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Because Stiles' life sucks, his engine dies a mile from Derek's glorified construction site and even farther from the highway. "Why do you hate me?" he mutters in a skyward direction.
He has no bars on his phone. Crap and shit and damn and fuck you, AT&T. The sun hasn't even risen yet, and he's got about two hours to flaunt his reeking, marked-up body to save Derek's ass, get home, get de-stenched, and get to school.
Now he has to fit getting a tow in there somewhere. "Derek!" he tries hollering, the second he hops out of his Jeep. "You're a fucking life-ruiner!"
He is. He ruins Stiles' life. Stiles doesn't really care about anyone else's life; it's all about him. "Fuck," he mutters. His breath puffs white out in front of him as he shoves his hands deep in his jacket pockets and braces him for a lung-searing, dick-shrinking walk through the dark.
"You know Derek?"
Stiles spins on his heel.
His jaw drops immediately. Literally the most drop-dead gorgeous specimen of female he's ever had the privilege to lay eyes on is leaning against a tree nearby, a few feet up the slope on the side of the road. He has no idea where she came from.
He doesn't care. "Unfortunately?" he squeaks. Holy god, but her hair. It's shiny and perfect and so utterly strawberry blonde it makes Lydia's look as washed out as a dried fig. "Unless he's a friend of yours. Not that I know of Derek having friends, but he could, I guess. It could happen. Are you a friend of his? He's awesome. Swell guy. Just absolutely stellar."
"He's kind a dick, actually," the woman says with a flirty smile. Her teeth are so white. Stiles makes a promise to himself to switch to a better toothpaste. The wedding pictures will look a lot better if their teeth are equal levels of dazzling. "Don't you think?"
"I do, I do think." Stiles nods rapidly, agreeably. Derek is totally a dick. Who needs Derek? Derek ruins lives. "Hate that guy. Let's not talk about him. I'm Stiles!"
Her smile widens. Her lips are blood-red and Stiles wants to kiss them. He wants to scramble right up that hill and kiss her mouth. And do other things, god, but he wants to do other things. "I know," she tells him. "Do you need some help, Stiles? I live just over there."
She gestures vaguely in a direction Stiles is pretty sure should just be preserve land butting up against the Hale property. But what does he know, there could be stuff there. A house. Something. Maybe she's the prettiest forest ranger ever. That would be hot -- beautiful and into nature. He bets she communes with nature. He hopes she does it naked sometimes. They could frolic together, naked. Stiles would be so on board for that.
Stiles works his mouth for a second, trying to relieve the dryness. "My car," he says lamely. "It's crap, I hate it."
Wait, what, no, he does not. He --
She crooks a finger at him and backs up. She has on a fitted, blue wool coat that drags in the leaves by her feet. "Just come with me, honey," she says sweetly. "I'll take care of everything."
Stiles stumbles for the steep incline. He's going to claw his way up the blanket of frost-covered leaves if it kills him; he needs to get to her. It's -- his future is up this slope, he can feel it. "Yeah," he agrees. "There's no rush, though. We don't have to hurry. It's like, good to take your time about things, right? Be leisurely, stop and smell the roses? I love roses. I love giving roses -- I mean, if you like that sort of thing. Do you like that sort of thing?"
"I like a lot of things," she says coyly. "If you come up here I might show you one or two of them."
Oh, oh, but Stiles wants her to show him. He wants her to show him all the things. "I want -- " he starts to say.
With a blistering crack of wood, movement explodes in front of him and something suspiciously leather-clad slams into the long-absent love of his life and hurtles her in a long, violent tumble through the brush. "Wait, no," Stiles whines. "Not okay, not okay!"
A heap of blue wool goes flying right over his head, over the freaking roof of his Jeep. A second later, Derek is at his side. "Stiles," he says urgently. He snaps his fingers in Stiles' face until Stiles swats at him. "Are you all right?"
"Me?" Stiles whirls on Derek and hits him in the arm. Repeatedly. "Me," he hollers again. "Who cares about me? Nobody fucking cares about me, Derek, would you get with the program? If you hurt her I will kill you, she's what matters!"
"Oh, that's so sweet," that same molasses-coated voice purrs. "I could just eat you up. Yum yum. Don't you agree, Derek?"
Derek shoves Stiles behind him and faces her down, bristling and growling. Stiles peeks over his shoulder and props his chin up on the black leather surface. He smiles winningly. "I'm very edible," he confirms. "Like a cupcake!"
Derek outright snarls, but Stiles has more important concerns. His face falls as he takes in what Derek has done. "You have leaves," he says sadly. "In your hair - hey, your hair is pretty. Can I touch it?"
"Stiles, be quiet," Derek hisses.
Stiles tips his head to the side, gets his mouth right next to Derek's ear. "Do you think she likes me?" he asks. Quietly. Derek shudders. "I mean, you know her. Can you tell? Or like, ask her for me? And maybe say some nice stuff. Make it up if you have to!"
"Oh, I don't think he'd have to make anything up," his future wife says. Stiles' heart melts at her generosity. Beautiful in face and spirit -- she's clearly the perfect woman. She winks at him. "Doesn't need to ask, either. I've liked you for awhile now, Stiles."
Stiles' chest puffs out with pride. He's never had a secret admirer before. Hell, he's never had a not-secret admirer before. This is awesome.
Which means Derek has to go and ruin it, of course. "You can't have him," he snaps. Which is just...a lie, okay, she can so. Stiles tries to dart around Derek to get to her, both arms eagerly outstretched, only to wind up hauled backwards and held -- flailing -- against Derek's chest. "I told you, he's off limits, he's mi--"
"Relax," she coos. She saunters forward -- closer, so close, Stiles' mouth waters, touching her is gonna be so good, fucking her is gonna be so good. But damn the luck, she stops just out of reach. "I said I liked him, not that I was going to take him. I'm...going to do him a little favor."
"But what if I want you to -- " Stiles starts plaintively, his dick throbbing.
"Don't you da -- " Derek starts vehemently, his arms tightening.
Neither gets to finish. Graceful fingers lift, her palm cupped, and with a quick pucker of her glorious lips she blows out a soft puff of air that warms Stiles' freezing nose and sends a cascade of powder over his skin and right into his panting mouth.
Even if Derek weren't holding him up, he'd be out before he hit the ground.
The next thing he knows, he's opening his eyes to the sight of the incomplete framework that will eventually turn into the new second floor of Derek's house.
" -- some reason she's decided to throw down with me," he hears Derek say. "It might be best if you go. I have no idea what she did to him."
Trying to sit up has the unfortunate and unintended consequence of making Stiles fall off the sofa. He's misplaced his coordination, such as it were, somewhere along the line. His raging hard-on, though, is still right where he remembers it being last: painfully unaddressed in his pants.
"Ow," he mumbles from the floor. For about two seconds it's his tailbone he cares about, but then he moves and his dick aches, reminds him of what's important. "Derek. Derek! Fuck, is she here? Where is she? Help me up, I don't want her to see me like this -- "
"Too late," an unfamiliar female voice says, thick with amusement. With some struggle, Stiles manages to push his palms into the floor and lever himself into a sitting position again, this time with nowhere downwards left to accidentally go. "Don't worry, I haven't seen anything I don't like. Not that you need to impress me anyway."
Stiles blinks at the stranger in front of him. Whereas Derek is right next to her, staring down at Stiles like Stiles gives him heartburn or constipation or menstrual cramps, whatever it is that's wrong with him all the time, she's gazing at him with an only-slightly-patronizing expression of fondness.
More importantly, she's perfect. She's got black hair twisting into a long, tight braid that drapes over her shoulder, and her jeans hug every curve of legs that go on for days, and Scott was right about everything. She's the magical love child of Allison and Lydia and a unicorn.
"Hi," Stiles breathes. "You must be Alana. Did you know you're perfect?"
"Oh my god, you're adorable," she says. She sounds almost exasperated by it, like how dare he. "Ew. Now I feel even worse about last night. God, taking anything from you would be like candy from a baby -- no way I'd knowingly try to steal your mate."
"Him? Pffffft." Stiles rolls his eyes. He changes his mind about her; she's a jerk, reminding him like that of everything he'll never have with Derek. "He's not my mate," he says mulishly. "You want Derek, lady? He is so up for grabs." Derek throws him a dangerous look, mouth all pinched and twisted, but he doesn't scare Stiles. Stiles is just speaking truth to power. "I'm destined for someone else. I love her."
Amusement settles on Alana's face. She leans into the doorframe and crosses her arms, nodding like she understands something. "Uh-huh. Yeah, okay, that's awesome. Only, like... what's her name? Do you even know that?"
Stiles glares at her. That is a completely unfair question. "That is a completely unfair question," he snaps. "That's not -- that doesn't matter! What matters is that she likes me. Like, she said so and everything, who even does that? Nobody does that. She's so amazing. I can't wait for my dad to meet her."
Derek sighs. "Stiles. Shut up." He turns to Alana. "Sorry."
She shrugs. "Faeries, what are you gonna do? Different tricks but it's always the same game. Raw deal, though -- yours is obviously into the sex magic and those bitches are feisty. I wouldn't want one after my mate."
"I told you, we are not mates," Stiles grumbles, still on the floor.
He folds his arms over his chest and scowls for good measure.
Nobody is at all impressed. "Shut up, Stiles," Derek spits again. "We were supposed to have a deal. She knows he's -- and I'm -- that double-crossing, scheming -- "
Alana laughs. "Sounds about right for a faery. Which, you know -- it's been great and all, thanks for the hospitality and being cool about last night, but I'm going to grab my pack and hit the road before you get me caught up in a war. But hey, if you're still alive or whatever, Reno's safe ground for you anytime. Bring this one to visit, I'd love to get to know the real him."
Stiles perks up. He leans back on his palms and stretches out his legs and throws Alana a cocky grin. "You can get to know me right now," he offers. She's still a jerk and not his type, not really, but if she's offering...fuck, but he's hard. He wants. He waggles his eyebrows in what he's sure is an alluring fashion. He throws in a suggestive -- and somewhat involuntary -- upward roll of his hips for good measure.
She promptly laughs in his face. "Oh, Derek. You have your hands full, you really do."
"Tell me about it," Derek mutters. "Go on, clear out. I'll be in touch once I get this sorted out."
Alana looks down on Stiles and gives him a once-over, one eyebrow arched. "I have one suggestion for getting started -- and from the looks of him, he'd agree."
"Out," Derek growls.
As the second-most beautiful woman he's ever seen tosses them both a wave and strolls out, and as Derek stomps to the sofa and sits down in a huff, Stiles sighs and lets himself fall back into a sprawl. It doesn't really help the woozy, thick feeling that's starting to crowd his head and make it harder and harder to think, but it definitely makes it easier on a logistical level to palm his crotch, give himself a much needed rub. He groans softly in bliss.
Derek groans, too, but it's more of an aggravated sound. "Would you stop that?"
"No," Stiles mumbles. "Lemme alone."
He steals a glance at Derek; Derek is staring at him, eyes flicking rapidly between Stiles' face and his moving hand, looking pained. Looking hot, Stiles finally admits to himself. His annoyance with Derek seems to be fading more and more into the background with every second they're alone together. He licks his lips and rolls up against his hand, grinds the heel down along the length of his cock. "'less you wanna take over."
Derek inhales sharply, a breath that proceeds to vibrate out in a low growl. "Stiles."
The apparent refusal disappoints Stiles, not gonna lie. But whatever. "Whatever," he says lazily. He lifts his free hand to wave Derek off, to make him shoo, Stiles has business to take care of. "But if you're not gonna help then be quiet, I'm trying to fanta--"
He stops short and stares, entranced, as his hand catches a shaft of sunlight coming in through the windows in the front wall of the house. It's....it's shiny, like someone dusted him in glitter. "Ooh. Derek."
All he hears from Derek is the heavy, harsh sound of breathing.
"Derek," he says again. His voice sounds whiny. Is he whining? He doesn't want to whine; he just wants Derek to pay attention for once. "Derek. Derek Derek Dereeeeeek."
Derek snarls.
Rude.
But Stiles can't be bothered with caring. He grins up into the sunlight streaming through the window and turns his outstretched hand this way and that, admiring. It's so pretty, makes his long, angular fingers looks almost elegant. "Derek," he says one last time. "Look. I'm a vampire."
"You're not a vampire," Derek snaps.
"I could be," Stiles retorts. "That -- that faery did something to me, didn't she? She's magic, right, I bet she could -- look. I'm made out of glitter now."
"You got doused with faery dust, you idiot," Derek says flatly, without even a pretense of patience. "That's what it looks like, why the hell would she turn you into a vampire."
"Search me, man." Stiles loses interest in staring at his hand and lets his arm drop in a curl around the top of his head while he thumbs open his jeans, loosens the waistband enough to push his hand in and touch himself. It's starting to fucking hurt, and fucking up into the dry grip of his hand barely helps. "Maybe -- she doesn't like you, you know. Maybe I'm supposed to kill you. And like -- oh, fuck, wow, ungh -- um. I don't know, dude. I wanna bite stuff. You. You can keep your blood to yourself, but, like. I totally want to bite you."
Stiles has too much spit in his mouth suddenly, has to swallow and lick his lips again. "I wanna bite you," he repeats, whispering this time. He tugs his hand from his pants and rolls over, moaning at the pressure of his own weight trapping his cock against the hardwood floor. He blinks up at Derek, who's staring at him with his stupid pinched face, nostrils flared. "'S not fair, you know. I never got my turn. Your neck, it -- you got to taste mine and I never -- does your neck taste good?"
Derek is sitting ramrod straight on the sofa, hands curled over his knees. Stiles wishes he knew how to stop irritating Derek so much, everything would be so much easier if he could just. Stop.
But he can't, doesn't know how. Derek's knuckles go white as his hands tighten. "I don't -- I can't exactly taste my own neck," Derek says in a strangled sort of voice.
He doesn't actually call Stiles an idiot again, but Stiles can read between the lines just fine, thank you. He's got practice and all, more practice than he ever actually asked for.
"That's not helpful," he informs Derek crankily. "You know, if you don't want to tell me you could just say. But that's, you don't do that. It's like, beyond you or something. You don't tell that you're not telling, you just don't tell and then...bad stuff. You make bad stuff happen, Derek! Like, I have to go home and tell my dad that I'm a vampire now and that's gonna be it, he wants a son who -- who doesn't lie and doesn't get killed and isn't a neck-biting disco ball but that's what happens! Because I'm around you and you're Derek and nobody is good enough to know what your neck tastes like!"
Stiles pushes up onto his knees suddenly, glaring at Derek. "I am going to lick your neck," he announces. "That is what is going to happen now."
Derek's eyes widen. "You -- no. No, you're not, Stiles, you -- jesus. And what happened to biting? Didn't you want to bite it a second ago?"
"I'm going to lick it first," Stiles explains, much as he might explain underwear-then-pants to a small child. He lurches sideways a bit in an unsteady, dizzying effort to find the balance necessary to start crawling. He keeps his eyes glued on Derek. "Don't move," he warns.
Derek looks suspiciously like he's thinking about moving. Asshole.
"No, I mean it," Stiles insists. He shuffles forward a few feet, suffers a minor setback when he topples over, and finally succeeds in getting close enough to wrap a clumsy hand around the back of Derek's calf. "C'mere," he invites. He smiles and bats his eyelashes.
"You told me not to move," Derek points out tightly.
"Oh." Stiles bites his lip and considers. "Right. Okay. Then don't -- just don't move, don't -- "
As it turns out, things are a lot easier to accomplish now that he has Derek's jeans in his grip. He drags himself up along the length of Derek's legs, swaying this way and that until he's managed to climb into Derek's lap and get handfuls of Derek's t-shirt instead.
It hits him suddenly that Derek actually didn't move. "Hey, you didn't move," he says, surprised.
"You said -- "
"But I'm gonna lick you," Stiles says, confused. It's -- he warned Derek. He basically gave the fucking cue for Derek to run away and save himself from the imposition. "I told you, I'm gonna lick you a lot."
Derek's eyes flare red just before they shut in a brief expression of beleaguered aggravation. He looks pained, sort of. "All right," he finally says quietly. His palms settle on the tops of Stiles' thighs and push up until his thumbs are slotted into the creases. "Do what you need to do."
In the small portion of his brain still operating at a level higher than want need sex sex Derek muscle hot lick sex, Stiles hates him a little. He hates him for allowing this just because Stiles needs it, hates him for all the months that just wanting hasn't mattered at all.
But hate turns out to matter less than the fact that Stiles is starting to feel like he might literally die without it. Life choices: sometimes they suck.
And sometimes they lead him to sink in and drag his tongue from the hollow of Derek's throat to the turn of his jaw, one wet drag of a lick across increasingly bristled skin.
Derek's neck tastes like spun sugar and beets, Stiles thinks. Which is kind of weird and makes him suddenly, horribly curious what he tastes like -- not sauerkraut, please not anything awful like sauerkraut -- but overall not a bad thing. Stiles likes beets, always has. Likes them enough to take another long lick, eagerly searching out and tasting away every trace he can find, shifting his knees forward until he can settle fully against Derek and indulge in a little pressure against his cock.
"Are you done yet?" Derek hisses after a minute.
"Nuh-uh." Stiles nuzzles under Derek's jaw and tries to suck more of that rich-sweet flavor out. "Mmph. Derek. Hey, what do I taste like?"
He means in the past, means last fucking night when Derek got bruisingly acquainted with his skin. But Derek apparently takes it as an in the here and now sort of question, given how his head ducks and twists and he noses Stiles away from his own endeavors in order to lay a wet, suckling kiss against Stiles' neck. "Faery dust," he mutters while Stiles is spasming with hard jolts of lust. "It's...wrong, sort of cloying. But there's also sweat, salt, you're -- it's good. You taste good."
"Not like sauerkraut?"
"No," Derek says quietly. "It'd be okay if you did, I like -- but no. You just taste like you."
"I'm a flavor," Stiles snickers. That is hilarious to him. He's just not sure...why. Everything just feels good, his head is spinning with the softness of Derek's voice and the glide of Derek's wet mouth over his skin and the broad, strong spread of Derek's hands across his ass, holding him up and in as he grinds down. "Der -- Derek. Um."
Derek hums under his breath, a wordless inquiry.
"I wanna fuck you," Stiles blurts.
He doesn't even know where that came from. It's just falls from his lips and goes right back in his ears, the mere sound of it sizzling down his spine and twisting hard in his balls. Cramming his hands between the small of Derek's back and the sofa cushions, he digs his fingers in tight and thrusts frantically, humps against Derek's torso. Derek's head tips back convenient and makes room for Stiles to go back to work on his neck, all lips and teeth and tongue. The idea won't leave Stiles' head, the thought of having Derek like that, of finding out what it's like to sink his dick into -- into anyone, into Derek.
"Oh god," he whines. "Let me, let me fuck you, Derek, I wanna -- it's my turn, I need to, my dick is going to fall off."
Derek starts shaking slightly. Stiles hopes nothing is wrong. There is way less likely to be sex of any kind if Derek is sick. He doesn't sound sick, though, just a little strained and wavery when he says, "You really think I'm gonna let you stick it in me if it's about to fall off?"
Stiles goes still. Slowly, he sits back and captures Derek's cheeks between the palms of his hands. "Derek," he says seriously. "That wouldn't really happen. I promise, it's -- that would never happen!"
Derek's lips compress tightly. "Are you sure?" he asks, very gravely. His eyes are bright and earnest, locked on Stiles' face with laser focus. Little muscles around his mouth keep twitching.
Stiles refuses to let this be ruined by Derek's poor grasp on basic science. He licks his lips and thinks fast. Or tries to; his brain is about as cooperative as it was the time he forgot to take his Adderall for three days straight and didn't ingest anything but Mountain Dew the entire time. But finally inspiration strikes. "What if you fuck me first," he suggests.
"If I -- " Derek swallows. His eyes flicker red and his hands flex on Stiles' ass, jerk him in tightly. "Stiles. Stiles, listen to me. I'm not going to -- no."
"But you should," Stiles insists. He sags against Derek and sucks sloppily on his ear. "You should fuck me, that's definitely what you should do." His body rolls convulsively against Derek's, pulses of heat flooding through his limbs as every rock stokes the fire. "Please, Derek -- I need to come, dude, you're so freaking good at making me come. I think about it, it's -- all the time, I can't even, nothing else gets me off anymore, please."
Things start getting fuzzy after that. He winds up under Derek somehow, gasping at every push and rub of Derek's body between his legs.
He winds up naked. Derek, too. Both are interesting developments, and he's not sure how either one actually happened.
Nor is he ever going to remember exactly how he winds up back in Derek's lap, sinking down on him and groaning heavily, the world made perfect by the fullness of having Derek's cock in him. Derek pulls him down into a kiss with one hand behind his neck and his hips nudge up, just enough to jostle Stiles' weight and make his nerves sing. "There," he urges. "That's -- take what you need."
And he's really never going to be able to explain finding himself on his knees on the floor, hot, panting breaths creating a sauna between his face and the sofa cushions he's folded over, held down against, while Derek fucks him through and far past he-doesn't-even-know which orgasm, and it hurts and it's still not enough, it's not enough --
Until finally it is.
Stiles wakes up in the fading light of late afternoon with a scratchy wool blanket tangled around his midsection. The second he lifts his head, he feels like he's been hit by a train, or gone on the equivalent of like, five of his dad's worst benders.
Or both. Fuck, he kind of wants to put his head back down and die forever.
Since the universe hates his freaking guts, though, what he gets instead of a swift and merciful death is Derek walking in from the porch, dressed and carrying Stiles' keys. Derek stops short when he sees Stiles awake and staring at him. "I got your car," he says after an intensely awkward second in which they just blink at each other.
Stiles clears his throat and sits up slowly. His mouth tastes like ass. Figuratively speaking, anyway; he doesn't actually know what ass tastes like. Unless he does and just can't actually remember having.... His head throbs and he backs swiftly away from that thought. "Did you fix it?"
"It wasn't really broken." Derek tosses the keys down on the end of the sofa; they bounce with a rattle a good foot from Stiles' face.
Stiles stares at them. "Of course it wasn't," he mutters.
Tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket, Derek stands there and watches him. "Are you -- how are you feeling?"
Ridden hard and put away wet, Stiles thinks blearily.
Bitterly.
"Fine," he says. "Peachy." He stifles a groan as he leans down and snags his shorts from the floor. Everything -- everything -- in his body aches, from raw skin to deep bruises to muscle aches, and he's so filthy even he can't ignore the smell, like, how is Derek breathing anywhere near him, and --
And the sun is setting instead of rising and he honestly has no idea how many times he's been fucked, or what else he might have done, in the space of the day.
His hands shake as he yanks on his clothes, piece by piece.
He avoids Derek's gaze the entire time, but there's no real way not to feel the weight of it on him. When he pulls his jacket on he fumbles for his phone and cringes preemptively at the possibility of the texts that might be awaiting him from his dad.
There are none. It gives him hope; if he can get home before his dad's double ends, he might be able to swing a claim of illness keeping him out of school. "I have to get home," he says vaguely, in Derek's general direction. "I -- thanks for getting the Jeep, I guess."
"Stiles --" Derek starts. He reaches out as Stiles tries to move past him to the door.
Stiles flinches. "I have to go," he repeats. "And I think..." He closes his eyes, then pushes past Derek entirely and stops with his hand on the doorknob. He can't stand to look at Derek, can't deal with Derek being able to see his face either. "Listen, I think -- I kind of need you to stay away from me for awhile. This is, uh. I don't want this."
Derek takes his time about responding. "You don't want what, Stiles?" he finally asks flatly.
This shadow of things, Stiles thinks. This necessity that keeps happening between them and is turning out to be far worse than being ignored. "This," he says. "This, with you. It's -- I don't want it."
Derek's voice goes tight and cold. "Funny. You sang a different tune earlier."
"Oh, you mean when I was hopped up on faery goofballs because you -- because your fucking life keeps -- " Stiles whirls around and glares at Derek, and when he finds Derek standing closer than is comfortable he just runs with the opportunity to jab a finger into Derek's chest. "Because it wasn't enough that I kept letting you, was it? No, fuck, of course it wouldn't be, something had to make me actually beg you to -- to -- " The to use me catches stickily in his throat. "I'm out, all right. I'm done."
He turns back to the door and yanks it open. "Just leave me alone, okay? I mean it. Leave me the hell alone."
He does. He means it.
He thinks.