Chapter Text
Stiles limps into Derek’s house with his right knee all scraped-up and bruised and swollen to about the size of a grapefruit. He’s wearing shorts and his horrible, disgusting injury is on full display. His elbows and palms are scraped up too. He is pretty much a mess. He’s making a lot of noise with his shuffling around but he doesn’t hear anything else going on and can’t figure out if Derek is there or not.
“Derek?” he asks. He turns around. Derek is standing silently in a doorway, arms crossed, just watching him hobbling around. Classic.
Stiles doesn’t say anything, then, just holds up his bloody hands and shrugs. In the next second Derek is in front of him, holding him up by the armpits.
“What happened,” Derek asks flatly.
“Well,” Stiles says, “I was playing, um, basketball, and I fell and got hurt.”
“You’re lying,” Derek says.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles says. “Put me down please.” Derek does. “I was rollerskating?”
Derek gives him a wary eye. After a second his face softens, kind of. He knows Stiles isn’t lying now. Stiles sort of laughs, embarrassed, and Derek’s frown returns.
“You know that’s dangerous,” Derek says darkly. Stiles laughs again.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says. “I left my Barbie knee pads at home by accident.”
“It’s not funny, Stiles. You don’t heal like we do. You have to be careful.”
Stiles mulls this over. He thinks maybe the reason he limped all the way from the tennis court he was skating on to Derek’s house was that he secretly wanted to be lectured about safety. But he also knew Scott was busy with Allison and his dad was busy with work and Dr. Deaton had told him to stop coming in with non-supernatural injuries. (“I’m a vet, Stiles, I don’t do tummy aches.”) He didn’t want to be alone with his giant knee and road-rashed elbows. And it’s not like Derek hadn’t helped him with minor human issues before. (“A tummy ache? You mean, like, you’re in pain? How about a bath.”)
“You’re right,” Stiles says. “I should not have tried toe spins. Can you help me get cleaned up? Bleeding out over here.”
Derek fetches his first aid kit and helps Stiles sanitize and bandage his hands and elbows. He sits him down on a musty couch and props up his leg and an ice pack seems to materialize on his knee. It’s truly like magic.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, leaning back.
“You’ve saved my ass enough times,” Derek sighs. “Hang out for however long you want.” With that, he disappears.
Stiles blows out a big breath. This had maybe happened a few times in the past month or so. He got hurt, or wasn’t feeling great, or whatever, and Derek helped patch him up. It wasn’t like he had to help because he needed Stiles to do something or because he owed him. They had just ended up doing this. Derek had even come to Stiles a couple of times (in the Jeep, always, not to Stiles’ house) with something fucked-up going on with him. The first time it was a rusty nail stuck deep in his foot, which was gross. The second time it was six engorged ticks embedded in the back of his neck, which was very gross. Stiles wondered if Derek had gone to Deaton first and gotten turned away because these were not supernatural issues. He also wondered if he would have to pluck anything else out of Derek anytime soon, and he really hoped not. (No innuendo there, definitely not.)
It doesn’t take more than a week for something else to happen. Stiles’ knee isn’t even healed yet. Derek bangs on Stiles’ Jeep door in the parking lot of school, looking paler than usual. When Stiles lets him in he sees that—yep—Derek has an exacto knife in his hand. Like, in in. His hand is impaled. Stiles is going to have to remove another foreign object from Derek’s body.
“Oh, god,” Stiles wails. “That’s fucking awful.” There’s blood dripping down Derek’s hand and wrist and the grimace on his face makes it clear that it does not feel great.
“Just. Help me,” he manages. His jaw is clenched. Stiles helps him into the passenger seat and then digs around on the floorboard under Derek’s feet.
“I’ve got so much shit in here, I’m sure I can find an extraction device, or something, or I could just cut off your hand, you wanted me to do that once, sort of, remember? The whole arm thing?” He’s babbling because really he doesn’t want to have to do this. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that Derek’s knee is lodged into his armpit and it’s really a very muscular and juicy knee. Juicy? His brain is in several different places at once.
“Stiles, just get it out. It will be fine when it’s out.” Derek sounds slightly calmer, softer, but there is still a bit of strain in his voice.
“I’m trying. Well, I’m looking. I think I have, uh, pliers or something. I think I need something to grasp with. With which to grasp.”
He gets his hand on a pair of slightly rusty pliers. He holds them up and Derek rolls his eyes, but looks resigned to the fact that those are going to be the grasping tool. He gives Stiles his impaled hand.
“Should I even ask how this happened?” Stiles says. He’s holding Derek’s bloody wrist with one hand and the pliers in the other hand, maneuvering them to try to find the best angle for extraction. Derek sort of growls in response. “Okay,” Stiles says. He looks at Derek’s face. “Ready?” he asks. Derek glowers.
“Do it. Please,” he grunts. Stiles gets the pliers around the knife, closes his eyes, and yanks.
“Fuck!” they both shout, Stiles exclaiming at the visceral feeling of pulling the knife through flesh (very gross, but maybe possibly a little less gross than the swollen ticks) and Derek at the pain. The exacto knife is out, though. Stiles throws the pliers into the back seat, not wanting to look at them or the knife stuck in them. He watches, because he can’t not, as the hole in Derek’s hand closes up. Derek holds out the edge of his t-shirt to Stiles, and Stiles realizes he’s offering it for him to wipe the blood off his hand that had been holding Derek’s. He obliges.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
Derek nods. “Thank you,” he says. “I couldn’t do it myself. I tried.”
Stiles shrugs. Derek suddenly looks down at his hand and scratches the palm of it furiously, claws starting to come out.
“Dude, don’t—” Stiles starts, but Derek stops him, growls, and holds up both his hands.
There are now two holes, one in each palm. Like stigmata.
Stiles lets out a long sigh. “Okay, now I know you were doing something wack with that exacto knife.” He thinks that must mean Derek had a more specific reason to not go to Dr. Deaton with this problem. Be it that the wack thing he was doing was not Deaton-approved, or that he was embarrassed, or just didn’t think to go to the vet, Stiles obviously doesn’t know, but now he feels like he needs to find out.
Derek’s frown is severe. He’s looking down at his hands, and right when Stiles starts to wonder if there are going to be feet stigmata too Derek starts furiously kicking off his shoes and clawing at his socks. Stiles tries not to think it’s funny that Derek, this grouchy, badass werewolf, has to wear shoes and socks like a regular person. It’s not funny, right now, actually, because he sees that there are two bloody holes in Derek’s feet, just like in his hands.
“Fuck, dude,” Stiles says, after a pause. “What did you do to deserve this?”
Derek groans. “I really, really don’t want to say right now.”
“Am I involved in a crime?” Stiles asks. He’s joking, but gets a look in return that makes it seem like the answer is maybe. “Should we go to Deaton?” he asks. He’s hoping this will answer at least one of his questions.
“Oh,” Derek says.
This does answer one of Stiles’ questions. Derek, from the way he is looking now, apparently had forgotten that they had a supernatural vet in their contact list. Stiles does not want to be excited about this in any way, but he is. There’s a little fluttery feeling in his stomach that has something to do with Derek possibly just wanting to come to Stiles for help. Thinking of Stiles first. Huh. Though, he rationalizes, maybe Derek didn’t expect this to become a supernatural problem. Maybe he had been carving a spoon out of soap or something, or whatever it is people do with exacto knives. Maybe he had been cutting a piece of craft foam very precisely.
“You, uh, forgot?” Stiles offers. Derek actually looks sheepish. Which is a silly thing for a wolf-guy to look.
“Can you take me,” Derek says in lieu of asking nicely. Stiles turns the key in the ignition.
***
“Interesting,” Deaton says, stroking his soul patch.
“Right,” Stiles says. “I mean, we’re all thinking it, right?” Deaton turns and pulls a book off a shelf on the back wall and flips through it for a second before finding the page he wants.
“Yes, there’s the obvious Jesus-on-the-cross connection, Stiles. Stigmata.” Stiles looks at the book and sees that it’s just an encyclopedia, not some kind of fancy magical tome. It’s open to the entry for “Stigmata.” Deaton points at a picture. “These are supposed to appear with some sort of religious ecstasy, or to prove that the bearer has made some deep connection with God. You said you punctured your hand, and after Stiles pulled it out, it healed, and then these marks occurred?”
Derek nods.
“Do they hurt?” Stiles asks. “Just wondering.”
Derek grits his teeth but says, “No.”
“What were you doing when you got the original injury?” Deaton asks.
Derek looks at Stiles and then reluctantly speaks. “Carving a stick.”
“Uh huh,” Stiles says, mouth wide in a pseudo-grin. He’s amused by this. Is Derek embarrassed? After all this? He was carving a stick, like, a manly project. Vaguely dog-ish, as well. It’s not like he was having to admit he had been cutting polymer clay to make earrings to sell at craft fairs. “Carving what, pray tell?”
Derek grunts. “I don’t think it matters.”
“It might,” Deaton says carefully.
“A duck,” Derek mumbles, staring hard at his feet. Stiles covers his mouth to stifle a giggle. Derek looks so ashamed that it almost makes Stiles feel bad for laughing. But not really. Wood-carving project 1A. Derek must be trying out a hobby that isn’t either stalking or creeping.
“I don’t think that’s relevant, then,” Deaton says.
“I have something,” Stiles says. He hasn’t thought exactly about how he’s going to say this but he’s going to say it. “I’m not necessarily speaking for myself, here, but I have heard Derek being described by others as having a martyr complex.” Derek glares. “I don’t agree or disagree.”
“That is something, Stiles,” Dr. Deaton says. “I have a feeling you’re onto something there. One more question, Derek, I’m sorry.” Derek quirks an eyebrow and waits. “Do you know what kind of wood the stick was?”
Derek stares at the ceiling this time. “No,” he sighs.
“Okay, that’s fine,” says Deaton. He skims his finger over the page and then goes and grabs another encyclopedia. They watch while he finds “Woodcarving.” He reads, nods, and beckons Stiles over. “What do you make of this?”
***
So, carving ash wood can have some weird mystical properties. Stiles is not sure, still, how the knife impaled Derek, but from his research and the help of Dr. Deaton he thinks he can string together at least a partial answer to why the stigmata?
1. Derek is carving the wood of an ash tree into a duck. 1a. Derek often sacrifices, or tries to sacrifice, himself for others. 1b. In fact, maybe he is carving the duck for someone in the pack. 2. The magic in the ash and the werewolfy hands mix to create some kind of supernatural aura. 3. The magic (making fun of him?) decides to show Derek he is a martyr. 4. ???? 5. Profit.
The why part, though, Stiles does not know. Also he does not think there is actually going to be a 5.
***
They are, several days later, in Stiles’ bedroom. Derek has just silently let himself in through the window. Apparently showing up in the parking lot at school is not enough anymore. Stiles is sitting on his bed, watching Derek move anxiously around the room.
“These fucking things won’t go away,” Derek’s saying. “I can’t feel them but they are so annoying.”
“So you come to me,” Stiles says flatly. He considers doing a Godfather impression (you come to me on the day of my daughter’s wedding, etc., etc.) but then thinks Derek won’t get it and stops himself.
Derek stops pacing and looks at him like he wants to say something.
“What?” Stiles asks.
Derek huffs. “Yeah. I think…well. They have something to do with you.” Stiles raises his eyebrows almost comically high. “I didn’t want to tell Deaton but,” he grits his teeth and shuts his eyes like it’s painful to speak the words he is speaking, “I was carving the duck for you.”
Stiles’ eyebrows somehow go even farther. “For me?” he asks. He feels his heartbeat speed up and hopes Derek isn’t paying attention. He’s excited, for one thing, that he had the idea Derek must have been making the duck for someone. He does his best to make his face neutral-to-innocent, which is a challenge. “Wait, but why would that have anything to do with the stigmata?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Derek says. He sighs. “Okay, maybe that’s not true. I was aware of the magic properties of ash. I was doing magic. I was going to make a, like, SOS device. So you could contact me if you needed help.”
Stiles chokes out a laugh. He’s actually…so touched by this, but he doesn’t know how to react in a way that won’t make this a bigger deal than it probably is. He’s not going to brag about being right but, also…when he was trying to work the whole thing out it didn’t occur to him at all that maybe he was the pack member involved. He breathes slowly in through the nose and out through the nose a couple times. Derek wanted to make, like, a magical life alert button for him? In the shape of a duck? And he fucked up so badly that the knife went through the palm of his hand?
“So,” Stiles says, keeping himself chill. “That’s really sweet of you.” He smiles, genuinely. Derek half-smiles back, looking embarrassed. “But I get it if you didn’t intend for it to be sweet. I get why that would be a helpful thing for me to have. For the pack.”
“Hm,” Derek says, knitting his eyebrows. “Yeah. For the pack.”
“Sooo,” Stiles says again, ignoring that. “You think, maybe, it’s because you were doing something that would potentially be able to save me?” He feels his cheeks go pink. This is so, so weird. Derek nods. “But in the process did something insane that resulted in you needing me to help you.” Derek nods again. “Is there anything else about this situation you may be withholding?” Derek stills. He glares. “That’s a yes,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t respond. “Is it about how the knife got away from the duck and through your skin and bone and flesh?”
Derek turns and plops down into Stiles’ desk chair and turns it away from him. Stiles watches the back of Derek’s head fall into his hands. “It wasn’t when I was carving. I was. Masturbating,” Derek mumbles.
“What?” Stiles exclaims. He has to have heard that wrong.
“I was masturbating,” Derek says into his hands.
“Again, what?” Stiles asks.
“Please don’t make me say it again,” Derek says.
Stiles does not understand. His brain has gone from confusion to imagining Derek jerking off, thick cock in his hand, slick with lube, to—fuck, what? How? Though, yeah, the image in his mind of Derek masturbating is, just, wow. He feels his own dick stirring.
“I think I will let you make a wild guess as to how the knife ended up in my hand, but that is what was going on. I needed—uh. The magic required, um—you know—to work.”
“Semen?” Stiles asks, shocked.
“It was—goddammit. The spell was a love spell, okay. To protect someone you love. Fuck. I’m not saying I—that’s just the only one I found to use.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles moans. Either way he can think of this, it’s so fucked. Apparently either Derek loves him, or. He doesn’t. He can’t stand the thought of either of these options right now. “Oh my god,” he moans again. He flops back onto his bed and throws an arm over his eyes.
In a second, he feels the bed dip and lifts his arm to see Derek sitting on the edge of the bed with him.
“I don’t understand how you were confused about any of this,” Stiles says after a long pause, voice muffled by his sleeve. “You did some love magic wrong and got holes in your hands. Pretty fucking simple.”
“Hmm,” Derek says.
“And you totally lied to Deaton, which is why he couldn’t help you.”
“I don’t think he could have helped, anyway,” Derek says.
Stiles sits up, finally. “What am I supposed to do?” he whines. “I mean, I get that you wanted to help me, but I can’t fix this either.”
“Hmmm,” Derek says again.
“Okay, jeez, maybe I can,” Stiles sighs dramatically. Derek quirks a little smile at Stiles, like he knew he would decide he could figure something out. “Where did you get the spell from?”
“A book in the basement of my house.”
“Well, let’s go get it.”
***
They find the spellbook and Derek, for whatever reason, won’t let Stiles hold it. He flips around the pages a lot, hmph-ing and um-ing and frowning.
“Why can’t I look at it?” Stiles asks. “Are you looking at the page where the spell is? Did you look in the index for counter-spells or, like, what to do if your spell misfires? Can I look? Why do you have this book, anyway? Have you done magic before this?”
“Fucking hell,” Derek huffs. He slides the open book across the dusty table to Stiles, who over-dramatically splutters and squints at the tiny cloud of dust as if someone threw a handful of sand in his face.
“Thank you,” Stiles says. “Where is the page with the spell on it?”
Derek shakes his head. “Look at this page.”
Stiles looks. It’s headed with the words “When A Love Spell Has Gone Awry.” He snorts. He had somehow almost forgotten it was a love spell. He reads down the page quickly.
In the instance your love spell hits the wrong target, you must use a counter-spell (see page 508).
If it happens that your love spell doesn’t work, it is possible the target is unreceptive. Making another attempt may be dangerous and is not recommended.
It is possible that your spell attempt may result in physical harm to either you (the caster) or the target recipient. This may be caused by lack of true love, unresolved past trauma, or some other third thing. The injury or injuries will not heal naturally. A counter-spell may be used in some instances, however, this may further aggravate the injury. It is most beneficial to treat the wounds with a potion or unguent (see pages 301, 617-620) and to seek peace with yourself and/or with the target.
“Great,” Stiles says. “This is so very helpful. ‘Seek peace. Some other third thing.’ I guess you don’t want to try a counter-spell. Did you look at the, uh, unguents?” He glosses over the whole lack-of-true-love and unresolved-past-trauma thing because, really, he can’t deal with that right now either.
Derek nods. “Page 618.” Stiles flips a big chunk of book and then a few pages and he is on 618.
Stigmata (non-religious)
Generally caused by “religious” experience (sexual).
Bearer often shows other martyr-like symptoms.
Associated with inaccurate or failed love incantations.
Stiles almost chokes when he reads this. A different author definitely wrote this page. And this is definitely the right page for them. He can't stop himself from rereading the first line. “Sexual?” he asks, incredulously.
Derek won’t meet Stiles’ eyes. “Well,” he says.
Stiles thinks about Derek saying that he had been masturbating when the knife went through his hand. And that he was supposedly collecting semen to perform the love spell. His knees feel a little wiggly.
“So it’s…the whole…thing?” Stiles says, vaguely. He’s unsure, exactly, what this all means. Well, okay, he kind of gets it more now, that Derek fucked up with the spell, probably because he was unable to get the semen since the knife went through his hand when he was, uh, trying to collect it…He has a feeling Derek could explain, but clearly will not.
“Let’s just—just help me make this fucking unguent,” Derek says. He grabs the book and they head back upstairs.
They make the unguent. Well, almost. Most of the ingredients are not that weird but do require a trip to the hippie grocery store so they go out and get those and come back and mix them up. There’s one more ingredient that both of them are pretending they can’t read, neither of them volunteering to acquire.
10ml seminal fluid from adult male
Of fucking course. This fucking spell book is full of semen recipes. What are witches supposed to do in this situation? Go out and MILK? Stiles is, frankly, mad about it. He knows he’s going to be the one to crack and say something about it. He keeps reading and rereading the line in the ingredients list, like that will make it not be there, or something. Okay, also. He’s seventeen, for Christ’s sake. Thinking about either one of them having to jerk off to provide the cum is actually turning him on. He knows he could do it, at this point, his dick half-hard in his pants. And thinking about Derek doing it the other day to complete the spell to keep him safe, stroking his dick with the express goal of helping—protecting—Stiles…it’s a weird combination of sweet and sexy. He is maybe kind of also into the idea of Derek watching him do it, since apparently his penis has decided to volunteer. Oh, god. He stops himself from getting carried away and palming his dick through his pants.
“So,” Derek says. Stiles is shocked Derek is the first to speak. He has, though, been in la-la land doing his very best to not-ponder Derek’s or his own cock, so maybe it makes sense.
“Uhh,” Stiles says. He’s pretty sure Derek is aware that he is turned on.
“Last time I did this, I screwed up, badly,” Derek says, by way of excusing himself.
Oh, nuh-uh. “I don’t see any knives around,” Stiles retorts. Looks like they are going to play jack-off hot potato now, semi-erection or not.
“Well, we’re in a kitchen, so I could find one,” Derek tries. “And this fork is pretty sharp.” He holds up the fork they used to sort through the saffron strands to put into the potion.
Stiles snorts. “No one said it has to be done in here.”
Derek smirks, a little evilly. “I’m not the one with a chub,” he says. Smug bastard.
Stiles looks down quickly and then glares at Derek before trying to cover his crotch with a hand. “I’m not…the one with the holes in his hands and feet.”
Derek looks like he would concede that point if they weren’t in a serious battle right now. Because that is true. “I’m…” He thinks. He looks smug again. “All out. Already did it not too long ago.”
“Fuck you,” Stiles says quickly, without much heat. “I don’t believe you.”
“So, what, you going to make me prove it?” And, huh, Derek is grinning in, like, a playful way now.
“No,” Stiles says. He doesn’t have a counter to this. He decides to try something he thinks will both satisfy and piss off Derek, and that is taking off his pants in Derek’s kitchen.
“What—” Derek starts, and Stiles shushes him.
“Isn’t this what you wanted? Me to do it?” he says. Derek is kind of waving his hands around as if to say stop, stop, but he is definitely not looking away. He’s biting into his bottom lip. “I’ll get the fucking 10 milliliters,” Stiles grumbles, stepping out of the jeans. “You can go somewhere else with no pointy forks and knives if you would like. Or not.” He finally gets to press his palm into his dick, over his boxers, and lets out a little sigh of relief.
Derek is decidedly not making moves to go anywhere. He has placed his elbows on the kitchen counter behind himself, leaning back as if he’s settling in to watch a movie.
“Okay. Go ahead,” Derek says.
Stiles swallows thickly. He’s going to do this. He has not successfully bluffed, if that was what he thought he was doing. And Derek is either trying to embarrass him or actually interested in seeing Stiles jerk off. Which is, hm.
Stiles presses his hand onto his cock, again, which is surprisingly hard for how nervous he is. He closes his eyes for a second and snaps them back open, almost forgetting what the fuck is going on, that Derek is watching him a few feet away from the other side of the kitchen. And Derek is definitely watching him. He looks serious, like he wants to see this. His eyes are simultaneously dark and soft and Stiles thinks they might even have a bit of a red glow to them.
Actually, on second thought, maybe he does want his own eyes closed. He doesn’t need to be checking Derek’s reaction to everything he does. If Derek doesn’t like what he sees (though Stiles thinks he is enjoying it) he’ll leave. Stiles closes his eyes again and grabs at his balls lazily, dragging them up and letting them fall. He teases the head of his cock through his boxers with the tip of his finger. “Mm,” he sighs. He decides now is the time to push his boxers down and does, leaning back against the side of the counter he’s on.
He can’t help but peek again now that his dick is out. Derek is staring at it in a mildly predatory way, and now has his mouth partially open, a finger teasing across his own bottom lip, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Fuck. Okay.
Stiles spits into his hand and wraps it around his cock. He gives a little tug and strokes a few times. It’s so quiet in the house, the sound of his hand sliding up and down his shaft is almost obscene. He groans. It feels so good and he knows, can feel, that Derek is watching him. He bites hard on his lip and keeps working it, using the other hand to cup his balls. “Shit,” he hisses, and his wet, red lips part and hang open, and, god. He wishes he had lube. He spits into his hand again and strokes, squeezing the tip, fucking his hips up into his fist. He’s so focused he almost misses the groan Derek makes across the kitchen. His eyes open and Derek is palming himself over his jeans while he watches Stiles’ hand on his cock. Stiles watches this for a second, panting, Derek looking a little bit wrecked from watching him. Derek looks up at Stiles’ face and that does it for him. He’s coming all over his shirt and his hand and—fuck—that was supposed to go in the goddamn potion. He moans lowly, working himself through his orgasm.
“Oops,” he says hoarsely, after he has released his dick. Derek still has a hand pressed to his crotch, bottom lip in his mouth again.
“Um,” Derek says, his voice rough.
“I meant to—get it in the bowl.” Stiles sheepishly wipes his hands on a dish towel. He starts to pull up his boxers and Derek growls.
“Stay,” he says. Clearly a command. He pulls his own jeans and underwear down.
Stiles is, for some reason, shocked to see Derek’s huge cock hard and leaking. He feels his own dick twitch feebly. It’s, well. A wonderful sight. “Umm,” he mumbles. He’s still in enough of a post-orgasm fog to not care that he is staring, practically drooling.
Derek grabs some of the coconut oil they used in the potion (that was right there the whole time, Stiles thinks irritably, and then decides Derek was aware and enjoyed watching Stiles use his own spit as lube) and slathers his dick. He strokes slowly, groaning. The sound his oiled hand is making on his cock is delicious. Stiles’ mouth waters.
“I have to say,” Derek says, his voice low, wrecked, and Stiles is thinking really he doesn’t have to say anything, this is fine as it is, and Derek speaks again, “I was into that.” He groans a little as he pulls at the tip of his cock.
“Fuck,” Stiles breathes.
“And I’m going to come into the bowl, so you’re going to bring it over here and help me make it in.” It suddenly occurs to Stiles that Derek is masturbating with a stigmata hole in his palm. Perhaps his brain is trying to avoid what it has just been confronted with. He’s going to…go over there? And play basketball hoop backboard for Derek’s jizz?
“Soon,” Derek chokes out, thrusting his hips into his hand. “Actually—fuck—like, now,” so Stiles flails himself over to the bowl, kicking the pants leg away that is trapped on his foot. He grabs it and holds it out in front of Derek, and oh, Jesus, he is so physically close to Derek’s wet dick and pumping hand. Derek groans and shoots his cum into the bowl, mostly, leaning over toward Stiles and stroking himself, pumping until there’s nothing left. Stiles may or may not be whimpering. He ends up with a little glob of Derek’s cum on his wrist, which he notices when he sets the bowl down on the counter. He looks at Derek and then at it like, dude, and Derek grabs Stiles’ wrist and licks it off of him, tongue wet and hot and thick.
“God,” Stiles groans. Derek licks up his arm a little further than necessary. It makes Stiles shiver.
He draws in a deep breath, breathing in his scent and groaning, and then releases him and Stiles steps back. He takes a few seconds to catch his breath. Did Derek just smell him? On purpose? He can’t lie, he liked it. Spending time with werewolves has probably gotten him into many things a regular guy would find weird. Like sniffing.
“So,” Stiles says. He needs to move on from this confusing situation. He can figure it out later. They have both jerked off in front of each other and clearly both enjoyed it and Stiles is definitely not going to bring it up as a conversation topic right now. “Unguent complete, right?”
Derek gives him a funny look and then grabs the spoon they’ve been using to stir. Stiles takes this time to put his pants back on. As Derek mixes it, the potion turns from a weird batter-like tan color to a soft pink, like calamine lotion, and they both widen their eyes, surprised. “I think it worked,” Derek says.
“Try it,” Stiles says.
Derek puts his own pants back on and washes his hands in the sink. He goes to check the spellbook again. “Doesn’t say anything about doing any chanting or waiting for the full moon or whatever, so, yeah.” Finally ready, he scoops out a little glob and puts it on his palm, and then on his other palm. He rubs them together, looking focused.
“Feet, too,” Stiles reminds him. Derek nods and kicks off his shoes and socks. He rubs some of the potion on both feet. They wait.
“How long does this stuff take?” Stiles asks.
“How would I know?” Derek asks, staring intently at his hands and feet. Stiles shrugs.
They keep waiting. “Is it doing anything?” Stiles asks after another minute. Derek shakes his head.
“Anything now?” Stiles asks.
“Goddammit, no,” Derek says.
“How about now?” Stiles asks.
Derek glares hard for a second and then his eyes soften. “No.”
Stiles twiddles his thumbs, literally. After a few more minutes Derek speaks again. “I think there’s something else I need to tell you.”
Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically, because, really? There’s more?
“When…” Derek almost puts his hands onto the counter as if to steady himself but remembers the unguent and stops. He holds them out awkwardly, like he’s letting nail polish dry. “When I got the knife in my hand, I. You know I was…masturbating. I slammed my hand down onto the knife by accident. All of this stuff we’ve read makes me think that my attempt at charming the duck got fucked up by me fucking up the last part of the spell, which was…that. And when I was doing it, I was. Hmm. Thinking about you.” He blushes, sort of. “I think I was supposed to, because the spell was for you, but. I was. Not for the first time.”
Stiles' mouth gapes. “Oh,” he says. His brain is going too fast. So, he was right, again, or at least Derek agrees with Stiles’ most recent assessment of the situation. It also seems for the first time clear that Derek did indeed finish carving the duck, and Stiles wants to see it. And. Of course. The last thing.
“I’m not trying to make you feel weird, I just, since that happened earlier, with the…”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. He nods. Many times. “Yeah. Yeah.”
“Yeah?” Derek asks.
“I mean. Yeah, that happened. Yeah, I have thought about…you, wow, did not think we would be having this talk right now.”
“Me neither, really,” says Derek. He’s been staring at his hands this entire time but he now seems to be looking at them with surprise. “Look,” he says. He holds them up for Stiles to see.
“Dude! Are they healing?!”
Derek grins and nods. “My feet, too,” he says, lifting one off the ground.
“That’s awesome!” Stiles says, throwing his hands up in the air. He’s genuinely excited about this. They followed a witch’s disgusting unguent recipe and it actually did something.
Derek lets the holes fully close up and then wipes off the pink residue with the dish towel. “Thank you,” he says. “For helping.”
“No problem,” Stiles says. “I mean, I guess this whole thing has been a problem, but.”
Derek grins again. He looks so relieved to be healed of his holes. They both bask in the success for a minute and then, slowly, Stiles starts to feel weird. About being in Derek’s kitchen with dried jizz on his shirt. It’s like, they’ve been working together on the stigmata problem all day and now that it’s done…well, the whole other thing, the jacking-off thing, is hanging there in the air like a giant scrotum. Or wasp’s nest. Or something. Something weird. Maybe because they didn’t finish the conversation they were having when the holes started healing.
“I guess I should go?” Stiles asks. He would rather go than have to talk about it, he thinks.
“Oh,” Derek says. He is still sort of admiring his hole-less hands. He looks up. “Uh, no, wait.” He steps closer to Stiles. “Did—let’s…Did you say you’ve thought about me while jerking off?”
Stiles shrugs, blushing. Looks like they’re going to talk about it. “Yeah, I mean.”
“You mean what?”
“I mean, like, yeah. You’re hot. And strong.” Stiles has his hands in his pockets.
Derek tries to hold back his grin. “Okay,” he laughs. He reaches out and pulls Stiles by the shirt closer to him so he can whisper in his ear. “Out of curiosity, do you wanna know what I was thinking about when I slammed my hand through the knife?”
Oh. Stiles had not expected this. He’s really been trying to play it cool, there’s no way he actually like-likes Derek, or whatever, he just thinks he’s hot and likes that he is protective of him. But right now he also really likes that he has his mouth so close to his ear. God. The whispering in the ear. Derek’s teeth graze Stiles’ earlobe and it shoots tingles down his neck. His mouth falls open. “Um,” he manages. “Sure.”
“I was thinking about you,” Derek murmurs, darkly, “naked, all spread out on the couch, your cock deep in my throat. Imagining the noises you would make when I let you fuck my mouth and thinking about how your cum would feel spilling on my tongue and lips and chin.”
Oh, fuck. “Oh, fuck,” Stiles murmurs breathlessly.
“Is that okay?” Derek asks, still in his ear.
“Is that okay that you were thinking that?” Stiles says, half-joking, his voice strung-out.
“Is that okay that I’m telling you,” Derek murmurs.
“Mm,” Stiles hums. “Yeah. To be honest, it’s more than okay.” He has decided he is great with this. Or his dick has decided.
“What I imagined wasn’t even close to as hot as the real thing, seeing you come.”
Stiles holds back a moan. “Derek,” he squeaks out.
“Yeah?” Derek asks.
“If you aren’t suggesting that you want to make that little fantasy real life, you’re going to have to shut the hell up.”
“Hmm,” Derek says thoughtfully. He lets go of Stiles’ shirt, finally, and steps back a tiny bit. He smirks. “I don’t know if you can handle it.”
Stiles snorts. “Can’t handle it? I’ve…” he starts to say he has had a blowjob before but, like. He hasn’t. He tries to save himself by saying coolly, “I have handled sooo many things.”
Derek actually laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”
“What?” Stiles exclaims. “Okay, I can do better than handle you sucking my dick. I can enjoy it. I can revel in it.”
Derek laughs again. “And you will.”
Stiles puts his hands on his hips. “Maybe you’re the one who can’t handle it. Let’s go, if you think you’re so—” and Derek cuts him off with a kiss. Stiles hadn’t even had time to realize Derek got back up in his personal space and now he’s kissing him, sucking his top lip into his mouth, licking in. Stiles relaxes into it and kisses Derek back, his tongue sliding along Derek’s. Derek is making deep, rumbly noises and Stiles moans in return. Okay. This is good too. He hadn’t really given all that much thought to making out with Derek but it’s cool, it’s fucking cool. Derek pulls back.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
“Totally,” Stiles says. He likes that Derek keeps asking. “Can we do the—go to the couch? We can keep making out, it’s cool, I just. Want to be on or under you.” Derek makes a strangled noise at that and pulls Stiles to the not-moldy couch in the living room (seriously, Derek needs to get rid of the shitty couch in the front room and also finish making the front room look not all burnt-up like he has done with most of the rest of the house) and makes the choice that Stiles is going to be on top right now. Stiles is pleased with this. He grinds down on Derek’s thick thigh and Derek lets out a satisfied huff. He props his leg up a little more so Stiles has a better angle and pulls him down to kiss him again.
They kiss and grind their erections against each other’s thighs for a while, until Stiles is wriggling, practically shaking with want. Derek doesn’t seem to be doing much better. He almost rips the button off of Stiles’ jeans undoing it and pulling them down. “Need you in my mouth,” he mumbles. They get his pants off and Derek deftly flips Stiles so that he is on his back on the couch.
“Whoa,” Stiles breathes. Derek situates himself lower than he was and puts his nose into the dried cum on Stiles’ shirt, smelling it, and groans.
“Mmph. Good. Take it off,” he says.
“I think I should be the one giving orders,” Stiles says. His voice is thick and slow. He smirks. “Take it off, Stiles.”
“Hush,” Derek says, and Stiles takes off his shirt, still amused. Derek pulls down his boxers and Stiles’ cock springs out, so hard and thick. He doesn’t waste any time. He licks with his tongue flat and wet from the base to the tip and it jerks hard. Derek holds Stiles’ thighs down and does it again. Stiles whines and bucks his hips up and Derek gets the message, sucks Stiles cock all the way into his mouth in one deft motion.
“Ah, fuck,” Stiles moans. “There is no way this is going to last long.”
Derek pulls off. “Again, hush,” he says.
“Don’t respond,” Stiles whines, wanting Derek’s mouth doing only one thing right now. And he is doing it. He feels so warm and wet and the way he’s caressing Stiles’ balls is just. So good.
It really does not last long. Derek knows things, clearly. The suction and the wetness and the noises he is making around Stiles’ cock are, indeed, too much to handle. Stiles whines out a “gonna come” and Derek decidedly does not pull his mouth off, keeps his tongue flat and laving over the head of Stiles’ dick, and Stiles comes, shooting hard and hot into Derek’s mouth. Derek pulls off and catches some of it on his lips and chin, like he had said, and godthatissohot. Stiles doesn’t want to look away but he squeezes his eyes shut for a second of relief from overstimulation. Fucking hell.
Derek is mm-ing and licking the cum from his face that he can reach with his tongue. “Nice,” he says when he’s finished.
“Yeah, nice,” Stiles huffs. He’s tired. But in the best way. He peeks at Derek, who is unbuttoning his own pants.
“I’m just gonna—” he starts, and Stiles stops him. He might be tired, but he is not going to not put his hands on Derek’s dick after all that.
“Let me,” he says. He reaches into Derek’s boxers. “Mmm.” He’s so hard from sucking Stiles off. Stiles sits up all the way and strokes Derek’s cock as well as he can while it’s still in his pants, Derek kneeling right in front of him. He stands and finishes pushing his pants and boxers down so Stiles can actually grab him.
“Shit,” Derek groans. “That was so fucking good, Stiles. You taste so fucking good.” He sure has a mouth on him. Stiles had absolutely no reason to suspect that and it’s still sort of shocking, but. It’s so hot. He’s not going to complain. Derek must get off on it, too. “Spit on my cock,” he says.
“Yeesh,” Stiles says, because wow, and obliges. He has never given another guy a hand job before but luckily he knows very well how to do this. And he is yet again using spit as lube. Derek groaned ridiculously when he let it drip out of his mouth so Stiles can’t be that mad about it. He works Derek’s cock until he’s coming, and then keeps going until Derek stills him with a hand on the wrist. He grins wickedly and leans down to lick up the cum that landed on Stiles’ thighs. Stiles shivers. Derek seems to really enjoy doing that, maybe it’s a werewolf thing, whatever, it is absolutely thrilling.
Stiles flops back onto the couch. He sighs. Okay, so he and Derek are attracted to each other and have now made each other come. He wants for this to happen again sometime but his brain is kind of stopping him from thinking about any other kind of consequences this might have in real life. Derek pulls up his boxers and sits next to Stiles on the couch.
“We don’t have to discuss this right now,” he says. Thank the gods. Maybe Stiles has underestimated Derek’s awesomeness. He definitely does not want to talk about this right now.
“Cool,” Stiles says. He’s seventeen. Orgasms are dope. Talking about feelings…not so dope.
“Maybe tomorrow?” Derek says.
“Yeah,” Stiles says noncommittally. He knows Derek is right that they should, but, like. “I enjoyed it,” Stiles says, so he doesn’t sound like he’s being an ass.
Derek hums in agreement and leans back, closing his eyes.
The next thing Stiles is aware of is that his phone is buzzing loudly in his pocket (his jeans are still on the floor) and it is now dark outside. He must have fallen asleep. He looks over and Derek is sleeping with his mouth open, looking like a little boy. Stiles gets up carefully and retrieves his phone.
He just misses the phone call from Scott, but sees he has plenty of text messages from him.
where tf are u
can’t find derek either
hello??
“Shit,” Stiles whispers. He gets his clothes back on and is about to head out. He looks back at Derek, whose eyes are now open.
“Go ahead,” he says. Stiles grins and heads to the door.