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You can always count on me

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Derek wakes up to a blow to the back of the head, a stunning, split-open wet crack against the base of his skull, rough hands flipping him onto his back and looping his wrists together in front of him with zip ties, yanking them up over his head and securing them to the bedframe. He tries to shift and—can’t.

It’s past midnight, grey light from the half moon, the bedroom window swinging open in the chill wind and Stiles, standing at the foot of the bed, eyes hooded, smiling a little, mag light loose in his hand.

“What—“ Derek says.

“Sorry about your head,” Stiles says, although he doesn’t sound sorry. “I wasn’t too sure the spell would work, so—“ he waggles the flashlight, which has a faded stencil on it that says Property of BHPD, “precautions.”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “You—I don’t—“ His head is healing, but it hurts, and the zip ties are biting into the skin of his wrists.

“You’ll make it worse,” Stiles says, “pulling against them like that.” He drops the flashlight on the bed, hoists his shirt up over his head and drops it on the floor. He’s wearing a pair of old jeans, worn at the knees, the hips, the waistband crumpling a little, sliding down.

“I don’t—what are you doing?” Derek says.

“You always sleep naked?” Stiles says. He puts a knee down on the bed and swings the other leg over Derek, coming down hard on his ribcage. Derek shoves up, trying to push him off, but the ties won’t give enough to get him any leverage, and he can’t break them.

“Kevlar reinforced,” Stiles says. He leans down, eyes curious, runs a finger along Derek’s cheek and then hooks it under Derek’s upper lip, nail scraping against Derek’s teeth. Derek jerks his head away; his head is mostly healed, he’s starting to be able to think, but he doesn’t know—

Stiles went away to college and came back different, taller, harder, stronger. He didn’t want to talk about it. “Nothing to worry about,” he said, when Derek tried to ask. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You really can’t change,” Stiles says, and then grins. “I didn’t think it would work.”

“Let me up,” Derek says. “You proved your point, your spell works, so—“

“It gets old,” Stiles says softly. “wanting.”

“Stiles,” Derek snaps. They’ve stepped up training, last few months, all of them hurt in it, time to time; everyone’s careful with Stiles but he gives back as good as he gets.

“You realize it’ll never happen,” Stiles says, still not paying attention.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Stiles slugs him, closed fist; it stuns him, cuts up the inside of his mouth on his teeth. Stiles shoves up off him and Derek twists to kick him, can’t make contact, and Stiles laughs, picks up the mag light and knocks it into the crease of Derek’s hip, hard. Derek’s leg goes numb, thigh, knee, toes, and then feeling starts to come back, a dull, agonizing ache.

Stiles climbs back up on the end of the bed between his legs, knocks his thighs open with the flashlight. There’s something wrong with Derek’s knee still; he can’t curl his toes.

“What are you doing?” he says. Stiles shrugs, meeting his eyes for a second, a shallow, mischievous dimple popping up in his cheek.

“Just making it up as I go along, pretty much,” he says, and puts the blunt end of the mag light against Derek’s asshole, pressing a little.

“Want me to?” he says.

“Stiles, you made your—your point,” Derek says, “Just let me up and we’ll—forget about it, we’ll—“

“I’d sort of rather fuck you,” Stiles says. “But it’s up to you.“

“You’re out of your fucking mind—” Derek says, and Stiles shoves the mag light inside him, just an inch or two. Derek chokes, tries to close his legs, heels skidding on the bed, trying to get away from the burning ache in his ass.

“You’re making it harder on yourself,” Stiles says quietly, eyes glittering, “moving around so much.”

“You’re the one who’s—“ Derek says. Stiles eases the mag light gently back and then pushes it back in, deeper and Derek’s breath knocks out of him in a noisy sob.

“I gave you a choice,” Stiles says. He’s twisting the mag light, slowly, looking at Derek’s face. “You didn’t think I’d do it,” he says. “That’s a little—it makes me think you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Let me up,” Derek says, between his teeth, yanking against his bound wrists until the bed frame creaks and rattles.

“Don’t you know by now that you can always count on me to follow through?” Stiles says. He’s fucking Derek with the flashlight now, slow, dry, jerking thrusts, and Derek tries to relax into it and let it happen and can’t, panic burning, battering in his chest, the cool heavy metal of the flashlight unnatural inside him, unyielding.

He feels it then, the edge of it growing in him, he can change, almost, his teeth, his hands—

“Whoops,” Stiles says. He yanks the flashlight out of Derek and drops it on the floor. It clatters noisily into the corner as Stiles dumps Derek over onto his stomach, pushes his fingers inside him. Stiles’ watch bumps up against the curve of his ass, Stiles’ thumb scrapes along the stringing throb of Derek’s hole, hooking inside, stretching him open.

“Stop,” Derek says. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, dry. “I’ll bite you—“

“Sure you will,” Stiles says,

“It’ll kill you,” Derek says, shuddering, he hurts, Stiles is hurting him.

“I think we both know that won’t happen.” Stiles twists his fingers and drops his full weight down on Derek’s back, crushes the breath out of him, wraps a hand across his throat.

“Then you’ll—you’ll turn,” Derek chokes out. “And you—“

“You think I care about that anymore?” Stiles says, leaning in. His voice is low and rough, lips brushing intrusively against Derek’s neck. “I don’t give a fuck,” he says. “It’s going to happen sooner or later, right? Why not now?”

Derek’s arms are folded under him at an awkward angle, and he’s not—he can’t change all the way, he’s lost feeling in his left hand, the back of his head feels hot and wet, damaged.

“You want to be good for me?” Stiles says.

“No,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs.

“Come on,” Stiles says. “Just give it a try, you might like it.” He’s still wearing his jeans, but the zipper is open, biting into the back of Derek’s thigh, and Stiles is hard, the tip of his cock rubbing against Derek’s ass, sliding into the crease. Derek twists sideways and it makes it worse, he can feel Stiles’ cock getting harder, wetter, rubbing damp traces across his skin. The cuffs dig into his skin every time he moves, and Stiles’ hands bite cruelly into his hips, but he can’t stop trying to get away, his breath coming in little hitching pants, his heart pressing heavy against his chest, the bright edge of disbelief, still, still—

“Derek,” Stiles says. His voice is kind. “Calm down.” He slides a hand into Derek’s hair and pulls his head back, holding him still, sliding his dick slowly along the furrow of Derek’s ass.

“Fuck you,” Derek says, but his voice sounds weak, even to him. “I’ll kill you for this.”

“I doubt it,” Stiles says. His hands are on Derek’s face, his thumb rubbing roughly across Derek’s lower lip, keeping clear of his teeth. “Too bad about the spell,” he says, “I thought I’d have more time.” and then knees Derek’s legs open and fucks into him, hard enough that Derek makes a jagged, hurt-animal noise in his throat.

“Don’t,” he says, “Don’t—“

“Shut up, bitch,” Stiles says. He draws out and pushes back in, holding Derek back against him, hand still tangled in his hair. Derek’s back and neck are twisted, all his weight on his elbow and forearm, which has gone past numb into pins and needles, shooting up his shoulder and down into his fingertips in bitter counterpoint to Stiles’ cock, punching into him until his teeth rattle together with the force of it.

Derek stares at the corner of the wall, which is painted a dark slate blue, thinks of Stiles, the smudge of blue high on his cheek when they were painting, how he’d smiled and bumped his shoulder against Derek’s, that he hadn’t known, what Stiles must have been thinking—planning, maybe—all that time.

“You feel good,” Stiles says, low. “You want me to make you come?”

“No,” Derek says, voice snagged, raw, but Stiles does it anyway, leans in and wraps his hand around Derek’s cock, fingers tight, thumb rubbing across the slit, and Derek jerks back against him, nausea thick and acrid in the back of his throat. He comes, retching, spitting out strings of bile that splatter on the floor.

Stiles fucks him for a long time after that, on his stomach; it hurts still, hurts worse, but Derek goes away from himself, stares at the edge of the mattress and thinks of nothing, nothing. Stiles comes inside him, a soft, satisfied hum of breath, and pulls out, dripping come on Derek’s ass and the backs of his legs when he stands up.

Derek hears him moving around, the snick of his zipper closing and when he opens his eyes, Stiles is wiping the end of the flashlight on the sheets, smiling a little to himself.

“You’ll be able to get free when the spell wears off,” he says. Derek closes his eyes. Stiles laughs.

“All right, be that way,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

The window, the faint clatter of feet on the fire escape, he’s alone. Derek tries to break the ties again, but can’t. His wrists are scabbed over at the edges and break open again every time he moves. His face is wet, the corners of his mouth cracked, burning. He takes a heaving, open-mouthed breath, another. He falls asleep.


He wakes to a fork clinking gently on a plate. He’s curled in on himself; the ties broke in his sleep. Stiles is leaning in the doorway, eating breakfast. He watches Derek, silent, and then comes further into the room and sits down next to him on the bed, the torn sheets. Derek rolls over and looks up at him, Stiles gives him a bite, the crispy edge of the waffle, soaked in butter and syrup.

There’s a cut on Stiles’ arm.

“I hurt you,” Derek says, reaching up and touching it with two fingers. It’s new, livid, oozing a little blood still. Stiles eats another piece of waffle, ducking his head sheepishly.

“I tripped on the fire escape coming up,” he says.

“That thing is covered in rust,” Derek says, starting to sit up. “It’s—“

“I had a tetanus shot last year, it’s not that deep,” Stiles says, “I’m fine.”

“Gimme another bite,” Derek says, nudging in against Stiles.

“There are a million for you in the kitchen,” Stiles says, but he cuts off another piece of waffle and forks it into Derek’s mouth.

“We have to put in the storm windows today,” Derek says, chewing. “Fix the weatherstripping on the door.”

“I know,” Stiles says.

“It’s November next week,” Derek says. “If we don’t get it done now, the heating bills—“

“Yes, right, I know,” Stiles says. He gives Derek the last bite of waffle and puts the plate on the bedside table. “Home improvement, it’s my favorite.”

“Gutters today, too,” Derek says. Stiles sighs. He strokes a hand down Derek’s arm, thumb skimming over the now healed skin of Derek’s wrists. He twines their fingers together. After a while he leans over and kisses the corner of Derek’s mouth, and Derek reaches up and cups his face, the long narrow lines of Stiles’ cheek and jaw, licks Stiles’ lower lip until Stiles opens his mouth, kisses him softly.

“I know you’re just trying to get out of cleaning the gutters,” Derek murmurs, pulling Stiles against him.

“Uh-huh,” Stiles says, kissing his cheek again, pressing a few fervent kisses against his neck, the corner of his jaw. “Is it working?”

“Not even a little,” Derek says.


Stiles came back from college stronger, taller, harder.

“Whatever it is,” he said, once, bumping his shoulder against Derek’s. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“You don’t know that,” Derek said, using a screwdriver to open the top of the paint can. Stiles was silent for a long time, taping off the high bay window in the bedroom.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he said, smoothing down a long line of blue painter’s tape with his thumb.