The house is quiet. The porch light pale and not particularly welcoming. Stiles stands before the front door and contemplates the light, blinking slowly.
For a while he is transfixed.
His clothes are heavy and still wet. He has never ached as much as he does right now. Head to toe. Even his mind is exhausted, the same thoughts circling over and over in a way that almost never happens to him, not when most of time there are too many thoughts going by too fast to catch.
Every now and then his arms jerk, like he's about to drop something. But his book bag is on the ground near his feet and his arms are empty. There is nothing to drop, but he can remember the strain of holding Derek’s body, keeping his face above the water. He can remember the long line of warmth that was Derek’s body floating- trying to sink - in his arms, the only part of him that had been warm the whole time they had been in that stupid pool.
"Abomination," he says softly, seemingly out of nowhere, except this is one of the two thoughts in his head.
He should go inside. The night is not safe and he knows that for real now. Knows that monsters in the dark are real. And isn’t that just so freakin’ Buffy? He snorts but he’s not particularly amused.
Then again, he also knows that inside isn't much safer, so there isn’t much amusing about anything right now.
He shivers. Wet clothes are cold. He is cold, down to his bones.
He should probably be more startled by the jacket laid over his shoulders. He should jump, turn, scream. His limbs should flail.
Instead he lowers his eyes from the porch light to stare into Derek's wide-eyed expression.
"You really can't stand owing a guy, can you?" he asks, surprised at how rough his voice sounds. He clears his throat.
Derek's eyes narrow. "You think a leather jacket is all my life is worth?"
Stiles laughs, low and bitter. "Don't you?"
Ah. The wide eyes are back. Stile likes that, that he can put that expression on the great alpha Derek Hale's face. With his hair still damp and pushed into all directions across his forehead he looks like a little boy. A lost little boy.
And that's sobering. Because that's exactly what Derek is, really. Just a kid who lost his family.
Derek's cheek twitches, like he can smell Stiles' thoughts.
"Go inside, Stiles," Derek says, something soft in his tone.
But Derek is blocking his way and he doesn't move to leave. Stiles can’t seem to find the strength to walk forward anyway, so he guesses it’s okay.
"My legs don't work," Stiles tells him.
What he means is I'm scared and I'm paralyzed with it because whatever is out there is killing people and it doesn't even know what it is.
"Are you really going to kill it?" he asks, when Derek just keeps standing there silently.
Derek's lips press tightly together, his jaw locking. "Yes," he grinds out.
Stiles nods. He sees the rationale behind kill first, ask questions later. He wishes he didn't. He knows Scott doesn't.
It's one more thing to check off on his uncomfortably large list of things he actually has in common with Derek.
He hates this list. Almost as much as he hates Derek. Derek who is staring at him, seriously just fucking staring and what the fuck is Stiles supposed to do or say.
"You do trust me, you know," is what he blurts out.
The other thought circling in his mind.
Derek does trust me.
Derek breathes in deeply, his whole body moves with it. He looks away, like somehow trusting Stiles is worse than being willing to kill someone who doesn't even know they're a monster.
Maybe it is.
"You could just admit it. I almost cut off your arm. I would have. I wouldn't have let you die. I wasn't going to let you drown, either."
"I know," Derek snarls, turning back to him.
Stiles is breathing likes he's run a marathon. He feels like he has, and it's not just from treading water for two hours with the dead weight of a paralyzed werewolf in his arms.
"I trust you, too," he admits. He knows it's easier for him to admit than for Derek. "Even if you still terrify me sometimes."
Derek's laugh is low and surprisingly genuine.
"I don't." He leans in closer, as if there was all that much distance between them in the first place. "You haven't smelled of fear since the wolf’s bane bullet. Startled, sometimes. Not afraid."
Stiles swallows hard, eyes caught on the line of Derek's collarbone where his shirt is wet and stretched, baring warm skin.
"You don't smell scared now." The words rush warmly past Stiles' ear.
Which is true. He isn’t scared. Stiles is a lot things right now, after the night he's had, with Derek standing so fucking warm and close to him. Without thought he reaches down to adjust himself. Derek's hand catches his wrist.
"Just because you trust me doesn't mean you like me," Stiles spits out.
Derek snorts and presses his lips just behind Stiles' ear.
"I liked someone once. Loved them, even." Another kiss. "Guess which one matters more, Stiles, trust or love?"
This is not happening. Derek Hale is not kissing his neck and talking about love and trust.
Stiles doesn't love Derek. The alpha is a kindred spirit in the oddest of ways, and Stiles wants to protect him, help him. But he doesn't love him. Most of the time he doesn't even like him.
But he does trust him. And he's not stupid, he can see where this road could lead them if any of the hundreds of things that could go wrong, don't. But how likely is it that something like this could work out for either of them?
"My dad's at work," he says, stepping away and around Derek, almost surprised when Derek lets go of his wrist. "If you wanted to see what it's like to use the front door for once." He hopes the shaking in his voice isn't obvious.
Derek doesn't answer and Stiles doesn't look back but when he open the door and walks in it's Derek who closes it behind them.
Derek makes a noise that might be acknowledgment.
Stiles puts his bag down in the kitchen and heads up the stairs, shedding clothing as he goes. He'll pick them up later, so his dad doesn't have to, but his dad's working overnight and won't be home before sun up.
He's in nothing but damp boxers by the time he turns the light on in the bathroom. He catches sight of Derek in the mirror just as he drops Stiles' clothes in the corner near the door.
"Teenager," Derek says, but there's dark amusement in his eyes.
Stiles shrugs, because, yeah.
He turns the water as hot as he can stand it and hesitates only a second before pulling his boxers off and throwing them in the pile that now holds Derek's clothes as well as his.
So. This is apparently happening. This momentary insanity.
The shower is big enough for two, which is something Stiles had not previously been aware of. Not that matters because Derek crowds him in against the cool tiles and kisses him.
The kiss is oddly stilted, like it's taking a moment for Derek to remember how this works. He pulls back abruptly and looks into Stiles' eyes.
Stiles hadn't realized before that they're nearly the same height.
"You have no idea," Derek says. But he's kissing Stiles again before he can ask what he means.
And this time Derek kisses him exactly the way he would have expected if he'd ever thought of it before now. Sure and confident, with a level of skill that Stiles is convinced comes just from having a body like that.
Derek bites his lower lip, presses his tongue against it and licks Stiles’ mouth open. He sucks on Stiles tongue until it's nearly painful and then returns his attention to his lips instead.
Stiles' cock is already hard, rubbing against Derek's thigh, thrust between Stiles' without any real intent or pressure. He grinds himself shamelessly against Derek, needing friction, not finding enough.
Derek tears his mouth away with a low growl, as if he's angry with himself for getting caught up in the kissing. He spins Stiles around, pushing his chest against the tile while pulling his hips back. Stiles doesn't complain, just spreads his legs a little and pushes his ass toward Derek.
Derek groans, fingers digging into Stiles' skin briefly before leaving completely. Stiles immediately misses the heat and weight of Derek's touch. He moans and shoves off the tile so that he's pressed to Derek's chest, head falling back on his shoulder.
It feels stupidly good, all that muscle and wet skin against his. Derek's cock pressed against his ass. And Stiles wishes he could just push back and fuck himself on it. Thinking about it makes his cock pulse.
But he isn’t a porn star and he's got no desire to injure himself the first time he has sex.
"You're impossible," Derek mutters, sounding genuinely annoyed.
"And you're an ass," Stiles responds, choking off in a gasp because there are soapy, silky fingers parting his cheeks and pressing against his hole.
"Tell me," Derek whispers in his ear, biting the lobe.
A desperate sob explodes from Stiles' chest. "Tell you what?" he demands. Derek's fingers press against him meaningfully. Oh. "Yes, you dick, fuck. Yes. God, I hate you."
"You're young," Derek says, kissing his neck again. "You're so young."
Stiles closes his eyes. He knows. He knows he is. But he isn't. Derek knows he isn't as young as his years. As young as his distracted mind, his flailing limbs.
"I'm not," he tells Derek.
The noise Derek makes is more wolf than human, hurt and defeated. He bites down on Stiles' neck with his own still-sharp but very human teeth, and sucks hard. Stiles' hips buck, he can't help it, it feels too good to have Derek’s lips on him. And he knows that tomorrow there will be a mark, something real that will confirm this is actually happening.
And then it doesn't matter at all what Derek is doing to his neck because there's a finger breaching him, slow and steady. He's done this himself, more than a few times. Curiosity, and too much porn.
But it's nothing like this. Like the thick intrusion of Derek's finger sliding smoothly in and out of him, while Derek’s cock slides wetly against his ass cheek and his mouth leaves another mark on his neck. He makes strangled noises and Derek responds with nonsensical soothing.
He rolls his forehead against the cool tile. He was so cold before and now he feels like he's burning up. The flush covering his body is more than just the hot water, that's for sure.
"What is this?" he squeaks out, as a second finger pushes in with the first and oh god, oh god, oh god. Not the sex, he gets the sex part, he just doesn’t understand the Derek part or the him part.
"It's okay. It's fine." Derek says, like that's an answer to the two of them naked in Stiles' shower.
Maybe it is.
The third finger burns and not necessarily in a good way. Derek kisses his jaw, presses as close to Stiles as he can. He strokes Stiles' flagging erection with soft, steady strokes.
"I've never," Derek begins, and stops, growling in frustration. "Tell me you're okay."
That's... that's kind of mind blowing actually. "With a guy you mean?" He doesn't get an answer, he doesn't expect one. "I'm fine." And he is, the burn is less now, the stretch is starting to feel good. "Just keep doing- god, yeah- what you're doing."
Derek nods, wet hair sticking to Stiles' cheek.
Stiles is sick of the water, the shower. He wants his comfortable bed and Derek's weight on top of him. He wants to be dry so he can feel Derek’s spit on him, and later, his come. He shudders thinking about it. He doesn’t want all evidence of this to be easily washed away.
"Bed?" he asks.
Derek takes in a sharp breath, fingers stilling inside of him, then pulling out altogether. And he worries that Derek is going to end this now. If he’s suddenly realizing just how insane this is.
Derek doesn't answer, just nods again and turns the water off. He grabs a towel off the back of the toilet to wrap it around Stiles' shoulders. He wraps one around his waist and pulls a hand through his hair, slicking it back.
Stiles' mouth goes dry. Because knowing in an abstract way that Derek is built and attractive is one thing. Having Derek half naked, and wet, and hard in his bathroom is something else entirely.
For a long moment they just stare at each other. Stiles settles his towel around his waist, acutely aware of how lean he is in comparison to Derek. He steps closer, reaching out. Derek’s stomach is ridiculous, his abs cut like glass, and Stiles wants to touch. He runs his fingers up and over the hard muscles.
Derek's hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and tightening, pulling his hand away. Stiles jumps a little, not quite sure what he did wrong. But when he looks up at Derek his eyes are blank and he’s staring over Stiles’ shoulder.
Stiles makes a low noise and Derek’s grip loosens, his fingers rubbing Stiles’ wrist even though he hadn’t been holding hard enough to hurt. Stiles frowns but lets it go. He has a feeling whatever just happened there doesn’t really have anything to do with him.
Derek looks at him questioningly, clearly having come back to himself.
"Right. Bedroom. Half expected you to grab me like a caveman and drag me off."
Eyebrows raised, Derek says smoothly, "I could."
Stiles shakes his head and leads the way to his room. Not that Derek doesn't know exactly where it is.
His room is cool, his skin goose pimples. He jumps when Derek runs his hands up Stiles' arms and kisses the back of his neck.
"Still yes?" Derek asks.
Stiles moans, his head falling to the side to give Derek more neck to kiss and bite. Hands part his towel, drop it to the floor. They drift over his hips, across his ass.
"Lube,” Stiles stutters out.
He practically dives for the bedside table, trips over a book on fae magic in the twentieth century and pinwheels his arms as he falls onto the bed.
Derek's face is impassive, determined. He stalks to the bed and crawls up it until he covers Stiles with his body. He reaches over, opens the drawer, and grabs the lube.
"This?" Derek asks, and Stiles hates the amusement in his voice.
"Roll over." Derek lifts himself just enough to give Stiles the room to do just that.
Derek runs a large hand down Stiles' back, working the aching muscles from hours in a pool. Stiles moans and his body goes boneless and loose.
With one hand Derek keeps working his back. With the other he works Stile open again, one finger at a time, until Stiles is fucking into his blankets, moaning and thrashing mindlessly.
"Please, please, please. Derek. Please. I can't. I can't."
But Derek just keeps stretching him, spreading his fingers as far as he can in the tight tunnel of Stiles’ ass, until it starts to burn again and then doesn’t as Stiles adjusts to that, too. His cock is leaking, turning the blankets beneath him into a wet mess. Derek presses his face to Stiles’ back and breathes heavily against his skin.
“Please?” Stiles beg. He needs more. He’ll go crazy like this.
Derek turns him over again, so that he's on his back and his legs fall around Derek's. He stares down into Stiles' eyes.
Stiles blinks, meets that unwavering gaze. He's close enough to see the gold around Derek's pupil, surrounded by gray. They're amazing. They're fucking astounding. He doesn't realize he's saying any of this out loud until Derek snarls at him to shut up and kisses him.
Derek hikes his legs up, waits until Stiles wraps them around his hips and locks them there.
"Oh my god, I'm going to have sex," Stiles blurts out, as Derek lines his cock up and presses against him. "With you. Oh my god. Do we need condoms?"
Derek pauses. He opens his mouth and then closes it.
"There was just Kate. Before. And werewolves don’t get-" he pauses, looking like the words are literally killing him. "With the healing it's not an issue. But I can."
Stiles’ breath punches out of his chest. Kate? As in Kate Argent. So much suddenly makes sense, he can put the pieces together. Kate Argent killed Derek’s family, they all knew that. But she would have had to get close to one of them to do it, to know who would be where and when. Stiles feels sick. Who better than an insecure teenager? And Derek must have been young. Younger than Stiles is now.
“Stiles, stop thinking. Or would you rather I stop?” Derek brushes his fingers back over Stiles’ stretched hole without pushing in and Stiles whines.
"No. No. Don't stop. And I don’t want-" Stiles licks his lip, watches Derek's eyes track the motion. "I just want," he finishes lamely.
Derek nods, leans down over him to kiss him again. He's shaking. Derek. He's shaking. Stiles kisses his jaw, the side of his mouth. He wraps his arms around his neck, bending himself awkwardly and holding tight.
And then Derek's pressing in.
It fucking hurts. It hurts so bad he wants to tell Derek to stop. But he also wants it so much, knows it’s supposed to get better.
He whines and whimpers, and Derek stops, nosing at Stiles' jaw, saying “You can take more.” in a tone of voice that leaves no room for arguing.
Stiles isn’t entirely sure he can take more. He says as much, or tries to.
"Stiles." Derek's voice is rough and raw. “You can. Tell me you can.”
Derek’s shaking is worse, or maybe it's that Stiles is shaking now too. He loosens his arms from Derek's neck, falling back onto his pillows.
"It's okay. I'm okay." Stiles puts his hands on Derek's face, catches his eyes again.
Derek’s cock isn’t even halfway into him and he feels like he’s being split open. Stiles isn’t sure whose definition of okay that is, if he’s being honest, but he doesn’t want Derek to stop. Derek’s right, he can take more. He can take all of it.
"You don't know. You make me crazy," Derek tells him, resting his forehead on Stiles' chest. "You make me furious. You never listen."
Stiles chokes on a laugh and the movement makes the laugh hiccup into something filled with pain. Derek pulls out, carefully as he can, and Stiles claws at his arms without realizing, trying to pull him back. He really didn’t want him to stop.
Derek grabs his wrists and pins his hands above his head.
“Stop!” He’s angry, face close to Stiles’. For a while he just breathes heavily and Stiles considers making a comment, but manages to bite his tongue. Finally Derek says, “There’s a better way.”
And Stiles is almost certain there’s a question in there, he’s just not sure what it is. He tilts his head, furrows his brows, and generally looks confused in Derek’s direction until the other man snarls again.
“Another position. I don’t feel like maiming you just to have sex with you and you smelled like you were going to snap in two.”
Oh. Oh. Stiles’ face goes lax with sudden understanding. Right. “From behind? Ha. Doggie. Style.”
Derek closes his eyes, looking for all the world like a man who is seriously regretting his life choices. Considering who he’s been biting recently Stiles is actually inclined to agree with him.
“C’mon. You thought it too. Doggie style. With a werewolf.” Stiles pushes, because that is what he does.
Derek opens his eyes and starts shoving Stiles over until he’s on his stomach, face turned to the side on his pillow so he can watch Derek out of the corner of his eye.
He feels alarmingly disconnected all of the sudden, in this position. He’s not sure what all this is supposed to mean- him and Derek and the sex they appear to be having, when they don’t even particularly like one another- but he doesn’t like feeling as if it means nothing.
But Derek's hand is on his back again, soothing down sore muscles, pressing every individual bump in his spine. He’s kissing the places his hands track, rubbing his rough cheek against Stiles’ shoulder blade. And that’s a little better. That makes him feel less alone.
"Two hours," Derek says, so quietly Stiles can barely hear him.
Stiles doesn't say anything, even he knows better sometimes. Whatever Derek is trying to read, in the bones and muscle and skin of his back, is for Derek to see himself.
Derek wraps his hand around his hips and pulls up until Stiles is on his knees. His mouth is soft on Stiles' shoulder blades, his tongue warm and wet as he licks his way across them. And this. This. Is better.
Derek's slicked up fingers open him again, like he hadn't been putting his cock in there not even five minutes ago. But Stiles doesn't care, he just wants Derek to keep touching him. Anywhere. Anyhow. It doesn't matter.
When Derek pushes his cock, finally, as deep as he can go and with no hesitation, it's easier. It still hurts, it still feels like too much, but it's not suffocating like it was. It doesn't feel like his back will break under the pressure.
His heart might though. It's rabbiting in his chest to such a desperate tempo that Derek wraps his arms around him and spreads his over his chest.
Stiles wishes he could see Derek's face.
For a long time Derek is very still. He presses his nose along Stiles' spine, inhaling and exhaling.
"I'm not scared." Stiles suddenly realizes what Derek's doing, what he's sniffing for.
"You smell like hurt," Derek answers. He sounds so young, so insanely unsure for someone who basically just initiated the most random sexual encounter of all random sexual encounters.
Stiles would laugh except that it genuinely tugs at his heartstrings to hear.
"It's- It's supposed to. I'm pretty sure it's supposed to. It's okay." Derek slides his hand over Stiles' on the bed, locking their fingers together. "I told you I trusted you. I meant this too."
Well, he hadn't at the time, he hadn't even known this was on the table, but- he does trust Derek with this.
"Your heartbeat," Derek begins, and then breaks off into a moan as Stiles shifts his knees on the bed.
"It's always fast and-"
"I know. I know. I can hear it." Stiles shifts again and Derek rubs his forehead restlessly against his shoulders. "It's the easiest one to pick out in a crowd."
That's interesting. Stiles snorts and says, "You can pick out my heartbeat in a crowd and yet you say this isn't love? Big guy, you got some warped concepts of love."
"I don't love you. Shut up. I trust you, why do you always push?"
Stiles has never in his life heard a man sound so close to breaking. He's certainly never been the cause.
"You can move now,” he tells Derek.
Derek rolls his hips gently, experimenting. It's good. It's so good. There's still the burn of his cock stretching Stiles impossibly wide, but it's fading and there's an intense pleasure at being so completely filled.
This is so not like any porn Stiles has ever come across. The reality of sex is so much more- more awkward, more physical, more sweat and spit, more emotion, more touch and- just more.
His nerves are on fire, even the smallest of movements from Derek have him shuddering.
"So tight. Stiles." Derek thrusts again, harder this time and without control, like he can't help it.
"More. You can, seriously. It's good. Really fucking good."
He can already feel the tightening in his balls, the nervous tension in the stomach, and he's going to come soon. So fucking soon.
Derek gives up words in favor of growls and grunts and it should not be this sexy. But it really, really is. He thrusts into him, a steady and controlled rhythm that makes Stiles bite his lip to keep from moaning.
"I want to hear you," Derek demands and Stiles moans almost immediately. "Better, that's better." Soothing and praising all at once.
Stiles throws his head back and Derek doesn't even need to be asked, he surges forward- he's so fucking deep, oh god- and kisses Stiles, wet and with horrible aim. It's exactly what Stiles had wanted.
When they part he lets his head hang low and tries to push back into Derek's thrusts with some sort of matching rhythm.
Their thighs slap together wetly, and sweat is pooling at the base of his spine where Derek's stomach presses when he buries his cock as deep as he can and stays there a moment.
Derek shudders violently, and then he's moving frantically, fucking into Stiles with a desperation that's palpable. The headboard of Stiles' bed slams into the wall and now Stiles can't stop making noises and talking complete nonsense.
Derek comes with a shout, biting down on Stiles' neck, fucking his way through his orgasm. He reaches around Stiles, wrapping his hand around his cock and tugs.
It doesn't take much. Stiles comes quietly, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, Derek's cock still half hard inside of him.
Stiles tries to catch his breath, his chest heaving. They're both still shaking and he's not sure what to do with that. Derek doesn't move to pull out and Stiles really doesn't mind. Even after his orgasm it feels good to have Derek still inside him.
When Derek does finally pull out it's too fast and Stiles cries out at the brief flash of pain, fisting the sheets under his hands. Derek doesn't apologize but he does curl up behind Stiles and pull him down and close.
And who knew the big, bad wolf was such a cuddler. Hysterical laughter bubbles out of him, but there's tears burning his eyes. And he's a fucking cliché. Is he really going to cry after sex?
He's blaming it on the two hours in the pool.
Derek turns him around until they're facing each other. It's awkward as all hell. Stiles feels more naked now than he did before and Derek's eyes are wide again like he's just realized what he did.
"So," Stiles breathes out. There are tears in his eyes and on his cheeks. He’d feel stupid if Derek didn't look like that right now.
Okay, he still feels a little stupid. Because Derek looks pole axed but he isn't crying.
On impulse he puts his hands on Derek, one on his shoulder, the other tracing the ridiculously defined cut of his abs.
Derek tenses, then breathes out slowly, purposefully. Stiles splays his hand out over his stomach. Derek grows noticeably more relaxed.
Stiles frowns and does it again, using his fingers to follow the path of muscle. Derek doesn't say anything but his jaw clenches. Stiles sits up on his elbow and lowers his head, licking the path his fingers just trailed.
Derek makes a hurt noise and Stiles pulls back immediately, looking up into his face.
"What is it?" he asks.
Because there's this thing his mom used to do, this finger walk through his hair and a kiss to the side of his head. It makes him feel sick to his stomach when anyone does anything remotely similar. Violently sick to his stomach.
There's a reason he keeps his hair short.
He's pretty sure Derek's mom never did this, but the strength of his reactions is similar. Strong enough that Derek can't keep it in even though it's so obvious he wishes he could.
He spreads his fingers again, applying just a small amount of pressure. Derek relaxes into the touch. So it's very specifically fingers. And tongues.
"What is it?" he asks again.
Derek's jaw is so tight Stiles can hear his teeth grinding. "Kate," he spits out.
Stiles takes his hand away as if burned.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he is.
Because he knows- he knows- what Kate took from Derek, what she did. And he might not be sure how much he likes Derek- it's not true, he likes Derek even if he doesn't want to, he just lost his virginity to Derek for fuck's sake- but no one in the world should suffer what he suffered.
Derek rolls onto his back. He grabs Stiles’ hand and presses it back to his abdomen, the muscles clenching under his touch until Stiles spreads his hands as wide as he can. Derek shudders.
"That's fine," Derek tells him, sounding like the words are being pried from between his teeth. "Your hand, like that, it's fine."
Stiles relaxes and rests his head on Derek's chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart. Derek's arm wraps around his shoulders, his hand cupping his neck and gently squeezing.
"Seriously though, what is this?"
"Trust," he breathes out, finally. "It's trust. It's nothing more than that."
Stiles considers this in uncharacteristic silence.
"You didn't owe me anything. You still don't owe me anything," he says, mouth against Derek's chest.
Derek snorts. "Sex and a leather jacket, you really do think I don't value my own life."
"You don't," Stiles says.
Because he recognizes the desperate need to find something that makes you worthwhile, instead of knowing you are worth something in and of yourself.
Or so said the string of therapists he'd seen after his mom died.
Derek doesn't say anything.
They lay together until Stiles starts shivering. Derek pull the covers out from under them and wraps them up. He moves Stiles around until they are curled up facing each other, arms around one another. Stiles buries his face in Derek's neck.
Derek presses a soft kiss to his shoulder.
"Stay," Stiles says.
"For a while," Derek assures him.
Stile falls asleep easily. Derek's gone in the morning, but his leather jacket is laid purposefully on the pillow next to Stiles' head.