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Holy Water Cannot Help You Now

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I'm the Alpha.

It rings in Stiles' ears, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. He fidgets, trying to catch his breath, fingers curling and uncurling as they clutch at his own flannel shirt. He glances as Isaac, sees him staring back and it makes him shiver, scramble up, press himself to the cool wall.

Derek notices, too, glancing back over his shoulder at Isaac.

Stiles wipes the sweat off his face, stuttering, "Y-you should probably get going, right? Because... because my dad will be here soon and there could be other hunters and --"

He stops abruptly when Derek looks at him again, his eyes glowing red once more. Stiles swallows hard. He has no reason to be nervous. There's no REASON for Derek to hurt him. Derek just saved him. It's illogical, and yet... yet something doesn't feel right to Stiles.

"Derek?" asks Stiles. “Dude -- um, could you quit with the glowing red eyes and the looming? Okay, I get it. You're the, ah, you're the Alpha and I'm happy for you and I'm glad you could keep me from being maimed by one of your overzealous attack dogs or -- or not DOGS, I didn't mean -- WHAT I MEANT, is that it's lucky you were here and I, um... Derek?"

"You have a point," says Derek.

And if Stiles does have a point he doesn't know what it actually IS, but he's just...super glad Derek seems to know because maybe that means he will LEAVE before Stiles' dad comes in and he has to explain, like... his LIFE. "That's GREAT, that's fantastic. I'm glad we see eye to eye on this. Now, about your escape from jail and not being CAUGHT --"

"If I hadn't been here, he wouldn't have known you're off-limits," continues Derek, as if Stiles might as well not have been talking. Which, if Stiles is honest, and he typically likes to be with himself at least, what with how his life is filled with werewolves and insanity, it's not exactly the first time someone has pretended Stiles wasn't speaking at all.

Whatever. That's nothing anyway compared to the sinking, sick feeling Stiles is getting in his stomach because Derek's eyes are still that ominous, death, blood, end-of-the-world color and he's still looking at Stiles and Stiles is starting to feel as if he's a Christmas ham Derek doesn't want to share.

"I'm off-limits? That's... um, great. I... you know, I wouldn't worry about it. Really, what are the chances there'll be werewolves and you won't be around. I mean, right? Right? Come on..." Stiles trails off as Derek turns fully around to face him. He really does not have a good feeling about this.

When he first started interacting with Derek on a semi-regular basis, Stiles couldn’t help but notice certain things. Derek's always been a bit... ODD around him, always stared longer at Stiles than anyone else, never stopped to ask if it was okay to touch Stiles, never hesitated to slam him up against a wall or smack him upside his head. Always behaved as if... as if Stiles should just do whatever Derek wanted, and Stiles put Derek's aggressiveness around him off to the fact that Stiles is human and therefor weak in Derek's eyes.

Anything else, Stiles dismissed as fantasy, as Stiles projecting. Derek is hot and Stiles couldn’t help but notice that, pay attention in ways that were probably counterintuitive to like, you know, staying alive. But it’s always been there, always lingering in the back of Stiles’ mind.

Right now, it’s rearing its ugly head, twisting up in Stiles’ gut as Derek advances on him. He desperately wants to dismiss the wild theory as half-baked nonsense, as panic-fueled hysteria that’s making Stiles' overactive brain come up with an explanation for Derek Hales' general inexplicableness, but when Derek narrows his eyes and tips his head to the side, assessing Stiles, his stomach clenches up.

Stiles takes a jerky step to the side, and another and then he's running for the door, and he's almost at the threshold when he hears fabric rip and he realizes belatedly it's his shirt giving way, but not enough, as Derek grabs hold of it and hauls him backward. He trips, stumbles, flails as he slams bodily against Derek's broad chest, Derek's arms trapping him easily. Stiles struggles, babbles as he tries to shove away, kick out, anything to get Derek to release him.

"What -- what are you doing? Didn't you -- didn't you HEAR what I said about my DAD, he's going to be here any minute, probably with all those Argent assholes and -- and wolfsbane and like -- silver and holy water or, or WHATEVER. DEREK, let me GO, what's WRONG with you?"

Except Stiles already knows the answer to that question, sees it in the burning glow of Derek's eyes. Being an Alpha has changed him, its taken away all the humanity Stiles used to be able to glimpse, or at least hidden it so deep even DEREK can't find it now.

"It's simple," says Derek, one arm wrapping around Stiles like a vice, caging his arms to his sides, pinning him in, the other hand coming up to grasp Stiles around the back of the neck, thumb pressing dangerously to Stiles' throat and forcing Stiles to tip his head back. "He can't be expected to respect the Alpha's property if he doesn't even understand that you belong to me."

Stiles' breath leaves his lungs in a rush, the blatant statement of possession stealing over him and making it hard to remember petty tasks like how to inhale and exhale. Stiles shivers from head to toe, squirming as best as he can in Derek's iron grip.

"That's – holy hell, Derek, that's insane. I'm not... you've never even -- I'm not yours!" he shouts, and instantly he realizes it's a mistake.

Derek snarls and before Stiles can even TRY to react, to take it back, Derek is kissing him hard, insistent tongue pushing its way into Stiles’ mouth. It’s hot and slick and coaxes an involuntary response from Stiles. This is not what Stiles ever had in mind, the few times he’s allowed himself to dream, to close his eyes shut tight and jerk himself off in the dark of his room.

Derek,” he lets out on a pleading whisper.

Derek rumbles, and he must take it for consent instead of an attempt to make him stop, because the next thing Stiles knows, Derek has him on the ground. His face is pressed the cold, dirty floor as Derek shoves Stiles’ shirt up, yanks his pants down over his hips, exposing him.

Oh god, how is this HAPPENING to him? Every gulp of air feels red-hot in Stiles’ lungs, his chest too tight. He can’t breathe. He can’t THINK. He – he’s having a panic attack, he realizes with a horrible lurch in his stomach. He hasn’t had a – not since – his next gulp of air sounds more like a sob.

“Derek, you can’t – not – please, just not here,” whispers Stiles, ashamed that his cock is starting to swell in his pants.

Derek only growls, grabbing Stiles’ wrists and roughly yanking them behind his back, holding them both there with one hand. The other disappears for a time and as Stiles tries to catch his breath, he can’t even think about where it might have gone, what Derek is getting ready to do. But then it’s back, rough, slick fingers shoving between Stiles’ asscheeks, wet with what Stiles assumes must be spit.

Stiles searches the room for any help, for any hope that this is not about to happen, but his eyes meet Isaac’s just as the first of Derek’s fingers push inside of him and Stiles has to shut his eyes tight as he bites his lip to keep from crying out.

It’s – it’s unfair, supremely, horribly unfair, because Derek knows exactly what he’s doing, is merciless as he works Stiles open. Stiles tries to make himself relax, take what Derek is giving him. This is happening, he can’t stop it. He can’t even control his own body or how it’s reacting to Derek, to the insistent presses against his prostate, the heavy weight and burning heat of Derek’s body hovering over him, pressing him down.

His cock is trapped in his jeans, maybe Derek planned it that way, his thighs trapped together by the span of his jeans. It’s making everything worse and better at the same time, making Stiles helpless in ways that he never wanted to get off on, but he is despite himself.

And Derek isn’t exactly taking his time here, either, already up to three fingers. He can’t, Stiles is supremely aware of the impending arrival of reinforcement and he burns at the thought of his dad finding him like this. It makes him give in, despite the pain, despite the shame of it.

His body goes obediently slack for the first time, all the fight going out of him, pliant for Derek. He stops struggling entirely. It’s much too soon, but he begs for it anyway, hurries Derek along. “Please, please, give it – just do it, okay.”

Derek growls, but he releases Stiles, and for a split moment Stiles actually considers running, making another break for it, but then he hears the clack of Derek’s belt buckle, the drag of the zipper. He shivers and realizes his cock is throbbing in time to his own heartbeat, his ass clenching around nothing, and he hates himself but he doesn’t move.

Stiles feels the blunt drag of Derek’s wet cock, smeared with precome and his own spit probably. That’s the only warning he gets before Derek is pushing in, irregular, hard snaps of his hips as he works his cock deep.

It burns, it hurts, and Stiles sucks in gasp after gasp as he tries to handle it, his hands finding their way to the ground, scrabbling uselessly at it as Derek blankets his back and rolls his hips in hard, pointed jolts.

“Mine,” snarls Derek, “You’re mine. Every werewolf who comes across you will know now. You’re the Alpha’s, you’re not to be touched. They’ll smell it on you, who you belong to.”

Stiles whimpers, god, that’s embarrassing. He’s whimpering. He can’t help it. Hot tears leak from the corner of his eyes, his cock trapped painfully in the coarse confines of his jeans, Derek’s cock stretching him, filling him and dragging, pushing against his prostate again and again and when Derek demands, “Say it,” Stiles responds despite himself.

“Yours,” he croaks. “I’m yours.”

“Good boy,” says Derek, and then he’s yanking at Stiles’ shirt collar, pulling it until Stiles’ shoulder is exposed and his jaw clamps over the exposed skin.

Terror and desire flood Stiles all at once and he comes with a sound that’s as close to a howl as he’s ever gotten.

He whites out then, the combination of orgasm and panic overtaking him for several moments and when he comes to, Derek is groaning and coming, a slick hot mess that Stiles can feel leaking out of him as soon as Derek pulls out.

He doesn’t have time to even think about it because then Derek is yanking him up, yanking the sticky disaster that is his jeans up over his ass and straightening his shirt with a smirk.

“That oughtta do it,” says Derek, seemingly satisfied. “Gotta go, think the cavalry has finally arrived.”

He tucks himself back in and turns his attention to Isaac who is still slumped on the floor. “Let’s go.”

Stiles watches with a shocked, vacant stare as they escape out the window.

Later, after his dad arrives. After Stiles has been interrogated and hugged and scolded and fed and grounded and ungrounded and finally sent home.

Later, he remembers his shoulder.

His heart slams against the inside of his chest, hammering with anxiety as he pulls his shirts off, casts them to the side, and looks in the mirror.

His stomach flips and his knees wobble, threatening to give way as he stares.

Nothing. There’s nothing but slightly red indents in the shape of Derek’s teeth. He didn’t break the skin.

Yet, a voice inside his head whispers, and Stiles can’t figure out if it’s hopeful or horrified.