Work Text:
Two days after the alpha pack ditches out of Beacon Hills leaving a chorus of good riddances like a dust cloud in its wake, Derek gives a go at de-rustifying his breaking and entering skills.
It's the first thought Stiles has, anyway, when he stirs out of sleep and sees Derek's face hovering a mere foot above his.
Well, maybe not the first thought. First he thinks holy fuck and flails so hard that his wrist cracks painfully against Derek's temple and his legs tangle in his sheets, and he lands on the floor on his elbow. After that his thoughts sort of devolve into a blurry few seconds of ow and fuck and oh shit, who's been hurt?
"Dude," he says when the spike of pain that only a hard blow to the elbow can really produce finishes ice-picking its way through his brain. He sits up and tips his head back to stare up at Derek, who stares right back down at him from the opposite side of the bed and doesn't mention anyone being dead, injured, or in mortal peril. Then Stiles moves into ascribing slightly less panic-inducing motives to Derek's seriously creeptastic behavior. "So not cool. I was having a good dream, if you catch my drift?"
Stiles already can't really remember what his unconscious mind had been up to, but whatever. His dick's still at half-mast even after a bit of shock and pain, so it had to have been truly excellent. Derek just keeps staring at him and he finally sighs. "What, then? C'mon, you have to have some reason for Edwarding your ass in here in the middle of the night, so...? Spit it out!"
"I need your help," Derek says bluntly.
"At --" Stiles squints at the glowing red lights of his alarm clock. "Fuck, at two in the morning? Some of us are not creatures of the night, Derek -- including you, you know, that's vampires, you're -- "
"Wolves are nocturnal," Derek interrupts.
Stiles snaps his mouth shut. For a second. Then he climbs back onto his bed and crosses his arms sullenly. "Fine. I'm -- I knew that, by the way, my point was -- anyway, I'm still not. Nocturnal, I mean. My window closes for business at eleven sharp, buddy."
Derek's eyebrows twitch inward. "That makes you sound like you're a creature of the night."
This times Stiles' mouth drops open. "Did you just call me a prosti -- wait, did you just make a joke? Wow, dude, congratulations. Also: fuck you. What do you want?"
"I need your help," Derek says again. He thrusts out his hand, but then seems reluctant to actually relinquish the torn book page crumpled in his fist. "I couldn't wait until morning." Stiles tips his head curiously, and he sighs. "Just read it, all right."
"It's kind of dark," Stiles snipes. "You know, like it tends to be in the middle of the freaking night. Just saying."
Derek's eyes flare red and Stiles considers, briefly, the wisdom of possibly dialing down on the sass. For once. Maybe. But after Derek stomps over to the wall and flicks on the overhead light -- which ow, okay, shit, his eyes -- he gets distracted with wincing in pain and then struggling to focus on the tiny print on the page. "Okay, okay, so -- what is this even, Alpha Psychology, are you kidding me? This even exists?"
"Read," Derek snarls.
Stiles reads. He starts, like any normal person, with the top left corner, but as he traces his finger alongside dense lines expounding on the importance of outlets for the nurturing instincts, Derek huffs out an impatient sigh. "No, not -- " He returns to the side of Stiles' bed and jabs a finger at one particular paragraph. "There. Read there."
Stiles is tempted to stay right where he is just to spite Derek, and also because hello, context. On the other hand, he's also tempted to survive the night, so. Life is made up of all sorts of interesting choices. He grumbles under his breath and shifts his attention to the paragraph in question, shifts into mumbling as he reads. "...repetitive challenges to the Alpha's authority and....crisis of role identity....limited remedial options. Once the balance is tipped... increasingly aggressive nature.....requires pack expansion......or sexual submission...."
The page ends there, despite Stiles practically salivating for more. He chews his lower lip for a minute, thoughts skidding in about eight different directions at once until he settles on looking up at Derek and seeking clarification. "So basically you're telling me you're like, kind of on the verge of going completely batshit 'cause nobody's been giving you your respect when you get home."
Derek stands there with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket and if it weren't for the fact that his vision is still fuzzy from sleeping and clearly making him imagine things, Stiles would swear he's blushing. "It's not something I can help," Derek says irritably. "Or control much longer."
Stiles swallows hard. "C'mon, Derek, you're -- give yourself a little credit. I mean, I know things have been rough since -- okay, for kind of a long time, but you're doing great, like, color me impressed -- "
"I'm not doing great," Derek snarls. "You don't fucking get it, Stiles. Being the Alpha, there are instincts that -- they challenged me and just disappeared, I have to -- it's not a choice. I need someone to submit to me, either take the bite or -- "
"You can't," Stiles blurts. "Mr. Argent would -- "
"I know."
"Then that means...oh. Oh, dude, that is seriously screwed up. No offense, but seriously." Stiles rubs his eyes, scratches his head, and blinks blearily at Derek. "So what are you doing here? Hell, Erica would -- god, in a heartbeat -- "
"No." Derek shakes his head rapidly. "None of the betas. It would create a bond I don't want and give status none of them are ready for. They're out of the question."
"Okay, okay, fine, but then what -- "
Realization hits Stiles like a freight train. His mouth goes dry. "You are so not here to ask me to research a solution, are you?"
Derek's lips compress tightly. "I...I trust you," he finally says carefully. "You're the only one who would...understand, and keep it...private and --"
"No, yeah, got it," Stiles says. He looks down, plucks at wrinkles in his fitted sheet and tries to shake off the uncomfortable lump in his throat, the heat in his cheeks, the creep of embarrassment under his skin. It's not like there's any point to letting bitterness well up. There never was with Lydia, and there isn't with Derek. It's not their fault he doesn't exactly inspire reciprocation. "I mean, you're right, it's -- yeah. Like, who would I tell, anyway, who would believe, I mean -- you, jesus, you and me, that's, it's funny, is what that is. And yeah, no need to worry, neither my brain or any fucked up werewolf magic weirdo shit are gonna go giving me airs about anything."
Derek stares at him with a small furrow between his brows. His mouth pinches again. Then it opens. Then it closes. He sighs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "I don't -- are you saying yes?"
Stiles licks his lips, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy. "Yeah, yes, catch up. Keeping your Alpha shit together is a life goal I seem to have landed squarely behind. So...let's just get on with it, I still need to get some sleep, got a physics exam second period. I -- how do you want to do this?"
Derek's nostrils flare and he glares at Stiles, looks furious for a second. "Turn over," he finally says tightly. "You -- on your hands and knees, I think that'll be best."
"Go figure," Stiles mutters. But he's pleased. If he's going to do this -- and he is, he's not crazy enough to turn down his chance with Derek Hale even if it is a nausea-churning disaster of him being the least awful of all the awful choices in a time of awful-induced necessity -- then it's better this way. He'll be able to imagine that there's anything but sheer disinterest on Derek's face.
He'll be able to tell himself later, maybe, that losing his virginity without even being kissed was an issue of logistics instead of a problem with...him.
Not that any of that makes it easier now. For now he has to tell himself that Derek needs his help, and this is something he can do, and it's just bodies, anyway. It's not like he's going into this thinking it means anything, so the worst part will probably be if it hurts.
He's read stuff. He knows it's going to hurt. Still, though. He stifles his grimace and tucks his feet under to roll up onto his knees in an awkward shift of his weight. Derek is already taking a knee behind him as he bites his lip and makes himself just deal with the indignity of folding forward, bracing his palms against the mattress, bracing himself for Derek to use.
But Derek surprises him right off the bat. His hands settle on either side of Stiles' spine and rub slowly up and down his back, pushing and bunching his t-shirt and exposing skin to his direct touch. For the first time, Stiles' cock stirs with signs of life. "Thank you," Derek says quietly, his thumbs passing back and forth over the ridge of elastic on Stiles' boxers.
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. "Don't mention it," he mutters.
He can't help the shiver that rolls through his body when Derek digs his thumbs in and hooks them under cotton, fingers gliding smoothly as he skims the fabric down over Stiles' ass. He blames the cool air from the vent over his bed and decides it has nothing at all to do with Derek curling one hand around his hip in gentle support of his balance, helping him lift one knee and then the other until his shorts are free and Derek can nudge his legs into a wider stance.
And it sure as hell has nothing to do with the scrape of Derek's voice saying, "take your shirt off," or the way he just obeys, or the sound of a zipper dragging down just as he does. Derek shuffles closer and palms his hips, pulling him back, and holy leaping mother of christ on a buttered toast, he's a wall of denim and cotton and leather, he hasn't even taken his jacket off yet but his dick is slotting up against Stiles, rubbing and rutting, smearing slightly against the small of his back. "Just try and relax," he says in a rough gust of air against Stiles' ear.
Stiles is still trying to decide whether to laugh outright at that little morsel of completely fucking useless advice when Derek guides him back down, pushing and pressing him even lower, onto his forearms. He foregoes the amusement and tucks his face into the crook of his own elbow, focuses on just breathing instead.
Derek's jacket finally comes off, judging by the heavy thud and clatter of metal somewhere off to the right. But that's pretty much it in the way of clothes; the next thing he hears is the crinkle of tearing plastic and then there's Derek's finger, rubbing slick against him. Which, okay, this is not actually a zone of experimentation Stiles has gotten around to venturing into as of yet.
Severe oversight on his part, he decides with a soft groan. That's actually -- that's actually nice, the pad of Derek's finger moving in slow circles that might as well be massaging blood right into Stiles' aching dick. "Okay, just," Derek says grittily, and pushes in.
Stiles quickly finds himself meandering well-trod paths of mind-melting horniness that have somehow lost all familiarity under this new stewardship. For all that okay, yes, getting pried open on a succession of Derek's fingers does turn out to involve some aches and twinges and the occasional sharp jab of pain, Derek keeps obliterating those trifling concerns with an apparent effort to prod an orgasm out of him from the inside.
It's kind of fucking spectacular. And kind of spectacularly unfair that despite it all -- because of it all -- there's part of him that just can't let go and go with it. Part of him that struggles to hold still and not let Derek see what this is doing to him, part of him that can't help but resent it for feeling good and resent Derek for taking the time to even make it like this.
Derek should have warned him, he thinks muzzily. Derek should have fucking warned him that he was going to be a fucking asshole and actually try and make this good for him.
Relief comes from Derek's hand flat between his shoulder blades, from Derek's cock pressing against him. It hurts again and it makes his breath catch. It makes him fumble for his pillow just to have something to squeeze in a deathgrip as Derek -- as Derek fucks him, Derek is fucking him, rolling little thrusts that take him deeper on every pass until he's pressed flush and it's done, he's made Stiles take it all.
And then he pulls back and makes him take it again. And again, and again, hands sliding to grasp the fronts of Stiles' thighs and pull him into each hard thrust, breath gusting raggedly over Stiles' head.
The pillow gets damp and Stiles tells himself it's only sweat, which is an easier lie to believe once the burn fades and Derek falls into a rhythm. Like Morse code, Stiles thinks. Bursts of short and sharp, stretches of long and slow. Some message being punched into him that he doesn't know how to translate, doesn't know what the fuck to make of, just that it's twisting him up and making him ache.
Making him want. Denim rubs against his legs and Derek slumps heavily over his back, all cotton and heat and soft breathy groans as he keeps slapping in. Stiles pushes back into him, wanting more, wanting it to go on forever, wanting it over.
And like he read Stiles' mind, Derek's hand suddenly fumbles at his cock, fingers curling clumsily around it. "Do -- do you want to?" he asks with an odd hesitation. "I'm close."
Stiles thinks he gets the choice Derek is giving him, like there's a line being laid down and it's fine, it's fine if Stiles doesn't want to tumble across it with him, if he'd rather just keep this what it is, about Derek. The irony is that the thought of it, the fucking consideration Derek has decided to shove awkardly into this screwed up mess of turning Stiles' ass into his own personal form of therapy, just makes the decision easier for all that it rests sourly in the back of his throat.
His knees spread wider and his spine bows low under the curl of Derek's body, and he nods in a frantic rub of his face into the pillow under his cheek, and it takes all of five swift, tight tugs of Derek's hand for Stiles to come all over the sheets.
Derek grips his hips and keeps him from sinking into a dead sprawl in his own mess, straightens up and jackhammers in, fingers digging in bruises. The angle is suddenly torturously on the mark and makes Stiles choke out moans against the pillow. He can't exactly come down when every thrust is sending fireworks up his spine. "Derek," he gasps, desperation finally letting him find his words again. "Fuck, c'mon."
Derek yanks him back hard into one last thrust. He actually growls as he comes and Stiles feels the scrape of nails across his skin for an instant before Derek jerks his hands away and falls against Stiles, bearing him heavily down into the mattress. His mouth pants damply against the base of Stiles' skull and he grinds down, hips stuttering out his release. "Stiles," he mutters. "Fuck. That -- you did good."
Stiles gives an earnest go at catching his breath. "Go me," he manages to snark, but his heart's not really in it. He fidgets a little under Derek's weight and just manages to stifle a gasp at the sharp tug of Derek pulling out. "Ow. Fuck," he mutters instead.
He doesn't move after Derek rolls off of him. Doesn't move at the scrape of a zipper being yanked up, or the sound of Derek's footsteps moving out of his room and down the hall, or the drag of a warm, wet cloth over his skin. He just lies there, settling, feeling sweat dry and his heart slow down and his muscles ease out of trembling tension.
"Thank you," Derek says again. The mattress jolts as he sits heavily on the edge of the bed. Stiles pushes up and sits slowly, doesn't miss the embarrassed flick of Derek's gaze away from him as he gives in to modesty and stretches to snag his top sheet from the floor and drag it over his lap. "I'll...be more careful in the future. This won't -- I won't let this happen again."
Stiles just shrugs. This isn't really the kind of gratitude that can be met with a stupid you're welcome. He glances at Derek and catches just an instant of Derek staring at him, features pinched with aggravation of some sort. When he looks away again, Derek blows out a long sigh.
"Take a bath before school," he says shortly, standing up. "Not a shower. Put something in the water, shampoo or -- it'll be enough to mask the scent."
Stiles tries not to let the reminder bother him, that Derek doesn't want anyone knowing about this. "Right, sure," he says with forced steadiness. "So...you good? Can you go back to being a dickhead by choice instead of some Alpha headtrip?"
"Yes," Derek snaps. Stiles is really not sure where the fuck Derek gets off being pissed right now, but hey. Kind of his point. Derek stalks to the window and pauses with one leg over the ledge. He looks back at Stiles with an expression Stiles can't even begin to read.
"Good luck on your test," he says.