Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4293780.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Bloodplay, Anal_Sex, Hand_Jobs, Alternate_Universe_-
      Canon_Divergence, Dom/sub, Dark_Stiles, Bottom_Derek_Hale, Handcuffs,
      Light_Sadism, Unsafe_Sex, Comeplay, Breathplay, Dirty_Talk, BDSM, Light
      Somnophilia, Self-Hatred, Mentions_of_Kink_Shaming
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-08 Words: 5790
****** syzygy ******
by thekookster
Summary
     noun; a pair of connected or corresponding things.
Notes
     I first got the idea for this in December 2013. Therefore, it takes
     place after 3A, as an alternate 3B. This is my first published fic
     ever, so I'm kind of nervous about it.
     The dubcon in this plays pretty heavily at non-con, especially at the
     beginning of this fic, so please beware of that. Also, the
     somnophilia tag is a precaution, really. This entire thing also got
     way filthier than I planned. If you need me to add any tags, please
     say so.
See the end of the work for more notes
1
 It starts like this: Derek comes back to Beacon Hills.
(Actually it starts a lot earlier, starts before he ever left, before Kate
Argent burnt down his life but after she entered it)
(Maybe it starts even before that, starts with Derek, nine years old, falling
out of a tree and his breath catching at the feeling of the branches scratching
his skin bloody on the way down, not getting up for half an hour after hitting
the ground, marinating in the burn of a rapidly healing broken bone for the
first time in his life. Maybe it starts with him stubbing his toe for the first
time and pausing at the throb of it, but what it comes down to is— ) 
It starts like this: Derek turns the key in a creaking lock.
It starts like this: Derek opens the damn door and Stiles says “Well, lookie
what we have here.” (and he’s nothing like Derek expected, this is what it
comes down to; this is—)
3
When Stiles’ heartbeat picks up a while later, Derek tenses. Scott hasn’t
arrived yet, but he should be coming any second now, so he won’t have to— 
“Derek?”
Stiles’ voice is confused, vulnerable, and Derek pauses. As soon as he can make
himself look Stiles in the eyes in the deafening silence between them, he sees
the confusion morph into— into— Stiles looks horrified. He completely clams up,
presses his knees to his chest and locks his arms around them while his
breathing picks up. “Fuck— fuck, fuck— Derek, sorry, fuck, what— I’m sorry—“
His voice breaks and a small sob escapes him, but he tries to pick up again,
his voice sounding hoarse. “I’m sorry, I don’t know— did I, what did—“ He can’t
seem to stop talking, babbling out half-words until Derek slowly goes to kneel
next to his curled up form on the couch and puts a hand on his shoulder. Stiles
abruptly stops talking, but not hyperventilating, and Derek waits until he
does. 
He doesn’t look at Stiles’ face, only at the pale, bony knuckles that are
clutching the bicep of Stiles’ right arm. When Scott finally arrives, he only
shoots Derek a significant look and silently leads a shivering Stiles away.
Signifying what, exactly, Derek doesn’t know, or want to figure out.
(Stiles had only tried to talk once after Derek put his hand on his shoulder,
stuttered out “What— what did he, did he do—?”, but Derek had stiffened
visibly, and Stiles had just stopped talking)
4
 The next time he sees Stiles, it’s because Scott asked him to meet them at the
clinic. They think there’s a kitsune roaming the streets of Beacon Hills and
Derek volunteered his help. Stiles doesn’t look at him, hardly looks at anyone,
mostly just nods and looks at the ground as if it could give him answers.
Scott had called, explained that the darkness in their hearts had affected all
of them, but that Stiles had had an especially rough time, that the darkness
sometimes tended to manifest itself as a personality. They’d been looking for a
solution on the side, but— “We’ve got so many monsters to deal with, Derek, and
I know that Stiles is having some trouble, but there's just so much going on.”
Scott had then proceeded to assure him that the Darkness was all talk, that
Stiles hadn’t actually done anything until now, just been Peter-levels of
creepy. “We’ll find a way to fix this, Derek. He’s going to be fine. He didn’t
do anything to you, did he?” Derek had haltingly explained that no, Stiles had
not done anything to Derek, it was just as Scott had said: all talk and no
follow-through. 
(it hadn’t been a lie, but Scott doesn’t need to know the details) 
6
 “I bet your stubble leaves a nice burn,” Stiles breathes against his mouth, “I
bet it gets you hot seeing it, too. Seeing red skin and remembering what it was
like holding them open, making them take it, or better yet— remembering what it
was like for them to make you take it. I bet you fucking love it, I bet you’re
so sorry you heal fast, that you can’t know what it’s like sitting down a day
after getting fucked and feeling that heat, feeling the ache in your ass, and
it hurts so good.”
Derek wants to looks away but can’t with Stiles this close; he wants to move
away but Stiles pushes against his chest just enough so his shoulder blades
clash uncomfortably against the concrete wall, so his ribcage feels like it
just about can’t reach that maximum volume of expansion and Derek’s mouth dries
up; his breath hitches. Stiles smirks, his hand wandering up from Derek's chest
to wrap around his throat while the other drifts down to put an unforgiving
pressure on his dick.
“So this is how puppy likes it.” He grins cruelly, but it’s his eyes that are
sharp as knives, pinning a panting Derek in place, and Derek can’t take it; he
whines.
Stiles laughs.
2
 So Derek turns the key in a creaking lock.
He didn’t expect to find anyone in the loft except for some stray mice
squeaking a meagre welcome, so it’s a surprise when he opens the damn door and
hears Stiles say “Well, lookie what we have here.” It sounds like Stiles, but
somehow it doesn’t look like him once Derek catches sight of him standing in
the middle of the loft, right over the spot where Kali rammed a pipe right
through Derek. He looks a little sharper, somehow, like the contours of his
face and the lines of his body could cut him up.
“What are you doing here, Stiles?” It’s strange, finding Stiles here, when
Derek could’ve sworn that he took all the keys to the loft with him. 
“Just stopped by to say hi. I had a feeling something interesting was going to
drop by here tonight,” Stiles smiles (—Derek’s pretty sure it’s a smile, it
probably just looks weird in this light, that’s all).
“If it’s nothing urgent, I need some sleep, Stiles, so if you don’t mind…”
Derek jerks his head toward the door impatiently, looks Stiles in the eyes and
turns back toward the bed. He dumps his bag on it and pull out some sweat pants
to sleep in, shoving the rest of the bag on the floor to deal with in the
morning. He must be really tired, because he doesn’t even register Stiles
coming up behind him until he feels a hand sliding into his hair, gripping it,
while another winds around his middle.
Derek freezes.
“Stiles, what the hell are you doing?”
“I do mind, actually.” He yanks a bit at the fistful of Derek’s hair in his
hand. "You want to sleep, right? I can knock you out real fast.”
And somehow it doesn’t sound the slightest bit like Stiles, it sounds like—
sounds like Kate, and before Derek knows what he’s doing he’s shifted to his
beta form and knocked Stiles to the floor.
But Stiles laughs. Opens his gaping mouth and laughs and laughs, until it
sounds like a hollow, cruel sound. He laughs until he stops, until the laughing
suddenly cuts off and he slumps, his heartbeat steadying out like he’s
sleeping.
What the fuck, Derek thinks slightly hysterically, and calls Scott.
5
 Not long after the time in the clinic, Stiles is in his apartment again. Derek
knows which one it is immediately, he can tell from the smooth slope of his
shoulders, the sharp fluidity of his posture. He’s leaning against Derek’s desk
by the far window, looking out the smudged glass at the stormy night. He gives
no indication that he heard Derek come in, even though he must have. He only
speaks once Derek warily takes off his jacket and slowly sits down on his
couch.
“Needed a place to stay during this storm,” Stiles remarks absently.
Derek doesn’t know what to do with that. This isn’t the normal Stiles, the one
that was so quiet and fearful, it’s the one that cornered him, but currently he
seems to not have any ulterior motives. His scent isn’t sharpened as if he were
angry or musky as if he were horny, it’s just… dulled, like he’s not actually
there, but left one of his older possessions at Derek’s loft.
He’s considering just picking up a book and reading until Stiles leaves, but
then he remembers the weather forecast.
“The storm is supposed to last until morning. You can’t spend the night here,”
Derek says.
That makes Stiles turn around slowly and smirk, slipping into that twisted
persona that pulled on Derek’s hair.
“Your bed’s big enough for two, isn’t it?”
“It’s not up for negotiation. You’re going home, to the Sheriff, and leaving me
alone,” Derek asserts.
He’s facing away from Stiles, making his way toward the bed, so he doesn’t
notice Stiles moving until there’s an ice-cold hand sliding up his back
underneath his shirt. Derek yelps and spins around, ready to knock Stiles out
again so he can drive him home, but Stiles is already two paces away, hands
loosely at his sides, eyes alight and grin sharp.
“I can pay for my stay,” he purrs, “that’s really all I wanted to point out.”
“No,” Derek growls, “you’re going home. I don’t want you here.”
“I suppose not. It’s really Stiles you want, isn’t it,” he says slowly, still
grinning that awfully sharp smile. “The other one, I mean.” Stiles’ grin drops
suddenly from his face, his body crumples in on itself, and his eyes become
teary. “Oh, Derek, p-please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— D-Derek, please
tell me I didn’t hurt anyone, please—!” He keeps moving slowly, shakily towards
Derek, who’s frozen in place by the sudden switch to this shell-shocked, upset
Stiles. Stiles is right in front of him, gripping his shirt tightly, still
stuttering out “please, please”. He leans up, breath shaking out against
Derek’s ear, and keeps murmuring, “please, please, oh, I need— Derek, I need—,”
and Derek finds his hands balled into fists, breath coming just a little
shorter. “I need to lick up your blood in a trail down your body,” Stiles
breathes out, and Derek rips away from him as if electrocuted, shoving a
cackling Stiles away.
“Oh you fell for that, did you? I knew you’d like it. If you want, I can
pretend to be him, horny virgin and all.” Stiles tries moving toward Derek
again as he says it. “Oh please, Derek, won’t you shove your fat wolf cock in
me? I’ll take it so good for you, want it so bad,” he mocks, voice going high
and breathy again.
“No,” Derek spits out, evading the advancing creature “Stop, stop it—“
“Oh, Derek, stop, please, stop it, it hurts!” The creature keeps mocking, its
voice breathy, but its face a dark contrast of smug dominance, "You’re so big,
I don’t know if I can take it— Ah!”
Derek is almost shaking, still trying to escape away, but his shoulders hit the
concrete wall, and the creature wastes no time in cornering him, both hands
bracketing his shoulders. And how is that even possible? When did Derek shrink
up? How could something wearing Stiles’ figure physically intimidate him?
The creature grins cruelly.
“I bet your stubble leaves a nice burn,” Stiles breathes against his mouth.
8
 Derek was angry in the beginning. It’s so easy for the creature to overpower
him, corner him, bend Derek to his will. Now, he’s starting to crave it a
little, the way it reminds him of stubbing his toe for the first time and
catching his breath at the sharp throb of it. He knows it isn’t a good idea to
give into it, just like he knew Kate was a bad idea when her cold eyes sent a
strange thrill through him. He’s all wrong and twisted, has been ever since he
can remember. He’s always needed to feel spread thin and helpless and possessed
in bed, and it only ever works when his partners hurt and use him. After the
fire, he denied himself that feeling, rejected the idea of needing it. It
didn’t last long, just until a chilly October night in New York when he let
himself be dragged out of a bar by a burly, gruff man. Derek doesn’t remember
his name, just what it felt like to be pinned down underneath him.
After that, he knew he’d never get rid of his craving.
7
 They’re running, running from what they though was a kitsune but isn’t, in the
end. It’s after-hours at the school, and they skid through the hallways, trying
to leave it behind, lock it in until the morning light drives it out.
“Go!” Scott shouts, halting and turning to face the oncoming monster, “I’ll
distract it. Find Lydia and hide her!”
“Scott, wait!” Stiles replies, “don’t do this, you’ve got to come with us!”
“Stiles, go!” Scott roars, and he’s transforming, Alpha eyes and fangs coming
out to play. Derek grabs Stiles by the back of his shirt to drag him along
until he stops his struggles and runs to catch up with him again.
“I think Scott drove it aw—,“ Stiles starts, suddenly interrupted by a loud
roar from down the hall where they left Scott, and a very much non-human
screech coming from the hallway right around the corner.
“Shit, there’s two of them,” Derek breathes. They’re cornered, caught between
Scott’s fight and the second monster, and Derek’s gearing up to fight when
Stiles grabs his wrist and yanks. 
“Stiles, what the h—“ Derek starts, silenced by a cold hand sliding over his
mouth as Stiles presses him into the janitor’s closet that was, apparently,
right behind them. They both tense as they hear the second creature stomping
outside the closet, but it moves on, and they exhale in relief. There isn’t
much space for Stiles to move away, but he does slide his hand away from
Derek’s mouth, bracing it on the shelf that Derek’s leaning on instead.
“We need to find Lydia,” Derek grumbles into the dark. For a second, there’s no
response, then—
“The little banshee’s already outside. There’s no rush.”
Derek recognises that dark, nonchalant voice and shivers violently, trying to
push the creature away in the small closet. It doesn’t budge, only slips a
thigh between his legs and presses more tightly against Derek.
“Don’t—,” he tries, “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re such a liar, Derek Hale,” it whispers against his Adams apple, cool
breath rattling over Derek’s skin, leaving him feeling high-strung and
sensitive. “You love this, you know that you do. Does the denial make you feel
better at night?” it asks, grinding its thigh against Derek’s half-hard cock.
“More dignified? Or does it just get you off more, that I can overpower you
when you try to fight me?” It eases up on Derek to unbuckle their belts and
unzip them, and before Derek knows what’s happening, the creature’s golden eyes
are boring into his, and its hand is closing around their cocks to give them a
smooth stroke.
“Ah!” Derek breathes out sharply, going limp against the shelves digging into
his back. It chuckles low in its throat in response, and starts rocking against
Derek, pushing in and out of its own fist. “Hn, ah, ah—
Stiles— no, the creature, the creature— hums, yanks Derek’s jeans and boxers
down below his ass, and presses a dry finger insistently against him. Derek
comes suddenly, biting his lip hard to keep from shouting, and grips the
shelves so hard they creak. The creature speeds up and comes not long after,
spurts of come landing on Derek’s shirt, adding to his own. They stand there
for a moment, then the thing inhabiting Stiles’ body tucks itself back in and
zips up. It swipes a thumb through the mess on Derek’s shirt and pops it in its
mouth, savouring the taste.
“Don’t take too long,” it says offhandedly, “wouldn’t want those terrible
shrieking things to come back and find you, now, would we?”
And then it steps out the door and leaves Derek covered in come with the taste
of his own blood in his mouth.
9
 As it turns out, Scott managed to wound one of the shrieking creatures during
the fight in the school, and instead of staying to look for revenge, they
luckily fled town. Apparently Allison is combing the Argent bestiary to figure
out what it is, just in case they do return. In the meantime, Scott is
recovering from his minor wounds and turning his attention to the darkness in
his, Allison’s and Stiles’ hearts, which they were too preoccupied to deal with
beforehand.
The day Derek hears about the news, the thing inside Stiles fucks him until he
cries.
11
 Scott comes over, determination in his eyes.
“I’m going to help him,” he says, “We’re making progress, Lydia’s looking into
some Latin texts—“
Derek stays silent, doesn’t listen to the rest of it. He should give his usual
advice, say that they might need to kill Stiles, but he can’t bring himself to
open his mouth as much as he can’t look into Scott’s eyes right now.
Scott leaves an hour later, still earnest and hopeful, and Derek drops onto his
bed and waits for cold hands to wake him.
10
 Stiles comes to the loft. It’s really Stiles this time, not the creature,
Derek can tell. The boy’s scent isn’t absent, like it is when the monster takes
over, and when Derek walks past him, he feels a feverish heat radiating off of
Stiles instead of sharp coldness.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” he confesses shakily, not looking at Derek, “I
just— lose time, get snippets of it in my dreams.” He pauses for a moment,
fidgets. “It’s just, I got some pieces recently, they feel like shards of
memory, and they— well.” He stops, glances at Derek, who’s standing at the
window, arms crossed imposingly “It was, I mean, I didn’t see a face, but. I
wanted to— to check. Derek, I…”
Derek reacts quickly, shuts down any suspicions and sends the boy home. It’s
just too easy to lie to him.
12
 He wakes groggily, not registering the cause of his awakening until a hand
tightens over his mouth and a darkly intimidating voice murmurs against his
ear. “Shh,” Stiles whispers, “relax. I’ll give you what you need.” That’s when
Derek registers that the creature is pressed up against his back, the hand
that’s not gagging him opening him up with three fingers. He moans, legs
twitching apart, registering the dirty, slick sounds of those three slender
fingers sliding out and back in, getting him ready for the hardness that Derek
can feel against the back of his thigh. Stiles thrusts his fingers in sharply
and spreads them, making Derek pant hotly behind the hand clamped tightly on
his mouth. 
“You’re going to be a good boy, Derek, aren’t you,” the creature breathes
against his his ear, “going to stay nice and quiet while I fuck you until
you’re wet and sloppy,” he says, and Derek moans.
The creature chuckles.
“That’s what I thought,” it says, “what a needy little slut you are.”
It bears down on Derek's right side suddenly, and he’s pinned down on his
stomach, his breaths constricted by Stiles’ weight crushing his torso. His ass
is tilted up, still spread around Stiles’ fingers. The creature spreads its
knees out, forcing Derek’s legs wider around them until it’s he’s straining to
tilt his ass up, shaking a little with it. The hand around his mouth slides
into his hair, gripping painfully and pushing his head further into the pillow,
until he can’t catch his breath properly. He’s panting raggedly through a
mouthful of pillow when the creature slips its fingers out and pushes into him
achingly slowly. Derek can’t help it, he cries out at the stretch of Stiles’
blunt head, and the creature thrusts in hard the rest of the way in response.
Derek’s head is yanked up by the hand in his hair, neck stretched painfully
back, and the creature growls against his ear. “I said to keep quiet, didn’t
I?” Derek says nothing, just keeps panting with his eyes glazed over and his
mind blank. He gets a hard smack on the ass for his silence, and when he fails
to answer after another smack, the creature sits back little, pulling Derek
back by his hair and hips until his ass is impaled on Stiles’ dick, legs still
spread helplessly wide, hands dangling uselessly in front of him. The creature
slides its other hand up Derek’s body, scratching bloody lines up his abs that
make him twitch and twisting his nipples hard, eliciting a small cry from
Derek. Finally, it grips his bared throat, constricting his windpipe. 
“What do you say when you've disobeyed me?” The creature’s voice is all dark
syrup, deathly sweet and obscenely sticky. Derek can hardly breathe, and he’s
shaking with need. 
“Sorry,” tumbles weakly from his lips before he can register it, “So
sorry— ah! P-please—“
“That’s enough,” the creature commands, and Derek falls silent. The hands
around his throat and in his hair both tighten, and the creature lifts up on
its knees, letting Derek dangle uselessly for a moment, suspended by Stiles’
cock in his ass and the hand in his hair. Then the creature starts fucking him;
hard, short thrusts spearing him open. Derek can’t even gasp, the hand on his
throat is so tight, it’s making him dizzy—
“No, you don’t get to pass out yet,” Stiles says behind him, “I’m not done
using your hole.” and then the hand leaves Derek’s throat, but he barely
manages to suck in a breath before his head is yanked to the side by his hair
and blunt teeth clamp down hard on the muscle between his neck and shoulder. He
can feel the skin break and drops of blood run down his chest. Derek chokes out
a rough sob, feeling spread thin and breakable like he hasn’t felt since,
since—
“Come on, Derek,” the creature murmurs into the stinging bite mark on his
shoulder, “let go, come for me, my needy little toy,” and Derek does.
He feels loose and hazy afterward, distantly feels a cold tongue licking up
warm blood on his shoulder, registers icy fingertips smudging come and blood on
his hips while he drops face-first into the mattress.
Stiles keeps moving, and Derek moves limply with his thrusts until he comes,
leaving handprints on Derek’s hips before he pulls out.
Derek falls asleep to the feeling of Stiles’ come trickling out of his sore
hole and a syrupy voice ordering him to sleep.
13
 What it really comes down to is this: Derek loves waking up covered in dried
blood and come. He loves the pang of humiliation when the words “slut” and
“toy” slip out of the mouth that used to belong to Stiles Stilinski, loves
being scratched up and bit and hurt, he loves stinging slaps and being choked.
Derek Hale loves pain and submission, and he’s been taught that he’s dirt for
loving it. Kate always thought he was disgusting. That he was wrong for it
somehow.
To him, getting these twisted things from the monster that lives inside Stiles
makes it seem right, somehow. He feels a little better when the monster takes
from him, like he isn’t wrong for doing monstrous things if things if a monster
is doing them to him. It feels like he could talk his way out of it and pretend
to be an innocent party if things go south, and that’s a comforting thought.
That’s the way it should be, right?
15 
 "I’m glad it’ll be over soon,” Scott says. Stiles says nothing, but he’s
become sharper, somehow, in the past days. Less fearful and silent. They’re all
at the vet’s office, discussing the progress on the Darkness problem. Tomorrow,
they’re supposed to perform the ritual that will get rid of it. When the others
start leaving, Derek considers staying to make an ingredient disappear, but
Deaton probably has backups, and wouldn’t look too kindly on Derek sabotaging
the whole thing again.
14
 Allison and Lydia find a ritual against the Darkness. With Deaton’s assurance
that it would drive the last of it out for good, they start rounding up the
ingredients. There’s a special kind of wolfsbane that they need for it, and
Derek doesn’t tell them that he has a box of it stashed in his loft. They end
up importing it from France, and it delays the entire thing by three weeks. The
monster thanks him by going to its knees, and Derek tries to tell himself he’s
not relieved for three more weeks of this.
16
 Derek wakes in the dead of night, inexplicably desperate, from a dream he
can’t remember. All he knows is that he needs, like he doesn’t usually, and he
needs right now.
He’s running toward the Stilinski residence before he knows it, drawn to what
he needs, what he’s been getting for the past months, what he’ll lose tomorrow.
Scaling up the tree and slipping into Stiles’ dark room is automatic and
instinctive, and he’s moving toward the figure in the bed when it hits him that
if he wakes that figure, it might be Stiles and not the creature. How would he
explain his presence? What could he say? Derek’s drowning in his own panic,
frozen, caught between his need and his fear, when a familiar voice interrupts
him.
“Well, this is a surprise,” the creature drawls, “missed me, puppy?”
Derek’s relief whooshes out of him in a harsh breath.
“I’m a little perplexed—,” it starts, but Derek moves before it can start its
spiel. He drops into its lap, clutching at its shoulders, and says “please.”
The creature stays expectantly silent, hands resting on Derek’s hips, and Derek
doesn’t disappoint. 
“Please,” he starts again, “I need it, I need you to h-hold me down, need you
to take, please, please, please, before it’s gone—“
“That’s enough,” he hears, and it silences him, makes him slump. The command
makes him let the creature pull his jacket off his arms and slide his shirt up
his torso, leaving vicious little bites as more of Derek’s skin is revealed. It
undresses him smoothly, taking its time to leave scratches and bites like a
trail of breadcrumbs that makes a coherent map of Derek’s skin. 
There’s a pair of handcuffs on Stiles’ nightstand that he uses as a toy to
fiddle around with when he gets fidgety. The creature uses them on Derek, lifts
his hands from its shoulders and cuffs them together before it guides them back
behind its head again, Derek’s arms resting on its shoulders. The creature
doesn’t use a lot of lube when it opens him up, and it hurts, but oh, that’s
exactly what Derek needs right now. One hand drifts up to tug on the werewolf’s
hair, and that’s all Derek needs to slip into that beautiful space where he
doesn’t have to think. He revels in it while the monster makes him bleed and
cry and come. It keeps fucking him through it all, and Derek is limp, useless
while it moves him in its lap, riding the edge of too much for so long that he
loses track of time, of anything but the steady slap of Stiles’ thighs against
his ass.
“My loose little fucktoy,” he hears at one point, and it makes him feel calm
and warm inside.
17
 He wakes up in his own bed, the afternoon sun shining on his face. He startles
up when he realises how late it must be, dresses hurriedly and drives to
Deaton’s.
They’re already finished with the ritual, and all three of the teenagers look
more relaxed than he’s seen them in a long time. Scott happily reports that
everything went smoothly. The Darkness is gone.
19
 “You’re sure about this?” Stiles asks.
Derek nods.
“You remember what you say when it’s too much?”
Another nod.
18
 Avoiding Stiles isn’t difficult. He makes sure to keep his pack interactions
to Scott, and avoids the Stilinski residence and the school. When he runs
errands, he makes sure it’s during school hours. It works, for a while.
Then, one day, Derek comes home from checking on the Hale house to find Stiles
standing behind his desk, facing the window. It’s eerily reminiscent of that
stormy evening months ago, when the creature first lured Derek to get lost
under its dominating hands. The only difference is the backdrop: then, the
windows were dark, the incessant winds howling and the rain beating down. Now,
Stiles is standing in a swath of light, and the room is still like an early
summer morning, with no urgency or sadness tinging the silence, only an
optimistic kind of expectancy.
“I need a place to stay during the storm,” Stiles says, turning, and Derek
recoils like he’s been hit.
“It’s clear outside, Stiles, you can get out,” Derek says flatly, walking
toward the kitchen in quick strides.
“Yeah,” he hears the boy say calmly behind him “but it’s not clear inside me.”
Derek stills, can’t move at the words, can’t turn to look at Stiles.
“See, I remember. I thought they were pieces of dreams, at first, but they kept
filling out, getting clearer. I remember what the Darkness, that thing inside
me— I remember what it did.”
“If you’re here to apologise—,” Derek starts stiffly.
“No, not at all,” Stiles assures. “That wasn’t me. I mean, I felt horrible and
guilty, when I first realised, but then I remembered something.” He pauses,
gathering courage, maybe, before he continues. “I remembered the time you came
to me. When you said you needed it. The Darkness recognised that need, I
think.”
Derek says nothing. He’s panicking, afraid Stiles will blame him, say the
things Kate said— disgusting, wrong, horrible— 
“You really need it, don’t you? The outlet? It gets you into a good headspace,
doesn’t it? I just,” he sighs, starts again. “Deaton said that even though the
Darkness wasn’t us, it sparked from something inside of us. Allison was afraid
to become like Kate, so she kept seeing her. Scott was afraid of losing control
of his wolf and got haunted by his Alpha shadow. My Darkness was manipulative
and amoral and cruel, because—,” he stops. Derek can’t help himself, he turns
around to stare at Stiles, breath held in anticipation. 
“I like having control over people,” Stiles admits, “and I’m good at figuring
things out about them and how to manipulate them, and I’ve always been afraid
that it would get out of control if I couldn’t find an outlet or if I lost
Scott.”
The breath punches out of Derek at the confession, and Stiles hurriedly
continues. 
“The Darkness was all that— boiling over, I guess, but I was so scared that it
would spill over as murder and torture. Instead, it found you as an outlet. And
when I remembered that I did that, at first, I really lost it, because I
thought I’d forced you, and I never wanted that to happen, and I understood why
you wanted to avoid me. But then I remembered you seeking me out, and I just
thought that maybe there was another reason that you lied to everyone about
what happened and avoided me.” He looks Derek dead in the eyes, searching for
an answer to the question he hasn’t asked yet. “I thought, maybe— maybe you
need to be hurt like I need to make you hurt,” he finally says quietly,
tensely, waiting for a reaction. “Maybe you’re ashamed of wanting to be hurt
like I was for wanting to do it to you.”
“Was?” Derek croaks out.
“I’m not afraid of it any more,” Stiles replies in a hushed voice, “There are
healthy outlets for it, I know that now.” 
“Healthy? You really think wanting that is healthy?”
“Maybe not, but it’s pretty common, and there are safe ways to do it,” Stiles
counters, “if you’re interested in that.”
Derek stays silent for a moment, considering. Stiles was able admit all the
twisted things he wanted, and there was an appeal to regularly satisfying his
craving with Stiles. Could it really be all that common to want this? Did it
matter whether it was? Derek remembers the feeling of being spread thin, of his
mind blessedly blank, of not having to decide to want it. He knows he’ll go
seeking it again, with Stiles or without him. Except— Stiles’ creature hit his
needs like no one had ever managed before, and Derek knows that he’s developed
a craving for its specific flavour of dominance.
“I liked—,” he starts, unsure how to phrase it. “The things it did were— good,
for me.”
“All of them?” Stiles demands sharply, eyes flitting over Derek’s face.
“Yes,” he admits, face heating. “And I, I’ve. I’ve needed it regularly. For a
long time.”
“So you would like to get it regularly with me?”
There’s a loaded moment before the word slips out of Derek’s mouth like a
confession, like freedom. 
“Yes.”
20
 They’re lying on Derek’s bed, just enjoying each other’s presence after the
scene. Derek’s started learning those kind of words now. Things like ‘scene’
and ‘subspace’ and ‘safe word’. Stiles and him researched it together, and
although he was ashamed and unsure at first, Derek likes that he’s growing
comfortable with those words, likes that he’s growing comfortable with Stiles.
Stiles, who is currently lightly tracing his fingertips up and down Derek’s
back. Derek really likes it, didn’t realise that the absence of a partner
afterward made him feel more unsettled and unhinged until he had Stiles.
“Aftercare” pops into his mind, and that’s definitely one of his favourite
words from the pool of new ones they’re learning. Stiles is continuously
getting better at getting Derek to feel spread thin, and Derek is getting
better at actually talking more about what he needs and likes. It’s not exactly
an ordinary relationship, they’re still mostly in it because of their sexual
needs, but Derek finds he actually likes Stiles as a person, too. It’s a little
dysfunctional, but they’re figuring their strangely well-matched connection out
together, and the werewolf finds he’s surprisingly okay with that.
It came from a stormy, tangled place, but it’s a good development. When he
mentions this, Stiles corrects him. It’s a great development.
 
End Notes
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