You're Giving Me Such Sweet Nothing

by Muffintine

[complete] [sterek] It's a good moment, so of course Stiles has to go and ruin it with his big mouth. "I don't want to die a virgin," he says too quickly, not knowing why he's even said it.

Shock, Stiles thinks, he's in shock.

There's an arrow lodged firmly in Derek's shoulder, the sharp edge of it sticking out of his back like the death sentence it was surely meant to be. It's coated in Derek's blood, the thickening crimson liquid sliding down the long metal line of the arrow languidly, reaching the tip, cresting, before dripping onto the forest floor like a warning. Stiles can hear his blood rushing past his ears and everything is too damn loud.

That arrow was meant for him.

It was supposed to go through his heart.

Stiles stumbles, hand scraping against the hard bark of the nearest tree as he gasps for breath, eyes never leaving Derek's back. His mind is too busy pulsing every which way, too busy circling itself in a web of confusion for him to really get what has just transpired, to catalog the significance. Before he can get the words out, scream for Derek to be careful, to thank him, the werewolf is gone in a haze of movement and blazing red eyes.

Another arrow whizzes by Stiles' head—too close—but Derek's on the hunter in the next second, claws gleaming in the brilliant light of the full moon as they cleave through the man's chest. He snaps his arm back, a still beating-heart clenched tightly in his bloody claws.

The hunter falls; silence fills the night.

Derek stands there for a several seconds, merely clutching the heart in his clawed hands. He stares down at the hunter's bleeding chest, the glow of his eyes never dulling, and turns to look at Stiles. It's a searching gaze, familiar as it is foreign. Stiles forgets how to breathe, thinks he should probably be scared, that he should being thinking things like, monster, beast, abomination, however.

However...

All he can bring himself to feel is overwhelming relief. Relief he's still alive, relief that Derek is still alive. Gratitude even, maybe. Derek lets the heart roll out of his hand, hitting the soft forest floor with a muted thump. He walks back over to where Stiles is standing, staring as he does so, the animal—his wolf—still burning like bright hot rage in his eyes. His shoulder hitches as he walks, but if the pain bothers him there is no sign of it in his tightly controlled expression. "You alright," he asks, voice hoarse and laced gently with something akin to concern.

Stiles swallows dryly. "Yeah," he says softly. His eyes falls to the arrow still protruding from Derek's shoulder. "Thanks," he murmurs, throat tight, restricted. "You shouldn't... you shouldn't have done that."

Something flickers across Derek's face, but its gone before Stiles can puzzle it out. "I'll heal, you won't," he says simply, as if that makes it okay.

Stiles laughs hollowly. "You're such an idiot." He means it fondly, lips pulling backwards into a sad attempt at a grin.

Derek grunts, hand reaching forward to enclose around the end of the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder. "You're the idiot," he huffs offhand in return, fingers snapping the end of the metal arrow off as if it were made of wood. Derek grits his teeth, eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second before he exhales sharply. "I need you to pull the rest of the arrow out," he rasps through stilted, uneven breaths.

"Right, sure—just—," Stiles stammers, stepping forward into Derek's space, right arm circling his waist and traveling upwards behind his back to wrap his fingers around the pointy end of the arrow. He feels it then, the warm liquid feel of the blood that coats the arrow. He hesitates. "Just relax. Okay? Okay."

Derek slumps forward then, head resting on Stiles' shoulder as he breathes out and in and then out again; Stiles' heart betrays him in that moment, beating out of rhythm in such a frustratingly telling way. "Quickly," Derek exhales against his neck, warm breath skittering across Stiles' skin, quick and fleeting, eliciting gooseflesh. Stiles shudders, grips the arrow tightly, and grits his teeth as he jerks. It comes out with the tell-tell squelch of exiting blood and flesh. Derek whines into Stiles' shoulder, sagging against him.

"Whoa there, buddy," Stiles says, dropping the arrow on reflex and hooking both of his arms around Derek's back, pressing his fingers into the slick fabric of Derek's favorite leather jacket.

"Need a moment," Derek huffs against Stiles' neck.

Stiles nods noncommittally and gives him this brief lull in time. He lets Derek stand there, pressed flush against Stiles' front, bodies awkwardly matching up in the best way. He sighs, but doesn't move. His fingers twitch. He finds, quite embarrassingly, he wants to run his fingers through Derek's matted and bloody hair. Which is ... weird, but not-weird at the same time. Stiles thinks it would probably be nice; soothing, even.

It's a good moment, so of course Stiles has to go and ruin it with his big mouth. "I don't want to die a virgin," he says too quickly, not knowing why he's even said it.

Derek stiffens against him, but doesn't pull away.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Stiles is quick to continue, "I love the almost-dying and mutual live-saving thing we have going on but, dude, it would really suck to die before I get to sleep with at least one person."

Derek snorts and it sounds suspiciously like a half-aborted laugh. "I don't understand you," he grunts against the soft underside of Stiles' jaw.

Stiles laughs. "Yeah, well, neither do I half the time." His fingers ache to touch and he gives into the urge, trailing his fingers up to ghost against edge of Derek's hairline. His hands still and Stiles sighs. He shouldn't, he reminds himself as his heart rate continues to spike, he really shouldn't. But then Derek leans into his touch and lets out this adorable huff of air that almost sounds like he's giving in.

Yeah, so sue him, it's the time of night when, post scary werewolf-hunter battle, Derek Hale has become adorable. Honestly, he blames it all on the shock. And perhaps the aching want he's long since buried so deep in his heart he can forget it's there on most days.

Today's not one of those days.

Derek shifts against him, almost as if he's nuzzling into Stiles, but he thinks that's probably taking the dog jokes too far (or hopeful wishing). "I could fix that," Derek says, tone weirdly serious, if a bit cautious.

Stiles' mind goes offline.

"Stiles," Derek questions through a full body growl, nosing up the side of Stiles' neck, teeth pressing up and in for a quick nip at his earlobe, "did you hear me?" Suddenly there are warm palms sliding up beneath his graphic tee, pressing in hotly against his skin.

He can't think. He can't—

"Are you serious?" he asks, his voice climbing an octave higher towards the end of his question. "You don't. You barely even tolerate me." And wow, that was the wrong thing to say; Derek steps back, stony expression twisting with his trademark detachment.

Derek's lips twitch, but he says nothing. He merely stands there, eyes so intense Stiles is surprised he hasn't spontaneously caught fire yet.

Stiles swallows, wets his lips and says, "Right?"

The way in which Derek's eyes flicker downward and his hands clench into fists at his side, screams wrong, you idiot.

"Wow, wow," Stiles exhales, heart beating excitedly in his chest. "You mean you—? Me?" He can't help the hopefully smug smile that pulls at his lips. "Really?"

Derek says nothing, but the way in which he grits his teeth is all the answer Stiles needs.

"Yes," Stiles rasps too eagerly. "Yes."

He steps forward, seizes Derek by his bloodied shirt and pulls him in towards him, slotting the older man's legs in between his own. Derek growls in approval, hands automatically coming to rest on the curve of Stiles' ass. They stay like that for two breathes, the air between them mingling, sparking. The first kiss is slow, their lips meeting in soft, tentative presses of skin-to-skin, shy and needy all at once. It's not Stiles' first kiss, but it's so right it makes his chest swell inappropriately. Derek leans into him, tongue sliding across Stiles' lower lip with intent, silently asking for access, for permission. Stiles lets him in, lets Derek devour him with his mouth as he sucks pleasantly at his tongue. He tastes of dirt and blood, but Stiles doesn't mind. It's metallic, gritty, but mind numbingly perfect.

Soon, Derek's hands move from Stiles' ass to trail up his spine, the callused pads of his fingers pressing in harshly against his skin. Stiles groans obscenely into Derek's mouth, gripping tighter at the mangled shirt the other man's wearing. It's desperate, moist, and so dizzying Stiles doesn't know how he's still standing.

They pull apart slowly, a line of spit connecting their bruising lips. It should be gross, really, but it makes Stiles' dick flush with life, straining against his pants so hard it hurts. He groans, helplessly rutting against Derek's thigh. Fuck.

There's suddenly a hand deftly unbuttoning his pants and oh, it's not his. Derek's unbuttoning his pants with a quiet sort of skill, freeing his dick before he can even process what's happening. Derek has large hands, Stiles notes, as he slides his thick fingers over the head of his cock, coating his hand in Stiles' precum. He twists his wrist down and up, thumb digging into the slit of his dick with a sweetly painful press. Stiles whines shamelessly, hips bucking. "Oh my God," he moans as Derek's lips meet his again, capturing all of the noises that dare to escape the confines of his mouth. It's hot, and sloppy, and so freaking overwhelming. Derek's working up and down his length, touch too-light, not rough at all and Jesus, Jesus, he's going to die it feels so good.

Derek moves from Stiles' lips to bite as the crest of his jaw, small little nips as he works his way down to his neck, where he worries at the skin almost reverently. His lips sear against Stiles' skin, every gentle suck coinciding with the pump of his fist. It's almost too much. "... gonna come," he murmurs desperately, his hips giving a tiny, upward jerk. "So good, Derek, so good."

And all of a sudden, the pleasure stops, Derek pulls back and Stiles' body chases after him, dick weeping sorrowfully for the aching touch to return, lips open, and eyes clouded with lust. He can't help the pathetic whine of protest that bubbles past his throat. "You stopped," Stiles groans, words filled with frustrated accusation. "Why would you stop, you asshole."

Derek's smirking, the bastard. "Not yet," he hums, though it almost sounds like a purr. He looks at him for a long moment and, fuck, it's torture, it's the worst kind of torture. It really, really is. And then, slowly, oh so slowly, Derek leans his neck back in a, holy shit, a show submission as he growls, "Well, do you want to last long enough to fuck me or what?"

Stiles knows he's gaping. He knows. He thought his dick couldn't get any harder but he was so, so wrong. It stands tall, a testament to how freaking interested he is in that prospect. "Yeah," he croaks, voice strained, "okay, yes, fuck, Derek, seriously, fuck, now please, can I do it now."

Derek chuckles, the sound of it throaty and pleased. "Pants off, first," he suggests, voice wrought with his very own brand of breathless want. Stiles nods eagerly, fumbling at Derek's jeans, his inexperience showing. Derek simply watches him through half-lidded eyes and doesn't comment. It shouldn't be arousing, but holy hell, it is. Stiles' grip on Derek's jeans is vice like as he jerks them down, watches as they pool at Derek's ankles and he kicks them off with almost no effort whatsoever.

"Get on the ground," Derek says calmly, tone commanding, "and lean up against the tree." Stiles complies, hands skirting around the edge of Derek's boxer-briefs before stumbling backwards and sinking down to settle in the cold dirt. It's not long before Derek looms over him, looking down at him with a considering expression. He sinks to his knees then, legs falling on either side of Stiles' hips so that Derek's straddling him.

Stiles' eyes automatically fall to the straining hardness outlined by Derek's incredibly tight boxer-briefs. He reaches out to touch, but Derek catches his wrist in a tight grip. "No," Derek says, eyes heavy and chest heaving. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Derek leans his hips forward, pressing his still-clothed dick down against Stiles' own exposed and twitching cock. While he rolls his hips slowly, pressing their cocks together tortuously, Derek brings Stiles' fingers to his lips, enveloping the middle three with the moist heat of his mouth. He sucks gently, tongue moving sporadically against all three, pushing, pressing, wetting.

Stiles forgets how to breathe. "Holy fuck, Derek," he gets out, and the sound of his voice is absolutely wrecked. He begins to roll his hips in tandem with Derek's almost on instinct. He watches with wide, attentive eyes as Derek pulls back off his fingers and then sucks them in again, coating them in a fresh sheen of spit.

With an audible pop and smack of his lips, Derek pulls back off of Stiles' fingers for the final time. He releases Stiles' wrist, lets his claws stretch and grow, and easily slices a clean rip through either side of his boxer-briefs.

"Oh man," Stiles groans, "I'm pretty sure that wasn't supposed to be as hot as it was."

"Pull them off," Derek says through a rasp. Stiles starts to reach forward with his spit-soaked fingers and Derek growls. "Other hand."

"Oh, right," Stiles laughs, obliging happily with his dry hand, pulling the rest of what's separating him and Derek off with the flick of his wrist. They both moan as Derek's cock falls back on top of Stiles' with a wet smack. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Derek grunts.

Stiles takes a moment to admire the way Derek's dick looks lined up against his, flushed dark, pulsing with blood, and throbbing with just as much want as his. He could come from the sight alone, but Derek's already moving, stretching upwards on his knees, hovering just over Stiles' cock and guiding his wet fingers to his entrance.

"What," Stiles manages in a broken half-whisper.

Derek makes a frustrated sound and glares. "I need you to stretch me open," he says so frankly Stiles can't do anything but let his mouth hang open.

"Sorry? You want me to what? I don't—"

"Stiles," Derek interrupts with a growl, tugging at his wrist insistently. "Shut up. I'll show you." As he says this, he nudges Stiles' fingers at his entrance again and releases his grip almost reluctantly.

"What do I—"

"One," Derek grunts, looking down at Stiles impatiently. "Start with one."

"Okay, shit, okay, I got this," Stiles promises, still slightly panicked.

Derek lets out a small, amused huff, but nods as if to encourage him. Stiles swallows, plays with the tight ring of muscle at Derek's entrance first, allowing his stomach to twist with surmounting anticipation. He hesitates before slowly pressing his index finger inside to the first knuckle. The spit helps, but the further he pushes inside, the tighter Derek clenches around him. Derek's hips jerk, but he makes no move to get away. His breathing labors, but he doesn't make a sound otherwise.

Stiles pulls his finger out and then presses back up inside again, peeking a look up at Derek. He looks less constipated than usual, face soft, lips parted. Shit, shit, Stiles wants—but he has to—woah, he needs to calm down. Derek reaches forward suddenly, bracing himself on Stiles' shoulders, fingers splaying out against the cotton fabric of his shirt. Stiles continues to thrust his finger in and out before deciding he can add another. Derek does make a sound this time, a little helpless grunt as his eyes flutter.

"Does it...," Stiles trails off, curling his fingers inside and rubbing, "does it feel good?" His voice is hoarse, he knows, strained with suppressed want, but he's still unsure.

Derek jerks his head affirmatively, hips spasming as Stiles his a good spot, and he bites down on his lips so hard he draws blood. The red whelps up on his lip as Derek begins to press back down on Stiles' probing fingers. "More," he groans harshly, "not enough."

Stiles slips in the third finger then, pumping the three digits in and out with gusto. Derek pants, hips snapping upwards and hand clenching. "Stiles," he moans, "ah, shit." His bangs stick to his sweaty forehead as he closes his eyes, arching his back and riding Stiles' fingers with barely contained, sparking pleasure. "Now," he growls, "put it in now."

Stiles' fingers slide out with a squelching pop and Derek makes a displeased sound at the loss. Stiles is quick to line his cock up with Derek's entrance, but he pauses, suddenly worried. "I don't... I don't want to hurt you." Shit, and now he's freaking out. Because, because he's never done this, okay? And, aren't you like, supposed to use lube or something? What if he rips something, what if he—

"Stiles, shut up."

—oh, he was saying that all out loud. Fuck.

"I'm a werewolf," Derek manages, brows pinched tight in concentration. "I'll heal."

"But—ohhhhh shiiiiit," Stiles hisses, head snapping back against the tree as Derek presses down, forcing the head of his cock past the loosened ring of muscle at his entrance, fuck, shit, Derek's so damn tight it makes his head spin. Derek's hips still and he bites into Stiles' shoulder with blunt teeth, snarling in repressed pain. "Shit, Derek, shit, are you—fuuuuuck—are you okay?"

Derek releases his hold on Stiles' shoulder and exhales a ragged, "'m fine," before continuing to press Stiles' cock deeper and deeper within him. All Stiles can feel is the tight warmth of it all, the way the rivets of Derek's ass clamp down on him, suck him in, eliciting pleasure like he never thought was possible. It seems like forever before he bottoms out, his thighs pressed flush against Derek's ass. Derek huffs into the crook of Stiles neck, breathing strained.

Stiles bucks his hips experimentally and Derek growls a harassed, "Not yet," in response.

It's so hard to obey, to not pull out and slam back in. He feels like he's going to explode if he doesn't move.

"Okay," Derek says, eyes completely glazed over, "okay, move."

He doesn't need to say it twice. Stiles grips Derek's bare ass and lifts him up and off of him slowly, sliding out with a purposeful, languid movement. Derek moans, breath hitching as Stiles slams back in, the wet smack of slick skin and against slick skin sounding loudly.

"Fuck," Derek snarls, body moving with each press of Stiles' thrust.

"Derek, Derek," Stiles whines into Derek now-healed shoulder, smearing half-dried blood against his face. "... feel so good, fuck, God," he babbles, the words falling out of his mouth faster than he can keep track of them.

Derek gasps, body twitching as Stiles hits his prostate suddenly, getting the angle just so. "Stiles," he says, completely wrecked. "Again," he rasps.

Stiles complies, snapping his hips upwards, sliding his dick up against Derek's prostate again and again and again until he's seeing stars. Derek's whole body shudders, his cock twitching before he finishes, hot come spurting between them, smearing over their chests as Stiles continues to thrust upwards and in. Derek grunts and collapses against Stiles, inner muscles clenching tightly.

"So close," Stiles promises, sliding in and out of Derek with the ridiculously arousing sound of the other man's panting. Stiles rears back, clutches at Derek's jacket and lets himself go. He feels the rush of warmth as he comes, hips stuttering him in as deep as he can go. He sags against Derek, exhausted as he rides out the rest of his orgasm. He kisses at Derek's neck lazily, content to stay connected to him forever.

Derek doesn't move for at least five minutes, but then he's sliding off without a word and picking his pants up off the ground.

Like nothing happened.

Like they didn't just have sex.

"Hey asshole," Stiles calls after him, feeling unfairly hurt as he scrambles to his feet. "What do you think you're doing?"

Derek pauses, mid-zip. "I'm going home," he says flatly, neutrally.

And that pisses Stiles off. "So, what, you let me stick my dick up your ass and then you just walk off like nothing happened?"

Derek's grin is patronizing, showing too much teeth. "You got what you wanted," he says callously.

Stiles gapes. "Seriously—what the—fuck you, Derek."

"You just did," he sneers before turning to walk off.

Stiles just thought he was angry before, but now he's ready to string his wolfy companion up by his intestines. "What is wrong with you?" he yells after Derek, stomping his way towards the werewolf's retreating back.

"What is wrong with me?" Derek snarls, turning by his heel as rage and—hurt?—flicker through his expression like passing headlights. "I just—Jesus Stiles, how do you not get it?"

"Get what," Stiles yells, throw his hands out and gesturing wildly. "I thought you hated me, and then you let me have sex with you? Those are some seriously mixed signals, Derek!"

Derek's face tightens, closes off. "Get out of my face," he snarls, lips rearing back.

"I don't understand you," Stiles says desperately. "God! And to think I've liked you for three years—three damn years!"

Derek stills, surprise evident on his face. "What."

"You heard me, Hale," Stiles spits. "I've been half in love with you for three years and this... this was just cruel. Did you know? Huh? Did you think one simple pity fuck would get me off your back? Well, fuck you, Derek!" Stiles glares, his whole body shaking with rage as he turns to stalk off.

Derek makes a wounded noise and reaches for him, fingers curling around his upper arm to keep him from fleeing. "I didn't know you felt the same," he says quietly.

Stiles eyes him stupidly, mouth agape.

Derek sighs, suddenly looking old. "You're an idiot," he says, for the second time that night.

Stiles' shoulders sag. "Yeah," he agrees, "but so are you."

Derek snorts, but doesn't disagree.

Stiles bounces from foot to foot, antsy. "So... ice cream?"

Derek rolls his eyes in response and Stiles can't help it, he kisses Derek. It's different, this kiss, full of unspoken words of affection and long overdue feelings. He pulls back reluctantly, pleased with Derek debauched, grumpy frown.

"So," Stiles drawls breathlessly. "What about our dead pal, Hunter Hercules."

Derek scowls. "Call Scott, he can deal with it."

Stiles laughs, pulls out his phone and sends Scott a quick text.

LOST MY VIRGINITY!11
also dead hunter in woods.
take care of it.
u owe me, dumbass and u kno it.
i'll even get u dog treats

wat the hell stiles?!

Stiles presses the lock screen and slides his phone back into his pocket. "Now, about that ice cream?"

Derek shrugs. "Whatever," he grumbles, skulking off towards his camaro.

Stiles laughs, following after him with a goofy grin stretched across his lips. Not too bad, Stilinski, he thinks, not too bad at all.