cupidsbow (cupidsbow) wrote,
cupidsbow
cupidsbow

Fic: "A Foregone Conclusion" by cupidsbow (TWOLF Derek/Stiles, R)

I scored an awesome fic for the Teen Wolf Holidays 2013 exchange:

Summary:

Despite what Scott thought, Derek was into him. Stiles knew that. But Derek needed to be comfortable with himself, had to have dealt with all his issues before he’d let anything happen between them. Knowing what he did, Stiles respected that. But if one day Derek decided he only wanted them to be friends, well, Stiles would deal with that if it happened.

And here's the fic I wrote:

A Foregone Conclusion (4366 words) by cupidsbow
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Victoria Argent/Chris Argent/Peter Hale implied, Victoria Argent & Derek Hale, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Braeden/Marin Morrell implied
Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Derek Hale, Allison Argent, Lydia Martin, Peter Hale, Victoria Argent, Kanima (Teen Wolf), Isaac Lahey, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, Braeden (Teen Wolf), Jennifer Blake, Marin Morrell, Chris Argent, Jackson Whittemore
Additional Tags: Alternate Canon, Crack, Werewolf Biology, Werewolf Politics
Summary:

When Harris finally let them out at 4:30pm, Stiles had made up his mind.

"I've made up my mind!" he announced to Scott, as he was driving them both home in the Jeep. "I have decided to take one for the team."

"The lacrosse team?" Scott said, not even looking up from texting Allison.

"Yes, the lacrosse team," Stiles said. "Because that's so relevant to Allison's mom macking on Derek and the looming Alpha-pair crisis in the Hale pack."

Way back when Derek told Scott, "You're not an Omega. You already have a pack," Stiles didn't think much of it. He felt a brief blip of pride in being in Scott's pack, keeping Scott stable and alive, and then he was busy worrying about Lydia and the kanima and all the rest of the shit show that was his life.

It wasn't until weeks later that Stiles even thought of it again, after one of Derek's stupid punch-first-think-later plans. As they were driving home and nursing their bruises (real in Allison and Stiles' case, and metaphorical in Scott's) Scott said, "Fucking Derek. I thought Peter was meant to be the crazy Hale," and Stiles replied, "True, but it's not like any of Derek's pack are shining examples of mental health and stability," and then Allison added, "I'm pretty sure they've gotten crazier since Peter, though."

And Stiles thought, Huh, strange that Derek's pack is weirder than Scott's, when Derek's is full of actual werewolves.

Scott and Allison spent the rest of the drive bonding over their agreement about just how crazy the Hale pack was, while Stiles unsuccessfully tried to ignore the niggling feeling that he was missing something important. It was well after midnight when he finally got home -- after playing taxi and patiently enduring Scott and Allison's wistful, still-broken-up good night (their reconciliation and happily ever after was a forgone conclusion, but Stiles was smart enough to keep his lip zipped about it while they were enjoying the pining stage of their break-up). Despite being exhausted and more than ready to sleep, that niggling feeling was like ants under his skin, so Stiles collapsed in front of his computer, rather than into his delicious soft bed the way he'd planned, and started combing through his research database on pack dynamics.

"So," Stiles said during homeroom the next morning. "It turns out wolf packs have two Alphas, in a mated pair. Did you know that? Because I didn't know that, but it explains a lot."

"Did you spend all night playing six degrees of Wikipedia again?" asked Scott, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically.

"And it turns out wolves are feminists," Stiles said, refusing to be side-tracked into a rant about the suckitude of Wikipedia.

"You do know we're not actual wolves, right?"

"Girl wolves can totally be the lead Alpha of the pack, and make their male mate their bitch." Stiles coughed, "Allison."

"Where?" Scott instinctively swivelled around to look at the doorway. "Hey," he said when realised Allison was nowhere to be seen, and punched Stiles' arm.

"Ow," Stiles complained, because that was going to bruise, as Scott said in his outside voice, "I am not a bitch!"

The baseball team's head cheerleader slid into the seat in front of them, smiling slyly and typing something into her phone. She winked at Scott. "You tell him, girlfriend."

Stiles groaned and dropped his aching head onto the desk, already knowing it was going to be all around school by lunchtime. Maybe if he closed his eyes, no one will be able to see him?

A few moments later, Scott nudged him in the side, and when Stiles slanted a look at him, he was beaming. "I should tell Allison about the pairs thing, though, right? That's totally a thing she should know. At lunch."

"You suck," said Stiles, because Scott did, and was also totally stealing his research thunder, but lunch turned out to be not horrible because Scott's flimsy excuse to talk to Allison not only worked, but Alison actually had two functioning brain cells to rub together. It only took her a few minutes to join the same dots that Stiles had -- signalled by her making significant eye-contact with Stiles while Scott was absorbed in getting just the right amount of ketchup on his curly fries, and Stiles wiggling his own eyebrows back, indicating that, Yes, he did think that Allison may have helped stabilise Scott's wolf by filling the role of Alpha mate (and maybe still was, if anyone were willing to acknowledge the elephant of enormous sexual tension in the room). Derek, on the other hand, was definitely a solo Alpha. Which, frankly, Stiles found more worrying the more he thought about it, not least because of the Hunterly glint in Allison's eye -- and yes, Derek was a dick, Stiles would be the first to say so, but in the larger scheme of things he wasn't even in the same league of dickishness as Peter, Jackson, or Matt (may he rot forever in his jail cell for shooting so many innocent people). Derek didn't deserve one of Allison's arrows was the particularly pointy point.

"Do you want some fries, Allison?" Scott offered, interrupting their eyebrow-semaphore exchange by pushing the ketchup covered plate towards her.

She did, of course, because ketchup covered fries were her weakness. "Hmm," Allison said, between delicate bites of potato. "I wonder if that's why Derek bit Erica."

"Skeevy," Scott said, and Stiles couldn't help but agree.

(Later that night, Stiles woke from a nightmare in which Peter had offered him the bite while fondling his forearm, only to realise that Peter had offered him the bite while fondling his forearm, and then he snuck into his parents' bathroom and found an old bottle of his mother's valium hidden behind a pack of musty tampons, and took half a tablet with a swig of water straight from the tap, and slept the rest of the night blissfully dream free.)

The next day the three of them tracked Erica down out behind the bleachers, but it turned out that she had something going on with Boyd now, and they were tighter than tight, practically velcroed together every minute they weren't in class (especially their tongues, which Stiles could, unfortunately, personally attest to in great detail), which kind of scuttled the whole insta-Alpha-mate plan they'd been hypothesising.

Allison wrinkled her nose, and said, "Erica traded up, but Boyd could do better," and headed off to her Physics class, much to Scott's disappointment. Stiles was just kind of stuck on the traded up comment. Because, really? Boyd? Up from Derek?

No accounting for taste.

"I told you we aren't actually wolves," said Scott, crushing Stiles in a bro-hug that managed to get his Old-Spice soaked Scott-musk all over Stiles' hoody. "We don't have Alpha mates or any of that," he said, rubbing his palm over the back of Stiles' neck before dashing off to his next class. "See you at lunch."

"Sure," Stiles said, and went to the bathroom on his way to English to have a bit of a wash with the crumbly paper towels he'd come to know so well since Scott had been bitten.

Of course, just when they thought they'd dodged the skeeviness bullet of horror that was Derek's hypothetical love life, they were hit in the face with something even worse.

During a fight with two rogue Omegas who had drifted into town, Derek's torso got clawed and his shirt ended up hanging off him in tatters. Despite that distraction, they managed to run off the interlopers fairly easily ("I don't want to join a pack of wet-behind-the-ears brats," said the Judd-Nelson-alike, and "This whole town stinks of Hunters anyway," said Unfortunate Overbite, before they both loped off into the trees. Which Stiles had to concede: fair). Afterwards, Peter ran his fingers over a bruise on Derek's ribs that didn't seem to be healing. Derek brushed him off, and went to talk to Isaac, but not before Scott and Stiles exchanged speaking looks.

"Is it just my imagination," Scott said, once they were in the Jeep and well away from prying werewolf ears, "or was zombie-Peter kind of perving on Derek back there?"

"Not your imagination, dude," Stiles said. "Ugh. How to Become an Alpha Part 2: The Skeevy Back-From-The-Dead Incest Edition."

"That cannot go anywhere good."

"Time for an intervention," Stiles agreed.

The War Council went like this:

Stiles said, "Maybe we should set him up with a partner? Does he even know anyone over 20 who isn't Peter?"

"What, like Deaton?"

They both thought about that for a moment, and then shuddered in unison.

"Brain bleach," Stiles said. "Why isn't it a real thing?"

"It's like imagining my mom having sex," Scott agreed.

They both looked at each other and then shuddered again.

"No parents!" Stiles mandated, after they had taken a break to eat pizza, drink Mountain Dew, and play a few rounds of Grand Theft Auto to clear their brains of unwanted mental images.

Scott nodded, and then got the wide-eyed look of imminent genius. "How about the new English teacher?" he said. "You know, Ms Blake?"

"Ms Blake?" Stiles said. "The Ms Blake that Ms Morrell had a screaming match with in the staff room, and called an evil druid? That Ms Blake?"

"Oh my God, really?" said Scott. "Was there a smack down? Why did no-one tell me this?"

"It was a close fight," Stiles said, with happy nostalgia. "By all accounts Blake socked Morrell right in the eye, hence the," Stiles drew an imaginary eye patch over his left eye, and Scott ahhed with sudden enlightenment, "but then Morrell made a comeback. She kicked Blake in the shin with her stiletto, and down she went like a tree," Stiles slammed his hand down on the arm of the sofa and then flinched, rubbing at his palm, "and then Morrell hogtied her with the cord from the coffee machine, and was about to obliterate her with dark magics when the Vice Principal arrived and made them stop."

"Damn," said Scott.

"Yeah," sighed Stiles. Vice Principal Braeden was such a badass. Stiles briefly considered suggesting her for Derek, except he was pretty sure she was playing for the other team. With Morrell. Who he may or may not have seen exiting a storage cupboard, her eye patch covered in lipstick the exact shade Braeden liked best.

"Well, I guess we can't set Ms Blake up with Derek then," Scott said. "If she's a dark druid."

"Probably not a good idea," Stiles agreed, and there was a moment of silence while they contemplated their options.

"Actually," Scott said, scruffing a hand through his hair. "This whole Hook-Derek-Up plan is making me feel a bit like a pimp. Is it making you feel like a pimp?"

Stiles acknowledged the wormy feeling in his gut that he'd been trying his best to ignore. "Kinda, yeah," he admitted. "Maybe we should just let him find someone when he's ready?"

Scott nodded, looking relieved. "Yeah, I second that plan."

Thus ended the War Council.

Of course then Victoria Argent tried to kill Scott, and Derek bit her in self-defence while rescuing him. She turned up at school the next day, looking even more gorgeous and definitely more dangerous than usual, and started sharpening pencils with her claws whenever Scott was near the front office. (Stiles was infinitely grateful Gerard had dropped dead of cancer the month before and wasn't the one bitten, because Victoria as a werewolf was horrifying enough.)

After Scott pulled Stiles into an empty classroom looking pale and shaken, Stiles took matters into his own hands and called Derek. "She's your Beta," he hissed, while wiping at his neck with clumpy paper towels. Stress scenting was the worst.

"Fine," was Derek's huffed reply, followed by dead air. Stiles was still staring at his phone when one of the toilets flushed and Greenburg came out looking shifty. "None of my business who's beating up who, man," he said, holding up his hands, "but domestic violence is wrong, so maybe tell your dad?" and then he made a dash for the door without washing up. Ew. Stiles made a mental note to never touch anything Greenburg had touched, and also never to use the word "Beta" in a public restroom ever again.

Apparently in Derek's world "doing something" translated to turning up at the school at lunch time with Peter in tow, and somehow talking Victoria into leaving with them.

Tagliatelli's, Allison texted them a few minutes later -- she was off spending lunch at the Chess Club with Lydia, which Scott was attempting to be enthusiastically supportive about ("She needs normal hobbies, Stiles. Her Grandpa and Aunt both just died." Which Stiles was totally on board with, just maybe a hobby with less stylised warfare would be a better choice for a Matriarch-in-training of a werewolf murder cult was all he was saying).

Dad says they all ordered the lasagne.

Stiles looked down at his chicken in mystery red sauce (possibly nail polish, possibly radioactive waste, possibly the blood of unfortunate virgins caught raiding the kitchen, who could tell?) and felt that the world was an unfair place. Tagliatelli's lasagne was his favourite.

Scott texted back, Is your dad there too? because that did seem pretty unlikely.

He's on the roof opposite. Perfect sightline.

"Kinda wish I hadn't asked now," said Scott, who was clearly also imagining Mr Argent in a James Bond-esque assassination scene: lying on the roof in a black bodysuit, looking through a telescopic lens attached to a big gun.

Stiles silently offered Scott some of his red-sauce chicken in solidarity, which he actually ate. "Dude," Stiles said.

"What?" Scott replied around a mouthful of varnished/radioactive/virgin-blood chicken. Ugh. Werewolves.

Forty minutes later Stiles was innocently adding hydrogen peroxide to potassium iodide in Chemistry class, when he looked out the window and saw Derek opening the door of the Camaro for Victoria, who slinked out like a snake, and then slid her hand all the way up Derek's chest, before kissing him not-very-chastely on both cheeks, Godfather style. Peter was looking on with a speculative expression from the back seat. The icing on the Cake of Ick was Derek pushing her away, both eyebrows caterpillered into an expression of extreme skeeved-outness that made Stiles want to offer him all the clumpy paper towels in the world.

"Nope!" Stiles said, jostling the table with his full-body shudder of sympathetic revulsion, causing Scott to lose his grip on the sliver of soap, which fell into the test tube.

After the mushroom cloud had died away, Stiles stared Harris down with the eyes of a man who had seen hell and lived to tell the tale. Detention. Ha! Stiles scoffed at irrelevancies like detention after seeing Victoria Argent dominance-scent Derek.

"Sorry, dude," Scott whispered, still feeling guilty about the soap slip.

"No, bro, it was my fault," Stiles replied, and let Scott rub his hand all over the back of his neck and didn't even wash if off afterwards.

When Harris finally let them out at 4:30pm, Stiles had made up his mind.

"I've made up my mind!" he announced to Scott, as he was driving them both home in the Jeep. "I have decided to take one for the team."

"The lacrosse team?" Scott said, not even looking up from texting Allison.

"Yes, the lacrosse team," Stiles said. "Because that's so relevant to Allison's mom macking on Derek and the looming Alpha-pair crisis in the Hale pack."

Scott dragged his gaze away from his phone and the wallpaper of Allison and her raven locks ("Seriously, Scott, raven locks?", "What? It's poetic!").

"Wait," Scott said. "Are we talking about Team Derek? That's the team you've decided to take one for?"

"No need to sound so judgey," Stiles said, a little offended. "It's a totally workable plan. I'm not evil. I don't have a secret anti-werewolf agenda. I'm way better than Peter or Victoria. My body is ready!"

"Yeah, of course you're a better option than any of them," Scott said, because he was a true friend. "But Derek hates you."

"No he doesn't. We had a moment."

Scott looked skeptical.

"At the pool. I told you about it."

(Stiles had held up a paralysed Derek for a good fifteen minutes, thank you very much, and he could have held him up for at least fifteen more if Lydia hadn't come looking for him to bitch him out for standing her up. Sure, he'd promised to talk with her about Peter psychically kidnapping her from the hospital to raise himself from the dead, but it's not like Stiles went looking for the kanima. "You asshole, Stiles Stilinski!" she yelled across the water, and stomped her incredibly pointy heel in a way that indicated she wished an integral part of Stiles was under it. Her eyes were still wet with tears, and she looked enraged and amazing, and that was when the kanima spotted her.

Who knew all it would take to convert Jackson from murder lizard to werewolf was the power of luuuurve? Not that Stiles was bitter or anything.)

"You said he didn't even thank you," Scott reminded him.

That was, sadly, very true. But Derek's eyebrows had been grateful. Once you learned to read Derek's eyebrows, he was an open book. Stiles was rapidly becoming a master at the fine art of eyebrow semaphore interpretation. It was a surprisingly handy skill.

"His eyebrows," Scott said.

And really, it was as though Scott didn't trust Stiles' judgement at all, which Stiles expressed eloquently by raising his own eyebrows at Scott as soon as they'd pulled into his driveway. Scott took one look, laughed, and said, "Fine, give it a shot then, Romeo. Call me if you need a rescue," and then tousled Stiles hair before jumping out of the Jeep.

"I won't!" Stiles called out the window as Scott made his way to the house.

After a quick wipe down with the emergency moist towelettes Stiles kept in the glove box, he made his way to Derek's current Lair o' Doom. He heaved the door open, and manfully went inside, trying to give off sexually appealing vibes.

Derek loomed out of the darkness. "What are you doing here?" he grumbled.

Stiles was not perturbed by this. He had a plan and this was part of it. Derek looming out of the darkness in a menacing and yet ultimately harmless manner: check. Derek looking improbably muscled in very tight clothing: check. Derek raising his eyebrows in a scathing semaphore commentary on Stiles' cognitive abilities: and cheeeeeeck.

"Where are the minions?" Stiles prevaricated, because making a fool of himself in front of Derek was an integral part of the plan, but making a fool of himself in front of his peers was very much not.

Derek's shoulders slumped. "You heard then." He shuffled off towards the "sofa" made from a discarded subway seat and collapsed down on it with a groaning protest of rusty springs and cracked vinyl. "I suppose you've come to gloat."

"Heard what?" Stiles drifted closer, calculating the angles of Derek's body and the boniness of his knees. No sign of the Betas so far, so things were looking promising.

Derek slouched down further and crossed his arms. "Never mind. The Betas aren't here, so you can go away."

"Yeah, no," Stiles said, more than willing to get down to the matter at hand. "So, I've been thinking."

Rolling his head against the back of the sofa, Derek let out a long suffering sigh. "And I thought this day couldn't get any worse."

"Rude," Stiles said amicably, bulldozing ahead with the plan. "I think that we should make out." He took another step closer, to better see Derek's expression in the single beam of moonlight filtering down from somewhere far above.

Derek slowly turned his head until he was staring right at Stiles. "What."

"I'm going to sit in your lap now," Stiles warned, giving Derek several moments to flee or utterly crush him beneath the heel of scornful rejection, or whatever. When Derek did none of those things, Stiles decided that was as close to an invitation as he was going to get, and launched himself at Derek's supine form.

"Ouch," Derek said, due to a rather unfortunate positioning of Stiles' knee rather too close to his groin. "I'm not a climbing gym, Stiles," and then forcefully rearranged Stiles' limbs into a more comfortable configuration. Stiles wiggled a bit to get even more comfortable, managing not to mash anymore painful body parts together in the process.

"This is working out better than I expected," Stiles admitted.

"I'm tired of never having nice things," Derek said, and kissed him.

Stiles preened when they came up for air. "I knew you liked me after the swimming pool! Your eyebrows gave it away, dude."

"Don't call me dude," Derek said, sniffing at Stiles' neck and rubbing his hands all over the places Scott had touched earlier. "You stink."

Stiles' dick went very hard. "Oh my god, yes. Talk wolf-kink to me. Touch me more. My body is ready!"

"Shit," Derek said, which wasn't exactly what Stiles had been expecting as a response. "The Betas are back."

Stiles thunked his forehead against Derek's collarbone, refusing to move and expose his hard-on to the pack. "Tell 'em to go away again."

The door crashed open, and a halo of light outlined Isaac, who announced, "I don't want to be in Victoria's pack anymore! She's awful!"

Stiles slowly lifted his head, and checked out Derek's eyebrows, which were arched in a speaking parabola which meant, "No shit."

Erica, Boyd and Jackson sidled in behind Isaac, all looking like puppies who knew they were in trouble. Erica smiled at Stiles and said, "Way to go, Batman," while Jackson groaned and said, "Peter macking on Chris and Victoria was revolting enough. Now there's this!"

"Wait," Stiles said to Derek. "They left you for Victoria? Seriously?" He was a little put out that Derek had thought he'd gloat about it, although not quite enough to get off his lap and leave in a snit.

Isaac shrugged. "She said there'd be cake."

Cake? Stiles was impressed. Less than twenty-four hours as a werewolf, and Victoria had already figured out the perfect bait for a teenaged pack. She would make an amazing Alpha one day. Still, cunning though she may be, Victoria was no match for Stiles' superior contingency planning. Stiles would not allow her to woo the Betas back, or for any expedient throat-slitting and Alpha-power-transference once Derek was too weak to fight her off.

It was time for Stiles to show the pack what he was made of.

A mound of Chinese food -- no-one could say Stiles wasn't a fast learner when it came to engendering werewolf loyalty and good will, he was totally going to rock this whole Alpha-pair thing -- and four accepted apologies later, and all was once again well in the Hale pack. Or at least, marginally less fucked up and miserable. Stiles decided to call it a night while he was ahead, and tackle the rest later.

Derek walked Stiles up to his Jeep, taking his hand once they were out of sight of the Betas. Stiles squeezed it happily.

"Well," said Stiles, staring mournfully at Derek's lips. There hadn't been nearly enough lip action tonight, despite the plan being a spectacular success.

Derek's mouth turned up at the corners. He placed his hand right in the centre of Stiles' chest, burning hot through Stiles' clothes, and pressed him up against the chill metal of the Jeep's door. He nosed at Stiles' cheek, warm and a little ticklish, and then ducked in for a kiss. It was slow and lush and prickled against Stiles lips, and made him sweat and want to fling off all his clothes.

Stiles mmmmed, liking the way it made Derek's breath hitch, and scratched his fingers into Derek's hair, tugging to let him know he wanted more.

Derek made a rumbling noise and surged into the kiss as though he'd just been waiting for Stiles' signal, sliding his fingers around the back of Stiles' thighs and urging him up so that they came together, Stile's legs wrapped around Derek's rolling hips, pressure shared right where it was needed.

"God, you're going to get me arrested again," Derek ground out when they broke for air, both of them panting.

No, I'm not, Stiles silently disagreed, as he traced the shape of Derek's ridiculous eyebrows and their cautious arc of hope, knowing his own matched them. "I'll bring you a cake with a file baked in it. You should touch me more."

Derek stared at him with red eyes, and then shoved his hand down between them to trace the shape of Stiles' cock, fingers flirting briefly with the cloth-capped head before firmly palming the shaft.

Everything jolted at the first touch and Stiles let himself ride it. He curved both palms around the nape of Derek's neck, trusting Derek not to let him fall, and rubbed his sweat all over Derek's skin and up into his hair, mingling their scents as their bodies worked together. Derek moaned his name, the huff of his breath an intimate brush against Stiles' ear, Derek's body a sinuous press and flex against Stiles' own, his hand too good against Stile's cock.

Stiles shoved up, up, up into the electric thrill of Derek's palm, feeling the molten swell of his own pleasure rising, higher, more, more. I'm going to get us both a happy ending, he thought, and with a final thrust and a shuddering cry that was quickly echoed by a bone-shaking howl from Derek, he went ahead and proved himself right.

("And that's how I figured out Alpha-pairs were a real thing," Stiles explained, months later, when Derek finally came clean, because one good confession deserved another in Stiles' book.

"From Wikipedia and my eyebrows," Derek said, squinting slightly in an obvious effort to keep his forehead region from giving anything away.

Stiles went on, undeterred by the sarcasm, "But that's not really why I decided to seduce you. That was all on you, buddy, with your winsome ways."

"I am not winsome. God. And you didn't seduce me, you fell on me and kneed me in the crotch."

"Yeah," Stiles said, nostalgically. "Good times." He smiled his best alluring smile. "Fancy a re-enactment?"

Derek sighed the sigh of the put upon. "Fine. But try not to knee me so hard this time.")

This entry was originally posted at http://cupidsbow.dreamwidth.org/413641.html.
Tags: derek/stiles, fiction, link, recommendations, teen wolf
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