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Stiles wakes up in a cave.
Which is sort of weird enough on its own, right, definitely outside the norm. It's made all the weirder for the fact that he'd gone to sleep in his own bed.
Also weird: Derek sitting cross-legged next to him, one palm splayed across Stiles' chest, the other cupped under his chin as he slumps over with his elbow propped on his knee. Interesting, sure, but mostly -- yeah, weird. Stiles hasn't even seen Derek in like two weeks, and then only because a chance encounter at the gas station interrupted the previous three week streak.
There but for a sudden and intense need to have a Milky Way while he crammed for midterms, Stiles could have gone right on assuming Derek had decided to exit stage left from his life or something after their last encounter in his room.
Instead, since then, he's been left wondering what exactly Derek was thinking as he leaned against the side of the Camaro, fingers idly tapping the nozzle pumping gas into his tank, and watched Stiles from across the parking lot. It occurs to him now that Derek might have been planning to abduct Stiles and abscond with him to a cave.
Stiles is about to point out the intense levels of creepy he's concerned might be going on here, when Derek's hand lifts away from his chest. "Don't sit up too fast," Derek says absently, without even sparing him a glance.
Stiles swats Derek's hand away and bolts upright just to spite him.
"Ugh, fuck, why'd you let me do that?" he complains a split-second later. His vision grays out and his head feels like rabid cats have decided to snack on his brain. Or what he imagines that would feel like, anyway. Sharp stabs of pain like rabid little kitten teeth.
Derek foregoes the massive I told you so hanging in the air between them in favor of scooting over to sit against the closest stone wall and stretch his legs out. Stiles stares at him and very carefully does not move until his head clears a little, and only then does he -- slowly -- crawl over to do the same, a few feet from Derek.
"So," he mentions. "We're in a cave."
He's striving for light and casual, something in the vein of hey, I dig spelunking, this is okay with me. What comes out is more along the wobbly lines of what the holy fuck are we doing in a cave, Derek? but his voice is at least a normal pitch instead of embarrassingly high. Stiles decides to chalk that up as a win.
"Yeah," Derek confirms. "Northern edge of the preserve. There's an entire network up here."
"And we got here...how?"
"Faery," Derek says shortly. "Her magic messes with your head for awhile -- just take some deep breaths, it will pass."
When it comes to getting the fog to lift, Stiles is happy to give anything a try. So he does as instructed and sure enough, it gets easier to think clearly. That leaves him unfortunately coherent to rewind through Derek's words. "Wha -- faery? No way."
Derek gives him a sidelong, incredibly dirty look that Stiles does not think he actually deserves.
But try telling Derek that. Ever. Stiles takes the coward's way out and opts for cool analysis instead. "Okay. We're in a cave. A magical faery put us here -- I'm going to assume trapped us here, since, you know, otherwise: lame. Derek -- " Derek's face pinches like he knows what's coming and is dreading it greatly. Whatever. Stiles knows that look. That look can't hurt him. "Derek. Why did a magical faery trap us in a cave, dude? What's up with that?"
Folding his arms, Derek glares out into the gloominess. "She wants something from me."
"Great. Awesome. Give it to her and let's go. I'm hungry."
"I can't give her what she wants. I won't. I'll figure something else out."
"You really gotta give me more than that, big guy."
"She's a Huldra," Derek relents with a grimace of distaste. "That's a -- she's beautiful and she...you know." Stiles stares at him blankly and shakes his head, baffled. Derek rolls his eyes. "For fuck's -- she's a seduction faery, Stiles."
Stiles blinks. "She's a what in the what now?"
"Stiles."
"No, uh-uh, you don't get to Stiles me when -- she's a what? That is an actual thing that exists. Are you for real with this?" Derek growls at him, a low purr that Stiles can just barely hear. "Oh my god. Fine! So where is our lovely enchantress and why isn't she here seducing you already and why, explain this to me, why do I need to be here for it?"
Derek gives him this curious stare as he finishes, like something has given him pause. Stiles can't really figure out what, since he has valid questions and all. So some hot faery wants a hot werewolf to bang her like a drum, whoop-de-doo. Stiles is not going to color himself surprised on that front anytime soon, what with...well, it's Derek. Shit, if Stiles had magical powers Derek would probably be in danger from him, too -- though he'd like to think he's a good enough person to be satisfied with simply making Derek give him a second look once in awhile.
Either way, though, he wouldn't be sitting around waiting to get the party started.
And also, yeah, since when are there faeries and since when is procuring a teenaged audience one of their deals? Stiles feels like Disney may have misled him somewhere along the way, if this is how these things go.
"I don't know why you assume she wants me," Derek says cagily.
"Oh, fuck you. You want an ego boost, find a mirror and use your eyes," Stiles says crankily. "Otherwise just tell me what's going on."
Derek huffs. "I'm telling you. I'm, with me, that's not what she's after."
Stiles blinks a few more times. "Dude. I am not fucking a faery. Nuh-uh, no way."
"That's not what she wants, either." Derek seriously winces and looks like he's having to force more words out. "She made an arrangement with my family. I didn't know about it or I wouldn't have -- you shouldn't be involved in this."
"Oh my god, would you just tell me what this is?"
"Fine," Derek growls. "Her enchantments don't work on werewolves. But my family, we've always been mixed and if she had ever tried to -- it would have gotten ugly. Neither side wanted to take the gamble of who would win, so she ceded this territory to us and agreed to play her games elsewhere...for a concession."
"Okaaaaaaay..."
"It's -- every new Alpha has to pay her tribute. She's supposed to be invited to witness his or her first..." Derek swallows and seriously looks like he's near physical pain. "Joining. After taking over."
"Kind of screwed the pooch on that one then, didn't you?" Stiles says without thinking. Once he does think, his brow wrinkles. "That was unfortunate wording. I think. Maybe? Though I'm not -- you know what, just in case, I take my wording back. You can keep the sentiment, though."
"I told you, I didn't know," Derek says grumpily. "When she showed up after we -- she said she'd overlook my mistake, under the circumstances. I thought she meant entirely. That she would only expect -- I mean, if I ever decided to...be with anyone again."
Stiles gets a very, very bad feeling about Derek's bleak tone and the apparent misunderstanding that's led to it. "Uh. Let's set aside that you sound like you were planning on becoming a monk or something. That wasn't what she meant?"
Derek glares off into the darkness. "No. She wants a...repeat performance. And she's tired of waiting for it."
Stiles processes that. Clearly, it wasn't enough that his once-normal life had already devolved into the stupefying mess he'd brought down on his own head -- his dad's head, his friends' heads -- when he couldn't leave well enough alone and stay the fuck away from the promise of a dead body in the woods. It wasn't enough that he'd been menaced, attacked, threatened, terrified, paralyzed, and beaten to a pulp at various points in less than a year.
No, what he really needed to top it all off was a faery reeling him in as the payment method of choice for Derek's long-neglected sex IOU -- and all because he'd lost his mind once and lost his virginity right along with it.
Stiles jiggles one leg restlessly. "This is bullshit," he mumbles, rubbing the heels of his hands against his throbbing temples. "This is not happening. I am going to wake up and discover that this is not happening, all right."
Derek huffs in irritation, or exasperation, or whatever particular blend of judgmental feelings Stiles has succeeding in provoking now. Because, fuck, excuse Stiles for getting a little sick of being useful for getting Derek out of his own hot water, and nothing else. Zip. Nada. "What?" he snaps.
"Nothing, Scully," Derek snaps back, his voice taunting and sarcastic.
"Huh?"
Stiles actually knows this particular sigh well enough to identify. It's long-suffering and incredulous, and incredibly familiar as Derek-speak for you are a fucking moron. It troubles him a bit that such a language even exists, and even more that he's approaching fluent in it at this point. "What, did you never watch X-Files?"
"Wha -- I don't know, like a few reruns a long time ago?"
"That's it? How could you not have -- jesus christ, Stiles, it was a seminal television -- "
"Seminal? How about we holster the SAT words, sheesh, it was a freaking TV show." Stiles rolls his eyes. "One which, incidentally, partly predates me and had its heyday when I was a toddler. Sorry to disappoint, I mean, I know that 'thank god he's smarter than Scott' is my basically my only selling point and all, but government conspiracy plots were a little over my head back when I still had trouble with the concept of not jamming small objects up my nose."
A strange noise erupts, quickly stifled. "Was that a recurrent problem for you?" Derek asks in an odd tone.
"The fourth time I went in, one of the E.R. nurses made me a little origami star out of gauze as a prize for the most nasal extractions any of them could remember a single kid needing," Stiles admits in a bluster of feigned haughtiness. And either he's started hallucinating, or Derek just honest-to-god laughed, warm and amused and bizarrely devoid of any tinge of mockery. "Yeah, yeah, Chuckles, whatever. We all had our hurdles to overcome -- like I bet you were an ugly kid. Were you ugly? It's totally the weird little runts who grow up hot."
The pause that follows is awkward, to say the least. "I don't know," Derek finally says hesitantly. "I was just...a kid."
"You probably had acne and a cowlick," Stiles mutters. "I was adorable. In case you were wondering. You probably weren't. Wondering, I mean. But I was. Adorable. Shoulda taken advantage of that on the playground while I had the chance."
He trails off with a stilted laugh. Derek doesn't say anything, and within about thirty seconds the silence starts feelings familiarly oppressive to Stiles. He scrapes his thumbnail across a snag in the flannel covering his knee and stares out at their feet, Derek's in shoes, his bare. "Hey, weren't you a little young for aliens and monsters and shit back then, too? Or is it different for -- I mean, the supernatural stuff, it would have just been the natural for you, huh?"
"We live in the same damn world, Stiles. Aliens are just as much science fiction to me as they are to you."
"Well, what the hell do I know?" Stiles says defensively. "You used to be on my sci-fi list, man. And now I've got to take freaking faeries off of it, too, and who even knows what else once Lydia finishes translating the bestiary, so I mean -- it's a fair question! God, don't be a dick."
Derek is silent again, for a long stretch. "I watched it with my dad," he suddenly says. "He recorded every episode right from the beginning, he had this huge pile of tapes -- after I turned ten, that was when I was allowed. Once I caught up we watched new ones together every week."
"Oh." Stiles swallows against an unexpected, inexplicable tightness in the back of his throat and chews the inside of his cheek for a second. "Hey, they ever do a werewolf episode?"
There's that quiet laugh again, a little tinged with sadness this time but still relatively light. "Yeah," Derek murmurs. "You should watch sometime, you'd get a kick out of it."
"Sure. Maybe," Stiles says. His brain insists on chasing down a quick daydream of sitting around and watching with Derek, of finding out what Derek is like just relaxed, doing something he enjoys for once, if Derek would laugh at funny parts or find anything too creepy even for him, if Derek would sit anywhere near him or keep his distance --
He scrambles suddenly to his feet, desperate to derail that train of thought as fast as possible. "Okay, look, we've gotta get out of here if either of us is going to do anything at any time. So, like...let's go. Let's get this thing done."
Stiles gets a sudden crash course in understanding how silence can be deafening. When Derek finally speaks his voice is tight, like he's angry. "You -- what?"
"You heard me," Stiles says determinedly. "Andele, Derek, chop chop. Get a move on and do me, I want to go home."
This time the noise Derek makes is strangled, almost gurgling. "Stiles...no. You -- I don't want -- I told you I'll figure something else out, just let me think for a --"
"Nobody knows where we are," Stiles snaps. Derek can just take how much he doesn't want to ride this merry-go-round again and shove it, okay, Stiles is the one whose ass keeps winding up on the chopping block. "You didn't even know you had a fucking faery problem, and I can't work internet magic without the freaking internet. So either pull another solution out of your ass for once, or come fuck me already." He laughs suddenly. It comes out thin and reedy, half-strangled somewhere in his chest. "Anyway, it's not like you haven't tapped this before, am I right? Which -- come to think of it, you kind of owe me."
"I owe -- "
"Damn right you owe me," Stiles says, staunch and brittle. "I gave it up to screw your head back on straight, you can give it up so I can freaking go home and eat a Pop-Tart and clip the toenail that's bugging me." His skin prickles with a nervous heat and he can freaking feel his heart racing. Which means Derek can doubtlessly hear it. Fuck. "I'm taking my pants off now," he blurts as a distraction.
For himself or Derek, he's not really sure. He follows through and shoves his pajamas down even as Derek is surging to his feet, reaching out as if to -- to stop Stiles? To help him? Either way Derek's hands come down over bare skin on his hips instead of flannel, and his fingers dig in hard as he jerks like he's been shocked. The reaction tugs Stiles against him. "Stiles," he breathes.
Stiles' cock stirs. He works on breathing normally and kicks his feet free. "Seriously, let's just get out of here," he says unsteadily, pleadingly. "If this is all it takes, then -- then all right, okay? Just - just do this and you can forget this faery even exists, you can go back to forgetting I exist. Awesome, yeah? All you gotta do is --"
Derek hooks a leg behind Stiles' ankles and bears him down to the ground in one swift, incongruously careful move. "That works," Stiles squeaks, startled. He's half-on, half-off the puddled fabric of his pants and he squirms to try and shift it more evenly under his ass. This whole mess is bad enough without getting dirt in bad places, seriously. "Do you want me to, uh. Like last time, I could -- "
"No," Derek says flatly. He hovers over Stiles and Stiles supposes it's at least courteous, that Derek doesn't press down and drag rough denim over his bare, half-hard dick. He does glance between them at it, which just prompts a little more squirming from Stiles because really, it's sort of the height of uncomfortable to be spread out under Derek in nothing but a Tron t-shirt. Derek's nostrils flare. "Damn it," he mutters.
"Hey, I'll get there, just give me a -- "
"No, it's -- " Derek's lips compress and his lashes smudge darkly over the thin skin beneath his eyes as he closes them. "I don't have anything," he mutters like a curse. "To use."
"Spit," Stiles says. Blurts, really; there is no thinking it through. The pinch in Derek's features tightens and Stiles could swear he sees a flash of red when Derek opens his eyes to look at him incredulously. The doubt, the hesitance, the fucking pretense that Derek honestly gives a shit, all of it just makes him dig in harder. "It'll be fine, I fingered myself tonight. "
He doesn't mention that that's a relatively recent addition to his masturbatory repertoire, and he sure as hell doesn't mention that he does it, every single time, with Derek in mind. Nevertheless, Derek's eyes sure as hell go red now. "You," Derek chokes out. "Jesus fucking christ, Stiles, what is wrong with you?"
"Hey, I have a healthy libido and a vivid imagination," Stiles grumps. "Don't shame me, dude."
Derek sits back abruptly on his heels. One hand skims up the inside of Stiles's leg, pushing it out before continuing unerringly towards his goal. Stiles bites his lip and focuses all of his attention on not tightening up, on letting Derek press a finger against and into him, feel how he's accepting and still a little slick. "Fuck," Derek mutters. He works another dry finger in without much difficulty and Stiles can't stand looking at him, has to stare up into the gloomy darkness as his hips twitch up involuntarily. "You -- fuck."
"Only if you get on with it," Stiles says tightly. He shifts his feet out and lets his knees fall in a wider splay, and when he feels Derek withdraw and hears the quick ptuh sound of spitting, his cock throbs with a rush of blood. He squeezes his eyes shut and swears to himself that he is not going to let Derek make him come from finger-fucking alone, he's not going to let Derek see that.
But god, three fingers pushing into him, wet and strong and aimed right for his prostate, makes him writhe like a cat in heat. "Oh shit," he groans, humiliation burning under the surface of his skin. "That's -- that's good, that's enough, just do it."
"It is, isn't it," Derek says. He sounds irritated. His fingers tug free again and Stiles hears the rasp of a zipper, more spitting -- and, he could swear, a soft, throaty peal of feminine laughter echoing through the cave as Derek presses down between his legs and nudges his cock into place.
Stiles probably could have done with a little more in the way of prep, he realizes. He's spent five weeks convinced that he'll never forget a single detail of Derek fucking him the first time, only to discover now that he somehow minimized it in his mind, the thickness, the intensity of the stretch and sense of fullness as Derek presses in, as deep as he can go. It's bearable but it's a surprise, more than he remembered, more than he was ready for. It makes his breath catch in his lungs as his legs wind around Derek's hips in an instinctive effort to lift himself into it, relieve the pressure.
Derek takes it as invitation. Or doesn't need invitation -- probably the more likely bet. He inhales sharply and rocks in, quick rolling surges of his hips that rob Stiles of air entirely and make him scrabble at Derek, grasp at his shoulders, his arms, anything he can get a grip on. Underneath the ache is a coil of a heat, twisting rapidly tighter with every deep plunge of Derek's cock, the friction and the force and the plain, keening awareness he's learning that sex brings with it, of his body and another and how they interact.
So what if it's not how he would have chosen to have this with Derek -- with anyone. It still is what it is, a dick in his ass and a rising need gathering sharp and frantic low in his gut and tingling in his balls. Stiles drags his gaze up from Derek's collarbone, peeks at his face with the faint hope of seeing...something. He's not sure what.
But whatever it is he's looking for, it's just not there. Derek's head is bowed and his brow is pinched and furrowed, eyes shut like he can't stand to even look at Stiles if he's going to get through this. He looks miserable.
Stiles finds himself wishing he had a freaking paper bag to put over his head. They'd doubtlessly both be happier for it. Instead all he can do is turn his face away and close his eyes, swallow back the useless rush of bitterness that rises thick in his throat. "Hurry up, would you," he mutters.
Derek's rhythm falters for a few strokes. The stutter and pause is pretty much the exact opposite of helpful to Stiles' progress towards orgasm, and that's even before Derek lets out a dangerous-sounding rumble of noise above him, almost but not quite a snarl. Derek shifts and his weight leans right, all braced on one hand, as his left arm slips under the small of Stiles' back and draws him up. Stiles hitches his legs higher and tighter around Derek's hips and feels like he's fallen into some perverted twist on the bridging they'd had to do when Finstock went on a Pilates kick at the start of last season.
The thought doesn't last any longer then it takes for Derek to start snapping back into him. He moves in quick, short strokes, easily fighting off gravity to keep Stiles arched up and there to take every thrust. Derek's eyes flash open and lock on Stiles, red as coals. "Get yourself off," he demands.
Obeying, wrapping a fist around his cock and stripping off rapidly, is barely more than a formality. Stiles sucks in breath after breath, tongue dry, white sparks dancing across his vision, and with a ragged cry he comes, striping his shirt with it.
It's definitely a snarl this time, ripping out of Derek at the same time he hauls the rest of Stiles' upper body off the ground. He clutches Stiles close and snaps up into him, knees spread wide, arms locked around Stiles' back. "Stiles," he groans. He tucks his face against Stiles' neck and pants hard, the jostle of each thrust making his lips move over Stiles's skin. "God -- Stiles, fuck."
With that bitten-off curse Derek pushes deep and shudders through his orgasm. It's a full-bodied ripple that reverberates through Stiles's body, and it doesn't end until Derek is done, until he falls completely still.
Long minutes after that -- feels like it, anyway -- Derek's arms finally loosen slightly around him. Derek lifts his head slowly, the red in his eyes still fading out to softer flecks of green and brown as he blinks slowly at Stiles and licks his lips. His gaze drops and locks on Stiles' mouth.
"Derek," Stiles says uncertainly.
The same laugh he'd heard before rings through the cave, and everything goes dark.