Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1160581.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Kate_Argent/Derek_Hale
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Kate_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Episode_Tag, Spoilers:Episode_3x16_(Illuminated), Nemeton, Mind_Control,
      Rough_Sex, Community:_stop_drop_howl
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-30 Words: 4443
****** Lock and Key ******
by Piscaria
Summary
     After the events of 3x16, Stiles doesn't trust himself to sleep
     alone. Unfortunately, sleeping with Derek isn't that much safer.
Notes
     This story was written for the 24 hour porn challenge community,
     Stop_Drop_Howl for Dephigravity's prompt doesn't play well with
     others.
     Unbeta'd and (obviously) written in 24 hours.
     Contains spoilers for episode 3x13.
See the end of the work for more notes
Even after three hours of cleaning, the loft still reeks of strangers. The
lingering scents of teen hormones, perfume and cologne, body paint, cheap beer,
sweat, sex, and vomit have permeated every surface. Derek is dizzy with it.
He’s opened all of the windows and dialed down his senses to human levels, but
still, his head aches. The wolf inside him is pacing furiously, and Derek is
half considering peeing in the corners just to mark this space as his again
when three loud knocks sound from the loft’s steel door.
Derek startles, almost dropping the sponge he’d been using to scrub paint off
his wall. Someone has disabled his proximity alarm, and with his senses
suppressed, he hadn’t even heard the footsteps in the hallway outside.
Recovering quickly, he leaps over the couch. He unlocks the door with a fast,
furious turn of the lever, sliding it open hard enough that it rattles in its
tracks, disappearing back into the wall with the speed and force of a freight
train. On the other side of the door, Stiles flinches.
His hair is a mess, like he's been dragging his fingers through it. The pizza
box he's holding out in front of him is trembling. He looks a second away from
crying, or maybe throwing up. The last time he showed up on Derek's doorstep
looking like this, his dad had just been kidnapped. Then, the surge of
protective instincts that had welled up inside of Derek had surprised him. He
feels a faint echo of those instincts now, the wolf inside him clamoring to tug
Stiles close, to lick the salt from his cheeks and nuzzle his hair until his
breathing evens out. Derek ignores it with long practice.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands.
“I heard you came back,” Stiles says, giving Derek a smile that doesn’t meet
his eyes. “Pizza?” He holds the box out between them like a peace offering.
Even with his senses dialed down, Derek can smell the delicious scents of
garlic, grease, and melted cheese wafting up from the box. His stomach growls,
reminding him that he hasn’t eaten since that handful of Halloween candy on the
drive home from the grocery store. But Derek has spent the last three hours
scrubbing vomit out of the grout between his bathroom tiles, washing glow-in-
the-dark paint off his brick walls, and bagging up beer cans, cups, candy
wrappers, empty tubes of body paint, and even a few used condoms.
He grabs the pizza box out of Stiles’s hand, tempted to slam the whole thing
down over the kid’s head. "Is this your idea of an apology?"
“Apology?" Stiles asks, sounding confused. "What did I do?"
“You know what you did!”
“No, I really don’t,” Stiles says. Now he has the nerve to sound pissed off,
like he’s the one who’s had his home violated. And that, really, is the last
straw.
Furious, Derek tosses the pizza box back into the loft, hearing to the
cardboard skid over the freshly-mopped floor behind him. Whatever. Melted
cheese is hardly the worst thing he’s had to clean up lately. Catching Stiles
by the front of his t-shirt, he slams him against the wall, high enough that
Stiles’s feet are scrabbling to reach the floor. Derek steps closer, getting
right up in his face. Even now, Stiles’s scent is familiar, comforting against
the barrage of stranger-smells Derek has been trying to clean up all night.
This only pisses Derek off even more.
“I gave you that key for emergencies!” he yells. “Damnit, Stiles, I trusted
you!”
Realization blooms across Stiles’s face the same time his body gives off a
pungent wave of fear that makes Derek realize how far he’s turned his senses up
again without meaning to. The fear should make Derek happy, but it only twists
the anger and hurt even further. It’s been a long time since Stiles has been
afraid of Derek.
He drops Stiles, who falls to his knees, grunting a little in pain and
surprise. A second later, Stiles is scrambling in his pocket for something.
When he pulls out his key ring, the fear smell grows even stronger.
“Shit!” Stiles groans, throwing the keys down hard enough that they bounce
before coming to land against Derek’s boot. Derek glances down at them, just
quick enough to confirm that his loft key isn’t there. Stiles lets his head
drop onto the brick wall with an audible thump. “Shit,” he says again, and
pulls back just enough to slam his head into the wall again. The third time,
Derek is on his knees, hand sliding in to catch Stiles’s forehead before it can
connect. Stiles’s skin is human cool and sweaty. He shakes his head against
Derek’s hand, then pulls back, giving Derek an imploring look.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know . . . I can’t . . .” The words are breathy,
too quickly. From this close, Derek can hear the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat.
Derek’s fingers are still outstretched in the space between them, and without
quite meaning to, he catches Stiles’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “What
happened?” he asks.
Stiles’s laugh sounds almost hysterical. “God, I wish I knew!”
* * *
By some miracle, the pizza box didn’t come open, though half of the toppings
are stuck to the lid. Derek sets it on the couch between them, and they pick
rubbery cheese and cold pepperoni right off cardboard, licking the grease from
their fingers as Stiles launches into some story about a new key on his ring
and numbers on a chalkboard in his handwriting.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Stiles finishes. He glances down at the
grease-soaked cardboard box on Derek’s coffee table like it might hold the
answers. “I’m losing track of what’s real and what’s not. Everything’s just
kind of a blur right now. Deaton says the ritual we did opened a door inside
our minds. Something is trying to get in.” He leans his head back against the
sofa, eyes falling shut as he shakes his head. “I think someone already has,"
he confesses in a low voice. "I think I tried to kill somebody. I might try to
do it again.” Stiles opens his eyes, leaning forward suddenly to catch Derek’s
wrist. “Don’t let me!” he pleads. “I don’t trust myself right now. Just . .
.keep an eye on me, please! Let me stay here tonight.”
“Why are you asking me?” Derek asks. “Why not your dad or Scott?”
“No!" Stiles’s grip tightens on Derek’s wrist. If Derek were human, it would
leave a bruise. “Derek, I’m not exactly playing well with others right now. I
can’t be anywhere near them!”
“Because you care about them,” Derek says, and it comes out sounding a little
hollow.
But Stiles is shaking his head. “Because they care about me! If it came down to
it, neither of them would be willing to hurt me, not even if it meant saving
themselves.”
“And I would,” Derek says. It’s not, quite, a question.
Stiles is still holding on to Derek’s wrist, but his grip has gentled. He runs
his fingers gently up and down Derek’s pulse point, giving him an apologetic
smile. “You’re like me,” he says. "You'll do what it takes. And you won’t let
me bullshit you, or convince you everything is okay when it isn’t."
Derek can only stare at him. His mouth has gone dry.
“Can I stay?” Stiles asks, still holding onto him.
“Fine,” Derek says, and this time, Stiles’s smile is genuine.
* * *
After three hours of cleaning, Derek is in desperate need of a shower, so he
leaves Stiles on the couch playing some game on his phone. Only in the safety
of the hot, fragrant water does Derek allow his shoulders to relax. He tilts
his face into the water, wanting to laugh, to cry, to punch through the
bathroom wall. He holds his wrist up to examine the bruises Stiles’s fingers
had pressed into his skin – bruises that Derek has purposefully kept from
healing. He can still feel the phantom pressure of Stiles’s hand, still smell
the faintest trace of him against his skin. Shoulders shaking in something
soundless that might be a laugh, might be a sob, Derek forces himself to let
go. The bruises fade.
You idiot, he tells himself, reaching for the bottle of shampoo. Not for the
first time, Derek wonders if he’s even capable of being attracted to anybody
who is not unhinged and possibly evil.
When he gets out of the shower, Stiles is curled up in one corner of the couch,
his hoodie bunched awkwardly beneath his head in a makeshift pillow. He’s still
playing with his phone, but when Derek steps out of the bathroom in a towel,
Stiles looks up from the game, mouth falling open.
“Hoooo boy,” Stiles mutters under his breath, quiet enough that Derek probably
wasn’t supposed to hear it.
“What?” Derek asks, unselfconsciously letting the towel drop to the floor as
takes a pair of briefs from his closet.
“Let’s just say that I’ve come to an uncomfortable personal realization,”
Stiles says. The sticky, spicy scent of lust is rolling off him in waves, thick
enough that Derek can almost taste it. That’s nothing new – Stiles is
seventeen. He always smells like lust. But the way he is carefully avoiding
looking at Derek is new. He’s rolled over on the sofa, is staring quite
determinedly at the cushions.
“And?” Derek asks, pulling on a pair of sweats before Stiles manages to give
himself a heart attack.
Cautiously, Stiles glances over his shoulder at him, breathing out an audible
sigh of relief to see that Derek is clothed.
“I think I might be a little bit bi,” he admits, his voice coming out strangled
and breathless.
Derek rolls his eyes. “Welcome to the club,” he says, catching Stiles by the
elbow. “Come on. Bed.” He tugs him up, propelling him towards the bed on the
other side of the loft.
“Bed?” Stiles asks, his cheeks turning nearly the same color as his lacrosse
jersey. "I thought . . . I mean . . . you made Isaac sleep on the floor.”
Derek shrugs. "You're not Isaac," he says. What he doesn't say is that even
after stripping the sheets and Febreezing the mattress, his bed smells like at
least five different couples have been rolling around in it. Stiles smells
comforting, safe and familiar. If Derek focuses on his scent, he might be able
to get some sleep tonight. Stiles’s mouth is still opening and shutting in a
way that reminds Derek of a fish, so he adds, “I’m supposed to keep an eye on
you, remember? I can’t do that if you’re all the way over there on the couch.”
“I kind of thought we could stay up watching TV or something,” Stiles admits.
“I drove for six hours today, got beaten up and marked by whatever those things
are, and then I had to clean up after the party your friends threw in my loft
because you couldn’t keep track of your key,” Derek points out. “I am not
staying up to watch whatever you consider to be entertainment.”
“I’d let you pick!” Stiles protests. At Derek’s disbelieving eyebrow raise, he
grins, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, I totally wouldn’t. You win.” He
glances at the bed, licking his lips. “This is . . . it’s not going to be
weird, is it?”
“Only if you make it weird,” Derek says, climbing under the covers. The bed
still smells just as wrong as he remembered. Impatiently, he lifts the covers
for Stiles, who is hesitating with his hands on the button of his jeans,
obviously torn on whether or not to take them off.
Derek makes the decision easier for him, rolling over so he isn’t watching. A
few moments later, he hears the rustle of denim hitting the ground. Stiles
slides into bed beside him, bare legs brushing briefly against Derek’s before
he settles himself, flopping down onto his side, facing away from Derek.
Rolling onto his back, Derek settles into his usual sleeping position. They’re
not touching, but he can feel the heat of Stiles’s body along his side. When he
breathes in, all he can smell is Stiles. He closes his eyes, feeling the wolf
inside him finally beginning to still.
On the other side of the bed, Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Derek?”
“What?” Derek asks, not opening his eyes.
"You’re not a heavy sleeper, are you? What if I get up and try to kill
somebody, and you sleep through it?”
“Believe me,” Derek says, “that won’t be a problem.” Since the fire, Derek has
slept so fitfully that Laura used to joke he would wake up if he so much as
heard a spider crawling across the ceiling.
“I just don’t trust myself right now,” Stiles says softly. Rolling over to face
Stiles, Derek opens his eyes, looks at the vulnerable line of his spine beneath
his thin t-shirt. Tentatively, he reaches out, curls his arm around Stiles’s
chest.
"Trust me, then," Derek says.
Stiles’s fingers come to rest on the back of Derek’s wrist. “I do,” he says
quietly.
Unable to completely suppress his smile, Derek closes his eyes, nestling in
close to Stiles. Thin fingers dance a restless rhythm across the back of his
hand.
“Derek?” Stiles says again.
“What?” Derek asks, his voice coming out sharp.
“I’m glad you're back,” Stiles says quietly. “I missed you.” He wriggles
backwards, pressing his back along Derek’s front. Derek allows him closer,
swallowing down the sudden lump in your throat.
“Me too,” he manages after a second. But Stiles is already snoring quietly.
* * *
When the sound of Stiles slipping out of bed wakes Derek, the bedside clock
reads 3:47. Quietly, Derek lies in bed, tracking the sound of Stiles’s bare
feet across the floor. He’s wondering if he’ll have to get up, physically
restrain Stiles. Derek doesn’t want to get up. The bed is soft and smells like
him and Stiles. Derek hasn’t slept this well in years. But Stiles’s footsteps
only disappear into the bathroom. A second later, there’s the telltale sound of
piss hitting the toilet bowl. Derek focuses his attention instead on the hum of
the radiator, until the facet turns on. Stiles emerges from the bathroom,
crosses back to the bed. His eyes widen when he catches sight of Derek watching
him.
“Sorry,” Stiles says. His voice is quiet, private in the early darkness of the
morning. “Did I wake you?”
“Isn’t that the point?” Derek asks around a yawn.
Stiles’s teeth flash bright in the dark shadows of the loft. “Yeah,” he admits.
He is up on one elbow now, watching Derek with eyes that are too serious for
the early hour. Derek wants to look away. He forces himself not to, keeping his
gaze locked with Stiles’s. In his peripheral vision, he sees the glowing
numbers on the bedside clock count higher.
Derek is still waiting for the gridlock to end when Stiles leans down, brushing
his lips over Derek’s.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For everything.”
In the warm, protected sanctuary of the bed, it’s easy for Derek to press up
onto his elbows, returning the chaste kiss with one of his own. Their lips
cling together for a moment before he pulls away. “You’re welcome.”
He intends to stop it there, to roll over and go back to sleep. He really does.
But then Stiles’s lanky form is climbing on top of him, bare legs cool and
impossibly long as they straddle Derek’s hips. His mouth returns to Derek’s
with purpose this time, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. Derek knows
that he should push him away. Stiles is only seventeen. But when his tongue
traces the seam of Derek’s lips, Derek’s mouth falls open for him
instinctively. The wolf inside has practically rolled over, showing its soft,
vulnerable belly. Stiles smells like teenage lust, but also like Derek. His
tongue is surprisingly clever as it dance’s against Derek’s, and his hips are
hitching forward in delicious little circles that are driving Derek out of his
mind. And damnit, it has been a shitty day, and just this once, Derek wants
something good.
He throws himself into the kiss with everything he’s got, sliding his hands up
under Stiles’s t-shirt. Stiles lifts his arms, allows Derek to strip it off.
His skin is soft, refreshingly cool against Derek’s werewolf body heat when
they press their chests together. It’s as comforting as slipping into cool
cotton sheets on a hot night. Derek revels in the sensation of bare skin
against skin, running his hands over every part of Stiles he can reach. His
skinny, ticklish ribs. The furry softness of his belly. The meaty curve of his
ass beneath his boxers. All the while, Stiles keeps kissing him, his jaw, the
spot behind his ear. When he latches his teeth into Derek’s throat, Derek
groans, throwing his head back to give him access. Stiles’s lips are red and
puffy when he lifts his head up a second later. His smile is secretive and
smug, like the cat that’s gotten all the cream.
“You are so hot,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers down Derek’s chest, skimming
over the line of hair leading into his sweats. He lifts his eyebrows, plucking
questioningly at Derek’s waistband.
“God, yes,” Derek groans, shimmying out of his sweats. A second later, Stiles
is nuzzling into his crotch, pressing kiss after kiss down the length of
Derek’s cock. He flicks the tip of his tongue out to taste, and Derek shudders.
Taking a steadying breath, he reaches for Stiles’s face, running fond fingers
down his cheek.
“Only if you’re sure,” he says. “You don’t need to do anything you’re not
comfortable with.”
“Believe me, I am so sure, baby,” Stiles says. The cadence of his voice is
wrong, somehow, and Derek frowns, lifting up on his elbows to look down at him.
But before he can work out what, exactly, bothered him, Stiles is swallowing
him down with far more finesse than Derek would have expected from a virgin.
The next few moments pass in a blur of wet heat, Stiles’s gorgeous mouth
stretched obscenely around him, his fingernails biting crescents into Derek’s
hips as he urges him to rock forward, faster and faster, fucking his face with
abandon until he finally spills down Stiles’s throat with a strangled cry.
Derek collapses against the sheets, breathing like he’s been in a fight.
Stiles’s hands skim down his hips, come to rest on his ass.
“Please say that I can fuck you,” Stiles says, his fingers teasing over Derek’s
hole.
In all of the furtive encounters with men Derek has had in nightclub bathrooms
and back alleys, he’s never allowed anybody this before. But none of them had
been Stiles. None of them smelled like safety and home. Derek’s knees are
drawing up to his chest before he’s made the conscious decision to do so.
Grinning like he’s just won the lottery, Stiles crawls over Derek to retrieve
the bottle of lotion from the nightstand. He slicks up two fingers and shoves
them both in at once. Derek gasps at the sting, but Stiles soothes him with a
lingering kiss to the crease of his thigh.
“You can take this, sweetie,” he promises, working in another finger.
Again, something about the phrasing bothers Derek. But then Stiles is rising up
onto his knees, lifting Derek’s legs over his shoulders. A second later, he’s
pressing inside, and Derek is groaning, impaled. He tosses his head back
against the mattress, knowing his eyes are glowing and his fangs are out, but
unable to reign them back in.
“Fuck, yeah,” Stiles groans as he bottoms out. He runs a hand down Derek’s
sideburn, pressing his lips once more to the pulse in his throat. “You feel
amazing, Derek. You’re so fucking tight.”
“Stiles,” Derek chokes out, reaching for his hand. Stiles squeezes it, already
starting to pick up his rhythm. It hurts. It’s too much, too fast. But Derek is
a werewolf. He’ll heal. So he doesn't shove Stiles off him, just grunts and
takes it, gulping in lungfuls of Stiles's scent.
“I always wanted to do this,” Stiles confesses, bringing Derek’s hand to his
wrist and biting down hard, a bruising counterpoint to the rough slam of his
hips as he drives himself deeper and deeper into Derek. “Always wanted to take
you like this, watch you open up for me. So glad I can now.”
“Stiles,” Derek sobs, as Stiles wraps a hand around his cock, bringing him back
to hardness with a few deft strokes. When Derek comes again, for the second
time in the space of about fifteen minutes, his balls ache from it. A second
later, Stiles slams inside him and stays there, teeth lingering over Derek’s
pulse point as he shudders and comes inside him.
They both collapse on the mattress, sweat-soaked and gasping. Derek’s eyes
flutter shut. He feels wrung out, utterly drained. His fingers are moving
limply through Stiles’s hair. After a few minutes, Stiles rallies himself with
a groan. Bare feet pad across the floor, into the bathroom. He returns a few
minutes later with a washcloth. It’s a little too cold, and Derek flinches away
from it without meaning to.
“Sorry,” Stiles says absently. A second later, the unexpected press of a pen’s
nib into the hollow of his hip has Derek snapping his eyes open.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.
Stiles gives him that same secretive, smug grin as before, the pen still moving
across Derek’s skin. “Marking my territory,” he said. “You know those will fade
as soon as you fall asleep.” Dropping the pen, he skims his fingers over the
marks on Derek’s throat, surveying them almost proudly.
Giving a mock growl, Derek bears him down to the mattress, dragging his cheek
across Stiles’s throat hard enough that he knows the stubble will burn. Stiles
laughs as he sucks his own hickey into place above his collarbone, hands
running appreciatively over the muscles of Derek’ back. Derek falls asleep that
way, his face pressed into Stiles’s throat, breathing in the sweet,
intoxicating scent of him.
* * *
When he wakes up the next morning, the bed is empty. For a second, panic spikes
through him. He thinks Stiles has escaped. Then he hears his heartbeat coming
from the sitting area. It’s fast. Too fast. Stiles's breath is coming sharp and
ragged.
“Stiles?” Derek asks, climbing out of bed. He finds Stiles sitting on the
couch, his knees drawn up to his chest, hugging them. He’s dressed again, jeans
and all. Above the collar of his t-shirt, the love bite Derek left stands out
sharply against his pale skin. Derek’s stomach sinks at the expression on his
face.
“Stiles,” Derek says again, sinking onto the couch beside him. “What’s wrong?”
Stiles shakes his head, foot moving restlessly on the sofa. When he finally
speaks, his voice sounds raw. “Did I hurt you?”
“It was a little rough,” Derek says carefully. “But I can take it. It’s your
first time, it’s only natural that . . . “ He breaks off, confused.
The tang of salt blooms in the air between them, and Stiles buries his face in
his hands.
“Stiles?” Derek asks, reaching to curl a hand around Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles
flinches at the touch, and Derek pulls back, stung.
“It was my first time, “Stiles laughs brokenly, rubbing his hand over his eyes.
“And the last thing I remember is waking up in the middle of the night to take
a piss.”
“Oh God,” Derek whispers. The room spins around him. He wants to throw up. “I’m
sorry,” he stammers, sliding off the couch and onto the floor. “I’m so sorry,
Stiles. I shouldn’t have . . . I thought you wanted . . . “
He breaks off, shuddering. Now, he is remembering all of the things that felt
wrong about the night before. Stiles’s surprising skill. The way he’d spoken to
Derek, possessive, not at all nervous. You fucking moron, that voice inside him
says. Derek buries his face in his hands, tries to get control of his
breathing.
“I’ll go,” he says at last. He can’t bring himself to look at Stiles. “I’ll
leave Beacon Hills again. You won’t have to see me.”
“No!” Stiles gasps, grabbing hold of Derek’s wrist. “You can’t leave! Not now
that I know I actually have a chance with you!”
“But you’re upset,” Derek says.
Stiles stares at him like he’s an idiot. “I just lost my virginity and I don’t
remember a goddamn second of it!” he snaps. “Damn right I’m upset!” He drops
his head down to rest against Derek’s shoulder, drawing in a shuddering breath.
“And it’s not just that,” he said. “I have proof now. Something is walking
around inside of my head, and I gave it the goddamn key!”
“We’ll figure something out,” Derek says, barely recognizing his own voice.
He’s clinging to Stiles now, holding on for dear life. “We’ll talk to Deaton.
I’ll even track down Peter again. Whatever it takes, Stiles, I am going to make
this right.”He pulls back, staring into Stiles’s eyes.
A muscle jumps in Stiles’s cheek, then he nods, dropping his gaze. A second
later, he freezes. “Derek?” he says in a strangled voice.
“What is it?” Derek asks, leaning back on his heels.
Swallowing, Stiles reaches out, touches his fingers to Derek’s hip. Frowning,
Derek looks down, surprised to see black ink against his skin. He remembers,
now, Stiles (not Stiles) smiling smugly to himself as he wrote on Derek’s kin.
Derek claps a hand over his mouth.
He barely making it to the bathroom in time to retch into the toilet. Stiles
chases after him. His hand lands firm and strong on Derek’s shoulder, the way
it had when Boyd died. Despite everything that has happened, it’s soothing.
Derek leans back into it. He shudders. Spits. Wipes his mouth with the back of
his hand. Shakily, he climbs to his feet, catching sight of their reflections
in the bathroom mirror, Derek naked, the smear of ink on his hip, Stiles fully
clothed, neck bruised. Both of their eyes drift, again, to the signature on
Derek’s hip. It’s loopy cursive, framed by a cheerful heart. Derek can’t read
it in the mirror, but he doesn’t have to. He’s read it dozens of time, seen it
written on the bottom of secret love notes before he lit the match and burned
them, the way she always instructed.
Kate Argent.
End Notes
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