Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/567185.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Puppy_Piles, Masturbation, Masturbation_in_Shower, Comeplay, Anal_Sex,
      Rough_Sex
  Series:
      Part 2 of Wild_Living_series
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-19 Words: 3387
****** Bound to Crack ******
by orbiting_saturn
Summary
     Now is the perfect time to protest. Stiles doesn’t, not anymore than
     he did when Derek spanked him like he was a sassy schoolgirl.
Notes
     This is a sequel to A Look of Wild Living
The first thing Stiles does when he gets home is shower. He strips down to the
skin and leans into the tiles, water so hot it stings and prickles his back,
flows down in warm gushes through the dip of his spine, the indent of his
cheeks. It’s like acid on the welts of his ass.
He whines a little and twists his forehead hard against the wall, so hard his
skin squeaks against it in protest. Heart jumping so fast and barely able to
catch a breath through all of the steam, but every one of his nerve endings
seem attached to the glowing belt-stripes Derek left on him. It hurts. It hurts
so fucking bad, but not in the way Gerard’s bruises had. Those had gone so deep
in his muscle, ached for days, but deeper still, like they’d writ his shame
into his bones.
Derek’s welts rise up on skin only, like a tease because they could have gone
deeper. Derek could’ve gotten deeper, all the way inside of Stiles and he
wouldn’t have protested at all. Derek gave Stiles a new kind of hurt, one that
washed away all the old ones for just minutes. The lashing felt like it lasted
for hours, but it didn’t, and it was nice getting lost in it. Because if Stiles
was hurting for Derek, feeling the slap of the leather on his skin, he wasn’t
hurting for anyone else. Stiles could hurt for Derek, easy. Derek did so much
hurting of his own and here was a place where they could meet in the middle.
It didn’t make sense. Stiles’ head was all swimmy, vision blurred when he
blinked, lashes heavy with water. He reached a hand back, ghosted fingers over
his left cheek. There was a new map back there now, not the mole-spotted
braille Stiles was used to reading on his body. No, now there were thick lines
of burning, etched into him. They made his whole body hot and tight, seared
over him in shivery little rushes when he played with them, cupped his whole
palm around the curves of his ass.
Stiles also remembers Derek’s hand on his dick, curling and tightening with
just a bit more pressure than he usually liked. It worked him hard and fast,
angle not right from how it reached up between his legs, pressing Derek’s wrist
into the tight clench of his balls.
In the shower like this, with the steam making his lungs tight, gasping
breaths, Stiles forces the tip of his finger into his ass. He gets it as far as
the middle knuckle and holds while he jerks himself. Stiles strokes and thinks
of Derek’s scent, strokes and thinks of Derek’s wet tongue laving at his ass
cheeks. Stiles wrings himself too hard and too fast thinking of the sounds
Derek made when he was jerking himself off in the bathroom after. Stiles hadn’t
left until he was sure he’d heard Derek come. Stiles comes now, thinking about
the bitten off howl.
*
A week goes by and they don’t see each other.
Another week goes by and still they don’t see each other.
By the time week three rolls around, Stiles is nearly jumping out of his skin.
The welts were gone after only two days. The bruises faded after five. There’s
not a traces of Derek on his body and Stiles is beginning to think he dreamed
up the whole thing.
A day before week four, Stiles gets kidnapped. Of course he does.
*
It sounds sort of mean, even in his own head, but Stiles has always found twins
to be intensely creepy. There’s just something not on about two people looking
like one, being so closely bonded that they can finish each others sentences.
Stiles knows it’s an unfair prejudice, but it’s not his only one and usually
it’s so small and barely there that it pales next to all of his other issues.
If Stiles had really considered what it might be like to be kidnapped by the
Alpha pack, he would have imagined chains and torture. Maybe a nice puppy
collar and some disparaging words thrown his way. He certainly wouldn’t have
imagined being coddled and cared for.
Stiles is being treated like a pet. A well cared for pet on house-arrest, but a
pet all the same. The twins, especially Ethan, like to stroke his short-cropped
hair against the grain and even scratch him behind his ear. They feed him all
of his favorite foods (and Stiles doesn’t even want to know how they know what
those are) and he’s started to suspect he might be getting fattened up for
dinner.
The twins are left in charge of “caring for” Stiles with only one maxim. “Don’t
fuck him,” Deucalion had said.
Just those words had thrown Stiles into a panic attack so severe that he’d
blacked out for an indeterminable amount of time. He came to with his head
pushed down between his knees and Aiden stroking his neck.
“Shh, Stiles, sssh,” Ethan cooed on the other side of him, blocked in and
pinned by matching bookends. “I know you think we’re monsters, sweetie, but
we’re not. We won’t do that to you.”
“We promise,” Aiden chimed in.
Stiles believed them. Even as the hours turned into days and Aiden and Ethan
stroked his body in bad-touchy ways, pressed kisses behind his ears and nuzzled
deep into his neck, Stiles never thought they would rape him. It was a small
consolation.
*
Taking Stiles was a test for Derek.
A few short hours after being “rescued”, Stiles is showered, skin scrubbed
almost raw by Scott and Erica to scour away the scent of the Alphas. He’s
bundled into a puppy pile that somehow has his ear resting against the hard
muscle of Jackson’s abs and Stiles wonders if Derek passed the test.
*
When Stiles wakes, he’s alone in the pile of pillows and blankets. He’s not a
wolf, but he can still smell the lingering scent of Jackson’s cologne and
Erica’s hairspray. There’s also something rich and spicy in the pillow under
his cheek that he thinks might be Boyd.
Stiles knuckles away the sleep crust in his eyes, cracks his jaw on a huge yawn
and stretches long and hard. He twists in the tangle of sheets and turns,
blinks into the shadow heavy gloom of the train car and sees Derek lounged out
sideways on one of the bench seats, watching, just watching Stiles.
Stiles is still sleepy and a little bit drunk on puppy love, so he doesn’t have
anything to say really, just blinks back at Derek’s long, heavy stare.
“Are you okay?” Derek asks, face all stoic like he doesn’t really care about
the answer, but his eyes are just a shade too wide to really pull it off. It’s
been over a month since they’ve seen each other and the last time Derek was
spanking Stiles’ ass for being a bad, bad boy. How should they even look at
each other now, Stiles wonders.
“I have to pee,” is Stiles’ oh-so-eloquent response. Really, he feels like a
dumbshit for having nothing better to say, but it’s so true. Stiles has to pee
like a racehorse.
Derek snorts and his lips tilt up in a smirk. He goes a little looser in the
shoulders and Stiles hadn’t even noticed until now that he’d been just a little
rigid, held just a little too tight. “You know where the bathroom is.”
It takes some squirming and wriggling, but Stiles manages to kick away the
blankets. The train car floor is cold on his bare feet and Stiles dances from
foot to foot, noticing with some horror that his dick is hard and bobbing under
the shorts he’s wearing. They’re not his shorts either, just a little too loose
in the waist and the ass, worn gray cotton with a button over the flap. They’re
probably Derek’s, Stiles thinks, and he has a strange moment to feel surprised
because he doesn’t really take Derek as a boxers kind of guy.
When Stiles’ gaze skips guiltily back to Derek, the other man’s not looking
anywhere near his face. His hooded eyes are pinned right over Stiles’ hard-on,
mouth dropped open and huffing deep breaths like he’s scenting the air. Because
he is, because Derek can smell Stiles with his werewolf nose.
Stiles hesitates a moment, thinks about climbing into Derek’s lap and grinding
his dick into the scrunched up muscles of his stomach. Of course, that thought
flies away when Stiles’ bladder gives a throb so deep it aches, makes his cock
jump in his shorts again, so Stiles huffs a frustrated breath and walks away.
Pissing with a hard-on is some kind of strange torture. Stiles’ curses God’s
sense of humor as he leans over the toilet, propped one handed on the wall as
he forces his dick far enough down to take aim. He has to breathe roughly
through is nose for a minute, force his body to relax and the stream stutters
out of him in short bursts.
A satisfied groan rumbles out of him when his muscles finally let go and a long
arc of piss splashes into the toilet. It makes Stiles a little light-headed
with relief and he pees for what feels like forever until the stream dies down
into dribbles and he’s left with an empty bladder and a boner hard enough to
cut glass.
Stiles gives his dick a quick shake and a slow stroke. One need met, he moves
seamlessly on to the next one. Staying hunched over the toilet, Stiles pulls
his hand off of the wall and fists it in the black t-shirt he’s wearing. This
must be Derek’s too, he thinks, and drags the hem up over his belly, pulls
tight so he can press his nose in and sniff. There’s just the faintest hint of
detergent, but Stiles has a good imagination and his hand speeds up a little,
loose at the head and tight at the base.
Another hand closes over Stiles’, stops him mid-stroke and has him whining,
eyes clenched shut. And Derek is behind him now, like something Stiles conjured
up, all the way in his space so they’re met from shoulder to thigh.
Stiles’ legs are spread just a little, so Derek notches himself right into the
space left there for him. He hooks his chin over Stiles’ shoulder and speaks
right into his ear. “Does it smell like me?” Derek asks all grumbly rough,
fingers overlapping Stiles’ fist to keep it still on his hard-on. “Can you
smell me on you?”
For a second Stiles can’t think through the hard, hot press of Derek’s body
draped over him, can’t parse the meaning Derek’s words. But then he tastes it,
the dry cotton he’s got shoved in his mouth, bit between his grinding teeth,
Derek’s shirt he’s wearing and sniffing while he gets himself off.
Stiles unlocks his jaw and spits the fabric out, licks and licks at his dry
lips enough to say, “No wolfy senses, remember. Can’t smell it, but I know it’s
there.”
Derek hums and licks at the shell of his ear, releases his grip on Stiles hand
only bat at it, smack it away from his dick. Stiles huffs a protest, but lets
go of himself, raises both arms to brace himself on the wall while Derek takes
up the stroking of his cock. Stiles’ toes curl on against the cold floor and
fucks himself into Derek’s grip, humps his ass back against him.
“They didn’t fuck you.”
It’s not a question, but Stiles answers anyway. “No,” said all shaky and
relieved.
Derek’s hips thrash forward, hump so hard into Stiles that his knees would give
out if there weren’t a muscled arm banded around his waist. Derek gives a
handful of fast, hard strokes, the kind Stiles likes best from him and he’s
seconds, just seconds, from coming when the bastard pulls off.
“Ah, fuck!” Stiles protests, humping his dick into the thin air. “You fucker,”
he grumbles.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, crushes his pelvis into the give of Stile’s ass.
Derek’s dick is a long, thick line, caught behind the denim of his jeans and
Stiles’ shorts, but it’s there and it’s hot and ready for Stiles.
Derek drags and shuffles Stiles to the side, manhandles him a few feet over
until they’re in front of the sink. He drops Stiles there and lets him sag his
weight on his arms, elbows pressed hard into the cold porcelean.
Derek holds him down, bent over the sink with a palm in the center of his back
while he opens the medicine cabinet and rummages around. Stiles can barely
fucking breathe because he’s just that hard. And his head isn’t screwed on
right because he’s pretty sure that Derek is looking for lube to fuck him open
with and now is the perfect time to protest. Stiles doesn’t, not anymore than
he did when Derek spanked him like he was a sassy schoolgirl.
When Derek finds what he’s looking for, he drags Stiles’ shorts down just
enough to bare his ass. He shoves both of their shirts up just far enough to
let them rub bare skin to skin.
A cold stream of lube gets squeezed right out between Stiles’ spread cheeks,
makes him jump a little where hot meets cold. Derek is panting like a racehorse
in his ear, hands sweeping too roughly over all of Stile’s bared, over-
sensitized skin. Over his own breathing, Stiles can just make out the sound of
Derek’s zipper, but it gets lost in a cry when two of Derek’s fingers rub
through the lube on his ass, smear it into the tight clench of his hole.
Stiles is blind for a second, then seeing stars because his eyes are smooshed
hard into the meat of his own forearm. His teeth are gnawing on his lip when he
can get his mouth closed for long enough, long enough to whine and gasp because
Derek is dipping two fingers straight into his ass.
It’s not gentle at all. All Stiles can feel is Derek’s hot breath on his neck
and rough fingers pushing lube just past his rim. It’s just a few shallow
pushes, not a deep finger-fucking like Stiles expected, just wetting him up
with lube and then going straight for the gold.
It’s too big. Stiles lets out this startled bark of pain and shock when Derek
sets the head of his cock against his hole then pops it right on in, past that
tight ring of muscle that wants to force it back out.
“Ssssh,” Derek soothes, hands skimming up and down Stiles sides. “You’re fine.
You can take it.”
Stiles isn’t sure who Derek is trying to convince here. Not that it matters
because whether Stiles likes it or not, Derek is forcing himself in, inch by
slow inch. And Stiles is taking it because there’s no wriggling away from that
long, invasive stretch. His body just spreads right open under it, aches and
burns from the stab of it. There’s so much of Derek and it’s getting jabbed
into him with short, hard thrusts. Derek grunts with each hard won inch until
they’re flush together.
Apart from the hurt, and there’s plenty of it, Stiles feels this strange,
shocky pressure. Derek’s cock is deep in his guts, touching all along his
insides and there are nerves in his ass that Stiles could never have imagined.
He wants to force Derek out and wants to take him deeper.
“Come on,” Stiles gasps and swallows, blinks sweat from his eyes. “Come on,
fuck me.”
Derek groans and gives Stiles a short, deep thrust. It’s just a slow roll of
his hips, making him shift slick and delicious in Stiles. He’s panting hot
breaths into the back of Stiles head, warm gusts over his scalp. Stiles is
getting hard again and wasn’t even aware that the pain made his dick go soft
for a minute.
The next stroke is longer, Derek pulling out and shoving in, and it has Stiles
whining. He doesn’t like it as much on the out-stroke, but the in-stroke makes
it worth it. And so it goes, for a moment, just this slow in and out, Derek
letting Stiles loosen up for the ride.
Derek reaches beneath Stiles and gets a palm flat on his belly, pulls him into
the next hard shove. It’s like he’s trying to feel out the head of his own
dick, through the muscle and flesh on Stiles’ stomach, like he can sense it
deep inside.
“I’m gonna come inside you,” Derek huffs into his hair, smears the words there
where it’s close enough to melt Stiles’ brain. Stiles hadn’t even thought about
asking for a condom, but now he’s thinking about Derek’s bare cock in ass,
nothing between them and it’s so dirty hot.
It’s stops being slow, Derek just starts slapping his hips forward, gutting
Stiles with every thrust. And Stiles’ cants his ass up for it, the elastic of
his shorts cutting into his thighs when he tries to spread. The head of Stiles’
dick keeps hitting the underside of the sink and his ass still stings, but now
there are shocking jabs of sensation when Derek’s dick glances across his
prostate. It doesn’t seem intentional, because Derek has gone all growly and
mindless, hugging Stiles too tight and hammering his dick into him.
Derek is going to come soon and it’s strange that Stiles, a virgin, should be
able to sense it just from the frantic way Derek is grinding into him. Somehow,
Stiles gets an arm free, reaches under the sink to fist his own dick.
Stiles just about swoons with pleasure, even though that sounds pretty fucking
dramatic, but yeah, his hand on his dick and Derek fucking into him with
rabbit-fast thrusts gets him seeing stars. Stiles comes almost immediately,
balls drawing up and shooting out slick to the wringing of his tightly curled
fingers.
When Derek comes close behind him, he doesn’t howl or growl, doesn’t bite and
mark. He just makes these soft “ah, ah, ah” sounds that come off as a little
vulnerable, despite the hard punch of his hips.
Stiles thought he might feel the hot rush of Derek’s come in his ass, but he
doesn’t. Derek’s dick goes harder, jumps inside of him, but Stiles doesn’t feel
like his insides are being hosed down or anything.
He waits Derek out, come-drunk and slumped over the sink like a broken doll.
Derek stays inside for a long time after, pressing his hips tight against
Stiles, churning and churning until he goes too soft to stand it.
It’s not until Derek pulls out that Stiles feels the warm rush of come, it
dribbles out of him, a slow trickle down his thigh. But then Derek’s back
again, shoving three thick fingers into his sore hole and it’s hard enough to
make Stiles curse and twitch.
“Fuck,” Stiles grunts. He reaches back clumsily and smacks feebly at Derek’s
arm. “Knock it off, asshole.”
Derek swats Stiles ass with his free hand, just a swift crack of his palm
against skin. It makes Stiles jump and hiss, cuts his puppet strings so fast he
slumps into the sink, cheek smooshed up against the soap dish.
“I do what I want,” Derek grumbles, swirls his fingers around so they bump
Stiles’ prostate and make him whimper.
For a little while, Stiles just slumps pathetically while Derek plays with his
ass. When it seems like he might just pass out from the overstimulation, Derek
gently removes his fingers and gathers Stiles up against his chest.
“Shower or sleep?” Derek asks, nuzzling in against Stiles’ neck.
“If I say shower, is there any chance you’ll leave my ass alone while we do
it?”
“Huh uh.”
“Sleep then,” Stiles replies. So Derek walks them back to the train car because
Stiles’ legs are turned to jelly, but the joke’s on him. As soon as they’re
spooned up together, Derek gets a hand between his legs and two fingers shoved
inside. Stiles is made to fall asleep just like that, but he figures there are
worse things.
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