Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/971205.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Sexual_Content, Feels, The_Pack, as_background, oh_my, Bottom_Derek, Top
      Stiles
  Series:
      Part 3 of So_Are_We_Brutal_Hearts
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-25 Words: 3535
****** The Insecurities By Which You're Bound ******
by stayingputwouldbeablunder
Summary
     If he gets out before then, it will be okay. Stiles will be safe.
     Derek won’t drag him down, Derek won’t get him killed.
     If Stiles gets out before Derek tells him he loves him, everything
     will be alright.
Notes
     I know I said I wasn’t sure when or if I was going to continue this
     but a few weeks have passed and bam, more feels. And porn. hahahaha,
     I have no consistency in anything I say or do.
     Unbeta'd, whoa.
See the end of the work for more notes
It’s the panic attack that does it. What changes things. Makes everything go
pear shaped.
The pack is assessing their damage, everyone hurt in one way or another from a
midnight battle in the middle of an abandoned mall. The Alphas lured them there
with a promise of making a deal. Instead they faced an ambush that involved
echoing howls impossible to pinpoint and several bites that were just shallow
enough not to turn the humans.
Allison and Scott are both being supported by Isaac, although the three of them
are collectively the best off. Erica is pulling pain from Boyd’s neck where
Aiden tried to snap his spine. Jackson and Danny are screaming at each other -
a common occurrence since the human has been brought into the chaos of their
world - over Ethan and how he could have killed Danny. Lydia is standing in
front of Stiles, two of her explosive weapons between her teeth as she pulls
her hair up. Derek is about to move away from helping Scott when the air floods
with the acrid scent of panic and Stiles starts hyperventilating.
The pack circles loosely around him, Lydia clutching his arms and trying to
calm him down. Scott pushes his way out of Isaac’s grip, joining Lydia because
he is the only one who knows what to do in this situation. Derek feels helpless
from the sidelines, shaking as Stiles whimpers the last thing Deucalion said
before disappearing up the escalator: ‘if only there way a way to convince you
Derek, enforcement of some sort’. Alone it doesn’t make sense.
Stiles’ knees buckle and Scott helps him to the ground, rubbing his back and
telling him it will be okay, that his father will be okay. It clicks then that
by enforcement the alpha of Alphas meant the Sheriff. Not only does he
apparently know about Derek’s relationship with Stiles, but he knows exactly
what incentive to go after.
Lost in his own thoughts, Derek doesn’t notice when Lydia puts her hands on
Stiles’ face. He doesn’t notice until Stiles’ heart skips a beat and he stops
breathing. Jackson starts to yell as Danny hits him in the back; Lydia pulls
away from where her lips are pressed to Stiles’ just enough to judge whether he
has stopped hyperventilating. Scott is silent from where he has an arm around
Stiles’ back, golden eyes flicking up to where Derek is standing.
When he roars, it isn’t meant to come out as loud as it does. Lydia is glaring
at him from where she is still kneeling in front of her friend, one of her best
friends, holding Stiles’ hands in her lap. The boy himself is quiet other than
panting from where his head is resting against her shoulder. Scott turns around
where he is sitting and asks Allison to get the Sheriff on the phone. The
archer nods, leaning into Isaac because her ankle is swelling.
Derek moves from where the pack is circled around Stiles, snapping his teeth as
he crouches next to Lydia. She holds Stiles’ hands tighter in her own,
whispering into his hair. ‘Stiles, Allison is calling your dad. Get up’, rolls
off her tongue smoothly and the boy just shifts closer to her. He doesn’t
notice Derek until the man says something to Scott.
The Sheriff doesn’t answer his phone the first two times, calls rolling over to
voicemail. The wolves can all hear it and begin to grow antsy, even Jackson who
holds no love for the Sheriff whatsoever. Stiles starts shaking and Scott hugs
him closer, pulling out his own cell to call his mother. Melissa does answer,
cautious when she asks what’s wrong. Scott explains as the dialtone of the
Sheriff’s cellphone rings in the background.
There’s noise over the speaker and finally Stiles’ father’s voice comes on.
Scott nudges Stiles into taking the phone but Derek takes it instead. Scott
tries to protest but Stiles whines against him, nodding that it’s alright.
Lydia shifts from where she is on her knees to stand and Derek takes several
steps away from the pack to talk the man who probably wants him dead through
what is happening.
By the end of the conversation, the Sheriff and Melissa are on the way to the
Argent's, the only safe hold until the pack can get to them. Danny pulls Stiles
to his feet and hands him off to Derek, like the kid is his responsibility.
Derek runs off instructions and they disperse from the abandoned mall and into
their vehicles.
Stiles slips his hand into Derek’s and doesn’t let go until he is in his
father’s arms.
When Deucalion does take the Sheriff three weeks later, it’s with the promise
to turn him, hoping the bite will kill him, because the pack kills Ennis for
attempting to take Melissa. Stiles arms himself with mountain ash, wolfsbane
bombs, and a vial of mistletoe. He screams at Derek when the alpha says he is
not to go straight into the fight with the betas and the pack goes silent.
Lydia, Danny, and Allison flank Stiles on either side, saying they are all
going because this is their fight as well.
Stiles doesn’t say one word to Derek the entire drive to the warehouse the
Alphas have his father locked in. Before they leave the safety of the Camaro,
he leans over the center console and kisses Derek like his life depends on it,
then slinks out of the passenger’s seat. Erica snickers from the back, throaty
and harsh because she’s already shifted.
It’s a battle more than anything. From the moment they step into the warehouse,
there are flashes of light and three eye colors glowing in the dark. Howls echo
through the building and Derek partially shifts, enough his sense of smell is
improves. The betas crowd around him, watching and waiting for their alpha’s
instructions.
There are several brawls through the floors, the betas going after the twins
viciously enough to separate them, Allison, Lydia and Danny taking on Kali as
she laughs at them. Stiles, Scott, and Derek close in Deucalion, arrogantly
calm as Stiles circles himself in mountain ash and pelts creations made with
Deaton’s help at the alpha of Alphas. The man chuffs and presses the end of his
cane, the bladed end, into the Sheriff’s chest, waking him up from where he’s
bound in a ring of ash Morrell probably drew before disappearing.
Liters of blood and numerous broken bones later, Kali is dead, Aiden and Ethan
are wounded enough they can’t merge, and Deucalion has a gaping hole in his
abdomen where Scott shoved two of Lydia’s tubes of death into a wound Derek
delivered. Stiles is bleeding from his forehead and there are cuts across his
arms where aconite is burning its way into his wounds, but the Sheriff is safe;
the puncture never penetrated his thoracic cavity. Deucalion and the twins
retreat with Kali’s body, promising to kill them all.
Danny pointedly stares at Ethan as he follows his brother, limping because
Danny drove a sword into his thigh. Jackson looks smug, having delivered a bite
to Aiden’s shoulder when he tried to strike Lydia. She smashed a beaker of
gasoline on the ground and set the accelerant on fire to separate them.
A week of hospital visits to see the Sheriff and Allison, who shattered her
radius, ulna, and several bones in her wrist shoving a knife into Kali’s calf
as the alpha slammed her into the ground, settles the pack. Derek is still on
edge, waiting for what’s left of the Alphas to come back and finally end it. If
Peter were here, he’d probably say they are licking their wounds, biding their
time, and plotting a brutal come back. Instead Stiles is whispering wards into
a ring of mountain ash he has hidden beneath his father’s hospital bed.
The day the Sheriff is released, Derek doesn’t expect to see Stiles at all.
It’s a surprise when the loft door slides open - Stiles is the only member of
the pack besides Isaac to have a key - and the boy walks in. Derek pads out
from the kitchen and Stiles doesn’t waste a moment crowding into his space and
walking him backwards into the closest support beam. He doesn’t say anything
before the teenager kisses him, desperate and rushed.
He smells like disinfectant and guilt mixed with a scent Derek has come to know
as belonging to the Sheriff. There is something else off, too, as Stiles twists
his hands in Derek’s shirt, inching it up his chest.
‘Stiles,’ Derek starts, wrapping his hands around the boy’s wrists, halting him
from where he has started unbuckling his belt. Stiles shakes his head, pulls
against the alpha’s grip, and rest their foreheads together. ‘I don’t want to
talk,’ he murmurs against Derek’s lips, teeth nipping at the corner of his
mouth. ‘I want to fuck you’.
Derek leans back against the support beam, still holding Stiles’ wrists,
searching the teen’s eyes. They are glossy and dark in the low light of the
loft, tinted red at the edges like their owner has been crying. ‘Please,’
Stiles whispers, placing fleeting kisses across Derek’s lips.
The air is heavy with unease and Stiles reeks of confusion but Derek nods and
kisses him. When he releases his wrists, Stiles’ hands go for his hair and
their bodies slot together against the hard wood. Derek works at Stiles’ jeans
as the kid lets his jacket fall to the ground.
They shouldn’t have sex. Derek knows it’s irresponsible, that Stiles is
hurting. They should be planning their next move with the rest of the pack in
case Deucalion and the twins come back to exact their revenge. They should be
talking to Chris Argent over whether Allison will need physical therapy once
her arm heals. They should be organizing a way to ensure the Sheriff never gets
involved with their battles again because the blade that delivered the wound in
his chest was covered in bacteria and almost sent the man into septic shock.
Instead Stiles is peeling his clothes off and climbing into Derek’s lap as they
reach the bed. Derek will give him this because Stiles wants it, seems to need
it, to clear his head of what could have happened. Derek will give him this
because the idea of losing Stiles by saying no is more terrifying than
witnessing the boy having another panic attack.
Stiles doesn’t kiss him as he preps Derek with two fingers, worrying at his
neck and biting bruises that fade seconds after the blood wells beneath the
surface. Derek strains his head to the side and Stiles laves over his fleeting
marks. He doesn’t understand the significance of it because Derek has never
explained it, but for an alpha to expose their neck to anyone is the ultimate
symbol of trust. It’s terrifying.
Derek has never let someone touch him as intimately as he is letting Stiles.
Between him and Kate, there were only a few faceless women in crammed bathroom
stalls of New York clubs, places Laura had dragged him to in a quest to make
him loosen up. He can’t recall their faces or what they tasted like, just that
each hiked their dresses up over their hips and let him fuck them against the
stall door.
Only once was there another man and he’d blown Derek in the backroom of a bar
Laura liked to go to for happy hour. After he came, Derek left the stranger on
his knees and exited the bar without telling his sister. He scrubbed himself
clean in the shower of the apartment they shared until the only thing his skin
smelled like was bayberry and sandalwood.
Letting Stiles do this is frightening in all the right ways. He trusts Stiles,
knows he will be careful, for all the irony that this is Derek’s first time to
bottom. The alpha is usually the one opening the teen up, fingers sunk deep
into his body, pressing delightfully against his prostate. Now Stiles has four
adept fingers inside the man who fucks him on a biweekly basis.
Derek finds himself rocking back on Stiles’ fingers, seeking just a little more
friction, something that will make him see stars like Stiles does when Derek
does this to him. Stiles pulls his hand away, satisfied with his work, and
slicks his own cock before pressing the head against Derek’s hole. The alpha
just nods and the teen presses in until the ring of muscle gives way.
Stiles’ arms begin to tremble from where they’re bracketed on either side of
Derek’s head, fingers curled into the pillows. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say
anything, just pants as he presses his lips to Derek’s in a chaste kiss. The
alpha strokes himself, mumbling ‘it’s alright’ and ‘you can move, I’m okay,
Stiles’, anything to reassure the teen that he wants this too.
The first few thrusts are awkward and uncoordinated, like Stiles doesn’t know
what to do. Derek wraps his legs around the kid’s waist, squeezing just enough
to encourage him to move. He does, muttering ‘fuck’, already utterly wrecked.
Stiles finds a good rhythm thereafter.
The heat that pools in Derek’s stomach starts to burn when Stiles pulls out and
tells him to get on his hands and knees. The alpha does, breath catching in his
throat as Stiles presses back into him, fingertips tingling as he fights the
urge to let his claws grow. The teen fucks deeper into him when Derek spreads
his legs wider.
Stiles drapes his chest against Derek’s back, hot breath making the man’s neck
itch. He litters kisses against the tan skin, slowing his pace. Derek grunts
and Stiles snickers, wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking him in time
with his thrusts. The alpha groans then and can feel the teenager smile against
his skin.
The moment Stiles licks at inked triskele on his back, Derek’s orgasm slams
into him from left field. He comes with a shudder and a whine, arms going out.
It makes his ass stick out more and through the haze, he hears Stiles curse and
call him beautiful. The aftershocks continue to rip through him when Stiles
comes a minute later. The feeling of hot seed filling him is something Derek
doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.
He’s a mess, arms still trembling, chest and stomach covered in his own come,
Stiles’ leaking down the back of his thighs when the boy pulls out. Derek
collapses, half expecting the teen to do the same on top of him, grimacing with
the knowledge he is going to stick to the sheets. The mattress dips at Derek’s
feet and from where he’s lying, he watches Stiles stand, pick up his clothes,
and disappear to the bathroom.
There is harsh reality in that that Derek squashes down. The sound of spray
from the showerhead fills the loft and Derek tries to tune it out. Part of him
wants to go to Stiles, to wash him clean, to kiss him and make promises that
nothing bad will ever come to his father again. The other part warns against
it, that he’s already too attached, in too deep, too far gone on someone who
he’ll ultimately get killed. Or worse, Stiles will leave him. It wouldn’t be
the first time.
Their playful bickering can escalate quickly until one or both of them storm
off. The pack will always go after them and in the end they admit their wrongs
between kissing and stripping each other clear of clothing. Stiles says make-up
sex is the best sex and doesn’t realize how uncomfortably that sits on Derek’s
chest. It’s too close to a real relationship that way.
In the eight months since they started their tryst of fucking in backseats of
cars and unmade beds or against the walls of the loft and the remnants of the
Hale house, between protecting one another because that’s what pack does, Derek
has known for two that what he feels for Stiles is something shy of love. Trust
is only an aspect of it, loyalty another. The protective flare he blames on his
wolf for thinking Stiles is its mate. And that’s just silly because there are
no such things as mates.
He can smell it on the teenager sometimes, the same lovedrunk scent that Scott
emits when he’s wrapped up in Allison. It’s nothing like Jackson and Lydia or
even Erica and Boyd; it’s sickeningly sweet, like warm brown sugar or honey. It
frightens Derek that Stiles doesn’t know he radiates it on the days he spends
in Derek’s bed, lips bruised, pleasantly sore, scent heady and masked beneath
the alpha’s. He doesn’t think Scott has told him: the boy flat out refuses to
get involved in the relationship his best friend and his alpha have other than
to snark at Derek when he’s feeling rebellious.
For all the human that she is, Lydia stares calculatingly at him every so
often, like she can smell the scent that rolls of Stiles in waves. They have
never clashed but she has always been apprehensive of him and protective of
Stiles in a way she isn’t of any other member of the pack including Jackson.
Stiles smells like her sometimes when he comes to the loft, like freesia and
lilies, on his shoulders and neck from where they have probably hugged. Derek
will rub his face against the teen’s clothes and lick stripes across his pale
skin, all while Stiles makes jokes about covering him in werewolfy alpha musk.
It’s not a lie. Stiles doesn’t know that, though. He doesn’t need to. They have
boundaries, they have rules, but it has been months since the line between
casual fuckbuddy and something more has begun to blur and Derek wants to think
that Stiles knows this as well. Still, he never says a thing, not when he’s
writhing beneath Derek as the man fucks into him, knotting him for hours until
he’s full and warm and reeks of Derek. Not when he’s coming down from an orgasm
that Derek’s built for him over two hours of slow fucking - love making -
kissing him so softly it seems surreal.
Derek doesn’t hear the shower shut off. He sits up with a sigh, moving to find
his boxer briefs on the floor before pulling them on. Stiles walks back into
the main room fully clothed, reeking of guilt and fear again. He pulls at the
sleeves of his hoodie, red and thick, the one he wears with the hood up and
makes Little Red Riding Hood jokes about, before walking to where the alpha is
sitting on the edge his bed.
Derek doesn’t move as Stiles steps in front of him, just takes in the sight of
where his eyes are freshly bloodshot at the corners and watery. The air around
Stiles smells acerbic, emotions almost palpable. He bends down to kiss Derek
hesitantly, hands shaking as they rest on the man’s shoulders. Derek settles
his hands on Stiles’ waist, gripping tightly.
This is it.
Stiles sobs against his lips, wet eyelashes flicking against Derek’s cheek. ‘I
can’t, I’m not-' he starts, voice trembling. ‘I’m not coming back, I can't do
this’. Derek presses their foreheads together, shushing Stiles as he begins to
cry. The wolf in his head whines, wanting to make the boy feel better, feel
loved. Instead, the alpha whispers back ‘I know’. Derek tilts Stiles’ chin to
indulge in one more kiss.
It’s better this way, he thinks as Stiles leaves the loft, sliding the door
closed behind him. Derek can hear him crying the entire six flights down the
stairs, sound barely muffled when he steps out into the alley where the Jeep is
surely parked next to the Camaro. It’s better this way because everyone Derek
loves winds up dead.
If Stiles gets out before then, before Derek admits it to himself, that Stiles
is it for him, the reason for the irritating, constant itch beneath his skin to
protect and care for the teenager that has dug his way underneath every wall
Derek has built keep people out; if he gets out before then, it will be okay.
Stiles will be safe. Derek won’t drag him down, Derek won’t get him killed.
If Stiles gets out before Derek tells him he loves him, everything will be
alright.
It’s the panic attack that does it, solidifies the haunting fact that Derek
might love Stiles more than Kate, more than Paige, more than Laura and Cora and
his entire family wrapped into one. It’s the awareness that remaining involved
will one day render Stiles the last of the Stilinskis that changes things. It’s
knowing that Lydia, the girl Stiles was in love with for half his life, was the
one to pull him out of a panic attack while Derek stood by helplessly, unable
to take care of his pack, unable to take care of his person, that makes
everything go pear shaped.
If Stiles gets out before they admit this isn’t just about sex anymore, they
will be fine. Right?
Right?
End Notes
     I made myself sad. Have I made you sad as well? It’s okay, we can be
     sad together.
     I know that when I wrote the other two pieces in this series, I
     hadn’t really planned on continuing the plot. I realize a majority of
     this fic is build up, but I needed to establish both Stiles’ and
     Derek’s mindsets going into the end.
     There will be two more installments for this series. I have their
     content scribbled out on notecards and will eventually get around to
     writing them. No estimates on when that will be.
     Lydia's weapons are the same that I referenced in Where Eagles Have
     Been: a glass vial with a chuck of potassium at the bottom and bulb
     of water with diluted wolfsbane. When the neck of the bulb is broken,
     the potassium and water come into contact and the reaction causes the
     tube to explode.
     Also, surprising side-note: I’m actually not a bottom!Derek kind of
     girl. I’ll read it on occasion but I prefer top!Derek most of the
     time. The context of this story called for it, however, and when
     something like that happens, it needs to be done. So I wrote
     something I wouldn’t normally, not wonderfully might I add, but I got
     over myself and I like how it turned it out.
     The title comes from the song Castles by of Verona. Check them out,
     they are awesome.
     Come yell at me on tumblr if you please. now we spin is still in the
     works because I suck.
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