Disclaimer: Teen Wolf doesn't belong to me.
Based off 4x02, where bb!Derek pinned Stiles face first against the door. I twisted it. Oops. Writing is not my strength, so be nice. Thanks!
There are claws in Stiles's neck when Derek presses him face-first into Scott's bedroom door. He cringes with the force keeping him in place, trying to turn his head to alleviate the pressure against his face, but Derek's grip tightens against his neck. Isn't it some shit that Derek, de-aged by approximately seven or eight years, is still stronger than Stiles? And even though Derek is only barely an inch shorter now, he fills out a room just as much as the Derek that Stiles has come to know these past two years.
He stops struggling altogether, but his rabbit-paced heartbeat never calms.
"Okay, I didn't lie," he says, stumbling over what to say and how to say it against his best friend's bedroom door, with a werewolf who has little to no control over his shift pinning him in place and breathing horribly menacingly against his cheek. "I... omitted certain truths," he talks fast at the answering snarl in his ear, "vital truths, now that I'm thinking about it." Stiles bites his lip and closes his eyes, hoping that will be enough for Derek to let him go and maybe let him live.
Unfortunately, that isn't the case at all.
There's something warm trickling down his neck that he suspiciously suspects is blood, but it could also very well be sweat, except that a werewolf has claws in his neck.
Derek is silent for a beat; the only sound is Stiles's heavy breathing and Derek's occasional huff of breath against the side of Stiles's face. Then, "You're annoying as hell," Derek says right into his ear and he shivers, a full body tremble that goes right through him. He knows Derek felt it, with the way they're pressed back to chest. He's vaguely reminded of the way Malia holds him against her chest at night, and involuntarily shivers again. "But you're also turned on, like you were the first night I saw you."
"Hey-," he starts to retort, but the claws pinch harder into his neck and his mouth snaps shut.
"I can smell it," Derek continues, his voice sultry and confident in a way Stiles hasn't heard from Derek before. There's a pang in his chest at just how broken the Derek he knows is, and how he wishes to god he didn't have to experience the pain he'd gone through; wishes he could turn Derek back to the age he's supposed to be, but without any of the pain it comes with. He bites his lip until it bleeds. "Even barely conscious and unable to stand on my own, I could smell every thought going through your head when you saw me, Stiles." Derek's smirk was practically audible. "And if you want it, who am I to deny you?"
Stiles chooses then to struggle, squirming between Derek and the door, hoping to get away; god, why couldn't this door open outward? He'd be able to fall through and run. No, he thinks, closing his eyes, werewolves live for the chase. He'd hunt me down. "Derek," he says, instead, when he realizes that escaping on his own is futile. "You don't even like me, man, there are several occasions where you've let that be known. Just let me go," he pleads.
"I don't even know you."
"We'll talk, or I can kick your ass in Call of Duty-." The claws dig deeper into his neck. He cringes, says, "Or you can kick my ass in Call of Duty. It'll be a good time."
Derek smirks, shakes his head. "No, Stiles," he says, but his claws retract and Stiles feels only blunt fingernails that soon become a prickling in his neck because they're gone. He feels cold all over when Derek's warm body backs away from his. Stiles slowly, as if afraid he'll shatter this moment, turns, eyebrows rising in question. "Peter's still teaching me control, and my wolf - my wolf is reacting to your arousal."
Stiles's hand reaches behind him for the doorknob, but Derek's strong grip wraps around his wrist before he can even turn the brass knob. They're so close now, their chests touch when they breathe in. Stiles tries to hold his breath for as long as possible, his teeth worrying his bottom lip.
"Stiles," Derek says in possibly the most soothing way possible. Stiles had no idea Derek could reach that level. "Please."
He's not sure if it's the 'please,' or the look in Derek's eyes, but Stiles finds himself with a mouthful of Derek the second 'okay' slips past his lips.
This is a lot like peer pressure, Stiles thinks as Derek's smooth hands trail up his shirt and lift it up over his head. Their kiss breaks long enough for Stiles's shirt to come off. The hungry look in Derek's eyes as they lock on Stiles's pale, scrawny, freckle-covered chest is reminiscent of the way Malia looks at him, covers him, owns him. This feels a lot like betrayal, he thinks, when human teeth nip his collarbone.
Stiles's eyes close and he wishes there were a better way. He doesn't know why he's picturing stubble and cold eyes that tell stories of heartache, heartbreak, and betrayal. Skilled, demanding hands. A deeper voice. Derek.
Smaller, less skilled, smoother hands grasp his hips and turn him bodily to face the door again. Then those same hands trail along the claw marks Malia's been marking him with for days. Dry, blood-encrusted scabs he couldn't reach to scrub in the shower, red and raised and irritated on his normally pale skin. Derek's fingers trail each and every one of them and he feels her claws scratching again, his body cringing of its own volition but Derek powers on. Stiles whines in his throat when warm breath ghosts over the raised skin, a tongue flicking out to taste.
"Who?" Derek asks, breaking the fragile silence. "The girl who was with you? You smell of her. The coyote. Are you hers?" He doesn't ask if she's his. Derek knows marking when he sees it. Stiles isn't claimed, but it's a near thing.
It takes two tries to get the words out, but Stiles manages, "I don't belong to anyone," and that seems to satisfy Derek enough to turn him back around and kiss him.
He shucks Stiles of his pants, but doesn't remove his own completely. Just enough to let himself out. And when his hand wraps around both their dicks, sparks fly. Stiles keens into Derek's touch, a whimper passing his lips which only spurs Derek on. He coats his fingers in their mutual precome, then turns Stiles's back to him once more. He teases his index finger at Stiles's entrance, forcing the boy to try to get away again.
"Shh," he whispers into Stiles's ear. "I'll make you feel so good," he says at the same time his finger breaches the hole to the first knuckle, followed quickly by the second. Stiles whimpers. Derek kisses his ear lobe.
"D-Derek," Stiles whines, "It hurts."
Derek knows the angle isn't right for this, but defiling an alpha's best friend in his own bedroom is already a bad idea. If they did so on the bed, they'd be dead.
He's slow at first, searching, but when he finds that spot inside, and Stiles fucking keens, he knows he can move. And when Stiles comes, it's sweet and hot, a whisper of a cry against Scott's bedroom door with his FBI agent father downstairs. Derek smirks, presses Stiles's thighs together, and thrusts himself between them until he comes all over Stiles's ass, thighs, and the door. Stiles's legs give when Derek lets him go, but the door knob keeps him standing.
Barely able to keep from trembling, legs shaking, Stiles says, "I'm gonna- let me go, uh- I'm gonna call Scott." He grabs his clothes and phone from the floor and bolts out the door. Moments later, the shower starts and Derek sits on the bed, smug.
Hours later, when Derek is back to his old self and pissed as hell, he doesn't remember a thing about him and Stiles. He pretends Stiles doesn't even exist, much like he always has, and Stiles doesn't know why it hurts so much, but god, it hurts like hell.