
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/862025.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Season/Series_03_Spoilers, Canon-Typical_Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-29 Words: 2712
****** Mess me up, tear me down ******
by Fatale_(femme)
Summary
     It was, in retrospect, one of the worst ideas to come tripping half-
     formed out Scott’s brain, which was saying something.
Notes
     I basically ignored huge parts of Season 3 Ep 4, while simultaneously
     dropping in spoilers. This is how NOT to do fanfic -- ignore
     everything that doesn’t have to do with getting Stiles and Derek to
     do it. My beta doesn’t read sex scenes, so there’s probably 100% more
     typos around that area. Feel free to point them out.
     Thanks so much to sapphire2309 for reading this even though she
     doesn't watch Teen Wolf and was all, Kanima? Druids? What the shit
     are you talking about?
     Uh, underage. This is set somewhere in the nebulous but close future,
     which I guess makes Stiles 17-ish.
It was, in retrospect, one of the worst ideas to come tripping half-formed out
Scott’s brain, which was saying something.
Scott had ideas like deliberately pissing off the already terrifying Alphas,
and breaking into a bank vault without knowing what it was made of, how it was
guarded and -- oh, Stiles’ personal favorite -- punching through the wall,
which was actually Derek’s idea, but the two of them laying out a plan was like
putting gunpowder and matches together and hoping really hard that bad things
didn’t happen.
Bad things did happen. They always do.
Which is how Stiles ended up being druid bait.
 
---
 
Stiles throws himself into the car face first as Derek peels away from the
curb, his legs still dangling out of the door.
He grabs a handful of upholstery, closes his eyes, and hangs on, his life
flashing before his eyes. Oh god, he’s going to die a virgin. How the hell did
this become his life -- he’s faced down a Kanima and a pack of angry Alphas,
but he’s going to die because Derek’s a shitty driver.
“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek breathes, grabs a fistful of Stile’s hoodie and hauls
him into the seat.
Stiles manages to scramble upright and close the passenger door, before
slumping down in his seat and willing his knees to stop shaking.
“God,” Stiles says through chattering teeth. “I - uh, everything did not go as
planned, ha ha. To say the least. I nearly fell out of the car.”
His thoughts are disjointed, rambling, and Stiles knows he’s going to be
embarrassed about this in about twenty minutes. He just can’t keep seem to make
his mouth stop. “I almost died a virgin, which is totally unfair because I also
could have died because I’m a virgin. Oh god, oh god.”
“Told Scott this was a stupid idea--”
“All of Scott’s ideas are kind of terrible,” Stiles says, and holds up a hand
to keep Derek from talking, “and don’t you say anything, because honestly? Your
ideas are almost always worse.”
Derek looks over at him and blinks, like he’s surprised, which is absurd.
Stiles has noticed how bad luck seems to follow Derek like a dark cloud. Never
mind catching a break, Derek’s never been able to catch a fucking breath. But
that doesn’t excuse the plan that ended up with Stiles being human bait,
accidentally running into the Alphas, hitting one over the head with a fucking
cinderblock and then diving into Derek’s car.
Scott just has this way about him -- he’s all eyes and earnestness and Stiles,
you don’t want everyone in Beacon Hills to die, do you? And what would be the
correct answer -- no, but I’m not entirely sure I want to die in their place?
The thing is, knowledge goes hand in hand with responsibility. What most people
miss is that having all that knowledge mostly sucks, and leaves you with a
bunch of informed but equally awful choices to make.
He hit one of the Alpha Pack’s version of the Winklevoss twins, and didn’t even
check to see if he was still alive. Stiles remembers the crunch of his skull,
the blood pooling from his head, nearly black in the dark, sticky and
sickeningly strong-smelling.
“Stiles,” Derek says, “I’m taking you home. I’ll call if anything else
happens.”
Stiles’ eyes, which had slipped shut on the drive, to the soothing sound of
Derek’s car eating up the road, fly open. “Fuck that -- I’m staying with you.
What if Scott calls? What if you need me?”
Derek’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. “You can’t help any more. You
nearly got killed trying to help this time. Let us handle this.”
“I see, leave this to the supernatural beings, ‘cause I’m too frail and human
to help. If I recall, being frail and human was a plus earlier.”
Derek snorts inelegantly. “I think we’ve established it was stupid idea.”
Stiles can feel his jaw working, back teeth grinding together angrily and he
wills himself to stop. The last thing he needs is to have to start wearing his
mouth guard to sleep at night again.
“You might need me,” Stiles insists, but he knows he’s already lost the
argument. He can see it in the thin set of Derek’s lips. He can feel it in the
bone-deep weariness clawing at him, the same way he knew that dangling himself
like a tasty gift-wrapped human sacrifice was a bad idea, but he did it anyway,
pressed forward, in order to -- what? Feel useful?
Save people, Stiles guesses. He’d rather put his life on the line than put
people in danger that don’t know his name, that don’t even bother to talk to
him in school.
It’s possible he has some issues.
Stiles looks over at Derek, the streetlights flashing, brief bursts of light
that illuminate Derek’s face as quickly as they cast him into shadow.
There’s blood at the corner of his mouth, trickling out of his right ear, and
Stiles wonders, not for the first time, what happened that Derek’s not talking
about.
All these secrets and unsaid things are going to get them killed, Stiles thinks
tiredly.
“What’s it like to heal so quickly?” Stiles asks, unthinkingly placing his hand
flat against Derek’s stomach, fully prepared for Derek to snap at him, push his
hand away with more force than strictly necessary, but Derek takes a deep,
pained breath instead.
Derek hesitates, then says quietly, “It hurts, sometimes, where it should, even
though there’s no -- there’s nothing there anymore.”
“Sounds kind of like phantom pain,” Stiles says, for lack of anything better to
say. He’d had a couple of witty rejoinders planned, hovering on the tip of his
tongue, completely ready for sarcasm. Honesty’s something new, unsettling. His
hand tingles where it touches Derek and Stiles pulls back his hand reflexively
and stares down at it, curling his fingers around empty air.
Stiles doesn’t know what keeps Derek going, what makes him get up and fight
when he knows he’s losing. There’s a viciousness to it, a trapped animal
unwillingness to lay down and die. It’s feral, nasty, and Stiles thinks it says
a lot more about Derek than anything to do with being part wolf.
“Go home, Stiles,” Derek says, pulling up in front of Stiles’ house, like he’s
his alpha or, worse yet, like Stiles is just some stupid kid.
“Fuck you,” Stiles manages, furious, embarrassed, trying not to think about the
relief in Derek’s eyes as he slams the car door behind him.
 
---
 
Later, at his house, Stiles looks in the mirror, at the long scrape that swoops
down his left cheek. He tilts his head to follow the mark down to his neck and
catches his own eye in the reflection, something unnamable moving behind his
eyes, hard, unfamiliar.
He grins and bares his teeth.
 
---
 
The sound of his dad tiredly shuffling around the kitchen filters up to his
room, probably because Stiles is sitting on the edge of his bed in the dark,
completely still, has been for hours like an utter creep.
He keeps thinking about getting up, saying something to his dad as he hears the
sound of the fridge opening, the beep of the microwave, but he can’t imagine
what he’d say.
Stiles doesn’t know how to explain the scrapes on his face, the stiff way he
moves, and he can’t face his dad’s look of disappointment that he’s gotten into
trouble again, won’t keep out of police investigation. He doesn’t know how to
explain that he could have nearly killed someone tonight and he doesn’t really
feel bad about it at all, not nearly as much as he probably should.
He makes a fist, unclenches it, then stands up. He opens the window and slips
out.
 
---
 
There’s nothing like showing up unannounced at Derek’s place at 2 am, but if
Derek’s surprised, he doesn’t show it.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Stiles mumbles by way of explanation. He’d thought about
stopping by Scott’s, but Scott always does what’s right, not what situations
sometimes call for, and Derek -- well, maybe Derek will understand.
“It’s the adrenaline,” Derek says. “You’ll crash soon.”
“I have had some experience in this,” Stiles says, vaguely insulted. After all,
he’s been in how many horrifying situations now? More than a few, less than
enough to make him give up completely. Stiles doesn’t really sleep well
anymore.
Sitting on the couch, he rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “God, I need a
beer.”
“You’re too young to drink,” Derek says absently, like he doesn’t even really
believe what he’s saying.
Stiles tries to shoot him a look that says bitch, please, I almost died again,
but he thinks it ends up looking pretty pathetic because Derek sighs and gets
him a beer anyway.
Derek sinks into the couch beside him, opening his own beer and taking a long
pull.
“Why drink if it doesn’t affect you?” Stile asks inanely. He’ll say anything to
keep himself from thinking about anything too important.
“I like the taste.”
“You’re a strange man, Derek Hale,” Stiles says, voice low and soft to his own
ears.
Derek quirks an eyebrow. He holds the bottle up and Stiles clicks the necks of
their bottles together obligingly.
“What do you think is going to happen with the Alpha Pack?” Stiles asks.
“They’ll likely kill us all,” Derek says.
“I suspected as much,” Stiles tells him.
 
---
 
Stiles falls asleep on the couch. Sometime during the night, Derek covers him
with a blanket.
 
---
 
It becomes a habit to go to Derek’s on the nights his muscles are tense, when
his skin itches, pulled too tight, when his mind continues to whirl even after
he tries to settle in.
He sneaks out his window and Derek wordlessly lets him in.
 
---
 
“I’ve been thinking about getting a gun,” Stiles says, staring out the large
windows that cover half the wall, rain slapping against the panes rhythmically,
fat drops that make the city blur outside, the colors running together, gray
and indistinct. Stiles adds, “I can probably get one from Allison.”
Stiles hasn’t brought it up with Scott, because Scott wouldn’t understand; for
all the awful situations he’s been in, Scott’s never well and truly felt
helpless. He hasn’t actually shared his thoughts with anyone except Derek
because, of all people, Derek may be the only person that gets how deep in the
shit they are, how hopelessly out of their depth. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re going to accidentally shoot your nuts off.”
“That is,” Stiles says, “a distinct and terrible possibility.”
Derek smiles a bit at that, and Stiles has to do a double-take because he’s
seen Derek smile, but never at him. His chest tightens, his neck and cheeks
warm, and he feels himself grin back.
“So I’ll rethink the gun thing,” Stiles says eventually, still not breaking eye
contact with Derek.
“That’s probably wise,” Derek says.
Stiles tries not to think about how close Derek is, how good he smells. Derek
can probably hear his heart speed up, which is hideously unfair because people
should be allowed to have secrets, especially sex secrets.
Derek eyeballs him like he knows that Stiles is having dirty thoughts about his
zesty body.
Derek clears his throat and says, “I thought -- fuck, I don’t know what I
thought. I was pretty sure you were going to die, you know, the other night.”
“I was pretty sure of that, too,” Stiles says honestly.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Derek says lamely, looking frustrated with himself.
“That’s pretty much a declaration of love from you, isn’t it?” Stiles asks,
exasperated and unsettlingly fond.
Derek’s lips curl at the corners, rueful and a little -- shy, maybe. It’s an
expression so out of character that Stiles has a hard time placing it at first.
Well, fuck it, Stiles thinks. The meek may inherit the earth, but he’s not sure
he’s going to make it to his eighteenth birthday, let alone live long enough to
inherit anything.
He leans forward, painfully slow, until Derek’s eyes are all he can see: wide
green pupils around a narrow band of reddish-brown, framed by dark eyelashes,
above lips that, oh fuck, are still smiling and getting closer by the second.
And then he’s kissing Derek and Derek tilts his head to deepen the kiss and
Stiles presses forward, swipes his tongue into Derek’s mouth.
His hands run up Derek’s neck, slide into his hair, soft beneath some kind of
sticky product. Stiles wants to see him style his hair, wants to see what he
does in the mornings, wants -- he wants everything, pretty much. And isn’t that
the problem with him? He’s always wanted too much and expected nothing in
return.
The kiss isn’t a revelation, fireworks behind his eyes; it’s all awkward
anticipation, a little dry, just the warm heat of lips against his. It’s slow,
electric, a build-up of want beneath his skin, his chest, the tips of his
fingers, skittering timidly across those sharp cheekbones.
Stiles wants to pull Derek down on top of him, have Derek kiss him all over,
taste the salt of his skin.
They undress quickly, hastily, Stiles’ fingers tangle in his shirt, tremble
over his fly, while his mind ping-pongs like a game, too scattered and fast to
follow -- Is this happening and Oh my god, Derek looks good naked.
He gets Derek’s pants to his knees and they’re so unholy fucking tight that
Stiles gets tired of pawing fruitlessly at them and leaves them bunched down
around his thighs.
Derek huffs a laugh into his mouth, which turns into a gasp, then a long drawn-
out obscene moan as Stiles wraps a hand around his cock. Stiles’ mind is a
little blown that he can wrench these kind of sounds from Derek because in his
head, Stiles is kind of a nerd, and Derek’s so out of his league, it’s
laughable, except Derek’s pressing him into the mattress and kicking off his
pants before settling in between Stiles’ knees and holy shit, they’re going to
do it.
Derek blows him lazily while pressing slicked fingers into him. Stiles grits
his teeth against the intrusion, relaxing in increments as Derek’s mouth works
on him.
When Derek asks him if he’s ready, Stiles whines low in his throat, makes all
kinds of sounds that he’s sure he’ll be embarrassed about in the morning, but
he can’t bring himself to care about now because Derek’s entering him slowly,
raining down soft kisses over his cheeks, his neck.
Stiles breathes deep through his nose, hands fisted in the sheets, until
Derek’s in him completely, panting wetly into his ear. As Derek begins to move,
Stiles curses softly, bites at Derek’s shoulder, licks wet trails over his jaw
and kisses deep, until Derek adjusts his hips and sweet fuck, Stiles can’t
think at all -- muttered curses and gasps tumbling indiscriminately out of his
lips and saying Derek, Derek, Derek over and over again.
 
---
 
“Look,” Derek says, sounding nervous again, “this was good -- great, actually -
- but next time, I hope to, uh, actually get my pants completely off.” He lifts
a leg to show Stiles his pants turned inside out and hooked on one foot.
“That’d be nice,” Stiles mumbles against his chest, running his hand over
Derek’s stomach, the muscles jumping beneath his light touch, while Stiles
grins at Derek’s casual use of next time.
So life isn’t what he thought it would be like at seventeen, Stiles reflects.
It’s cool. He has a dorky best friend, a few people that he can reasonably
count on, a great dad, and super-hot -- boyfriend? -- Derek. He has a super-hot
Derek that wants, mystifyingly, to have sex with him again.
He might die tomorrow, and they still haven’t figured out what kind of whacked-
out druid wannabe might be offing virgins and soldiers, but at this exact
moment he has about everything he could want, even a few things he couldn’t
have imagined himself ever wanting.
Stiles slips his hand into Derek’s and feels Derek’s answering squeeze back,
firm, steady, and incredibly present.
So this year -- whatever the hell happens, whatever sheer awfulness the future
holds for him -- is shaping up to be pretty awesome.
 
 
The end.
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