Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/458396.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Rough_Sex, Hand_Jobs, Underage_Sex, Plot_What_Plot, Violence, non-
      systematic_but_repeated_physical_abuse
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-07-13 Words: 2396
****** He Hit Me and it Felt Like a Kiss ******
by Loz
Summary
     He likes it when Derek touches him. Likes it likes it, in a tingle-
     in-his-tummy, thrill-up-his-spine kind of way. Which probably
     wouldn't be any kind of problem if Derek's version of touching wasn't
     slamming, pinning, gripping, and punching. Well, it would be less of
     a problem.
Notes
     The title is from the song by The Crystals, with all the unhealthy
     attitude attached.
It takes him a while to notice. He can't help that, really. There are
extenuating circumstances of the monster variety. Sometimes the monster is
Derek. So it isn't immediate, this acknowledgement skittering under his skin.
He doesn't figure it out in one swift epiphany. It's a gradual thing, the
realization.
He likes it when Derek touches him. Likes it likes it, in a tingle-in-his-
tummy, thrill-up-his-spine kind of way. Which probably wouldn't be any kind of
problem if Derek's version of touching wasn't slamming, pinning, gripping, and
punching. Well, it would be less of a problem.
Stiles doesn't think he's a masochist. He tests it a couple of times, just be
to sure. Slams his hand in his locker door. Asks Allison to pinch his arm. Nope
and no, he doesn't react to either of those things except with pain and worry
that Allison was so, so quick to oblige his request. It's not the smarting
sting of Derek's brand of rough that excites him. He isn't equating pain with
pleasure. It isn't the pain alone.
It's everything.
When Derek has him pinned against the wall it's the best kind of uncomfortable.
He's under close scrutiny, he's feeling the hot press of Derek against his
skin, he's vitally aware he's alive. Derek is focused on nothing but him, eyes
intent, large hands holding him still. It's like they're the only two people in
the world. And Stiles has come to notice that he doesn't appear to be the only
one getting a sick kind of satisfaction out of these moments. Because Derek,
for all that he's crowding into Stiles and demanding answers, or quiet, or
attention --- he isn't letting go when he gets any and all of them. If
anything, he pushes tighter, lips quirking up at the sounds Stiles can't help
making; low and stuttering.
This is not healthy. This is beyond ridiculous. Yet Stiles finds himself
looking forward to it. Actively provokes it. Wonders how many ways he can break
Derek's resolve until it isn't just another shove, his words are being
swallowed by more than merely a persuasive glare. Stiles isn't positive, but he
thinks he might have cracked it, here, now, as Derek kicks his legs apart and
looms over him, one hand successfully trapping both of his above his head.
"I'd have thought you'd have learned how to defend yourself by now," Derek
says, and there is something unreal about the way he stares at Stiles, like he
doesn't believe himself either. Like he's testing Stiles, just wanting to eke
out a response, prolong their exposure to one another.
"Oh yeah," Stiles scoffs, "the weedy teenaged human has the facility to stop
the persistent ultra-strong werewolf."
"You're not that weedy," Derek comments, and that is a leer.
"Please, do not be fooled by my ability to wear a shirt. It's all in the
padding."
It isn't overly dignified, but Stiles feels overwhelmingly victorious at the
look on Derek's unusually expressive face. Derek's normally grim-set lips are
parted, his eyes large and luminous in the dim light of the abandoned station.
Stiles rocks his body forward and raises an eyebrow.
"See?"
"You don't know what you're playing with, Stiles."
Stiles licks his lower lip, smiles at the concentration it evokes in Derek's
gaze. "You think of yourself as an object? A thing?"
Derek's eyes flick back up to stare into his, harder glint interspersed with
obvious interest. "I was referring to the situation."
Stiles shrugs in-so-far as he's able. His arms are beginning to ache and he
wants to know what Derek's planning to do with his free hand. It's hanging
loosely at Derek's side, but all Stiles can think is how much he wants it
trailing over his torso, riding up under his shirt. He needs to feel the slide
of Derek's fingertips on his over-heated skin. He cants his hips, rolls them
toward Derek and up. He thinks maybe if they have a little more contact...
There's a harsh, rapid snap of sound, and then Stiles' cheek and jaw begin to
sting. He realizes his head has zipped suddenly to the side.
"You slapped me?" Stiles whines, not above asking the obvious.
And just when he thinks Derek is going to release him with some angry comment
about not being a smart-alec to his betters, or demand he go, straight-away, or
just insult him the way only Derek knows how --- he crushes his mouth against
Stiles' and takes full possession of all of his faculties.
There's a beat, two, and then Stiles is hungrily kissing him back, whole body
thrumming with the urge to show Derek he can give as good as he gets. His heart
is rattling within his rib-cage, his chin is sore from the rasp of Derek's
beard, his arms continue to feel overly stretched; it's a combination of
uniquely discomforting experiences. And Stiles loves it. Loves how Derek surges
between the V of his legs, loves how his entire life has narrowed to this
pinprick of time, loves how he's so consumed by this he's not thinking a
million things at once.
Derek releases his hands and clutches at his hips, driving him deeper into the
wall, pressing all down his front. Stiles knows this is his moment to push
Derek away, that if he was sensible that's exactly what he'd do. He tangles one
hand up into Derek's hair and scratches down his back with the other. He kisses
Derek deeper, instinctively licking filthily into his mouth. This elicits a
muffled sound of surprise from Derek, all honeyed and warm.
Stiles doesn't know how much time passes, but Derek pulls away eventually,
strong, wide chest moving rhythmically as he breathes. Stiles stares,
transfixed.
"You should stay away," Derek says, sounding shocked. His thumb remains pressed
against Stiles' hip. There's an edge of desperation to his words. He can't keep
his eyes off Stiles' tingling lips.
"Do you think I ever do as I'm supposed to?" Stiles asks, for the hell of
speaking.
"If you think the only thing I'll do if you stay is kiss you, you're naive or
stupid. Probably both."
Stiles wants to tell him that he's neither of those things, just reckless and
curious. Instead he finds himself lunging at Derek, clutching at one of his
shoulders, fisting at the stretched fabric, as he grips his jaw with the other
and tilts his head into the perfect position. This kiss is so much sweeter than
the others. Derek lets Stiles use him, moaning throatily when Stiles nips at
him. Stiles is over-eager. He hasn't kissed anyone the way he's kissing Derek.
He isn't hesitant, he isn't shy. He figures he'd have been stopped if this was
wrong. It is wrong, undoubtedly, but not because of his skill or lack-thereof,
not judging by the way Derek's finally peeling away the hem of his t-shirt and
dragging his fingertips up, then down, to tease at the back of his waistband.
His whole body is in over-drive, blood rushing in his ears, knees having to
lock into place or he'll fall, sprawling onto the floor. Everything within him
wants to beg for more, please, quicker, and he grunts shamelessly when Derek
uses one of his claws to slice open his shirt, edging his teeth along his
collarbones --- teeth, not fangs, not yet, Stiles thinks in a fog of confusion.
Frankly, he's jealous of his control. He's currently preoccupied with how
obscene it is that Derek is all muscle against him, unable to devote all his
attention to that because he's just thumped his head into the wall and seems to
be sliding down a little, too caught up to stop his feet from shifting.
Derek wrenches at his jeans, licking hot and wet up Stiles' neck and then
breathing into his ear. "Stay still," he commands.
"Can't," Stiles responds. "I'm turning into, like, jelly. Raspberry flavored.
Or, no, blueberry. Way too sweet and a little tart, and---"
Derek cuts off his babbling, nosing beneath his ear, then kissing over his
cheek as one hand flicks open the top button of his fly. Derek tugs at his
zipper and Stiles arches up into it --- the hand that's so close to making him
keen brazenly. Brightness edges at the sides of his vision. He gazes at Derek,
at the look of intense absorption on his face. Derek's brow is furrowed, but
for once he's not scowling. His lips are curved, and he's --- smug. He is
totally smug. He's beyond pleased that he's got Stiles in such a writhing,
sweaty mess for him, straining against him, half a second away from going to
his knees in supplication. And maybe it's completely fucked up, but Stiles is
proud he's the one to be making Derek feel this way.
"Do you want me to touch you?" Derek asks insistently.
"Is this nonsensical porn talk or have you been blacked out the last fifteen
minutes?" Stiles asks back.
Derek's self-satisfaction doesn't dissipate, but he does growl as Stiles swipes
his tongue over his lower lip. And waits, unmoving. And continues to wait even
when Stiles wriggles forward again.
"You're gonna make me say it, aren't you? Janet from Rocky Horror style."
Derek's grin is feral. Stiles bashes his head back again, winces, wonders why
he's even bothering with the pretense.
"Please, Derek, I want this."
He stops shy of saying, 'give it to me'. He has some self-respect.
Not much, with the way he's watching Derek undo his own jeans, slide them down
his thighs. He's seen other guys before, of course. He may be a virgin, but
he's not exactly the blushing, ignorant kind. Ever since he began to notice his
reaction to Derek, he's been researching. But to see Derek's thick, long cock
curve up and out from his body like that? His tongue feels too large and dry
for his mouth, his palms are itching and sweaty.
Derek doesn't need another word, not even another nonverbal whimper. He claims
Stiles' mouth again, just this side of vicious, and grasps hold of Stiles'
painfully hard cock. Stiles goes to return the favor, groaning again as Derek
surges up within his grip, hot and full of friction. It is nothing like
touching himself, all frantic and half-ashamed. The pride he feels at being
able to reduce Derek to harsh, shuddering grunts sees to that. They move like
that for a while, rutting into one another, but it's awkward. Derek gives a
cut-off snarl.
He stops, eases away a short distance, brings his hand up to face-level. "Lick
me."
Stiles isn't inclined to protest. He maintains eye-contact with Derek as he
leans forward and flicks his tongue out wetly. He coats Derek’s hand the best
he can. Bites at the flesh between Derek's thumb and index finger. Derek's eyes
swim red for a second, then return to normal. Stiles stops licking, swallows
thickly. He can't help but go onto tip-toes when Derek grips at the base of his
cock again, presses his length all against him, until they're aligned.
Derek slides up and down, spit-slick and perfect. Stiles feels fever-heated,
his heartbeat rocketing. He knows he’s being pushy when he wraps his own hand
around Derek’s and insists he speed up, but he doesn’t care, not even a little,
he’ll be that guy if it gets results. And it gets results.
"Always pushing me, aren't you, Stiles?" Derek asks, lips parted and eyes
heavy-lidded. Stiles knows things are wrong when he thinks this is the least
crazy he's looked in a long time.
"You know you like it, otherwise we wouldn't be here right now."
Stiles doesn’t know if Derek kisses him again to shut him up or confirm the
truth. The answer’s inconsequential, because he’s teetering on the edge of this
going from perfection to too much. The rhythm they’ve gotten into is making
every nerve within him throb. He can’t concentrate on anything much but the wet
slide of them against his abdomen, the way Derek adds a twist to the end of
every stroke. Stiles is hyper-aware of every brush of their knuckles, each
panting breath that skitters against his cheek.
He comes suddenly, shockingly, and maybe it shouldn’t be such a surprise, but
it is, because he’s used to warning signs when he does this alone. He pulses
over them, wet and messy, and bites back a high-pitched whine as he does so.
Derek speeds up his hand, roughly pulling on his own cock, uncaring that Stiles
is now oversensitive. When Derek comes, he captures Stiles’ lips again in a
wild kiss, licking in deep like he never wants to do anything else. Breaking
away actually seems to pain him, he has a frown on his face like usual. Stiles
didn’t realize how much he wanted to see a different expression until it was
there, in front of him.
"What is it about me?" Stiles asks, because even when ninety-nine percent of
his mind is occupied in blissing out, there's always a background process
thinking too hard. He wipes his hands on the tatters of his shirt, not nearly
as disgusted as he expects to be.
"If I knew that, I'd know how to avoid it," Derek returns. He sounds just as
shaky as Stiles is. "Touching you just feels so good."
"You could touch me in other ways than slapping me," Stiles offers.
"Already did."
"I mean in a non-sexing-up capacity."
Derek's expression goes dangerously focused. "What, like hold your hand as we
go skipping down the street?"
Stiles punches Derek before he can register it himself. Swings his fist and
slams it into Derek's jaw. His head snaps back an inch and Stiles takes the
opportunity to bend down, grab at his jeans, run out of there, not bothering
about the fact he’s essentially topless. But he doesn't count on Derek wrapping
his hand around his wrist like a vice.
Derek smacks him back into the wall and savages his mouth again; demanding,
cruel. But as he does so he lets go of Stiles' wrist and slips their hands
together, interlaces their fingers and is almost gentle. In that moment, it
doesn't matter that he's sticky and damp. Stiles melts into the kiss, entire
body craving more contact. And if he mentally catalogs the way Derek's fingers
feel interwoven with his, no one has to know.
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