“Yeah. Do me. That's why we're out here. I mean, that is why we're out here, right? You're not planning on killing me, are you, or like, offering me up to some God as a virgin sacrifice so you can, I don't even know, have even more super powers? That would be really lame. I thought we had something. Something special, what with all that growling and glaring you do in my general direction. I let you suck my dick. I let you feel me on the inside.”

“Stiles. Stop talking.”

“No. Just because you say it almost sort of nicely doesn't mean I'm going to listen. I have a lot to say. Like this one time, at band camp–”

“You didn't go to band camp.”

“Shut up, I totally did. I went to band camp and there was this flute.”

“I'm going to find something to gag you with, I'm not kidding,” Derek says darkly, eyes flashing Alpha red as he glares down at Stiles.

“Oh my god, stop wolfing out on me, I didn't devirginize myself with a flute, calm down. Also, gagging, that's kinky, should I have stolen my dad's handcuffs too?”

Derek growls and then Stiles finds himself sitting on the ground with no recollection of how he got there, he definitely didn't trip over anything, which clearly means that Derek shoved him. “That's spousal abuse! I'm gonna report you!”

Nothing but crickets.

“Derek?” Stiles calls, clambering to his feet.

Derek is nowhere in sight. There's not even a rustle. And Stiles honestly doesn't know which direction they came from, or which direction they were headed toward.

“Okay, this isn't funny. Get your hairy ass over here or I refuse to put out.”

Nothing. But fine, whatever. Stiles is not going to panic. Derek did this on purpose, so it's his fault when Stiles ends up mauled by some rogue were-beast. Stupid temperamental mutt.

Still muttering, Stiles searches the ground for signs of footprints. There's some pretty exaggerated scuff marks in the dirt, so those are probably his, from dragging his feet lazily. He at least knows which direction they came from then, and heads the opposite way, likely where Derek was headed. He's left no trace of himself so... that's helpful.

He mutters loudly to himself the entire time he walks, making sure it's well known that he is not taking his clothes off now. “You can fuck yourself,” Stiles shouts, .

No answer, not that he expected one at this point. Honestly, Derek is probably playing a game at this point. Stiles has trained a little with the pack, he knows how to search, even for werewolves who deliberately are trying to evade him. But he really isn't in the mood for that right now. This isn't supposed to be a training session. Derek can kiss his pretty little ass if he thinks that Stiles is going to actually work for this. Derek should be the one working. He knows that if he wanders long enough, or if he gets too far off the path, or, god forbid, actually does end up in danger ― and let's be real here, this is Stiles, danger finds him ― Derek will come and get him. He's probably treed himself or something ridiculous and is creepily watching Stiles trip his way through the woods.

Stiles doesn't know how much longer he walks for, probably a good fifteen minutes of slowly dragging his feet when he realizes that Derek likely hasn't turned his ringer off. Quickly, he digs his phone out of his pocket and dials Derek.

He must not be far off because he can hear the ringtone, the one Stiles keeps setting for him even though it pisses Derek off to no end ― which is exactly why Stiles does it.

'Who let the dogs out, woof, woof, woof, woof...'

Stiles runs, holding the phone away from his ear to follow the tone. He's panting, spinning in circles to locate the source. But Derek's not there. The phone still rings, and Stiles knows he's right on top of where Derek should be. Remembering his treed theory, he looks up and sees Derek's jacket hanging from branch. His phone must be in the pocket.

He groans and ends the call, repocketing his phone. “I hate you so fucking much,” he calls out into the woods.

It's nearly dark now. If he doesn't find Derek soon, he's actually going to start freaking out. The jacket hanging in the tree has to mean he's close though. He knows Derek left it there.

Sighing, he starts walking again. The grass is taller here, and he thinks he can see a disturbance, a path cut into it. For all he knows, it's from wildlife walking to the water he can hear in the distance. Something tells him it's the right way to go.

Of course, he's still not entirely observant enough because he ends up tripping epically over something and falling headlong toward the ground. As soon as he's down, he's flipped over roughly and pinned there. He struggles at first, then realizes it's Derek and starts to struggle harder. He tripped over Derek's legs... which was probably completely Derek's fault. The bastard.

Derek laughs as Stiles tries to fight him off, uses his knees on the vulnerable places on Derek's body. It's a good effort but he doesn't stand a chance. Derek just leans over him and grins his stupidly white grin right in Stiles' face while Stiles kicks at his shins.

“I'm mad at you,” Stiles says angrily, trying to tuck his chin down when Derek's lean in to shove his face there, where his neck ties into his shoulder.

“I know. I can smell it. You smell like a cinnamon roll when you're mad,” he mumbles into Stiles' shirt, inhaling deeply.

Stiles scoff. “Whatever, man, I do not. I smell like... like dirt and diesel fuel when I'm mad. Manly, rugged.”

“Not even a little. Cinnamon roll.”

Stiles makes a sound in his throat, frustrated, and Derek licks over his Adam's apple, like he wants to taste that sound, draw it from Stiles' vocal cords and into his mouth. Which, wow, that's kind of a disturbing thought. “Maybe a cinnamon roll that's covered in dirt. Dropped a few times, stepped on and kicked around.”

“Fresh from the oven, just iced. You smell all creamy and gooey.”

Oh my God, Stiles thinks, closing his legs tightly so maybe, just maybe, Derek won't realize he's totally getting hard over Derek saying creamy and gooey. “Now I'm hungry. Still mad though.”

“Mm,” Derek hums into the dip between his collarbones, still pinning his hands to the side of his head. “Not mad. Hungry maybe, but not mad.” He bites at an exposed clavicle and Stiles chokes and yeah, okay, not mad anymore, but definitely turned on.

Which is obviously why Derek decides to stop what he's doing and pull away from Stiles completely, because he's a giant cockblocking dickwad.

He moves to dig in the bag that's sitting off to the side, presumably to get out the sandwiches Stiles demanded he buy. Stiles takes the opportunity to look around. He's not on the ground, he notices. Well, technically, yes, but the blankets are spread out and keeping him from getting horrible grass stains all over his ass. The grass is pushed down beneath the blankets, and sort of awesomely plush, while around them it's still grown up and swaying softly in the breeze through the trees. He can still hear the water in the distance, and when he looks up, he can just see the night sky through the treetops. It's kind of ridiculously beautiful out here.

Stiles cuts his eyes to the side to see if Derek's watching him. He doesn't seem to be, still rooting around in the bags. Stiles knows he can't sneak attack Derek, but that doesn't stop him from trying, throwing himself at him unexpectedly and landing on him with a painful thud.

He kind of uses the momentum to plant a kiss on Derek's mouth, which also hurts because Derek's teeth are freaking sharp and Stiles can literally feel his lip split from the impact, but he doesn't care, he just pushes his mouth to Derek's harder. Derek grabs his hips and tries to push him away, but he's not trying very hard because he doesn't even manage to break the strangle hold Stiles has on Derek's neck. Stiles stays right where he is, kissing Derek until he's good and ready to back off.

And even then he doesn't let go, just pulls away enough to say, “You are kind of a stupidly romantic idiot,” which makes Derek huff in his face like he's offended ― but Stiles calls him stupid and an idiot enough to know it's the romantic part that he's playing at being displeased about.

“Get off me and eat your sandwich.”

Stiles grins and smacks another kiss on Derek's mouth, shivering a little when Derek licks gently at the cut in Stiles' lips, and then sits down heavily beside him, making grabby hands at the food waiting at Derek's right.

They eat in silence ― well, except for the chewing sounds. It's peacefully quiet out here, almost to the point where Stiles feels the need to chatter away the too-still silence. If not for the soft breeze rustling the grass, the sound of water flowing over rock, and the wildlife in the distance, Stiles would definitely be making conversation with himself, mouth full of sandwich or not. But he's content to keep quiet, leaning against Derek's shoulder, chewing slowly.

“If I didn't know better, I'd think you were nervous.” Derek's voice breaks the silence.

Stiles leans back on his elbows, shifting to look up at Derek. “What's there to be nervous about?”

“You're miles from anywhere, out in the woods, alone, with an animal,” Derek says darkly, fingers slowly tracking up Stiles' sides.

“I'm sure there's tons of animals out here. I'm not worried, though, I have this really overprotective boyfriend, you see. Barely lets me out of his sight, unless he's being a jackass and trying to lose me on purpose.”

Derek rolls his eyes, flicking the underside of Stiles' chin. “Anyway, besides all that, I think most people are, their First Time.”

Stiles can hear the capital letters, the emphasis on the words, and the mocking way that Derek says them, but he also hears the seriousness behind the almost-question. He rolls onto his side to face Derek, propping his head up on his hand. “I'm not most people.” He chooses to ignore Derek's muttered 'no kidding' and instead asks, “What's there to be nervous about?”

At that, Derek shrugs, his eyes shifting away to the trees in the distance. When he finally speaks again, minutes later, more maybe, Stiles isn't paying all that close attention, he still doesn't have an answer, he just says, “We don't have to.”

“No, we don't,” Stiles replies, staring firmly at Derek who looks down at him again. He seems surprised, like he expected Stiles to get petulant and demand that they do have to, they couldn't have come all this way for nothing, which Stiles could do, if he wanted. But he doesn't want to.

Derek doesn't break the eye contact, and neither does Stiles. Derek's eyebrows go up when Stiles refuses to look away, but he's so not letting this drop. Someone's going to have to do something eventually, and Stiles wants that to be Derek.

“I want to,” Derek mutters. He sounds almost unwilling to actually be voicing the words, like someone is dragging them him out of him ― which, that's totally Stiles' doing. As much as he didn't want to admit it though, Stiles is relieved to hear it, it kind of feels like he had to.

“Good, me too,” Stiles expels on a loud exhale. He throws himself over the top of Derek to reach of the bags, digging through the supplies they carry. Derek turns his face into the back of Stiles' neck and sniffs at him like the dog he is ― at his hairline, the collar of his shirt, up behind his ear, nuzzling as he goes. “Want to sniff my butt too, make sure you remember me?” Stiles asks, because he can't resist, not when Derek is making the dog jokes so easy with all his weirdo smelling.

“Maybe later,” Derek says, right before he laps at Stiles' ear, like literally laps at it with these crazy thorough, long licks. He moves on to Stiles' neck, and alternating between licking and rubbing his face against Stiles' skin, pausing to nip at the softest places that bruise the easiest. His hands find their way beneath Stiles' shirt and lift it off of him after he brings Stiles around to straddle his legs, giving him open access to all of Stiles' chest.

Stiles is used to this by now, this whole routine. He knows what will come next, and he's not surprised ― or at all disappointed ― when Derek rolls him onto his back and keeps his body pressed tight to Stiles', holding him in place as his whole body nearly shudders while he rolls against him, rubbing their skin together. It's a scent thing, a werewolf thing, a Derek thing ― whatever, he's not entirely sure, it's just a thing. Stiles isn't going to complain, because even though it was a little creepy at first, it's turned into something familiar, and almost as necessary to him as it is to Derek. Derek's never really able to get very far without making sure Stiles is dripping in his scent. It feels good, really, whether it's supposed to or not. It's not even sexual in intent, but Stiles enjoys it, lays back for the ride and basks in it. To put it creepily, it's like being given a tongue bath by a giant dog.

Stiles snorts and tightens his hold on Derek's shoulder, giggles and spasms overtaking him when Derek's breath tickles at his armpit hair. He tries to tuck his arms, but Derek noses in there regardless. “So awkward, dude,” Stiles comments, shivering when Derek's tongue even goes there.

He's all boned up and ready to go by the time Derek makes it down to his stomach, teeth sinking into the soft flesh. He dips his tongue into Stiles' bellybutton and breathes all deep and ragged against the hair below, grumbling something unintelligible when Stiles humps up against his chest and manages to knock him in the chin.

“Sorry. I hope you realize I'm like all antsy now though. You're never gonna get it in before I blow. Could you maybe get this show on the road, before my dick falls off from being hard, like, all the time.”

There's going to be a bruise where Derek bites his hip, but at least it gets him his pants off, underwear dragged off with them. The sniffing-rubbing-licking portion of Derek's full body exploration is clearly not done yet, he just keeps on toward the inside of Stiles' thigh.

“You are not licking my legs and feet, the answer will always be no,” Stiles says adamantly as he spreads his legs in a clear invitation, pressing the bottle of lube into Derek's hand. He hisses when Derek bites him again, a quick, sharp pinch perilously close to his balls. “That's uncalled f-for!” He stutters at the last word as Derek's tongue darts out to sooth away the hurt. “Do you have an endless supply of slob– er, saliva, or?” He should probably stop talking; he's just asking for it now, but he can't help himself. “Man, how do you not end up with a painful case of dry-mouth, I swear I'm like covered in your spit right– mmph.”

Derek's mouth covers his, stopping any more of the words Stiles had planned on saying from coming out. He licks his way between Stiles' lips ― and again with the licking ― and kisses him aggressively, tongue pressing in roughly like he's non-verbally telling Stiles to shut up.

Whatever. Stiles will do what he wants.

Wrenching out of the kiss unexpectedly, Derek stands and Stiles flails after him, until he realizes why he's pulled away. He's tearing his clothes off ― not literally, or anything, everything is coming off in whole pieces, but he moves way faster than Stiles could. And then he's just as naked is Stiles is, and coming back down, and pressing all of that nakedness to Stiles' matching nakedness and for half a second Stiles blacks out because his dick is finally getting some friction and god does that feel good.

“Why do you even wear clothes? I don't really think you should wear any, ever, at all. Like, just walk around naked, in my bedroom, all day, every day, please,” Stiles rambles, hands scrabbling for purchase against Derek's broad back. He tries to arch up to get closer to Derek, to get more of that blessed friction, but Derek's sets his knees beneath him and pulls himself away once more.

The snick of the lube cap being flicked open is enough to distract Stiles from the rant he was about to go on. He watches dazedly while Derek slicks up his fingers and brings them down between Stiles' legs that are already eagerly and helpfully bent.

They've done this before, plenty of times. This isn't new, Stiles knows this. His heels are planted firmly on the blankets and the first finger goes in smooth. Stiles breathes out a sigh at the warmth that curls its way up his spine, lifting his hips when Derek crooks another into him alongside the first.

“Nothing to say?” Derek asks as he slides his fingers out most of the way and twists them back in again, ending the push with a curl right into the spot that makes Stiles' dick jerk against his belly, pre-come slicking the tip.

“I'm sure I could think of something,” Stiles says, sounding choked and desperate even to his own ears. They're only two fingers into this and Stiles is already gripping the blankets to keep himself from frantically bringing himself off.

The third finger is a stretch and Stiles clamps down on it, seizing up. He lets go of the blanket to hold onto his thighs instead, bucking down toward Derek's hand. “Derek,” he pants, biting his lip to hold back a moan that he's sure Derek hears anyway as his dick jerks again, smearing a silvery thread of pre-come toward his bellybutton. “Derek, I have to,” he whines, fingers digging into his own thighs.

Derek's hand beats him there, thumb sliding right over the tip and forcing a litany of curse words out of Stiles' mouth. “Fuck you, fuck, fuck fuck,” he's still going while Derek just keep rubbing the rough pad of his thumb there, where he's too sensitive and can't take it. He feels likes he's exploding, leaking all over Derek's hand, three fingers pushed in as deep as they'll go. It's too much. “You fucking bastard, fuck you, fucking fuck everything, fuck.”

His head slams back into the ground, eyes shut tight enough to see starbursts behind his lids, and he goes off harder than anyone ever should. For a second, he panics that someone's going to hear him, but then he remembers they're in the middle of the woods and he moans through the trembling-quaking-shaking that almost hurts it feels so good. Derek keeps mostly still for him to ride it out, rubbing him through it gently, just enough to make sure it lasts.

When he finally blinks his eyes open again, he can just make out some stars in the night sky through the canopy of green leaves above him. He's breathing like he just ran the two miles between his and Scott's house without stopping for a break. A groan slips out of him when Derek's pulls his fingers from him and lets his oversensitive dick flop against his wet belly.

“My bones are dead,” Stiles says as Derek leans over him. “They disintegrated after that. I think my brain is leaking out of my ears. It's probable that my death is imminent. Do you think that's punishable by law, involuntary manslaughter or something? Death by sexual acts.”

“Pretty sure if you were dying you wouldn't be talking,” Derek grumbles into his face.

“Wow, way to sound disappointed that I'm not about to croak. Whatever, Derek, you smug bastard. You look all proud and shit. You're totally gloating over my inability to move right now. Don't think I can even lift a finger. Congrats, that orgasm you just gave me was intense.”

“Good to know. Are you ready for another?” Derek asks seriously.

Stiles chokes on a laugh that was actually supposed to be a groan. His head connects with Derek's shoulder as he tries to look down at his dick, which he's kind of sure is lifeless at the moment. “Can I have like, five minutes? Oh my god, I honestly think I broke something there, okay. Holy, what. There is come everywhere though, that's not all mine.”

He sees Derek's nostrils flaring as he follows Stiles' eyes down between them, like he's double-checking. But yeah, no. Derek is still pretty obviously hard. “Are you resisting the urge to rub your face in it?” Stiles asks, grinning when Derek glares at him. “It's okay. I won't judge you.”

Surprisingly, Derek kind of goes for it, with a hand instead of his face, though, smearing Stiles' jizz across his skin, making an even bigger mess of it. He should probably see it coming ― ha! ― when Derek then brings his hand to Stiles' face.

“Really,” Stiles says flatly, twisting away and pushing at Derek's hand as he rubs come across his cheek and mouth. “Fuck you none too kindly, sir.”

He'll forever blame the fact that he's not fighting all that much on his recent bone melting orgasm, but that telling twitch in his down low dead zone tells a different story entirely. Especially when Derek's mouth follows the path his hand had taken, over Stiles' chest, up his throat, across his cheek, to his mouth.

“Oh, okay,” he mumbles stupidly against Derek's slick lips. His dick is definitely getting interested in what's happening right now. “Really up for round two if you're done licking me, big guy.”

He feels more than hears Derek's answering groan, vibrating against his cheekbone where Derek's mouth is pressed. He's gonna take that as a yes.

“I'll just, uh, assume the position then,” he says, slipping out from under Derek to turn over, face down, ass up. He wriggles a little, glancing over his shoulder. “Well? This is how you want to do it, right? Doggie style?”

The face Derek makes is honestly the closest thing to I'm going to kill you Stiles has ever seen, basically. He can't help laughing.

“No? Oh, dude, sorry, my bad.”

“I don't have any idea why I thought this was a good idea,” Derek grumps, grabbing Stiles by the hips to pull him over, push him down onto his back again.

“Oh, come on, I am way more fun than your hand. You totally love it when I talk back. You love me for my sassy quips and ingenious humor.”

“I really don't,” Derek grumbles. He's shifting around on his knees uncertainly, like he's not entirely sure what to do.

“Lies. Untrue lies. Come here, come on,” Stiles coaxes. Derek resists against the hand Stiles has looped around his wrist. “Hey,” he starts, but Derek cuts him off before he can get into one of those angsty 'it's okay if you're not ready' speeches.

“I think you should be on top.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. That's... “Oh, okay. Yeah, that's good. I can do that. Yeah, let's do that.”

Derek's already got the condom on, he's all slicked up, and he's totally being a nervous nelly, so he's slipped a finger up into Stiles too to make sure he's wet enough. There's really no reason not to move forward, which doesn't really explain why Stiles is kneeling over Derek, dick positioned right at his hole, not moving.

“Stop staring at me,” he snaps at Derek.

“I'm not–” Derek starts, confused.

“You are. It's creeping me out.”


It's really only just his name, but at the same times, it's so much more. He knows what Derek's about to say, it's probably like the same thing that Stiles had started to say just minutes before, when Derek had looked uncertain. “No. Just. Shut up, okay. I'm fine, we're doing this. I'm just a little scared, alright. It's stupid. I know it's gonna hurt, it always hurts a little, right? But I know that, and I know that because sometimes just fingers are enough to hurt, but I like that. It's just that fingers are way less scary or something and dicks are big and terrifying and I want it to go in but what if hurts like way more than fingers and I start crying and we have to stop and everything sucks and it's ruined and it'sallmyfault andthat'sjusthowfirsttimesgo butIdon'twantthattohappensoI'mkindoffreakingoutalittlebutwhatever, it's okay, let's do this.”

“What?” Derek asks, blinking at him like Stiles just spoke a foreign language that Derek has never heard. To be honest, he kind of did.

Shaking his head, Stiles says, “Nothing.” He takes a deep breath and rocks forward, kissing the confused pout on Derek's lips and nudging down against the head of his dick.

Derek keeps him close, keeps kissing him until Stiles tries to push down. His grip tightens, holding Stiles off. “Just go slow,” he whispers, forehead pushed to Stiles'. “Just relax.”

“Okay,” Stiles sighs. He matches his breathing to Derek's. He knows Derek is still staring at him, because he's just creepy that way, but he doesn't open his eyes, not yet. One of his exhales gets stuck, coming out in a garbled, “Nngh,” when Derek's dick catches on his rim. He bears down, letting the rest of his breath out as he drops his weight into it, eyes flicking open to catch Derek's. He has to bite down on his lip, but it's not even close to as bad as he'd scared himself into believing it would be.

His nails cut into Derek's skin once he's sat all the way down on Derek's lap, and Derek reels him in, kissing his lip out from between his teeth. “Oh, man, I am so not a virgin anymore.”

Derek's laugh shakes them both, his toothy grin pressed into Stiles' cheek.

“No, seriously. I will never be a virgin again. Your dick is huge.”

“It's not that big,” Derek says, not in that modest sort of way, just like, honestly.

“Dude, your dick is like those ones they use in the 'Grow Your Dick This Huge' ads on porn sites. How does it even fit in me? Oh my god, your dick is inside of me.”

“Shh,” Derek hushes, palming Stiles' back, rubbing at his already relaxed muscles. He's not freaking out, he's just... okay, freaking out, but in the sex is so weird way only.

“No, but your dick is like in my stomach–”

“It is not in your stomach,” Derek cuts him off, honestly genuinely horrified, by the looks of it. “What are they teaching you. Basic anatomy–”

“Shh,” Stiles says, palming Derek's neck, rubbing into his hair. Derek blinks up at him. “See how annoying that is?”

He kind of expects a glare, or something. Mostly Derek's face just does this thing where it goes all soft and kind of lax and he gives Stiles this horribly fond look. Stiles can't help but let his face do the same. He's almost certain that what he and Derek have going on would rival the sickeningly disgusting goo-goo lovey-dovey eyes Allison and Scott used to make at each other.

And then Derek shifts a knee and jostles them and Stiles gasp-moans in Derek's face and, oh yeah, they're having sex right now. With that thought, he realizes the pain has faded and he raises up as far as he dares, and when that actually feels interestingly good, he sinks back down and does it again.

“Sex is awesome,” Stiles sighs, undulating his hips, one way and the other, finding a good angle and then just nailing. “Sex is so awesome.”

Derek hums, and considering he's staring down between them like his eyes can't be moved from where they're fixed on their bodies meeting, Stiles is going to take that as an agreement. And once Stiles looks down, he can't really look away either, because the sight of Derek's hands on his hips, their bodies rocking together that way, his own dick all stiff and determined looking ― and the filthy sounds, the wet and skin on skin, Derek breathing heavily, panting.

“Derek,” Stiles rasps.

The hold he has on Stiles' hips tightens, dragging him down harder, faster, and his mouth finds Stiles' skin. It's a whole lot less calm and easy after that, and much more frantic, Derek guiding him with an unyielding grip. Stiles just has to hang on for the ride and hope that he doesn't like, fall off. Or die.

Dying is looking like a distinct possibility, what with the sounds that are coming out of his mouth, which he's kind of sure are embarrassing and not human, but Derek doesn't seem to care, his face still buried in Stiles' neck and dick balls deep in his ass. Stiles has to let go with one of the arms he'd looped around Derek's neck to hold on with and work it between them, to where his dick is starting to ache, the friction against Derek's stomach not at all enough to get him off.

“Derek,” he whimpers.

Derek pulls out of him then, and Stiles chokes on air and shakes his head, groping at Derek's shoulders like that will get him back in. All he knows is this is the opposite of what he wanted.

“What, why are you stopping,” Stiles has time to gasp just before he's pushed onto his back and Derek is over him, pushing between his legs and getting right back in there. “Oh, good.”

It doesn't hurt so much anymore as it feels ridiculously amazing. His hand is still sort of curled around his own dick, and he thinks maybe he should be doing something instead of just lying there, but he doesn't know what. He tries to hook a leg around Derek's back but that totally doesn't work because he's all slippery with sweat and also gripping Stiles' thighs for dear life. He's got no leverage to meet Derek's thrusts and only one hand free, which he uses to hold onto Derek's bicep, and then shoulder, and then back when Derek pushes in closer.

“Oh my god, what if we just never stopped having sex,” Stiles moans.

Derek might say something, Stiles's not really sure, because he hitches Stiles' hips up a little higher at the same time and the angle changes and Derek about loses an eye with Stiles' flailing.

“There, there, there,” Stiles chants, like Derek hasn't already realized he just struck gold, figuratively speaking.

“Yeah?” he asks anyway.

“Oh my god, yes.” Stiles can feel his knees up in Derek's armpits and he's not even sure how they've maneuvered themselves into sort of an inverted pretzel shape but he's so not complaining right now, even if he knows it's so going to hurt later. Totally worth it. “Holy god, I'm gonna black out after this. And by this I mean orgasm. Which is coming. And by coming I mean me. Right now. Fuck,” he pants as he strips himself off, gut going tight and hot with pleasure, words trailing off into slurred moans.

“Stiles,” Derek moans, bitten off and tight like he's trying not to make any noise at all.

Derek drops down over him, pushing his thighs wide and trapping his hand. Stiles thinks he's going to end up stuck right there on the edge, but Derek ruts in deep and growls against his ear and that totally does it for him. He bites down on Derek's shoulder where it's within reach, feeling the burst of wetness spread between them. Derek growls even louder; Stiles can feel the sharp points of not-at-all human teeth against the side of his neck and fuck if that doesn't make him shiver harder yet.

“Stiles.” A growl, a warning, even through his orgasm-haze Stiles can hear that. He lets up on the whole biting thing and thrusts his head back, exposing the entirety of his throat, where Derek shoves his face and growls one last time, hands going tight enough on Stiles' thighs to ache, before he stills.

Stiles doesn't pass out, and he knows he should be like, patting Derek on the back as he gets his, or something equally comforting, but his limbs are not even attached to his body any more. He feels dismembered, taken apart like doll and then put back together in the wrong order. His mind is numb and his left hand feels like it might actually be his right foot.

“You okay?” Derek asks, and Stiles manages to mumble something in reply but he's not sure he knows how to words right now, so it's likely not an answer that comes out. If the sniffing is anything to go by, Derek isn't at all reassured. But Stiles, yeah, he's totally fine. It's just, this. This has taken sex-stupid to a whole new level and he's sure some of his braincells shot out of his dick or something.

“Don't think that's possible.”

“What?” Derek asks.

“How are you going to top this?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” He sounds patient, which is new. The cuddling, not so much. Stiles already knows he likes to cuddle after sex things happen, so Derek all curled up along his side is not surprising. The lack of a grumpy tone is, though.

“Second time is supposed to be better than the first,” Stiles says. “I don't think that's possible. You're gonna have to like rent out the whole Ramada Inn and do me in every room to top this, or something.”

“Hmm,” Derek hums. “The second time is going to be in the morning when I bend you over that downed tree.”

“That sounds nice too,” Stiles concedes, letting Derek manhandle him onto his side, for optimum cuddling. “Except maybe not a tree because that sounds like it would chafe. I don't want bark abrasion on my penis.”

“I'm not renting out the Ramada.”

“On a beach then.”

“I'd rather tell your dad.”

“You're not funny,” Stiles says.

“No,” Derek agrees.

Stiles is too tired to grasp the fact that Derek might actually be serious.