Chapter Eleven
Stiles couldn't hear Derek behind him as he sauntered across the second floor of Derek's loft, but the prickling of the skin on the back of his neck told him the werewolf was there regardless. When he wanted to, Derek could move cat-quiet. Wolf-quiet? Either way, the sensation of being stalked put a wide, cocky grin on Stiles's face. Derek might not love him, might not even like him at this point, but that didn't mean that Derek could resist him.
And that filled Stiles with the same kind of heady power he'd felt hours earlier, standing in the woods with a gun clasped steady in his hands and Chris close behind him, instructing Stiles on how to shoot to wound or to kill. It was the same power he'd felt telling Peter no and meaning it. Stiles might not have fangs and claws and superhuman strength, but that didn't mean he was weak. Not any more.
The only light in Derek's apartment came from the single lamp on his bedside table. The sheets, still the same dark purple, were pushed back and rumpled, and the book left splayed carelessly open on the table told Stiles that he'd interrupted Derek reading in bed. He felt a small twist of satisfaction knowing that Derek had been alone.
Stopping at the edge of the bed, Stiles made to turn around and face Derek. Before he could do more than start to twist his head, though, there was a hand hard and flat between his shoulder blades, sending him sprawling forwards onto the mattress.
"No," Derek's voice was as unyielding as his shove had been. "I don't want to look at you."
Stiles's hands clenched white-knuckled fists in the bed sheets, Derek's words sinking like a brand into his skin. But he took the hurt and crushed it, made it small and hard and caged it deep inside of him so that when he crawled further up the bed it was with loose and careless movements. He knew Derek was trying to get some kind of rise out of him, was pushing at him to make him break, to make him pull back and stand up and say I give up I didn't mean it I don't want it. But Stiles wasn't going to do that. Wasn't going to walk away if there was even the smallest hope that Derek still wanted him.
Pathetic, yeah. Needy and broken and unhealthy, absolutely. But Stiles didn't care. He was past that. He couldn't talk himself out of it, couldn't fuck himself out of it, couldn't ignore it or hide it or pretend like even now his cock wasn't aching for Derek's touch. Derek. Not some guy from a bar, not Peter. So Stiles would take whatever Derek would give him. He would take it with a shit-eating sneer on his face and a go-fuck-yourself attitude because he knew that would just piss Derek off. And if anger was the only kind of emotion Stiles could provoke in Derek, he'd take that, too.
"Well?" He questioned expectantly after there'd been nothing but silence from behind him for at least a minute. "Are you just going to stare at me or are you going to—"
Derek's hands were sudden and bruising on his thighs, shoving Stiles's legs apart so Derek's weight could fall between them. Where moments before there'd been nothing but cool air against Stiles's back, there was now the firm heat of Derek's naked flesh over him, covering him, pressing him into the mattress so that Stiles's breath came short and suffocating. It felt like penance, like absolution.
To be held down, held together when everything inside of him wanted to fly apart. All the scattered pieces forced back into place by the weight on his back. By Derek.
Stiles could feel the coarse hair on Derek's belly against his ass, the solid panes of Derek's chest against his shoulders, the bunching muscle of his biceps as he rested with his elbows on either side of Stiles. Stiles tried to bring his hands down from where they'd burrowed under the pillows in front of him but Derek snarled, low and vicious next to Stiles's ear and he froze, heartbeat quickening. The only time Derek sounded like that, ferocious and frighteningly wild, was when he'd gone full-Alpha.
Derek had never, not in the entire year they had been together, gone full-Alpha on Stiles.
He'd gone full-Alpha around Stiles plenty of times. He'd wolfed out in training sessions or on a run with the pack. He would shift just claws with Stiles, or eyes, or sometimes even both, but not the full body/face treatment. He had done it when Ray had drugged him and he'd had no other choice, but he'd never, ever, ever done it because of Stiles.
Real fear tasted metallic in Stiles's mouth, intensifying as Derek ran his hands—now tipped with long, deadly claws—up Stiles's arms to where his hands were under the pillows, clutching instinctively at the sheets. As if he could use the purple bedding as some kind of weapon. It would have been laughable except that Stiles had tensed under Derek, furious at himself for leaving the vial of mountain ash downstairs in the pocket of his jeans. He was actually, for the first time since he'd tried to stare Derek down in the back of his dad's police car, worried that Derek (conscious, knows-what-he's-doing Derek) might hurt him. And he hated that it had taken Derek only seconds to turn Stiles from confident victor to frightened quarry.
"Don't move," Derek ordered, growl thick and thunderous in Stiles's ear. Stiles jerked his head in what he hoped Derek would recognise as a nod. He'd stay still. He'd stay as still and as quiet as possible and as soon as Derek got distracted or had a moment of inattention Stiles would bolt up and off the bed and out of the room and concede defeat. Peter might have felt dangerous, might have made Stiles seriously question his own judgement, but nothing Peter had done had made Stiles feel so utterly helpless—and so, so turned on—as the simple press of Alpha-Derek's weight against his back and his hot breath against Stiles's ear.
Derek slid down Stiles's body, breath ghosting hot and damp over the skin of Stiles's neck, wandering lower until, without warning, teeth sunk deep into the flesh of Stiles's left shoulder. Stiles made a strangled, choked noise of shock and protest, body jerking violently under Derek's. His hands tangled in the sheets, muscles bunching as he tried to throw Derek off, breathless with horror that Derek, Alpha-Derek, had bitten him.
But Derek growled against his skin, threw his weight more firmly into Stiles, held him hard and fast against the mattress even as he sucked Stiles's skin into his mouth, pulling it past the bruising edge of his teeth and running his tongue against it. Against the blood trapped beneath.
Even through the panic Stiles couldn't help arching, cock still hard and desperate, at the sensation. At the feeling of Derek's mouth and teeth on him. Teeth—teeth, Stiles realized, not fangs. That hadn't broken skin. It hurt in that too-tugging, too-blunt way to be anything but human. Relief broke over him in a wave, limbs suddenly weak and shaking as the flood of adrenaline abated.
As his panic fled the pain intensified, with nothing left to shield him from the brunt of it, and Stiles clenched his own teeth together, fighting the urge to cry out. But just as it became too much, crossing over the line of pleasure/pain into plain agony, Derek pulled back. He let Stiles collapse against the mattress, body limp with the release even as he could feel the ache of a deep bruise.
Derek leaned down, lips brushing the edge of the almost-wound, and between his legs Stiles could feel Derek's hips roll against the mattress. "Have you changed your mind?"
"No," Stiles's response was instant, firm. Spoken almost before he realized that it was true—the terror he'd felt had abated the moment he realized Derek was in control enough to shift his teeth back before using them on Stiles. There was still a rough undercurrent of fear tripping down Stiles's spine. Even though he knew—and felt a brief twinge of shame for having doubted it—that Derek wouldn't turn him without his full consent, he could feel the force of Derek's anger. He still wasn't entirely sure Derek wouldn't hurt him, but it was impossible to deny that the thought of Derek inflicting pain as a punishment for the sins he believed Stiles had committed was as exciting to Stiles as it was frightening. As Derek grazed his teeth over a fresh patch of Stiles's skin, Stiles shuddered and breathed, "I want this."
"Good." Derek bit down again and Stiles hissed, struggling not to move even as pain flared bright under his skin. Just like before, Derek didn't stop until it hurt right at the edge of too much. Stiles groaned against the mattress when Derek released the flesh on his back only to shift position, lips trailing across Stiles's skin, and closed his teeth again. Each pull and drag of Derek's mouth against Stiles's flesh sent a throbbing pulse down to his cock. It wasn't long until Stiles was whimpering under Derek, making soft, urgent noises as Derek continued to bite his way down Stiles's back, a patchwork of purpled skin left in his wake.
When Derek's stubble rasped over the curve of Stiles's ass Stiles cursed and found himself actually biting down on the bunched sheets in front of him. He could feel Derek's lips curve upwards against his sensitive skin and then he sunk his teeth in again, and again, and again, until Stiles couldn't help the frantic, awkward thrusts of his pelvis against the bed. He was so hard it hurt, every hammering beat of his heart pulsing through his cock until Stiles couldn't help it and pleas spilled out of his mouth in a humiliating rush.
"Touch me, Derek, god, touch me. Please. Just… I need it, god, I need to come. I need to feel you. I need to feel something, Derek, c'mon, please."
There was a pause, Derek's mouth stilling on him from where he'd pushed Stiles's legs as far apart as they would go, had buried his face against Stiles's ass and had found that delicate strip of skin between Stiles's ass and his balls. Had drawn it into the wet heat of his mouth at the same time as his teeth had closed hard and fast around it so that Stiles had nearly jumped out of his skin and moaned, loud and long, at the pain/pleasure/pain cocktail that left his head spinning and the rest of his body shaking and sweaty.
Derek's rage hadn't dissipated, hadn't diminished as he'd taken out his fury on Stiles's body. The control he'd held onto so tightly, biting down vicious and cruel and with just enough care that he'd never once broken the skin, only seemed to have made his anger worse. Stiles could feel the tension in Derek's hands where he held Stiles's legs open. He could hear the way Derek's breathing was so perfectly even that he must have been controlling that, too. Stiles didn't know why Derek was so angry. He couldn't figure out what he'd done that had brought out Derek's beast in a way Stiles hadn't experienced before—and truth be told he was too desperate for a hand on his cock to care.
Stiles pressed his forehead against the mattress, ground his hips down into the bed even though the friction was nowhere near enough. The urgency inside of him was building, pleas giving way to demands when Derek did nothing. "I came here for you to fuck me, so fuck me."
That made Derek's mouth lift from his skin, made his hands on Stiles's thighs tighten in a way that made Stiles acutely aware of the fact that Derek's fingers ended in sharp points and not human nails. Stiles bit down on his lip when those fingers began to move, sliding up Stiles's legs until they rested on his ass. Derek pulled Stiles's cheeks open with his thumbs, held him down and spread-eagled until Stiles began to squirm, ears a bright, burning red at being so exposed. Derek made a sound low in his throat, almost a purr, at Stiles's obvious discomfort. Then he released Stiles and crawled up over him, reaching into the bedside drawer.
Pulling out a condom and a bottle of lube, Derek slid back down Stiles's ravaged body, and Stiles's breath left him in a long, slow rush. Finally, finally, he'd get what he wanted. Derek would stop toying with him, stop trying so obviously to assert his dominance—though why Derek seemed so hell bent on establishing that, Stiles didn't know. He would like to say he didn't care, except that the same part of him that relished igniting Derek's anger was also clapping its hands in glee at having pushed Derek to the point of having to prove something. Whether he had to prove it to Stiles or to himself, Stiles wasn't sure. He didn't know if it made a difference.
He could hear Derek rip open the condom package, the soft pop of the lube opening. He waited to feel the cold slickness of it against his hole but had to bite back a yelp of surprise when instead of a finger the thick head of Derek's cock pressed against him. Stiles opened his mouth to protest but Derek pushed and the sensation of being stretched open with only the lube Derek had slicked himself up with to ease the way had Stiles's spine bowing, fingers scrabbling at the sheets as pleasure sparked dizzyingly.
Behind him, Derek grunted, hands coming up to Stiles's hips and lifting them until Stiles was unsteady on his knees, head hanging down between his arms and struggling not to writhe. Derek still wasn't fully in him, had only shoved in an inch or so, and Stiles wanted so badly to shove himself back onto the rest of Derek's cock but knew that right now he'd only get in trouble for it. Derek liked to control the pace. He wanted Stiles whimpering and desperate before he gave him what they both wanted. So Stiles held as still as possible, though he couldn't help the way his body tightened around Derek's cock inside of him.
"Why," Derek's voice was rough and sudden, unexpected in the relative silence of the room. "Do you have to make this so much harder?"
Stiles frowned. He tried to turn his head back to look at Derek, but, before he could, Derek snapped his hips forward and thrust fully inside him. Stiles's eyes fell shut as Derek began to fuck him in earnest, pulling out and slamming back in, cockhead sliding over that spot inside Stiles with each thrust so that Stiles was babbling incoherently into the mattress within seconds.
"Oh my god, jesus, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," he could hear himself say as Derek began to use his hands on Stiles's hips to slam him back to meet Derek's thrusts. It felt like Stiles was being taken apart, like the pieces of him that Derek had been holding together minutes ago were loose and spiralling and taking Stiles's mind with them until all that was left was an blissful blankness. Stiles couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel Derek hard and bruising inside him where his cock slammed against Stiles's prostate and outside where his hands held Stiles's hips in a vice grip, claws pricking Stiles's skin so that a delicious razor-edge of pain spiked through the overwhelming pleasure.
With no warning at all, orgasm hit Stiles like a punch. Derek hadn't even touched his cock. He'd gone out of his way to ignore it, in fact, but Stiles was still coming in shuddering bursts over Derek's sheets. Stiles's spine arched, body clenched down around Derek, hands fisting white-knuckled in the bed. Derek shoved him down, pushed Stiles flat against the mattress so the final pulses of his orgasm spilled sticky and hot between his stomach and the sheets, and then Derek began to pound into him with faster-than-human speed. So much sensation after Stiles had just come was too much, and he cried out, writhing against the bed, but the hand between his shoulder blade held him down until Derek came with a sudden snarl, slamming so hard into Stiles that Stiles could feel his eyes roll back into his head.
Chest heaving, breathless for the first time Stiles had seen him that night, Derek collapsed down on top of Stiles. Stiles's eyes fell closed, allowing himself a moment of stillness, of contentment under Derek. If he kept quiet it might be almost like when Derek had loved him. When Derek had lost himself inside of Stiles because Stiles had been a safe place, a haven. When every thrust and drag of Derek's cock had been an admission that Derek had felt something for Stiles, had found something in Stiles worth loving.
But that was then, and this was now. And Stiles knew that whatever Derek had found, whatever he'd seen or felt, wasn't there anymore. This hadn't been an act of love, hadn't been anything but a bodily release. So Stiles rolled out from under Derek, ignored the way Derek stiffened and his hand made an abortive movement towards Stiles, as though to keep him there, to hold him in place. It meant nothing, Stiles knew, simply an act of habit. Because it wasn't like Derek would actually reach out. It wasn't like he actually wanted to keep Stiles pressed close and warm under him. Derek's hand had dropped back to the mattress almost as soon as it had started to reach, and Stiles pretended not to notice.
He sat up, glanced down at the sticky mess on his belly and made a face before rising to cross the room and walk into the bathroom. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Derek still sprawled across the bed, and this time it was his face buried in the mattress. Stiles smirked, letting his earlier confidence resurface. He didn't need love to make Derek boneless. He didn't need affection or understanding. He didn't need a deeper kind of connection to the Alpha. All he needed was the yield of his body. And that, Stiles was learning, was easily given.
Closing the bathroom door behind him, Stiles met his own eyes in the mirror. He looked different, he realized. No longer hollow-eyed and sad, no more exhausted bags under his eyes or a sallow undertone to his skin. He looked good. Flushed, healthy, a new edge to the tilt of his chin that hadn't been there before. He looked like someone who knew what he wanted and got it. Someone who paid no heed to what others thought of him. Someone who could enjoy a quick fuck and walk away, easy as you please.
Stiles gave his reflection a slight nod and then reached for the washcloth hanging beside the sink to wipe away the come on his stomach before it dried.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Derek was sitting up in the bed. Stiles ignored him, padding barefoot and still naked across the room towards the doorway. But before he'd made it out, Derek had left the bed. He crossed the room quicker than Stiles could see and suddenly his hand was on Stiles's shoulder, stopping him.
"I hurt you." There was a note in Derek's voice almost like regret, and Stiles froze. "I didn't mean to." Derek's other hand came up, traced over the bruises that littered Stiles's back and Stiles felt anger roil sudden and clashing like a thunderstorm inside of him. Now Derek cared? Now he regretted what he'd done to Stiles? When the evidence of Stiles's pain was written in blotched purple against his skin? He hadn't cared when Stiles's heart had broken, when it had fallen crushed and discarded to the ground. But now, when Stiles carried proof of the pain Derek had inflicted, pain that was nothing compared to what Stiles had been dealt earlier, Derek felt sorry?
"Don't worry." Stiles kept his voice light and absolutely careless. "You've hurt me worse before." Like it didn't matter. Like he'd recovered, free of harm. He turned back to look at Derek, expression cool and easy. "I'm fine." Fuck you, the inside of him snarled, frothing. Fuck you for pretending to care now. He wanted to hurt Derek, wanted to lash out spiteful and cruel until Derek hurt like Stiles was hurting. But, of course, Stiles didn't mean enough to Derek for him to be able to inflict that kind of pain.
His eyes moved past Derek, rested on the book that sat open on Derek's bedside table, A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin. Stiles had bought Derek A Game of Thrones for their first—and only—Christmas together. He'd hoped Derek would enjoy Westeros and its Seven Kingdoms the way Stiles had. Seeing it there, left thoughtlessly splayed open made bile rise in Stiles's throat. He hadn't even been able to watch the show anymore, not when he associated the universe so closely with Derek. Apparently, Derek hadn't had the same problem.
"You know Robb dies, right?" Stiles asked, gaze moving back to meet Derek's.
Derek flinched, hand dropping from Stiles's shoulder, and Stiles felt a cold kind of satisfaction settle in his stomach. "Oops, guess not." He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. "Sorry," he said, in a voice that clearly said he wasn't sorry at all. Stiles waited a beat but Derek said nothing, and with a careless shrug Stiles turned and made his way out of the bedroom. Crossing the loft, he pulled open the door and made his way down the stairs to gather his clothes.