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alpha etiquette

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“We know you have no reason to trust us,” says Deucalion reasonably, and Derek tries not to flinch away as he’s slapped on the back. “But we were hoping a small… shall we say, gift would encourage you to open your mind a bit.”

The alphas have rented out the entire floor of a Marriott in Sacramento. Derek doesn’t even want to know what they’ve been getting up to that would require that level of discretion. “Gift,” he repeats, his stomach dropping in trepidation as Deucalion halts them in front of one of the rooms. “What kind of gift.”

“Ah, here we are, 304!” Deucalion brings out a key card and presents it to Derek with a flourish. “You’ll enjoy this, Mr. Hale. Kali mentioned that you smelled a bit… hm, clean? And it’s so obvious, when you’re looking for it—you’ve not indulged in carnal pleasures for quite some time, have you?”

Oh no. “Deucalion. Is someone… did you buy—

“Oh, no!” Deucalion chortles, slapping Derek’s back again. “We haven’t purchased you a prostitute, Mr. Hale, good lord.”

“Good, all right.” Derek forces a tentative laugh. “I thought—”

“We’ve simply captured you that human you seem to like so much,” continues Deucalion, dipping the key card and throwing the door open. “The one with the alarming collection of plaid and screen-printed t-shirts? Well, there’s no accounting for taste; we all have our weaknesses. Though he does look much better this way, don’t you agree?”

“Mmmmmmmfff!” Stiles says angrily around the gag stuffed in his mouth. He’s stripped down to a pair of dark gray boxer-briefs and spread out atop the sumptuous king-sized bed in the middle of the room. They’ve screwed a chain directly into the wall above the headboard, which attaches to double cuff linking Stiles’ wrists together at a painful-looking angle above his head. The chain is too short for him to lie down all the way, so he’s squirming, trying to get himself propped up enough to ease the pressure off his joints.

Derek is so shocked that his fangs come out.

“Mmm, eager to get started, are you?” Deucalion says, eyeing Derek with a knowing smirk. “I’ll leave you to it. Remember, Kali and I are in 306 next door, should you require anything else. Will you join us for breakfast?”

“Lunch,” Derek says, looking Stiles up and down with exaggerated intent and hoping his erratic heartbeat doesn’t betray him. “I might not be finished in time for breakfast.”

“Good man!” Deucalion chuckles, patting Derek’s cheek. “Have fun!”

Derek holds still until he hears the door click shut. Then, he moves briskly and silently over to the side table where—yes, okay, there’s a pen and a pad of hotel stationary.

“Mmm mmgph!” Stiles says, rattling his chains indignantly, and Derek sighs in frustration. His life. 

“Wait, just wait,” he says, holding up his hand while he writes, and Stiles lets loose a string of muffled nonsense that sounds like it’s probably full of insults.

“Shh,” he says, turning toward the bed and holding up his first note: ARE YOU HURT?

Stiles rolls his eyes—rolls his whole body, actually, which is hard not to get distracted by—and shakes his head no.

“Good, okay, good,” Derek says, and Stiles looks at him with big, tragic eyes and shakes the chain again. “Oh, come on. It could be a lot worse!”

Stiles makes a noise suggesting that he really doubts it while Derek holds up his next note: THEY’RE NEARBY, LISTENING. TAKING OFF GAG. PLAY ALONG.

Stiles makes an incredulous sound, so Derek writes another note and holds it in front of Stiles’ angry, blotchy face. TRUST ME, it says.

“Hmph,” Stiles says with exaggerated derision, and Derek throws up his hands, surrenders and writes one more message.

HELP ME, this one says.

“Please,” Derek adds out loud, because he doesn’t think it will be too incriminating and he knows he’s asking a lot, here. The alphas will crucify him the instant they think he’s rejecting their offer. Stiles is a ‘gift,’ yes—but he’s also a test. 

Derek can tell the instant Stiles relents, because his muscles go slack and he throws his head back, groaning at the ceiling with a plaintive why me expression on his face. Then he looks at Derek and nods. 

“Get the hell away from me,” Stiles spits as soon as Derek gets the gag out. Derek is startled, until he sees Stiles’ pointed, ridiculous wink. “I won’t be violated by your perverted whims, you beast of the night!”

Derek has to jam a fist over his mouth to cover the snort of surprised laughter; he ends up cutting his thumb on his fangs, which helps him pull back the hysteria a little. “You don’t have a choice, kid,” he growls—and maybe he overdoes the menacing tone a little bit, because Stiles rolls to the side so he can stifle his giggles against a pillow. “Deucalion gave you to me,” Derek continues, trying to bring some gravity back to the situation by reminding Stiles why they need to be careful, damn it. “He belongs to a very old werewolf family, going all the way back to the 14th century. Do you know what werewolves used humans for, in those days?”

“Bridge partners?” Stiles guesses, still trying to wiggle himself into a comfortable position. Derek rolls his eyes and climbs onto the bed next to him, sliding his hands under his body and moving him until he’s resting comfortably against a huge pile of throw pillows. 

“Slaves,” Derek says, running his hands carefully over Stiles’ shoulders to make sure they’re not torn or dislocated. “We’re better than you, Stiles; we’re stronger in every way. And there was a time when we embraced that. We used your kind as we saw fit—labor, bloodsport, sex. Sometimes all three.”

“Not in that order, I hope,” Stiles quips, still squirming agitatedly under Derek’s hands. Derek wraps his fingers around Stiles’ shoulders and raises his eyebrows questioningly, but Stiles coughs and shakes his head, flushing all the way down to his nipples—which are hard, oh god, why can’t Derek stop looking at his nipples. 

“So that explains why one of the Abercrombie twins stuck that syringe in me,” Stiles is saying, pushing his body into Derek’s hold even as he refuses to meet his eyes. “Though I have to say, I would have expected Douchelord or whatever the King Alpha’s name is to forgo the aphrodisiac; if those—if you old-school alphas are all about human subjugation, what does he care if I enjoy it or not?"

“You’re drugged.” It seems obvious, now; Derek wants to hit himself for being too distracted to notice, before. Stiles’ breathing and heart rate are elevated, even though he’s no longer in danger or particularly distressed. His eyes are all pupil, and when Derek braves a glance downward—yup, he’s hard and straining against his underwear. He’s even soaking through the fabric, a little. Derek can smell it. 

“Hello, excuse me, up here,” Stiles squeaks, and Derek drags his eyes back up his wriggling, sweat-damp body and ends up blinking at the ugly landscape painting on the wall behind the bed while he regains control of himself.

“Deucalion must have assumed I’d enjoy you more if you weren’t…objecting,” Derek says. He puts his fangs away and attempts to give Stiles a reassuring, nonthreatening look. “But the dose is too low for that; you’re still lucid.”

Stiles nods, recognizing that Derek just asked him a question even though Derek couldn’t phrase it that way. “What are you gonna do to me?” he says, his voice wavering convincingly. He cuts his eyes sideways to Derek’s hands, still holding his shoulders, and Derek abruptly stops touching him and scoots back a few inches.

(He resolutely ignores Stiles’ disappointed sigh at the loss of contact, because Stiles is roofied; Derek doesn’t know what kind of powerful shit Deucalion has in his arsenal, but based on the way Stiles is panting and shakingit’s probably considerably more effective than the average non-supernatural aphrodisiac.)

“Whatever I want,” Derek says. “For as long as I want. And once I’m done with you, I’ll leave you weak and broken for room service to find.”

Dude, Stiles mouths silently at him, wide-eyed. Derek shrugs apologetically. 

“There’s no need for breaking,” Stiles says out loud, kicking him in the hip. “I can’t fight back, anyway. I won’t fight back. Come on, dick, get it over with. Put it in me. Or whatever.”

Derek has to bury his face in his palms for a moment to deal with the overwhelming absurdity of the situation. He can feel Stiles vibrating with mirth beside him. 

(He wonders if Stiles likes to laugh during actual sex, and then groans into his hands because why, why is he even thinking about this.)

“I’m going to fuck your mouth, first,” Derek says after a moment, making his voice as commanding as he can. He crawls up the bed so he’s kneeling by Stiles’ hip, and then unzips his jeans loudly with one hand. “Just to shut you up.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that mmmrph,” Stiles says, because Derek shoves a hand over his mouth.

“Make all the noise you want,” Derek says derisively—and thankfully, Stiles takes direction for once, letting out an actual muffled yelp against Derek’s palm. Derek grabs the headboard with his other hand and uses his knees to rock the mattress a little; the motion jostles Stiles, who makes a long-suffering sound and rattles his chains.

“Very good,” Derek says, trying hard to sound encouraging and condescending at the same time.

He keeps rocking for a few minutes, letting himself be lulled into calmness by the continuous vibrations of Stiles’ sounds against his hand—until Stiles knees him hard in the side.

“Ow!” Derek says before he remembers their audience. “NO TEETH,” he adds hastily, and Stiles snorts and tries to say something into his palm. Derek sighs deeply and removes his hand, leaning in until his lips are a bare centimeter from Stiles’ ear.

“What,” he whispers, reaching over and jangling Stiles’ chain rhythmically to drown out the conversation. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Stiles whispers back, his lips brushing Derek’s earlobe. “I’m fine. What’s wrong with you?”

“Me?” Derek gives the chain a particularly-noisy jerk.

“Yes, you. You never gotten a blowjob before, or what?”

“Oh, and you have?” 

“I’m pretty sure if I ever did, I’d make a little noise over it,” Stiles hisses. “You’re making me sound bad at it!”

Derek’s face goes hot. “Are you actually concerned about your imaginary sexual prowess right now?” he says. “Here, in this life-or-death situation?”

“I’m committed to realism,” Stiles whispers fiercely, and then he lunges over to where Derek’s hand is still hovering near their faces and takes two of Derek’s fingers into his mouth.

“Ah!” Derek says, smacking his other hand into the headboard so hard that it knocks against the wall.

“Ummph,” Stiles says approvingly around his fingers, because he seems to be under the impression that Derek did it on purpose. 

“You love this,” Derek announces shakily, trying to reclaim some sense of authority. Stiles just scoffs and scrapes Derek’s fingers with his teeth—which results in another far-to-genuine sound, raw and aching and pulled out of Derek’s throat entirely without his permission.  

“You want me to fuck you next, don’t you,” Derek says, watching Stiles’ lips as they slide against his skin and feeling himself inch closer and closer to the edge of plausible deniability. “I can do that. I will. I’ll hold you up, lick you open, take what I want—”

Stiles moans long and low, squeezing his eyes shut. Derek is shocked silent, because he’s somehow managed to forget that Stiles is drugged to the eyeballs and legitimately aroused. The scent of his excitement is impossible to ignore, now that Derek is tuned back into it, and he can’t help glancing down to see—

“Hey!” Stiles snaps, glaring up at Derek with a baleful, betrayed look in his lust-darkened eyes. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Derek whispers, leaning down close in order to be heard—which is a terrible idea, because Stiles hooks a leg up over his hip and grinds.

Oh jesus,” Stiles says, and his voice sounds so deep and ragged that Derek can’t breathe. “Oh, I can’t, Derek, I—”

Derek shoves his fingers back into Stiles’ mouth in a panic, because he did not think this through. “You can take it,” he says, grunting when Stiles narrows his eyes at him and sucks hard. 

The headboard cracks in Derek’s grip, right down the middle. 

Stiles is still rubbing up against his thigh, so Derek makes himself separate their bodies again. He tries valiantly not to let his gaze linger on the head of Stiles’ dick—which is ridiculously wet and poking out of his waistband, now—because he owes Stiles whatever privacy he can offer, at this point.

“Your mouth is amazing,” Derek finds himself groaning, too honest; Stiles’ eyebrows furrow in confusion while his hips thrust into empty air, and Derek closes his eyes because he can’t watch anymore.

And then he hears it—a phone ringing next door, and Deucalion answering. Barking vague orders and threats. Telling Kali to get her coat, because they have to—

“They’re leaving,” Derek whispers. “They’re leaving, right now. I don’t even think they’ll come over here to—”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Who’s that?” Derek yells, scrambling all the way out of his jeans and throwing them across the room.

“Who else?” says Deucalion. His smugness is palpable even through the door. Derek can’t wait to maim this guy. “We’re just on our way out; may we have a word?”

“Of course.” Derek tears off his shirt, and then messes up his own hair for good measure. He’s halfway to the door before he turns back and folds the comforter up to hide most of Stiles’ body.

Well,” Deucalion purrs when Derek opens the door. “You don’t waste time, do you? How’s he been so far?”

“Contrary,” Derek says, shrugging. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Look at his lips,” Deucalion says, gazing at Stiles over Derek’s shoulder. “Do you think, after you’re done, I might possibly—”

Deucalion.” Kali stalks into the room and grips his elbow warningly. “You forget your manners. Asking to share a human… it’s vulgar.” 

“I apologize, of course, Mr. Hale.” Deucalion licks his lips. “I got carried away. You understand.”

“All too well,” Derek says wryly, silently thanking every god that Stiles is managing to just hyperventilate silently throughout all of this. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to…”

“Yes, of course, we were just leaving. Territory dispute near the border; shouldn’t take long to settle.” He and Kali both get the same bloodthirsty gleam in their eyes on the word settle, and Derek feels vaguely like throwing up. “We just wanted to make sure you were happy with your gift. Oh! And give you the key to his shackles, should you finish with him before we return.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, pocketing the key and keeping the sharp-edged smile on his face until the door closes behind them. Then he leans back against it and closes his eyes, waiting until the elevator hits the ground floor and their heartbeats fade entirely from his hearing range. 

“They can’t hear us,” he tells Stiles as soon as he’s sure, hurrying over to examine his chains.

“These are some seriously twisted bastards you’re associating with, Hale,” Stiles says, letting his head drop back against the pillows and trying to act like he wasn’t just terrified. “Get these off, come on. You can get me out of here before they get back, right?”

“Yeah.” Derek kneels up and unlocks the shackles, and Stiles lets out a long sigh when his wrists slip free.

“Oh god that was so uncomfortable,” he groans, rolling his shoulders, and Derek reaches out to help, to touch, before he remembers… 

“I’m really sorry you had to… I’m sorry,” Derek says, standing back up and giving Stiles space. “When I asked you to help me, I didn’t exactly. I just forgot you were… I thought it would be less…”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles averts his eyes and coughs. “I’m fine. It was fine. And realistic! Apparently.”

“I really appreciate it,” Derek says, because he does. “They’ll trust me, now. I think. And we’ll have time to come up with a solid plan.”

“We?” 

“Well, me,” Derek corrects. “And Scott, if he knows what’s good for him. But that doesn’t seem overwhelmingly likely, considering.”

“And me?” Stiles presses. “I’m involved now—though god knows why they would snag me, of all people, unless… oh no. Do alphas have a type? Oh my god, Derek. Am I every alpha’s type?! You’d tell me if I was hugely, horribly attractive to alphas, right?”

“You’re horrible, all right,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs and sits up, clutching the comforter to his chest.

“You don’t have to deny it, Derek, I know what we just shared was—holy shit. You’re hard.”

“What?” Derek looks down, and oh, right. He’s down to his underwear, and his erection is painfully obvious. “Uh.”

“Did you…” Stiles gulps, flicking his eyes up to Derek’s and then back down again. “Did they drug you, too?”

“….no,” Derek says, grabbing his shirt off the floor and holding it in front of himself defensively. “Stop staring.”

“I’m sorry, but have you seen you?” Stiles gestures at him helplessly. “And, I mean, if that’s… is that for me?”

“Can we just not,” Derek tries.

“Even Deucalion didn’t make it go away, wow,” Stiles says, leaning forward and licking his lips. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“I’m going to go into the bathroom and run the water so I can’t hear,” Derek says desperately, “and you’re going to… take care of yourself quickly. If you’re still—”

“Oh yeah, I am,” Stiles confirms, his eyes trailing hotly over Derek’s chest. “Hey, did you mean that thing you said about my mouth?”

“And then I’m going to get you home safely,” Derek continues stoically, “and we’ll go back to only interacting when we can’t avoid it. Deal?”

“Uh huh, sure, just one thing real quick,” Stiles says, and then he jumps to his feet, grabs Derek by the back of the neck and pulls him into a drawn-out, ferocious kiss that’s far too clumsy and messy to be as devastating as it is. “Mm, there. Now we’re even. Go turn on the tap and cover your ears; I’ll only be a minute. Probably literally.”

“Yeah,” Derek says faintly. Stiles has the comforter wrapped around himself still, trailing on the floor behind him, and Derek can’t look away from where his collarbones are peeking out from behind the gaudy maroon brocade. “You’re not every alpha’s type.”

“I know,” Stiles says.

“You’re my type, though, a little bit,” Derek grinds out, because it’s probably obvious already and he’s sick of keeping unnecessary secrets. 

“I know, I’m not an idiot.” Stiles smirks and starts pushing him toward the bathroom. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” Derek insists when Stiles shoves him through the bathroom door. “You’re a kid. We don’t even like each other!”

“I had fun, we should do this again sometime,” Stiles says, and then he kisses Derek’s nose and slams the door between them.

It only ends up taking Stiles fifty seconds, actually, but Derek can’t hear him over the shower. Much.