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"Definitely broken," the doctor said. She glanced at the sheriff, then directed a searching look at Stiles over her glasses. "You say you were . . . riding a bike?”
"Yeah," Stiles said. He let out a deprecating laugh. "Showing off, you know."
The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Showing off? On a bike? What are you, twelve again?"
"Sheriff, can I have a second with your son?" The doctor gestured at the door. "Alone?"
The sheriff didn't look too happy, but he left without protest.
The doctor took a seat on a rolling stool. “There's something I don't understand about the fractures.” She tapped the left x-ray. "There's a clear break right here, the head of the radius. A standard wrist fracture I might expect to see if you fell on a hard surface—in a bike accident, say—and caught yourself with your hand. On your right arm, however—“ She tapped the right x-ray. “—here you can see that the ulna is broken about halfway down, but the radius is completely intact. This is the kind of injury I’d expect if someone came at you with a baseball bat. Or a police baton.” She raised her arm in a defensive posture. “You lift your arm to protect your head, and—whack.“
“Uh,” Stiles said.
She sighed. “Tell me what really happened. I promise it won’t go beyond this room if it doesn’t need to.”
A laugh burst out of him. “You think my dad did this? He doesn’t even carry a baton.”
“The butt of a gun could conceivably cause this kind of injury. Are you going to tell me he doesn’t carry one of those?”
“I fell off my bike,” Stiles said firmly. “My dad has never hit me. Ever.”
“Okay.” She shrugged. “I believe you.”
She started him out with splint and wrist brace. “Until the swelling goes down,” she said. “Then we’ll probably have to put you in casts.”
“WHAT. No! It’s not that bad, is it?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Even the broken wrist is going to need the extra amount of immobilization, I think. But meanwhile, use your hands as little as possible! I’m going to write you a note for school. And send your dad back in here, I want to have a word with him.”
* * *
When they pulled into the driveway, the sheriff put a hand on Stiles’s shoulder.
“You’d tell me if someone hurt you, wouldn’t you?” he said. “The doctor seemed to think—“
“Of course I’d tell you, Dad,” Stiles said.
And he would! Unless it wasn’t a human who attacked him. Or it was a hunter, like Gerard. Or if he’d gotten hurt during pack business of some kind . . .
“C’mon, Dad. Trust me.”
* * *
School was shitty, although the pack was doing their best to make sure he got readable notes. (This meant that Lydia, Boyd, Allison and Isaac took notes for him for four of the periods, and Scott and Erica—whose note-taking skills were nonexistent—were in charge of coercing a classmate to give up his/her notes in the other two periods.)
It was his out-of-school time that was impossible. Scott came over and they tried playing video games, but Stiles couldn’t use his left hand well enough to maneuver, so these turned into “watching Scott play video games” sessions instead.
When Scott wasn’t there, there wasn’t much Stiles was up to doing. Typing was out, which meant he couldn’t do much with a computer, so he spent most of his time lying on the couch watching television and asking his dad to get him glasses of water. At least the remote didn’t require extended periods of dexterity to operate.
Worst of all: he couldn’t jerk off.
The first evening he didn’t even try—his arms hurt too much, and when he took his pain meds he was too sleepy to be horny.
The second evening found him hard enough to cut diamond. He tried humping a pillow, but it mostly just gave him friction burns. His left hand couldn’t grip his dick at all, and his right hand could grip but couldn’t jerk. After a fruitless and unpleasant hour, he lay in bed, pajama bottoms around his knees, imagining how awful the next six to eight weeks were going to be. His only hope was that he would have frequent wet dreams.
* * *
Stiles thought his dad probably had some idea of why his son was so crabby, but the sheriff seemed to think it was more funny than pitiable, which did nothing to improve Stiles’s mood.
Scott came to visit every other day or so, but even he had started looking at Stiles funny. And wrinkling his nose like there was a bad smell.
“What?” Stiles said. “I showered this morning.”
“It’s not—“ Scott rubbed his nose. “You smell—“ He coughed apprehensively. “You smell, er. Frustrated.”
“Damn right I’m frustrated! You would be too if both your arms were broken and you didn’t have a girlfriend to help you out.”
“Dude, I’m so sorry. You know I am.”
“You’d better be sorry,” Stiles said. “I don’t usually mind getting hurt for a good cause, but this—! This is more than I bargained for, Scott.”
* * *
Derek came by a week after the injury, sliding in through Stiles’s window as if nothing had happened.
Stiles had given up on everything that night, and was lying in bed in sweatpants and nothing else, glaring balefully at the wall.
“Hey,” Derek said.
Stiles gave him his best approximation of a snarl.
“What’s eating you?” Derek said. “Are you . . . do your arms hurt?” He always seemed to feel guilty whenever Stiles got hurt during pack business.
“Not really,” Stiles said. “Just aches a little.” A lot. Constantly. Also, he’d gotten the casts put on that morning, and the itching was already driving him mad.
Derek sat down next to him and laid a hand on Stiles’s elbow. Dark lines traced up Derek’s skin and the throbbing in Stiles’s wrist and arm fled.
“Seems like more than a little,” Derek said, but his hand stayed on Stiles’s elbow and the pain did not return.
“Yeah, well.” Stiles lay there and breathed, reveling silently in the absence of pain. It took him a minute to realize that he was ragingly, astonishingly hard.
He could tell the moment Derek caught on as well, because the werewolf’s eyebrows shot up.
“Uh,” Stiles said.
Derek laughed. “I hadn’t thought about that. I’m guessing it’s been a few days for you, hasn’t it?”
“Eight,” Stiles said, trying not to sound strangled.
“Mmmm,” Derek said. “Well. I’m here. If you need a hand.” He cocked his head and waited.
Stiles discovered that his mouth was hanging open. “Um. I—“ The idea of Derek, what? Touching his dick? Jerking him off? was too much for his brain to handle. “Yeah, I don’t know. Uh, thanks? For the offer?”
“Not a problem,” Derek said. He stood up. “Let me know if you change your mind.” And then he was gone.
* * *
Scott came over the next day. This time he sniffed the air and scowled. “Why was Derek here?”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Chill out, dude. He wanted to know how I was doing.”
“He has his leather pack hanging all over you at school. Can’t he ask them?”
“He took my pain away,” Stiles said. “It was . . . thoughtful.” He definitely did not tell Scott about Derek’s other offer.
“I can do that!” Scott said.
“Thanks, Scott, but I’m high as a kite on pain meds right now. I don’t need your Magic Touch™ right now.” Besides, what if Stiles popped another boner, this time while Scott was touching him? No no no no no. NO.
“Are you okay?” Scott said. “Your heartbeat—“
“Just play the damn game,” Stiles said, pointing at the TV. “And stop eavesdropping on my heart. It’s creepy.”
* * *
That night Stiles gave in and texted Derek.
Okay. Yes. Fine. Please.
* * *
Derek didn’t reply, just slipped in through the window around midnight. “Had to wait for your dad to fall asleep,” he said.
“Okay,” Stiles said. He was sitting up in bed in sweats and a t-shirt, pretending to read a book and trying not to think about what he had agreed to.
“So,” Derek said, looking around. “What do you usually use?”
“Use?”
“Yeah, you know. Lotion, conditioner . . . lube?”
“Oh.” Stiles laughed nervously. “I had a bottle of hand lotion a couple years ago, but it ran out. I didn’t feel like asking my dad to buy me more, you know?”
“You get an allowance, don’t you?”
“I know the cashiers at the grocery store, all right? They’d know why I was getting it, and they might tell my dad, and—“
“Fine. So you jerk off dry. I don’t understand it, but I can . . . adapt.” Derek looked like he was trying to imagine jerking himself off without lube and was not enjoying the idea. He came and sat next to Stiles. “How’s the pain?”
“Oh, you know.”
“No. That’s why I asked you.”
“It’s there. It’s not killing me. What do you want me to say?”
Derek rolled his eyes and took Stiles’s hand. Again the black lines snaked up the werewolf’s skin and the pain disappeared from Stiles’s broken bones as if a flame had been snuffed out. Derek’s other hand was rubbing Stiles’s back, a smooth figure-eight motion that passed over his shoulder blades and dipped down to his lower back before starting over again.
In approximately 0.065551 seconds, Stiles was hard and flushed and panting.
“That’s right,” Derek said calmly. He leaned in and sniffed Stiles’s hair, his shoulder, his neck. “You’re desperate. You stink of it.”
“Thanks,” Stiles muttered.
“It’s normal,” Derek said. “And if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.” His hand migrated around to Stiles’s stomach. “Tell me what you want,” he said.
Stiles looked up. “Uh.”
Derek’s hand was under Stiles’s shirt now, flat and steady against the skin. “Do you want me to touch you?” Derek asked.
“Yes,” Stiles croaked. He swallowed. “Yes.” He fumbled with the drawstring of his pants.
“No, let me,” Derek said, pushing Stiles’s hands away. “Just relax.” The drawstring fell open, and Derek’s hand slipped under the waistband of Stiles’s boxers. “You’re already wet,” Derek said. “Told you you smelled desperate.”
Stiles opened his mouth to respond, but Derek’s thumb was on the head of his cock, nudging at the slit and spreading precum everywhere. Stiles found that his breath was all gone. “Rghhh,” he said.
Derek gave him a tug, pulling experimentally at his cock. Stiles sat there with his broken arms on his splayed legs and tried to remember how to inhale and exhale.
“Pants off,” Derek said. He pushed Stiles off the bed and helped him shuck the sweats and boxers off. “Much better.” He took Stiles’s hand again—siphoning off pain—and put his free hand on Stiles’s cock.
It didn’t take long. Derek was methodical, jerking him off slowly and carefully. The building pleasure was quiet at first, and his orgasm took Stiles by surprise. He let out a hoarse cry and fell back against the pillows. Semen spattered everywhere. Pleasure burned through him and then receded.
Derek wiped a drop of cum from his eyebrow. “Are you okay? Do you need help getting dressed?”
“No, I’m—I’m good,” Stiles said. His breath came in pants, and he knew his face was blotchy red. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Derek said. “Sleep well.”
* * *
Stiles tried airing out the room before Scott’s next visit, but his friend’s nose was not fooled.
“Oh my god,” Scott said when he walked in. “Why does it smell like Derek and cum in here?”
“It’s none of your business,” Stiles said firmly. “There are things I can’t ask you to help with, and, well—“
“But you can ask Derek?”
“No, actually . . . he offered.”
Scott looked completely grossed out. “You know he’s like, a hundred years older than us, right? You know what kind of adult male offers to help a kid out with something like that?”
“He is not. He’s like, four years older.”
Scott gave him a skeptical look.
“Okay, six years older. But I’m almost seventeen. That’s over the age of consent in several states!”
“But not California, dude,” Scott said.
“No, but . . .”
“Nope. This is not happening, this can’t happen. I’m not letting—“
“Scott. Please. I’m begging you.”
Scott looked undecided.
“Okay,” Stiles said. “I’ll promise not to ask Derek for—for help again on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to agree to help me instead.”
“Dude, no way!”
“I know. But I’m DYING here.”
Scott was chewing his lip. “Okay, but Derek??”
“He feels guilty for letting me get hurt. He’s just . . . helping out.”
Scott sighed. “Ugh. Okay. He can help out. For now.”
“So,” Stiles said. “Call of Duty or Dead Space?”
* * *
Derek showed up the next night with a bottle in his hand.
“What’s that?” Stiles said.
“Uh, lube,” Derek said. “Thought you might like it.”
“Um. Okay. That’s—that sounds good.”
This time Derek pushed Stiles onto his back in the middle of the bed and tugged his sweats and boxers off first thing. Stiles lay there, naked, watching Derek pour the thin, clear lube into his hand like a masseur. He gasped when Derek’s wet fingers closed over his cock. He was too self-conscious to be aroused, but the firm kneading and pulling soon had him erect. Derek knelt across his thighs and used both hands to engulf his dick. Stiles gasped and thrust up into Derek’s fists.
The friction was different with the lube. Stiles was worried for a moment that it wasn’t enough, that it wouldn’t actually get him there, but then it was even better than the first time, better than his own hand, better than hand lotion, and he was coming between Derek’s fingers over his own belly and chest.
This time Derek stayed to help him clean up. Wiped off his dick and his chest with tissues.
“You okay?” Derek said finally.
“Yeah. I’m good. Thanks,” Stiles said.
Derek nodded and was gone.
* * *
It became a thing. Scott would come over and hang out in the afternoon, and Derek would come over and get Stiles off at night. Stiles knew they could both smell each other in his bedroom, but both seemed determined to ignore the other’s existence.
Derek started bringing over more kinds of lube—thin, oily lubes; viscous, clear lubes; thick, opaque lubes that looked like shortening. He would try them on Stiles alone and in combination, taking as long as he could to tease Stiles to orgasm. After the first week he lay down next to Stiles while he jerked him off, and Stiles slipped a hand up under his shirt and held him close while he came.
Stiles kissed Derek in the third week. The werewolf pulled away, looking almost frightened.
“Sorry,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” He touched Derek’s wrist. “Please don’t stop?”
Derek leaned back in and kissed him then, taking Stiles’s cock in his fist and capturing Stiles’s mouth with his and that time when Stiles came Derek was biting his neck and tugging at his nipple and he thought he would die from the pleasure.
* * *
“I thought we could try something new,” Derek said one night. He had a bottle of lube in his hand, but the cap was still on. “Well, two things,” he said.
“Okay. What?” Stiles said.
“Has anyone ever—“
“You’re my first,” Stiles said. “No one has ever done anything with me that you haven’t done.”
Derek seemed taken aback. “Right. I . . . knew that.”
“So what are the two things? Is one of them blowjobs? Are they both blowjobs?”
Derek laughed. “They are not both blowjobs.”
“Yes,” Stiles said. “Yes you can use your mouth.”
A mouth was a new thing. So wet and hot that it was almost too much.
“Don’t shout,” Derek said, lifting his head. “You’ll wake your dad up.”
“Sorry,” Stiles gurgled. He was aching and hard and he wanted to fuck Derek’s mouth until he came.
After a minute of exploring Stiles’s dick with his lips and his tongue, Derek lowered his head and breathed on Stiles’s scrotum, on the crease against his thigh, on the hidden inch of skin behind his balls. Then Derek spread Stiles’s cheeks and breathed on his hole. “Can I lick you here?” Derek asked, stroking him with a finger.
“Oh god,” Stiles said. “Yes?”
It was . . . so good. Derek’s tongue was hot and wet and soft and strong, and before Stiles knew it that tongue was inside him. He moaned in disappointment when Derek pulled back and grabbed the lube.
“Don’t worry, I’m not done,” Derek said. He covered his hands with lube and took Stiles’s cock in hand before diving back down to stick his tongue into Stiles’s anus again.
Stiles felt his eyes rolling back in his head. He was panting, and a heavy knot of sensation was building in his belly, growing with each thrust of Derek’s tongue. The feeling swelled until he could hardly stand it, until he was begging Derek, please, just— he didn’t know what he was asking for, but he needed it. Harder. More. Yes.
When he came it was an avalanche that flattened him, a volcano that fountained through him, a wave that obliterated him. He wailed at the intense pleasure, the unsustainable ecstasy.
He was still shaking when a knock came at the door.
“Everything okay in there?” His dad sounded sleepy and confused.
“Uh, yeah. Just . . . wrenched my wrist,” he said.
The door opened, and Stiles instantly yanked a pillow in his lap. Derek was nowhere to be seen. His dad sighed when his eyes fell on his naked son and the lube bottle next to him on the bed.
“Son, I know . . .” He trailed off and dragged a hand over his eyes. “I remember what it was like. But you’re gonna do permanent damage to your wrist if you don’t . . . lay off it for a while.”
Stiles knew he was blushing a deep red. “Yeah. Uh. I know. I’ll be—I’ll be careful.”
The sheriff shook his head. “And keep it down, okay?”
“Sure. Yes. Of course.”
The door closed. Stiles collapsed back against the pillows. He almost had a heart attack when Derek got to his feet on the other side of the bed.
“I told you to keep quiet,” Derek said, but he looked pleased.
“You’re amazing,” Stiles said. “I don’t know how anyone could have kept quiet through that.” His eyes dropped to the bulge in Derek’s jeans. “Are you sure I can’t . . . return the favor?”
“Not while you’re injured,” Derek said. “Sleep well.”
“You too,” Stiles said. “And thanks.”
* * *
There was a lot of making out happening now when Derek came over. Lots of kissing and touching. Stiles still didn’t have full use of his hands, but he did his best to pull Derek close, to breathe in his scent.
The orgasms were all one-sided, though. Derek wouldn’t even take off his pants.
“I don’t need it,” he said whenever Stiles suggested, subtly or unsubtly, that he get his dick out. “My wrists aren’t broken.”
* * *
“This is a regular thing for you guys now, isn’t it?” Scott said one afternoon.
“What?”
“You and Derek.”
“I thought we weren’t talking about that.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “Is it serious?” he said.
“I—“ Stiles stopped. “I don’t know. I don’t know what ‘serious’ feels like.”
* * *
That night, when Derek went to pull down Stiles’s pants, Stiles stopped him.
“What is this?” he asked.
Derek looked confused. “What is what?”
“This, what we’re doing. What is it?”
The werewolf sat back on his heels and sighed. “It’s not supposed to be anything. It’s me doing for you what you can’t do for yourself right now.”
“I don’t know what it’s like when you jerk off, but I don’t usually make out with myself. Or give myself blowjobs. Or stick my tongue in my ass.”
“Yeah,” Derek said. He looked ashamed. “I’m sorry. I keep pushing the boundaries.”
“Hey, I kissed you.”
Derek smiled slightly. “Okay, we can blame that one on you.”
“Thanks.” Stiles looked down at his casts. “What about when these come off? Will you stop coming over?”
“I should,” Derek said.
“What if I ask you not to stop? What if—“
“If you ask me . . .” Derek sighed. “If you asked me I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
“All right. What if I ask you to take off your clothes this time?”
Derek swallowed. “That’s not what—we’re not doing this for me,” he said.
“What if I tell you I really, really want to see you naked? That I am dying to see you come?”
“Are you telling me that?”
“Yes, I’m fucking telling you that, you asshole.”
Derek ducked his head. “Okay.” He stripped off his shirt, unbuttoned his jeans. Pulled them down along with whatever underwear he was or was not wearing. In a few seconds he was naked.
Stiles was finding it a little difficult to breathe. “Dude. You are so hot. No wonder you didn’t want to take off your clothes—I bet you were trying to spare my feelings.”
“What? No. You’re beautiful,” Derek said. Then he looked nervous and cleared his throat. “I mean—“
“Nope, no take-backs. Come here.”
Stiles held out his arms and Derek shuffled over and got on the bed with him.
“I can’t exactly—“ Stiles held up his immobilized arms. “I can’t really help. Right now. Yet. But I want to watch.”
“Okay.” Derek seemed uncomfortable, but he got out the lube and started massaging his dick.
“Can I kiss you?” Stiles asked.
Derek rolled towards him and then they were kissing and Derek was rutting against his thigh and it was so fucking hot. Derek’s free hand flopped out blindly and caught at Stiles’s dick, pulling at it haphazardly. Derek was whining high in his throat, panting into Stiles’s mouth, when he came all over Stiles’s side.
“Oh my god,” Stiles said. “That was so hot. You almost killed me with hotness, Derek.”
Derek laughed weakly, face buried against Stiles’s neck. “Sorry I came so fast,” he said.
“No problem! It was great. We should do that many more times.”
The werewolf pulled back and looked at Stiles. “I was going to be so mature about this,” he said. “I got you hurt, so I was going to help you out. That was all.” He bit his lip. “I told myself that was all it was.”
Stiles brushed a finger along his cheek and waited.
“I’ve—this has been a long time coming. For me,” Derek said. “I felt so disgusting, the way I wanted you. How drawn to you I felt.”
“You sure hid it well,” Stiles said. “I thought you hated me.”
“I hid it from you, maybe,” Derek said. “My betas knew.”
“They knew? And they didn’t tell me?” Stiles decided that he and Erica were going to have a very pointed discussion at school tomorrow.
“I’m their Alpha,” Derek said.
“I swear you only say that to annoy me.”
Derek grinned. “Less talking. More kissing.”
“But—“ Stiles tried to say, but then Derek’s hand was on his dick and all thought fled.
* * *
“Well, Mr. Stilinski. It’s all looking good. I’m going to take you down to a half-cast on your right arm, and we’ll cut the cast on your left arm off altogether. Sound good?”
“Oh my god, you have no idea,” Stiles said.
“I broke both wrists when I was twenty,” the doctor said. “I have a fair idea what the past few weeks have been like for you.”
“Uh . . .” Stiles said, thinking of Derek’s tongue in his ass. “Yeah. I guess you might.”
An hour later his phone dinged. It was a text from Derek.
Want to celebrate tonight . . . reciprocally?
Stiles grinned and tapped out a reply.
You know it. Don’t be tardy.
* * *
The sheriff picked him up at the hospital in the squad car. Instead of turning on the ignition, his dad cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Son, you know I try to stay out of your business. Let you make your own decisions.”
Oh god. Stiles swallowed. This couldn’t be good. “Um, sure. Of course. And I appreciate it.”
“And that goes for your—er. For your sex life, too.”
“No. We are not having another sex talk. Why would we have another sex talk? Wasn’t the first one embarrassing enough for both of us?”
“It was,” his dad agreed. “But when we had that talk—correct me if I’m wrong, of course—you weren’t having sex yet.”
“Fuck.”
“At least tell me you guys are being safe.”
“Um.” He considered. Unprotected rimming wasn’t exactly safe, but Derek was a werewolf, so it was fine, right?
“Jesus, Stiles. So the first sex talk was an embarrassment and a waste? That’s it. We’re stopping and getting condoms on the way home.”
“Oh god oh god oh god oh—wait. You know who—um. You know who I’m . . . involved with?”
His dad gave him a long-suffering look. “Our neighbors were getting concerned. So they came and had a little chat with me about the man who was visiting my son’s bedroom at all hours of the night. Of course I knew who it was as soon as they described him.”
“And you’re . . . you’re okay with it?”
The sheriff shrugged and sighed. “I know you, Stiles. I watched you moon over the Martin girl for years. The only way I could keep you away from Derek if you really want to be with him would be to put Derek in prison.” He grunted. “And even then I wouldn’t put it past you to try and break him out or something.”
“I’m glad we understand each other,” Stiles said.
“Let’s just get one thing clear: if you turn up with any other suspicious injuries, I’ll put that boyfriend of yours down. Permanently.”
* * *
Stiles and Derek were lying together in bed, sticky and sated.
“So my dad knows we’re . . . seeing each other,” Stiles said.
Derek looked apprehensive. “Oh.”
“He said he knew it was no use trying to keep me away from someone I was interested in.”
“Okay.”
“He also said if I get hurt again he’ll end you.”
Derek nodded. “I was supposed to keep you safe. I didn’t.”
“Whatever,” Stiles said. “Anyway, I don’t think he knows about the train depot, but if he runs into you around town you should expect some, er, posturing. Maybe a few threats.”
“I think I can handle that,” Derek said.
“So are we . . . official?”
Derek rolled his eyes. “Officially what?”
“Are we dating?”
“We haven’t been out on any dates.”
“Fine. Tomorrow. Milkshakes. Your treat.”
“Stiles . . .”
“Unless you want to take me to a movie.”
Derek laughed. “I hear Warm Bodies is fun.”
“Ooh, zombies! Sign me up.”
“I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
They lay there for another minute.
“Derek?” Stiles said. “You wanna spend the night? Now that we’re official?”
Derek pulled him close. “I’d love to.”
“You know, now I’m glad I got between you and that baseball-bat wielding hunter. Otherwise none of this would have happened, and you wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m still going to kill him for that,” Derek growled.
“My boyfriend is so protective. It’s totally cute.”
“Go to sleep, Stiles.”
* * *
Down the hall, the sheriff looked at his life and looked at his choices. And finally he fell asleep too.