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Alpha Complex

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"I told you to stay down," Derek snarls. The bathroom door slams open hard enough that the stupid IKEA freestanding towel rack Erica had insisted on wobbles precariously.

"And I told you not to be a freaking dumbass," Stiles says, stomping in behind him. He's angry – or, no – pissed is the word he'd used in the car. Stiles is pissed at Derek. It shows in the way he yanks his over-shirt off, the sleeves of it already going crusty with blood. "What the fuck use is it having a pack if you're just gonna keep throwing yourself into fights alone?"

Derek rolls his eyes as he pulls his shirt gingerly over his head. His shoulder's mostly healed now, the skin hot and tingling where the wounds have knit back together but the ache where claws had dug in makes lifting his arm a lesson in not-fun. "I'm fine," he says.

Stiles actually growls, low and very human as he pushes at Derek's good shoulder to turn him towards the wall. "You almost weren't," he says, hands hot on Derek's back as he edges long fingers gingerly around the healing wound.

This thing they have going is new enough that Derek's still getting used to the feel of Stiles' hands on him. He's always been tactile – always automatically leaned into any touch offered – it's been a disconcerting learning curve discovering that he doesn't have to catch himself and pull back when it comes to Stiles. Stiles' touch now is nervous and jittery, like he's not going to believe Derek's in one piece unless he can feel where he almost wasn't. It's intimate in a way that makes something in Derek's chest clench and he doesn't stop to think; is pulling away before he realises he's doing it.

Not that he gets far.

"Hold still," Stiles says, hand clamping down on the back of Derek's neck to keep him from turning and it's laughable, really – the thought that that would be enough to hold him. Except it is. Because Stiles' fingers are gripping the nape of Derek's neck, pressure sure and hard and Derek- Derek can't fucking breathe.

"You're such an asshole," Stiles says. "I don't know why I have a vested interest in your freaking well-being."

Derek must make a noise—something hopefully not as stripped raw as he feels, fuck—because Stiles' grip lets up slightly as he leans in. "What-"

Derek moves without thinking, reaching over to press Stiles' hand back down and Derek feels the shocked stutter of Stiles' breath break over his ear. "Oh..."

Stiles is a quick learner when it's a subject he's interested in. Always researching, testing, experimenting. Derek's still not used to the fact that he seems to be Stiles' favourite project, though. It's one thing to watch Stiles in front of a computer, his eyes intent as he taps one finger along his own lip, it's another entirely to have all that focus on Derek himself; on getting Derek off so hard he's been known to lose freaking time.

When Stiles shifts his grip tighter and squeezes, Derek can't help the way his eyes flutter shut, breath punching out of him with a groan because fuck...

"Okay," Stiles says, already sounding a little breathless as he steps up to press into Derek's space, grip not letting up. "This is a thing that's happening."

He sounds like he doesn't quite believe it and Derek opens his mouth to say... fuck knows, actually. Only then Stiles is pushing him, leaning their weight into the wall until Derek has to bring his good arm up to brace himself or risk smashing face-first into the tile.

"Just- Holy shit, tell me if you want to stop okay?" Stiles says. Derek would growl, tell Stiles to get the hell on with it only then Stiles is biting down where Derek's neck meets his shoulder and it's like a match being lit across his nervous system.

Derek snarls, suddenly fighting the hot burn of the shift, watching his fingers flex into claws against the wall and Stiles has to see it—fuck, with how close he is, he must feel it—but instead of pulling away he's just pressing closer, stifling a groan into the bite like threatening a shifting Alpha is the best kind of aphrodisiac. Derek is dating an insane person. He'd tell Stiles, but then he's the Alpha getting hard at the feel of teeth at his throat, so glass houses and all that.

Derek doesn't even realise Stiles has gone for his belt until the buckle snaps open, yanking tight for a second before it slithers free. Derek looks down just as Stiles drags blunt nails over where the denim is stretching over his erection and the sight is almost better than the feel of it.

"I'm still pissed at you," Stiles says, making quick work of the button and fly. Derek has to grit his teeth against the sight of it because Stiles' fingers are fucking obscene.

"I'm trying to keep everyone safe," Derek says. He means it to come out hard, but Stiles gets his hand inside his pants before he can finish and he ends on a whine. Fuck his life.

"And what about you, huh?" Stiles says, pressing Derek more securely into the wall as he jacks him once, slow and firm. "Who's keeping you safe?"

Derek swallows harshly, panting against his own wrist and trying to at least keep his fangs at bay as Stiles swipes his thumb up over the head of his dick. "I'm the-"

"Oh my god," Stiles says, cutting him off and Derek staggers a little when Stiles suddenly lets go, of everything. It's like feeling the floor drop out from under him, the sudden absence of hands; no more weight holding him down. Derek has to bite back a disgustingly lost noise before he feels his pants being yanked, hands now pressed into his hips as- what- "You and your fucking Alpha complex," Stiles says and it takes Derek a split second to register that's breath he can feel on his ass because Stiles is on his knees and-

The first lick is fucking devastating. Derek whole-body jerks with it, swearing around a growl because this- fuck...oh fuck. Derek feels his face heat, not even caring that he's slipped into a full shift because Stiles' thumbs are pressing him open and Stiles' tongue is—Jesus Christ—it's wet and firm against him and he's going to die.

"Holy god," Stiles says, already sounding fucked out and—somehow—goddamn reverent. Who the hell does that?

Derek has to curl his claws into his palm to keep from punching a hole in the wall because he can feel Stiles' breath; can't help but clench against it and Stiles' heart trips over itself.

"I wasn't sure- I mean-" Stiles licks again, one long wet stripe that catches on the rim of him and Derek has to pull his fangs back enough to bite down on his own wrist to stifle a fucking sob. "Hell yes," Stiles says, like he's pulling ahead in Mario Cart and not rimming Derek for the first time, both of them still bloody from a tangle with a goddamn Striga earlier.

Derek's life.

Stiles' learns quickly—of course he does—that hard, sharp thrusts inside with the point of his tongue are the best way to liquify Derek's spine. It's all Derek can do to claw at the wall and try not to focus on the litany of embarrassing noises he's making. Derek's just trying to remember that breathing is a thing that should happen when Stiles' thumb trails around the rim of him, just shy of pressing in and the realisation of how much Derek really, really wants it to is like a brick to the side of his head.

Stiles hums and Jesus, Derek can feel it. "Can I-"

Yes. Derek means to say yes. What comes out instead is, "Fuck me," and Stiles fingers dig into his ass so hard he'd bruise if he were human.

"Jesus, Derek – you can't just-"

Derek snarls, low and impatient and he'll feel embarrassed about that later but right now, he just really needs Stiles to- needs Stiles.

"Oh my god," Stiles groans. "Okay – bed. We can't- I'm not doing this here or I'm going to fall and break something."

Derek isn't sure how he manages to walk, let alone make it all the way to the bedroom. Stiles trips him back onto the bed – not difficult, considering he's still got his pants half falling down, but it doesn't stop the whole exercise being a lesson in indignity. Derek's going to get right on being pissed about it just as soon as Stiles stops sucking a hickey over his hip as he pulls Derek's pants all the way off.

"Stiles-" It comes out more growl than word and Derek has to stutter in a breath and close his eyes; pull the shift back or he's going to lose it.

Stiles hums, adding a bite to the mix—helpful as fuck, really—as he sucks off Derek's hip. Derek absolutely does not moan at the sensation. Then Stiles moves marginally sideways and—Jesus—swallows Derek's dick down in one sure, mind-melting move and- okay, yeah, Derek moans then. Loudly.

"Oh fu-" Derek arches, scrambling for the headboard because it's solid fucking oak and he refuses to replace another goddamn mattress so soon after the last one had been owned by the succubus last month.

Stiles moans around him and Derek is so far from being able to handle this, holy shit. It's actually painful pulling his claws in so he can lean down to yank Stiles up, swallowing Stiles' noise of protest in a kiss that's as messy as it is desperate.

"'Kay," Stiles says, groaning when Derek bites at his bottom lip. "Okay we just-"

Stiles' fumbling at the bedside table for the lube probably isn't aided by Derek trying to divest him of his shirt at the same time but fuck it, the ratio of nakedness between them right now is screwed. Stiles has to drop the lube on the sheets next to them to yank at his own shoes, even as Derek rips at the fly of his jeans. The whole process is rushed, flailing and uncoordinated as hell, but Derek can't even begin to give a shit. Not when it gets him Stiles, naked and flushed and all the fuck over him, god yes.

"Oh wow," Stiles says. He's propped himself up over Derek, hips cradled in the V of Derek's thighs. Derek wants to blame the hot slip, slide of skin between them for the way his breath catches but he knows it's everything to do with the way Stiles is looking down at him, like he's seen the face of god or something.

Derek feels his face flush, can't help the way his eyes tick down and away but Stiles just catches his jaw against his palm—warm, everything about him is warm—and presses Derek back so he can lean in and lick into Derek's mouth. Derek's still not used to these kisses – the ones that feel like Stiles is pressing into him, stripping him bare and marking him up. It's all he can do to hook one ankle up and over Stiles hip, thread both hands into Stiles' hair and just hold on.

Stiles groans when Derek rolls his hips up, breaks the kiss to gasp wetly against Derek's neck. "Fuck."

It's on the tip of Derek's tongue to say, yes please because if there's one thing a sex life with Stiles has proven to be it's full of ridiculously lame jokes but then Stiles is grabbing up the lube, popping the cap with one hand and Derek's ability to speak falls off a cliff. Something must show on his face because Stiles stops, pressing one hand over Derek's heart like he's going to read something from its beating.

Fuck, maybe he will.

"We don't have to-" Stiles stops, swallows sharply. "I mean I'm good with the way things have been going so far if-"

Derek's bad with words, especially when it comes to—fuck, yeah okay—when it comes to the important stuff. One of the best things about Stiles is that he works with just about any cue given, though. So when Derek pulls Stiles' hand away from his chest to suck two of Stiles' long fingers into his mouth, he gets a surprised groan and a breathy, "Ooookay."

Stiles' eyes darken when Derek's teeth scrape gently over his knuckles and Derek's eyes drop to Stiles' mouth as he licks his lips. Lips that are kiss bitten and shiny and Jesus, it's a good look on him. Snagging the lube out of Stiles' lax grip is relatively easy; letting Stiles' fingers slip from his mouth so he can squeeze a line of slick over them is an annoyance that hits him low down, squarely in the section of his libido that's dedicated to hand kink. Because Stiles' hands.

Derek has to unhook his ankle to let Stiles shift down as he guides Stiles' fingers where he wants them and—fuck—breathe, oh god he needs to breathe but Stiles' fingers are there, pressing against him blunt and slick and Derek can't-

Derek groans, throwing his head back hard into the pillows when Stiles sinks one finger into him, the slick press smooth and utterly overwhelming.

"Oh holy fuck," Stiles breathes, hooking his other hand up under Derek's knee and pressing, opening Derek up further. Derek has to throw one arm over his eyes because if he watches- Jesus, Stiles' face...

"You're so tight," Stiles says, and it's ridiculous, like a line out of porn or something, except Stiles isn't saying it to be dirty he's just—fucking hell—he's just saying it, words shocked out of him as he crooks his finger. Derek has to bite down on a pitiful noise.

It's like nothing he's ever felt before. The physical sensation is strange and a little heady but god, just the implications of it – that Stiles is in him... It's enough that Derek gasps raggedly when Stiles moves to add another finger, pressing an open mouthed kiss to the inside of his thigh as Derek bears down instinctively.

"God- you just-" Stiles groans and it's the only warning Derek gets before Stiles bites down and crooks upwards in some devastatingly synchronised move that rips him to fucking pieces.

Derek yells, there's really no other word for it, bowing upwards as he scrabbles one hand into Stiles' hair, because Stiles is fucking him steadily on three fingers now and Derek feels like he's losing his mind. He only registers he's talking when Stiles swears, all but throwing himself up the spread of Derek's body to cut him off with a kiss. It jolts the fingers still inside Derek and he can't help groaning into Stiles' mouth, opening up and letting Stiles lick deep and filthy and fuck, he wants to keep this forever.

"Please tell me you're ready," Stiles pants, thrusting once against Derek's thigh in a move that seems wholly instinctual. Derek would find it gratifying, that Stiles is this on edge, if he could make his brain work properly. "Because it turns out I have a serious thing for you begging and I'm actually going to come if you keep-"

"Yes," Derek says. "Now." He doesn't bother finishing, just pulls Stiles' hand out and up—absolutely not whining at the loss, thanks— before tipping Stiles into place with a roll of hips. Stiles flails a little against him, because as much as Stiles is apparently deft at taking Derek apart with his fingers alone, he's still Stiles. Jittery, mouthy, fucking pressing into him, oh fucking god-

Derek feels the shift prickle at him again, sharpening his focus and making his fangs itch as they drop and Stiles- Fuck, Stiles has clearly been running with werewolves for too fucking long, because his answer to Derek's eyes stuttering red is to pause and press his hand to one of Derek's clawed ones so he can thread their goddamn fingers together.

He's not going to survive this. Blinking back the red, Derek tries to breathe only for Stiles to knock the ability right out of him when he leans in and kisses him, mouth careful against his fangs but still... against his fangs.

"I'm one hundred percent certain I'm a freaking pervert for loving it when you shift during sexy times," Stiles groans, and Derek feels like he's been punched.

It's nothing to hitch his legs up, lock them around Stiles' hips and pull. Derek feels the full pressure-drag down deep but the mild discomfort of the breech is worth it for the way Stiles swears and scrabbles at him. "Jesus, fuck – Derek-"

"Move," Derek says. It comes out more growl than he intended and Stiles shudders against him.

"Fuck you, no," Stiles says, voice cracking. "If I move I'm gonna come and I refuse to uphold that stereotype. Again."

Derek has no idea why he's even in this relationship. Then Stiles wraps one hand around his cock, smoothing deft fingers over that spot just under the head and Derek thinks, yeah, okay, there's that. There's also the way Stiles gasps against Derek's neck and threads their fingers tighter together when he starts to rock forward, trusting Derek to brace him. Trusting Derek with a lot of things.

The first proper thrust catches Derek by surprise and he can't stifle his moan in time; has to grip Stiles' hand tighter and struggle for a second not to buck up into the sensation too hard because, Jesus.

"Oh god," Stiles says, like he's the one coming apart. "Okay, fuck – I- Yeah."

It sounds like a decision but about what has Derek coming up blank. Until Stiles leans back, letting go of Derek's hand to brace himself on his knees as he hooks his grip around Derek's thighs and- motherfuck.

Derek throws his arms up, grabbing for the headboard again and ignoring the twinge in his newly healed shoulder in favour of giving his claws something to sink into. Because Stiles has found the fucking god's gift of angles or something and Derek can't even pretend he's in control anymore. Derek snarls and Stiles proves he's a basket case again by keening—like Derek's crooning dirty talk in his ear, for fucks sake—and stepping up the pace of his thrusts until the rhythm is just short of brutal.

"Oh fuck, I can't-" Stiles shifts, hooking his elbow under Derek's knee so that he can lean forward and brace and Jesus fuck, Derek was wrong, so wrong before because this angle- "You need to come," Stiles says, as he gets one hand around Derek's cock and starts stripping him, fast and fucking perfect. "Derek, oh god."

Synchronised orgasms do not happen in real fucking life, ever. Except for how apparently they do, right now. Because Stiles is crying out, rhythm staggering until he's pressing into Derek in one long, debilitating grind and Derek can feel Stiles coming, a hot pulse deep inside that only adds to the sensation of him falling apart himself. His orgasm hits at the base of his spine and rushes upward until it's like firecrackers going off under his skin. Derek arches into it, hearing wood splinter but just—fuck—so beyond the ability to care right now because he's dying.

Stiles collapses on top of him with absolutely no finesse at all, face-planting Derek's chest with a groan that makes Derek shiver through an aftershock. He doesn't even realise he's wrapped Stiles up in an embrace, not until Stiles turns his head and presses a kiss into his shoulder. The same shoulder that'd been all but shredded earlier that night.

For long moments they just breathe, heartbeats ticking down as Derek traces absent patterns across Stiles' shoulder blades. When Stiles finally speaks, his voice is soft. "You're not alone, dickhead."

Derek holds him tighter.