Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/491287.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Spanking, Dubious_Consent, Hand_Jobs, Angst, Dom/sub_Undertones,
      Unnegotiated_Kink
  Series:
      Part 1 of Wild_Living_series
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-20 Words: 1612
****** A Look of Wild Living ******
by orbiting_saturn
Summary
     Since the whole mess with Gerard, Stiles has been running on a drunk-
     dizzy burst of fear adrenaline. Like he’s courting death.
Notes
     Trigger warning: This story contains very dubious consent and painful
     spankings with a belt.
See the end of the work for more notes
He doesn’t have time for this. There are betas to train, a resurrected crazy
uncle to keep a close eye on, an alpha pack to avoid. Derek doesn’t have time
to babysit fucking Stiles, drag him away from this fucking close to death over
and over again. All those things don’t change where he’s at, how he’s got his
hands fisted in Stiles’ collar again, has him pinned to a wall.
It’s the fear, Derek figures. Since the whole mess with Gerard, Stiles has been
running on a drunk-dizzy burst of fear adrenaline. Like he’s courting death.
Before, when Stiles jumped into the fray, it was to save people, save himself
or keep their secrets. It’s different now, like he got a taste of the
inevitability, like he’s trying to rip off the Band-Aid, kill the suspense,
just get it over with. It’s starting to really piss Derek off.
“Enough!” Derek growls, fang-sharp and only an inch from Stiles’ flushed face.
Stiles is bleeding adrenaline, heart beating like a drum in Derek’s ears and
there’s this smart little smirk cocking up the corners of his lips. He looks
totally unconcerned by the knuckles Derek has pressed into his soft fleshy
bits.
“I don’t have time for this,” Derek continues, his voice low with anger and
strain. “You have to stop.”
The uptilted corner of Stiles’ lips twitches higher, his eyes all glossy and
pupils blown. He’s high off the rush, the fear, and it’s thick and sweet in
Derek’s nostrils. “Or you’ll what? Derek, huh?” Stiles says and grins wider,
straight teeth flashing behind pink lips. “Huff and puff and blow my house
down?”
Derek rolls his eyes at that, so on the nose and he knows Stiles can do better
than that. But instead of responding he gives Stiles a shake, thunks his head
back against the wall. Pay attention, he thinks. Stay with me.
“I’m not scared of you, you know?” Stiles confesses, licks his lips and brings
his hands up to curl around Derek’s wrists. He doesn’t put any pressure to it,
just lets his fingers hook and dangle uselessly around Derek’s bones, presses
his fingertips into the matching pulse points.
“So,” Stiles starts, stops, wets his lips again. “Are you gonna bark all day,
little doggy, or are you gonna bite?”
Fury is Derek’s old friend, his anchor, his true North. If Stiles was one of
his pups, Derek would crush his bones, bite his neck and shake, make him bleed.
But the anger is Derek’s control and he won’t loose that now, under the
flooding rush of Stiles’ jumping pulse. He’ll be careful with him, but make him
hurt all the same. If the fear won’t steady Stiles, maybe the pain will.
Derek grins, or bares his teeth more like, and loosens his grip on Stiles’
collar. He doesn’t step back and he doesn’t let go, just rests his hands so
gently in the curve of Stiles’ neck. Stiles sinks back, lashes fluttering and
the smirk falls, disappointment ringing in the slump of his shoulders. Derek
laughs, as much as Derek ever laughs, which isn’t much really.
Then his grip goes tight again, tight and sudden on the back of Stiles’ neck.
He skips back far enough to propel Stiles, stumbling and tripping, face-forward
over a wobbly table covered in the carnage of the pack’s last meal. Derek slams
him down hard, pins him there and he smells the sudden spike of fear and
surprise. “You want me to bite?” he growls.
Derek’s free hand comes down with a crack, right on the rise Stile’s ass, hard
enough that the contact with a low-slung belt stings his palm. It comes up and
down again and this time it’s only jeans and flesh that meet his hand. And
again. Again. Again.
“You wanna act like a brat? I’ll spank you like one,” Derek declares and does.
There’s a clapping crack that echoes in the wide space, rings in his ears and
goes straight to his veins.
Stiles is squirming against the surface of the table, sneakers scuffing against
the dusty floor. He barks at the next slap, back arching, but he doesn’t fight,
doesn’t curse, takes his lumps like a good boy.
“Good boy,” Derek mumbles, more to himself than the kid all sprawled out before
him.
Derek smacks his ass again, lets his palm pause long enough to squeeze through
denim.
“Does it hurt enough?” he asks. “Are you learning your lesson?”
They’re always having one-sided conversations, but now the tables are turned,
Derek rambling and Stiles quiet. Not quiet though, not really. He’s panting
hard, twisting and writhing and canting up into Derek’s hand. Stiles speaks
with his body, sweat reeking of arousal and shame.
Derek is hard. He feels it when the tangy scent of Stiles’ precome hits his
nostrils. It’s not the first time Derek’s gone hard over Stiles, it’s just,
this time is different.
Derek still has Stiles gripped tight at the neck, scruffed like a puppy and
pinned to the table. It’s going to bruise, five purple fingerprints for Stiles
to keep tomorrow and the next day, the day after that, to prod and poke at,
remember Derek later. But there are deeper places for Stiles to ache, deeper
places for Derek to mark.
The hand palming Stiles’ ass rises again, claps back down. It’s not as hard as
the others, half-hearted preamble to better things coming.
He means to ask first, but Derek just keeps going, slides his hand around
Stiles’ hip and works open his belt, button and zip. He takes Stiles’ silence
for permission and bites down the growl of satisfaction, yanks down the back of
his jeans in one rough pull.
The cheeks of Stiles’ ass are pinked up all pretty, flushed but not burning.
He’d been gentler than he thought. The space in between is shadowed and
bleeding heat, a couple handfuls of spit and Derek could push right on in. He
doesn’t think Stiles would stop him.
Instead, Derek whips Stiles’ belt from its loops with a whisper swish and with
a few turns of his wrist, wraps the end around his palm. The buckle is warm and
biting where Derek grips it. He pulls his arm back, waits a beat, and then
another. Stiles is face down on the table, eyes averted, but he knows, he knows
and doesn’t try to stop him.
In the end, it’s that calm complicity that brings out the brutality in Derek.
The belt comes down and Stiles starts making some noise. It’s a cacophony, a
dance show, leather and skin, a rhythm of snaps and cries. Derek sees through
red, Alpha-eyed and fangs dropped, the belt painting a deeper red over cream.
There are three raised moles on the lower curve of Stiles’ left cheek and Derek
gives them three hard smacks to wash them out, rise them up.
It would take hours for Derek’s arm to tire, the night could burn into day and
by then, Stiles would be passed out and bloodied. So, he stops when he smells
the tears streaking down Stiles’ cheeks, stops when the begging starts, muffled
into the cotton of Stiles’ sweatshirt.
Derek’s arm falls to his side, the belt unraveling from his hand and falling to
the ground with a soft clink. The wolf crawls back inside of him, shamed, snout
beneath its paws. Derek sees with his human eyes, the welts raised on Stiles’
ass.
Peeling his other hand free of Stiles’ neck, the boy nearly slides to the
ground. Derek catches him at the waist, goes to his knees behind him and gets
his lips on the raised skin. Stiles whines and rocks forward then pushes back
into the rasp of Derek’s stubble.
Derek can still smell him, hard enough to drip. He reaches one hand up between
Stiles’ thighs, palms the tight rise of his balls. It doesn’t take much, but
Derek gets to feel him in his hand. Stiles is slick, cock slim and long in the
ring of Derek’s fingers. While he jerks him off, Derek tongues a line over the
largest welt, wets and soothes each slashing mark.
Stiles comes with a shuddering moan, long and hard and into the web of Derek's
fingers. When every pules is wrung from him, only when he’s spent and Derek’s
hand is dripping with it, Derek lets Stiles fall. He sinks to his knees, legs
spread around Derek’s thighs and he tilts back.
Fingers wet with come, Derek gently tilts Stiles’ head back on his shoulder and
holds him. Just holds him. Stiles’ stinging ass is pressed right into Derek’s
lap and he could thrust up, get off in his jeans against the hurt he caused,
but he doesn’t, doesn’t even want to.
“You’re not going to die,” Derek whispers.
“You can’t promise me that.”
“No,” Derek admits, turns and places a chaste kiss at Stiles’ pulse point. “But
if you keep courting disaster, I’ll bite you. I’ll make you mine. I’ll make you
obedient. And you’ll be stuck with me forever.”
Derek can feel Stiles tense up on top of him, hears him swallow thickly.
“Geez,” Stiles huffs and wriggles against Derek’s hold. “Slow down, buddy. Just
‘cause I let you jerk me off doesn’t mean I’m ready to exchange promise rings.”
Deeming the moment well and truly over, Derek spills Stiles onto the cold
cement floor. Ignoring Stiles’ complaints, he makes a straight line for the
bathroom, to a little jerking off of his own. If he thinks about his fangs
tearing through welted flesh while he does it, well, no one will ever have to
know.
End Notes
     The title was taken from "The Heart is a Beating Drum" by The Kills.
     Stiles' quote: "Are you gonna bark all day, little doggy, or are you
     gonna bite?" is from "Reservoir Dogs".
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