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Some say love comes upon like a fire. Stiles had never really given any credit to that idea. After all, his dad always said that he’d fallen in love with his mom slowly, like a stream flowing towards a pond, filling and filling until it finally burst over the bank and he’d realized.
Stiles had never liked fire. Too hot, too searing into his very soul. He couldn’t ignore it, even if he wanted to.
It was no surprise that Stiles had loved swimming as a child. That was how he met Scott, after all, at swim lessons when they were both barely only enough to talk. His love for Scott was water. Brotherly love, sure, but Stiles hadn’t seen it coming until one day he’d realized the dam had burst and there was no going back on this friendship they’d created.
The first time Stiles met Derek, it was fire. The worst kind of fire, the kind that scared him. The kind that left him screaming into the night.
So no, he didn’t fall in love at first sight. In fact, were you to ask Stiles aloud, he never fell in love at all. Lust, sure. But then, he was sixteen and Derek was… well no one could say Derek was unattractive.
The first time Derek took Stiles up on his undeniable lust, it was after the whole thing with Jackson was done and over with. Days after Stiles turned seventeen, finally, and had entered into his junior year of high school. With the threat of the alpha pack looming, Stiles waited until Derek snuck into his room and then backed him against a wall.
“Stiles,” Derek growled.
“Shut up,” Stiles said.
And then Derek bent down and kissed Stiles, even though Stiles had been sure he was going to have the upper hand on surprise. Instead, Derek grabbed Stiles by the shoulders and flipped them.
Stiles let out an “oof” and glared. Derek huffed a laugh, his hazel eyes dark and light at once. Flickering. Stiles stared, entranced, until Derek closed the distance between them again and nipped lightly at Stiles’ lips.
Gasping, Stiles opened his mouth slightly and kissed back as best he could, but then it was his first real kiss, not counting that disastrous accident with Scott when they were ten, and he didn’t really know what he was doing. Derek took control easily, moving Stiles’ lips with his own until Stiles’ knees were going weak and the only reason he was still standing was the fact that Derek had him pressed tightly against the wall behind him.
Derek pulled back, his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. One thumb rubbed against the exposed part of Stiles’ collarbone and Stiles had to close his eyes. “Okay?” Derek asked.
Stiles nodded. “Don’t you dare stop,” he said with a voice too rough to seem at all unaffected.
Whatever, Derek should have known by then what he did to Stiles.
Derek smirked and Stiles rolled his eyes. He leaned forward, eager for another kiss. Derek let it, for just a moment, before pulling back again. “I can’t. You tempt me too much.”
It was Stiles’ turn to smirk. “Really?” The word was meant to sound sexy and confident, but it came out wrong.
Derek sighed, his thumb moving to stroke Stiles’ neck. “Yeah, Stiles.”
Stiles smiled and leaned forward again, but this time Derek stopped him before their lips could even touch. He frowned. “Derek.”
“I’m serious,” Derek growled. “You… you’re seventeen.”
“Age of consent in California is sixteen,” Stiles countered.
“Too young,” Derek told him. “You don’t know-” There was burning pain in Derek’s eyes, too hot for Stiles to look away from.
“I know,” Stiles murmured. “I faced death before I turned ten years old, Derek. In the past two years I’ve faced monsters and magic and the kind of violence even the passing of my own mother didn’t prepare me for.” He paused, his voice even more than hoarse. Sore. “I know.”
Derek shuddered, as if he was accepting an awful, inconvenient truth. “I know you do.” His eyes were calmer now, but no less hot. “I’m sorry.”
Stiles’ lips quirked. “I don’t blame you.”
“You should,” Derek said.
“No,” Stiles told him. “I shouldn’t.”
Derek stared, stunned silent, not brooding, just shocked. Stiles slipped one of his hands into Derek’s. His fingers felt cold next to Derek’s heated skin. He wondered if werewolves ran at a higher body temperature, or if it was just Derek. “Come on,” he said and tugged.
Derek went. They tumbled onto the bed together, still fully clothed. The window was still open. Stiles wondered if one of them should go close it, but there didn’t seem to be the time as he tugged Derek’s shirt up over his head.
Derek retaliated quickly, having regained his own fervor, and ripped Stiles’ shirt away. Stiles would be angry about it in the morning, but for the moment he focused on wiggling out of his jeans. Derek rolled away from him long enough to take off his own black jeans before he rolled back over and on top of Stiles.
“Hey,” Stiles said, trying for casual.
Derek raised an eyebrow briefly. Stiles focused on it, until Derek’s face had come too close and he had to close his eyes. Derek kissed him, softly, on the cheek. As if an apology for what was to come.
Stiles scoffed and Derek moved down, laughing against his lips. Stiles surged up and bit down against Derek and Derek responded immediately.
They battled like that, teeth and tongues warring. Stiles tried to give as good as he got, but Derek burned through his defenses too quickly and then he was moving down, biting at Stiles’ throat, and Stiles had to give in, if just for a moment.
Derek bit down harder, enough to leave a mark, maybe, for Stiles’ dad to see in the morning. Stiles growled something low in his throat and Derek moved onto his bare chest. He brushed teeth over Stiles’ left nipple and suddenly the fight returned to his body.
Stiles reared, trying to get enough leverage to flip Derek over. Derek responded at once, grabbing Stiles’ arms and pushing them up over his head. Stiles wrapped a leg around Derek’s waist and pushed.
Derek grunted and let go over Stiles’ arms, but he didn’t flip and he didn’t stop pressing Stiles’ into the mattress with the force of his body. Stiles felt possessed, for a moment. He looked up into Derek’s eyes, only they were closed.
“Derek,” Stiles breathed before he could help it.
Derek ran a hand down Stiles’ side, fingernails scraping just enough that Stiles thought they might be claws. He gulped into the air, but he wasn’t scared. Derek’s eyes opened halfway, hooded with desire.
Stiles shivered and reached up to pull Derek closer to him. Derek went, but instead of Stiles’ lips he kiss his neck. Again and again.
Stiles thought of saying something witty about it, but he couldn’t find the words and before long he forgot. Derek continued to work his body over like a log being whittled away, slowly chipped and crisped until only the interior remained to be consumed.
By the time Derek reached for Stiles’ aching cock, he couldn’t stop shivering on the bed. It took barely two pumps to have him coming in Derek’s hand and when Derek lifted his fingers up to lick the pearly white cum off them, Stiles nearly came again.
“Can I?” he asked, and then before Derek could answer he was gently pushing him over. Derek went, this time.
Stiles slid down Derek’s body, wondering if there was a way to make it sexy. He probably would fail regardless and so he just concentrated on soaking in the sight of Derek’s cock, hard and leaking like a fucking faucet. Stiles licked his lips.
“Just do it,” Derek growled.
And because Stiles never was good at listening to orders, expect maybe in life and death situations, he nipped at Derek’s inner thigh. Derek’s muscles were tightly wound, as if he might kick up, so Stiles pressed down with both hands and continued to leave small bites up and around his navel.
“Stiles,” Derek begged.
Stiles smirked and gently licked at the heated cock. Derek thrust up, but Stiles pulled back so that it did nothing. Derek growled. Bending back down, Stiles licked it again. And again. He swirled his tongue a bit, wondering.
Derek’s thigh muscles flickered under his fingers.
Stiles sucked on the tip. He pressed down harder with his hands so that Derek wouldn’t choke him and then tried to take him further. He wondered how far he could go.
It was slow work. Just a bit more. He swallowed dryly and kept going. Farther and farther. Vaguely he felt his throat begin to burn.
Derek’s cock bobbed in his mouth and Stiles gagged. He pulled up, but not all the way off.
Derek came in his mouth, searing against his tongue like he was-
Stiles pulled off and Derek tugged him up, tongue immediately seeking his own semen in Stiles’ mouth. Enraptured by the fact it was there.
Claiming the privilege without asking.
Stiles would have given it anyway.
Derek’s chest was heaving. Stiles collapsed on top of it, lulled for a moment. Up and down, like it was trying to rock Stiles asleep.
“You should close the window,” Stiles murmured. His voice came out in a rasping whisper and he thought he should wince, but it felt too good. He closed his eyes.
Derek shifted and Stiles let out a whine. He chuckled against Stiles’ skin, then pulled Stiles’ completely on top of him, before shifting them in a movement that had Stiles’ head spinning. When he was able, again, to take stock of their surroundings they were under the covers.
“Oh, okay,” Stiles said. He yawned and tucked his head further into Derek’s neck.
The world dropped away from under his feet.
Stiles blinked and looked around. He felt at a loss, for a moment, about his location, then figured it hardly mattered. He had somewhere to be.
The woods were warm. Stiles shed his outer shirt, left only with the forest green tee. It was Scott’s shirt, wasn’t it? Stiles didn’t wear solid colors often.
His feet kept moving. The world was a blur around him, as if it were trying to keep up with his speed and failing. Stiles laughed.
“Stiles!” a voice called.
Stiles turned, around and around, but it was only the trees that waved back to him.
“Stiles!”
He broke into a run and now the woods were slow around him, easy to see each branch. It was still so warm.
Stiles felt himself getting scared. “Where are you?” he tried to ask, but nothing came out of his mouth.
“Stiles!” this voice was different, deeper than the other. More frightening.
Stiles stopped moving. In front of him was a dark grey wolf. It’s eyes were gleaming red coals. “You’re on fire,” Stiles gasped, his words returning.
The wolf opened its jaws to reveal a human face. It stood and it was Derek and Stiles rushed forward because Derek’s leather jacket was on fire. He quickly ripped it away. “There.”
Derek said nothing. He wasn’t even looking at Stiles. He was looking behind him.
Stiles turned. The happy trees were now ablaze. They crackled and sung and Stiles felt himself terrified of what it meant. Not me too, he thought blindly.
He began to run. Derek followed, though he continued to look back at the blaze. The fire kept pace with them, just licking at their heels.
“Stiles!” the first voice called again.
“Mom?” Stiles asked. He kept running, until the trees parted and there was his mother standing across the stream. “Mom!”
“Stiles,” she smiled. One hand reached out towards him.
Stiles stepped forward eagerly, the toe of his shoes getting wet. Then he was being tugged from behind and he turned to see Derek frowning. “No,” he said. “I have to go.”
Derek shook his head. “Stiles.”
“Stiles,” his mom called again.
“Stiles,” Derek countered. “Stiles.”
Stiles looked from Derek to the fire that had stopped in a circle around them. He turned back his mom on the other side of the softly flowing stream. “Mom.”
His mom smiled sadly and nodded. Stiles felt tears burning in his eyes and he quickly flung himself on Derek to avoid being seen crying by his own mother. Derek held on, tightly and hot and-
Stiles gasped.
The first time Stiles met Derek, it was fire. The worst kind of fire.
Stiles opened his eyes and reached down to the arms constraining him. He pulled them away and though it wasn’t easy, he was able to finally break free. Rolling off the bed, Stiles panted and then glanced back at Derek.
The werewolf was still sleeping, unconcerned, perhaps, of Stiles’ sudden movement. Or maybe he was just pretending. It was possible.
Stiles’ body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He wiped at it, grimacing. It reminded him, just briefly, of Derek when he’d been poisoned by the wolfsbane bullet. How he’d smelled like death and charred wood and of a flame just about to go out.
Derek’s eyes opened, but he didn’t look surprised to see Stiles’ watching him from the middle of his room, so he hadn’t been asleep. Stiles wondered what he looked like naked in the moonlight and then shook his head of the musing.
Derek’s raised eyebrow asked the question he might not dare to speak aloud. Stiles wondered if his dad was home.
Stiles sighed and returned to the bed. He played for a moment with his comforter. “You’re hot.” Derek began to smirk and Stiles cut him off with a huff. “I mean literally.”
Derek stilled. “Bad?”
Stiles didn’t say anything for a beat too long. “I don’t know.”
Derek pulled back the covers and Stiles crawled under them again. He turned so he was facing Derek and buried his forehead against Derek’s collarbone. Derek rubbed his shoulder, as if calming a frightened pup.
“I’m scared,” Stiles confessed. He wondered if he would have been able to, unless for the time of night, his level of stress cumulating starting from when Scott was first bitten, and peaking with the knowledge of an even greater threat on the horizon.
Derek didn’t say anything. The room settled, quiet enough for Stiles to hear Derek’s heartbeat underneath his ear. He smiled slightly. “You are too.”
A grunt. Not denial. Stiles smiled wider.
The statement: Stiles had never liked fire, was a lie. A lie that he used to like to tell himself, before experiences reminded him that lying hadn’t gotten him as far as he would like. Lying maintained ignorance and ignorance had led to the resurrection of a murderer, the death of a boy that could maybe have been saved.
So he reevaluated. When Stiles was just a young boy, he’d liked fire. In fact, he’d been entranced by the fire burning into the fireplace one winter night. He’d reached for it, no one looking his way in time to stop him, and burned the tip of one of his fingers.
Stiles had cried and cried until his mom had bent down and kissed the now-iced burn gently. “Darling,” she’d said. “Remember this. Fire can be one of the worst things, but it can also be one of the greatest. Did you like the fire before it burned you?”
Stiles had nodded, because he had. It was warm and soothing to look at. It excited him and frightened him all at once and yet he’d still reached out to it.
“There are ways,” his mother had said. “To touch fire without burning.”
And she’d reached for the flames, clapping ones at the outer edges. Stiles gasped, child-like wonder and amazement and awe of the glorious creature that was his mother. He touched her unburnt hands and looked up into her cool eyes. “Can I do that?”
“Maybe when you’re older,” his mom had told him.
The first time Stiles met Derek, it was fire. The worst kind of fire, the kind that scared him. The kind that left him screaming into the night.
By the time Stiles was jumping into the pool to save Derek’s life, it was a candle flame. Barely there, barely warm enough to notice.
Now, Stiles traced the pattern of a flame on Derek’s bare bicep and wondered when he’d learned to touch fire without burning. Wondered if that’s what his mom had meant.
“I don’t understand you,” Derek murmured.
“Join the club,” Stiles remarked back dryly. He lifted his head up and met Derek’s searing eyes. “Is that okay?”
Derek’s lips quirked and he nodded. “Eventually,” he said. “I’ll figure you out.”
“And then?” Stiles asked.
Derek blinked as if he hadn’t considered that question. His hand was still a solid weight around Stiles’ waist. He smelled good, like sex and trees and ashes. Like a home burnt to the ground and being rebuilt bit by bit.
“I don’t know,” Derek said honestly.
Stiles dropped his head back down, if only to hide his smile. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, and it was like a promise.
Derek pulled him closer and Stiles went, his skin prickling with the warmth. He’d have to pull back soon enough or find his skin on fire, but for now he could let Derek caress him like he was important. As if he meant something to him.
The first time Stiles met Derek, it was fire. The worst kind of fire, the kind that scared him. The kind that left him screaming into the night. He hadn’t figured it out then, how to clap his hands and be left with no burn scars.
The first time Stiles met Derek, he was a young sixteen hurt only by the premature death of his mother.
By now, Stiles was seventeen, more ready for the world then he had been. Haunted by blood and too many deaths on his conscience. He’d walked through fire and survived.
Holding onto these flames just a bit longer didn’t seem like such a big feat, when he put it that way.