Please Rip My Throat Out

A fairy sex curse (never gets old!) leaves Stiles with only a few hours and even fewer options. He knows the decision he has to make, but will Derek be up to the challenge?

Timing is fluid but post S2. Erica's dead (forgive me), and Stiles is 19 and knows Derek's history. Derek is still an alpha (the universe demands it).

The subject matter begets crude language. Nothing graphic. Talk of suicide and non-consensual sex.

Chapter One

"I know this is embarrassing for you…"

"Embarrassing? Embarrassing, Derek? Dad slapping Melissa on the butt when he thought Scott and I weren't around; that's embarrassing. But this?"

Stiles leapt up from his end of the couch and crossed the loft space in three loping strides, as if to rapidly distance himself from the whine in his own voice. His arms whipped around him like the blades of a crashed helicopter as he turned to face Derek.

"This? This is humiliating. Humiliating and mortifying. Oh my god, I can't believe this. This can't be happening."

Then Derek was on his feet too, stepping away from the couch but staying out of Stiles' wingspan. The werewolf stood motionless with his head tipped down, his shoulders turned in, and for a moment Stiles was reminded of a powered-down cyborg, except that Derek's eyes were bright and vital.

"We can find a way to—"

"To what, Derek? Really? You think we can fix this? You think you can go all 'grrr' like usual and this will miraculously resolve itself? Because that—wait… Seriously? You thought you could…what? Strong-arm some poor loser with threats of throat-ripping into sleeping with me?

"Because even if the fairy curse didn't specifically forbid using force or intimidation, there's a word for that Derek and I thought that even you would have enough of a moral compass to balk at that."

Derek growled, his eyes flashing red, adding to the whole cyborg likeness he had going on. Stiles would have flinched if the whole situation wasn't so hugely cringe-worthy in the first place, and if he wasn't wresting internally with some ill-timed thoughts about cyborgs. Or Derek.

"Yeah, yeah, big guy, that's not what you meant, I know. Sorry. Don't gnash your fangs. I didn't mean it. It's just my bitterness talking at the unfairness and cruel irony of it all.

"But honestly, that may have been the only way I had even the remotest chance of losing my virginity tonight – or any night, IMHO – and not only is it repugnant, indefensible and illegal, but it's against the fairies' rules too. Welcome to my life. Just kill me now… although, fair warning, my inherent cynicism may outlive me."

"This is serious, Stiles. You have been cursed by—"

"Fairies. Yes, thank you Captain Obvious. And in other news today: the moon is round," he mimicked the familiar drawl of a local news anchor. "Uh, well, technically the moon's elliptical, oh, no, it's actually shaped like a lemon with an equatorial bulge on one side so … uh, moving on…

"Yeah, I don't need reminding of that grotesque Tinkerbell wannabe, her hairy cohort of paranoid misanthropists, and how quickly it all went south – taking my lifespan right along with it.

"Holy gremlins, Batman! How could I have known that sarcasm counted as a declaration of war in their tiny psychopathic fae brains? And honestly, if I didn't know better, I'd think they get their kicks from inciting derisive badinage. That's hardly sane. Or fair.

"Sarcasm's my only defence. It's my natural response to terror. So when attacked – even by diminutive trolls with a low insult threshold – it gets deployed instinctively, without fear or favour. It's an equal-opportunities kind of defence mechanism. So really: not my fault, okay."

"Your fault or not, we have to find you someone to—"

"No!" Stiles smacked the air, his palm thrust towards Derek. "Don't say it. It's not happening so don't add to my mortification by spelling it out."

"You can't ignore this, Stiles. This isn't going away. And I can't fight fairies. If this doesn't happen… Your life is on the line here." Derek's eyebrows added an undecipherable sub-text as he spoke.

"Well, duh." Stiles threw his arms out as if he was snapping crumbs from a napkin, but he'd become distracted by the eyebrows and nearly lost his footing with the sudden impetus. "Dammit! Yes, thank you. Deaton made it quite clear what's at stake here – which, you know, is spooky in and of itself, because that guy never usually gives it to you straight, even if open candour would prevent an apocalypse.

"And yeah, this is kind of a personal apocalypse right here, 'cause I'm not gonna be around come breakfast."

"No, we'll find a way round this. We'll—"

"What, Derek? There's only one way out of this and you know it. I need to get laid before dawn or the fairies get to go all Hannibal Lector on my ass… uh, forgive my poor word choice, however accurate that may turn out to be. Yeah, nobody needs that mental image."

Stiles couldn't prevent the shiver that ran through him at that, though he covered quickly with more words. "But yeah, either I find someone willing to sleep with me… No, let me clarify: willing to let me have sex with them, by sun-up – and might I add at this juncture, how super-clichéd that is – or I die at the tiny hands of psychotic Hobbits with worse dental hygiene, and less social graces, than a Komodo dragon."

"Then you find someone to sleep with and—"

"Really? That's what you're going with? How long have you known me, Derek? Two years and some weeks in change, right? And in all that time, have you known me to get lucky? Ever?

"No. Right? I've never had that privilege. And not for lack of effort on my part, let me tell you. But I think my v-card is laminated. In resin. Or chiselled in rock. Either, or. No, likely both. Then encased in diamonds and dropped in a bottomless pit.

"So the chances of me finding a willing lover in the next… Oh holy hell, I don't even know when dawn is. In eight hours? Seven hours? Oh crap, when is it? How long have I got left?"

"Stiles, you have plenty of time to find someone—"

"You've never struck me as stupid, Derek. But you're missing the elephant in the room here. My lack of sex appeal and lack of a willing partner. Uh, two elephants. Whatever.

"Since hitting puberty, there's been no-one interested in dating me, much less having sex with me. I have no chance of finding anyone willing to do so in the few hours remaining to me. I'm screwed! Oh. Yeah, not screwed. I'm going to die and I'm going to die a nineteen-year-old virgin. Oh my god, it sucks to be me."

"We can figure this out. There will be someone—"

"Who, Derek? Who? You know how long I pined over Lydia; she was never interested. None of the girls at school – or guys, for that matter – would even spare me a second glance. Oh, apparently Erica had a thing for me before she took the bite but …"

Stiles looked down at his shoes as he remembered the quiet epileptic and the brash extrovert Erica had become. He noticed how close Derek's boots were now to his own Converse, though he hadn't realised the man had moved, and he took a step back.

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean to rake over old memories. We all miss her," Stiles told their shoes quietly.

"There are other girls … other people out there…" Derek said, matching Stiles' low tone.

"Again with the unfounded optimism."

Stiles looked up at Derek then and saw that pinched, sour face that others might see as anger, but he knew was bone-aching hurt. Derek, he surmised, was covering his pain at the loss of Erica.

"Look, I'm not getting out of this one, Derek. Years of bitter experience has taught me that. No-one found me attractive enough to even be seen sitting on the same lunch table as me, let alone risk social suicide by dating me.

"And in the last year I've actively tried to cash-in my v-card and been rebuffed at every turn. I've hunted high and low. No-one wants a piece of this fine ass."

"Maybe someone you already know? Nearer than you think?"

"Aw man, you're mocking me now. Nope, there's no interest out there. Neither from the girls I know, nor the guys – just ask Danny. Or Spence the stoic – some might say surly – barista (not good when you rely on tips to make up your basic wage); and Emiliano, the cranky, over-muscled barman at Jungle; and then Andreas – who was built like a superhero, fyi – from the Wildlife Service, well, no, he's from Norway actually, on some kind of ecological exchange program, but…"

Derek was giving him that 'you're an idiot' scowl that he'd practised to perfection on Stiles but never seemed to grace anyone else with, so Stiles shrugged and struggled back to the topic at hand.

"So anyways, there's not been a hint of any interest in me, if you don't count Susie with the retainer in second grade, and she's in a committed relationship with Jemima Padgett whose dad owns the timber yard on tenth and Osbourne.

"I'm hardly going to be mobbed by potential hook-ups between now and when the fairies come for me at dawn. I don't think there's a way out of this. I mean, you heard Deaton: 'Of their own freewill, without compulsion, deception, commerce or compassion'.

"So, they can't be forced – not that that was ever an option – or be tricked into it, or do it for payment, or out of sympathy for me. So no pity fucks even."

"Stiles, we know all this. There's no point in going over old ground.

"Focus on finding a solution. Finding a … lover. There'll be someone you haven't thought of…"