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When Stiles comes to, someone’s stroking down his temple to the bruise he knows must be forming on his jaw. It’s gentle— too gentle, and any kind of kindness makes Stiles wary at this point. He keeps his eyes closed and stays very still; if he’s quiet, if he doesn’t give anything away, maybe he’ll get away with it and whoever it is will go away. He can feel jersey sheets on his bare skin and a soft mattress underneath him: he's not in the barracks or the cells, then. Weird.
“I know you’re awake, Stiles.” The voice is low, softly disappointed, and all too familiar. It’s Derek, then. Of course. He brushes his thumb across Stiles’ bottom lip. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His tone is all tender reassurance, burred sharp with a threat. Stiles knows it well enough by now to know that the warmth in it is real; he knows the danger is, too. He opens his eyes and is a little surprised to find himself lying on Derek’s bed, with Derek sitting beside him. It wasn’t like this the other times.
“How long?” he asks blurrily, sitting up against the headboard. “How long did you have them torture me?”
Derek sighs. “It wasn’t torture, it was teaching. I didn’t want it to happen,” he says regretfully. Stiles thinks that’s pretty rich, all things considered. If there’s anyone in this room who should have regrets, it’s Stiles all the way. He’s the one who took this goddamn assignment. “I could give you so much, Stiles. Why do you keep fighting me? You don’t want to.”
“Bullshit,” Stiles manages, and tries not to moan when Derek strokes along his collarbone.
“It’s not, though, Stiles, is it? You barely hid what you were really here to do. It’s like you wanted to be caught.” And yeah, maybe Stiles didn’t hide that phone as well as he could have, and maybe he didn’t follow procedure once he knew he was made. But that was carelessness, nothing else. “And I saw those reports on your phone. They stopped maybe a week into your time here. Why did you stop?”
“It’s not what you’re trying to make it be,” Stiles says, knowing he’s too fast, too loud, in his denial. “I fucked up, that’s all. ”
Derek tsks low in his throat and traces down to thumb lazily along Stiles’ nipple. “And why was that? I know you’re not dumb, so why make it so easy for me to see through you?”
Stiles swallows a moan. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies, and yelps when Derek leans down and bites his nipple sharply. His breath hitches when Derek laps at it gently afterwards, soothing the pain away.
“You know better than that,” Derek says. “Why did you stop reporting back?”
Stiles knows this is textbook brainwashing, and exactly what they told him to expect in undercover ops training-a kick, then a kiss, rinse and repeat. He knows exactly why he wants to arch into Derek’s touch and just give in. The knowledge doesn’t help as much as it should. “You know,” he says helplessly. “You’ve known all along.”
He can’t stop himself from tilting his head up when Derek moves back up to his neck. “Yes,” Derek murmurs, breath warm against his throat. “I was expecting one of you to show up after Isaac’s father, sooner or later.”
“Then why,” Stiles says, and can’t continue. It’s impossible to come up with all the questions he should ask now, with Derek so close over him. He hasn’t slept in days, but he doesn’t feel tired right now-his mind’s just fogged over.
“Why didn’t I just throw you out?” Derek finishes, and Stiles feels his smile right through his skin, down to his bones. “You were made for me, Stiles. I knew that when I saw you standing at the door. You were so lost, so lovely, so desperate. All I had to do was show you how much you needed me.” He slides a hand up along Stiles’ trembling chest, tracing along his ribs.
It’s been so long since anyone touched him like this, and Stiles’ eyes drift shut without his permission. He whines a little when Derek kisses up his neck and noses into the crook of Stiles’ jaw. “Please,” he gasps, grabbing for Derek’s wrist. “Derek, don’t.”
Derek nips at his earlobe. “I just want you to say out loud what you’ve been asking for since you came here, Stiles,” he promises. “That’s all. You’re being so good right now.” Right now, and something in Stiles twists a little at the memories that brings up of the last few days. Of the last few weeks, if he’s being honest. How did things get so out of hand?
Just check things out, Stilinski, McCall had said. Just check out the crazy guy who’s running a werewolf cult, see what he’s up to, no big deal.
If he ever gets out of this, Stiles is never listening to McCall again. He just doesn’t know if he wants to get out of this. He’s so fucking confused right now.
Above him, Derek is quiet, waiting. He’s not holding Stiles down; Stiles could probably catch him unawares now, shove his way out and leave. He could go back to the office, write a report that destroyed Derek, and be home before dinner without a problem. But home is an empty white room with a dingy beige carpet and a phone that hasn’t rung since his father died.
But that’s nothing new, and it shouldn’t stop Stiles from wanting to get away. He’s managed to survive the last five years of his life like that, after all. What more does he have the right to expect? There are obligations waiting for him outside. Duties that he should get back to, and Derek’s fucked him over pretty badly. Stiles has the bruised ribs and sleep deprivation to prove it.
He doesn’t run, but he doesn’t give in completely yet, either. “You mean food? sleep? the chance to be somewhere for a second without someone following me?”
Derek kisses his temple softly. “I am sorry we had to do all that,” he murmurs. “But you wouldn’t be ready for this otherwise. Can you forgive me?”
“Do I have a choice?” Stiles uses up the last of his defiance on the question. It’s pointless, of course-the only agency he has is what Derek chooses to give him. He knows that now.
“Of course you do,” Derek says, all patience. “But what do you really want, Stiles? Tell me that.”
Stiles thinks one last time about making a break for it. He doesn’t. Instead he slides the hand he has on Derek’s wrist up, pulling him closer.
“Yours,” he says instead. “Make me yours,” and knows with a terrified thrill that that’s it, he’s gone.
“Yes,” Derek breathes. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, Stiles? To belong?” He shifts over to the center of the bed so he’s kneeling between Stiles’ legs, and Stiles shivers a little under the weight of his gaze.
“Yes, yeah, that’s it,” Stiles says, voice breaking on a moan: what’s the point of pretending otherwise anymore? “Only to you,” and oh fuck, what is he saying?
“Only me,” Derek echoes, lightly drawing his hands up the inside of Stiles’ thighs. “Do you remember how things were for you before you came here?”
Stiles shudders a little. “I told you,” he says quietly. And he has--it’s been choked out of him a thousand different ways over the last few days. But Derek’s hands tighten on him, just a little, and he understands what that means. “Lonely,” he mumbles. He meets Derek’s eyes pleadingly; can’t they just stop now?
“But it was more than just loneliness, wasn’t it? It was despair. Wasn’t it,” and Derek isn’t asking. He knows about the panic attacks, all the sleepless nights Stiles spent staring numbly out his window, the fifths of Jack and the pills that never seemed to work quite well enough. All the scars that Stiles spent his whole life covering up, laid bare.
He bites his lip to stop the sob that’s trying to escape. It doesn’t work: he’s worn down from days of this, too tired for control. When he tries to turn his head away, Derek cups his jaw with long fingers and forces Stiles to look at him.
Derek moves up and kisses the tears away from the corner of Stiles’ eyes, the arch of his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “I know,” he whispers against Stiles’ lips. “And it doesn’t ever have to be like that again. I’m going to take care of you now. You’re mine.”
Stiles shivers a little at the sincerity in his tone-he’s seen what Derek’s version of ‘taking care’ of someone is. Isaac Lahey’s father was found in pieces. He can’t imagine anyone ever going that far for him, not even Derek. “Like the others?” he asks quietly.
“No,” Derek answers, eyes intent. “More than that, Stiles. I need a mate. Someone I can trust. And you came exactly when you were supposed to.”
Maybe it was fate, Stiles thinks unwillingly. Maybe it all had to happen like this, for Derek to find him. “Yes,” he says. “I did.”
Derek nips sharply at Stiles’ bottom lip, licks into his mouth with a casual possessiveness that leaves Stiles breathless. He pulls away to rummage in the bedside table drawer and tosses something on the bed-lube, Stiles realizes, with a jolt of arousal. He turns away and strips out of his clothing as Stiles watches, dry mouthed and already embarrassingly hard. Derek isn’t much taller than Stiles, but he’s way, way more cut. Stiles takes him in hungrily, from broad shoulders to defined chest to his hard cock, straining up towards his stomach and shiny with precome.
Derek turns back to the bed, and his eyes widen a little when he looks at Stiles. Stiles flushes a little at that, what Derek must be seeing right now-Stiles, legs spread wide, lips parted, eyes dark and heavy with lust. He must look wrecked, needy and open and wanting, and that thought has him squirming a little.
“Come here,” Derek says roughly, and Stiles obeys, rocks up onto his knees so he’s kneeling on the bed in front of Derek. When Derek kisses him this time, it’s deep and thorough, his hands heavy and possessive on Stiles’ hips. He hisses when they break apart, eyes wide and dark. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
Even if he was capable of it right now, there’s no time for Stiles to respond. Derek tumbles them both back onto the mattress, caging Stiles in with his forearms and biting hard down his neck. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s waist and rocks up, wanting more. He wants Derek to claim him, mark him up so everyone can see who owns him.
“Derek,” he manages. “Please, just-I need you.”
And Derek smiles like Stiles just passed some kind of final test, warm and dark and promising. “Lie down,” he instructs, voice gravelly. “And pull your legs up-yeah, like that, good boy.” And god, Stiles never thought anyone would ever say that to him. He’s already addicted to it.
Stiles watches, breath coming fast with anticipation, as Derek reaches over for the bottle. The first slick press of Derek’s finger into him makes Stiles gasp a little. He’s done this alone, in the dark of his bedroom, but this-Derek’s heat above him, the smooth slide of his skin under Stiles’ hands-isn’t anything like that. It’s better, so much better.
He’s beyond ready when Derek adds a second finger. By the third, he’s desperate. “Tell me again,” Derek whispers, crooking his fingers inside Stiles. “What do you need?”
“You, Derek, only you, you’re all that I want.” Stiles arches up, bares his neck. He read up on pack dynamics before he came here, knows that Derek will take it for what it is: total submission.
Derek growls. His fingers are gone, suddenly, and Stiles moans a little at the loss. But Derek’s nudging at him impatiently after a second, urging him to turn over, and he hardly has time to think about it. “Over,” Derek says shortly. He kisses the nape of Stiles’ neck after that, an almost-apology.
His hands are gripping Stiles’ hips as soon as Stiles obeys, fingers digging into the sensitive skin and keeping Stiles still. He pushes in hard, rough and Derek’s everywhere now, filling him up. It’s not all pain, exactly-there’s a sharp edge of pleasure there that’s probably going to kill Stiles pretty soon. Stiles whimpers and moves a little, tries to make it just a little less intense, and Derek’s hold on him tightens. “It gets better,” he promises, lips warm against Stiles’ ear, and chuckles. “You’ll be begging me for more in a second.”
He pulls out of Stiles and back in again, shifting them both just enough to change the angle, make it perfect. “Fuck,” Stiles breathes, and feels Derek smile against his shoulder.
And now it’s not nearly enough for Stiles-Derek’s moving torturously slowly, isn’t giving him anything. He tries to push back, wants Derek deeper in him, but Derek leans down and nips at Stiles warningly. “Later,” he murmurs into Stiles’ ear. “All you want.”
Derek takes his time, keeping Stiles on the edge for what feels like hours, until he’s reduced Stiles to a strung-out begging mess. Finally he speeds up, driving into Stiles hard, and it’s perfect. Stiles loses himself in it.
When Derek comes, he surges forward and buries his teeth in the base of Stiles’ neck. Stiles shudders and follows soon after, blacking out with the force of it.
Afterwards, he collapses into Derek’s arms, exhausted. “I think I’m broken,” he mumbles into Derek’s shoulder.
“You’re perfect,” Derek says, and then, lazily, like he’s commenting on the weather, “If you ever try to leave me, I’ll hunt you down and find you. Wherever you are. You can’t hide from me.”
And he will, that’s certain. Stiles can never get away. The bubble of joy that’s welling up in him at that probably means that he’s totally, irredeemably fucked, but he can’t bring himself to care. He curls into Derek a little more, says “I know,” and falls asleep smiling.