Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/761865.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Mild_Hurt/Comfort, Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Intoxication, Puppy_Piles,
      Rimming, Fingerfucking, First_Time, Spitting_into_Ass
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-15 Words: 3925
****** Ready Made ******
by orbiting_saturn
Summary
     “How do you feel?” Derek asks, voice rough and very close.
      
      
     “Heavy,” Stiles finally answers. Because that’s what he feels. Like
     his bones are weighting him to the soft bed beneath him, like he’s an
     anchor sinking deep into silt and water. “Am I high?”
They’re toying with Stiles, cat-and-mousing him through the thick tree lines
and their intentions aren’t clear, but Stiles knows they can’t be anything
good. So, he keeps running, because he doesn’t know what will happen when he
stops.
His tongue is a thick, dry lump in his mouth, hard to swallow past. He’s run so
far and fast that he’s stopped sweating because there isn’t anything left to
sweat out. He’s slowing, legs gone all rubbery and weak from exertion and his
vision has started to waver around the edges. It won’t be long now, before he
collapses, before his body says enough and crashes to the dirt.
It’s miles into the preserve, so far that Stiles doesn’t recognize where he is.
There are laughs ringing out from the tree line, his head spinning as he
stumbles into a walk, hand clutching a sharp stitch in his side. Voices come to
him out of the dark, from in front of him, behind him, left and right. He’s
surrounded.
The alphas could have taken him down like a wounded gazelle before they made it
a mile into the forest, but they hadn’t. Stiles can only hope that means they
don’t want to kill him. Because he’s down, knees giving out and thunking into
the compacted dirt with a bone jarring thud. He cries out and pitches over to
the side, gasping for breath that burns his throat and lungs.
For several moments Stiles just lies there, panting with his sweaty cheek
pressed to the forest floor. His head is throbbing, his whole body aching while
the alphas close ranks around him. A pair of scuffed boots stop in front of him
and then Deucalion is crouching down, petting his fingers through Stiles’ buzz
cut in an utterly patronizing way.
“You lasted longer than I thought you would,” Deucalion tells him. It sounds
like there’s laughter and pride in his voice, but Stiles can’t see his face,
focuses instead on a tear in the knee of his jeans.
“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” Deucalion chides, thumbs away a smudge of dirt over
Stiles’ eyebrow. “This is what happens to humans who run with wolves. They slow
the pack down, make them weak and vulnerable. “
Stiles grits his teeth, heart still thumping too fast. He’d really like to pass
out, but can’t, not with Deucalion and his sycophants prowling around him. He
hasn’t much strength left, but he uses what he has to weakly shove Deucalion’s
hand away from him. “Stop it with the hands.”
Deucalion chuckles low and amused, chucks Stiles under the chin like a smarmy
uncle, like he went to creepy creeper school with Peter Hale or something.
“All right then, let’s not beat around the bush any longer, Stiles.” Deucalion
curves his fingers and palm over Stiles’ cheek, tips his head further back so
Stiles and can see his face now. Just barely though since his vision is mostly
gone to gray blurs and pulsing edges. “I want you to take the bite.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, vision narrowing further and further until it’s pure black.
“Crap.”
And then he goes blissfully unconscious.
*
He goes in and out actually. The first time Stiles drags himself back, he’s
being jostled all about, arms drooping limply and waving all around. His
fingertips tingle where all of the blood has flowed south. He’s got something
hard and uncomfortable wedged into his belly. Stiles has a sneaking suspicion
that he’s being carried over someone’s shoulder. He passes out again before him
can be humiliated further by figuring out whose it is.
*
The next time Stiles comes to, he’s no longer being jostled around. He’s
inside, but the lights are low. He only wakes because someone has slapped him
in the face, which is just rude. He wasn’t doing anything to deserve that kind
of treatment.
Stiles barely gets the chance to groan before something is being shoved at his
mouth.
“Drink,” someone snaps, voice sharp but softened by the scent of raspberry lip-
gloss and the smooth glide of honey-blond hair against his cheek.
Stiles lets his mouth spread in a smile. “Heeey, Catwoman.”
A half second later, hard plastic clacks against his teeth and warm liquid
pours across his tongue. It tastes like salt and grape and is so gross that
part of Stiles wants to spit it back in Erica’s face, but he sucks it down
helplessly, gratefully.
When the bottle is pulled away, Stiles grimaces. “Whoever thought grape would
make a good Gatorade flavor, huh? Everyone knows that fruit punch is the only
way to go.”
“Oh, Stiles,” Erica sighs and swipes away some wetness from his cheek. “You
idiot.”
*
He drifts in and out after that, reality comes at him in slow sweeps and slides
that are all soft-edged, like dreams. And maybe that’s what they are, because
he sees skin all around him, feels the shift of it against his own. There’s
breath against his face and hands on his belly, the press of a body curved
closely behind him and one in front.
Stiles’ body aches in a deep and angry way, all through every muscle and so
hard it makes his burning legs jerk and twitch. But each bruising cramp gets
softly leeched away by palms on his thighs and fingers around his calves.
There’s a face pressed into the tight clench of Stiles’ abs, warm breath on his
skin. When Stiles looks down and blinks through the haze clouding his vision,
he sees a mess of curls and Isaac’s bowed lips whispering into his skin.
His head falls back into the pillow of a soft breast and he thinks he sees
Erica frowning softly down at him, the rough lace of her bra scratching his
cheek. Stiles knows he’s dreaming now, because this is one he’s had before. The
pack, all of them, draped and curled over and around him with Derek and Scott
on the edges, just their hands sneaking in to join with the others.
Stiles smiles dimly, lets his face sink deeper into the soft give of Erica’s
beautiful body, but he’s too tired and muzzy to keep it, to stay here. He falls
back into the cold comfort of blackness.
*
When Stiles wakes again, it’s a slow, grasping battle. Stiles has questions,
but can’t quite remember what they are, just that he has to ask them. He drags
himself back to consciousness and blinks his eyes open.
For a second or two, he doesn’t see much, just dark shapes and he worries that
he’s gone half-blind. But then color starts to bleed through, warm, cream-
colored sheets that he’s pressed so heavily into that his eyelashes brush
against them.
“How do you feel?” Derek asks, voice rough and very close.
Stiles doesn’t answer right away, because he isn’t quite sure. He’s so muzzy,
like he’s drunk or stoned, but not quite. Maybe like he took a couple of strong
painkillers. It’s actually a kind of pleasant buzz that softens everything. He
rolls his tongue in his mouth and is surprised that it feels wet and still
tastes of grape and aspartame.
“Heavy,” Stiles finally answers. Because that’s what he feels. Like his bones
are weighting him to the soft bed beneath him, like he’s an anchor sinking deep
into silt and water. “Am I high?”
Derek huffs, warm breath washing over Stiles’ neck and shoulder, like he’s
being loomed over. Which is pretty much par for the course, but never like
this. Because, right now, Stiles is laying belly down on a bed that reeks of
Derek, and he’s pretty sure he’s naked.
“Maybe a little bit,” Derek answers, before he lays a heavy hand in the small
of Stiles’ back. “We all took your pain, several times. I’ve heard that can
have a euphoric effect.”
Stiles tries to lift his head and turn it, but it gets about an inch off the
mattress before it falls again. Derek’s hand is still on him, and that just
makes him feel heavier and sort of like it’s not just his bones pinning him
down anymore. Derek is holding him there too. The thought sends a surprising
jolt through Stiles, it curls and settles in his groin.
“Where are the others?” he asks, in an effort to deflect attention from the
sudden heat in his nethers. His lips catch against the soft cotton of the
sheets and when he licks them wet again, he swears he can taste the musk of
sweat.
“School,” Derek answers briefly, voice distracted and careless in a way that it
never is. His hand sweeps up Stiles’ back, curves around the jutting bone of
his right shoulder blade.
A pulsing warmth spreads out from Derek’s touch, blooms all loud and itchy
under Stiles’ skin until it leaks up and out of him. The muscles in his back
loosen and Stiles’ lids flutter under a tipsy-making head rush.
“Oh,” Stiles exhales, breath flushing back in his face. “Wow.”
Derek stops taking Stiles’ pain, but his hand stays on him. Then the other one
is there too, large palm and long fingers fitting around the back of his skull.
The heel of Derek’s hand rests against his neck and presses down, rolling
firmly in a slow massage.
“What are you doing?” Stiles moans and smashes his face into the bed. He can
barely feel his arms and legs right now, only in this phantom limb sort of way.
But he knows that his legs are spread a little, because his crotch is flush
with the mattress, dick plumping up against it. What he really feels is the
soft crush of Derek’s hands and the weight of his stare.
“I’ve never seen you this still before,” Derek tells him. “It’s amazing.”
Stiles gasps because he feels the words like a physical thing. It’s the closest
Derek has ever come to paying him a compliment and it kind of stings that it
only came when Stiles isn’t himself. But it also feels good, because Stiles has
always wanted Derek to see something in him.
Derek is straddling one of Stiles’ thighs, bare skin to skin. The hairs on
Derek’s leg are coarse and tickling.
Stiles always knew he wanted something from Derek, some kind of
acknowledgement, but never like this. Because Derek’s hands are grazing up and
over his skin, like it’s something he wants to own. He’s making this low,
rumbling sound above him, like he’s found himself a gift that he’s pleased
with.
He has just enough energy to shift his body, but Stiles is too weak to really
move. Derek could do anything to him and Stiles wouldn’t be able to fight. It’s
a surprisingly heady thought.
All of Stiles’ gay moments have been half-realized until now, just a vague
curiosity at the back of his head, but when he jerks off at night he thinks of
Lydia or Erica and very occasionally, the wide stretch of Allison’s mouth. But
this is the first time Stiles has been touched with intent, strong purpose in
each drag of Derek’s fingertips and it’s bleeding want into Stiles’ pores.
Stiles never thought he wanted Derek this way, but it’s a rush thinking Derek
might want him.
“Are you going to do something?” Stiles asks, shifting his hips just enough to
grind his dick against the mattress. It’s all of the way hard now, the only
part of himself that he feels completely. Except for where Derek is touching
him. All of those parts are so alive while the rest of him is an afterthought.
“I don’t know,” Derek admits with a small, vulnerable break in his voice. “It’s
kind of freaking me out, how much this is turning me on.”
Derek goes quiet again, but not completely, because his breath is heavy and
fast. His hands skim lower down Stiles’ back and rest just at the rise of his
ass cheeks, fitting into the dimples above them.
“You’re so helpless right now.”
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees on an excited sigh. “You could do anything you want.”
Stiles has his eyes closed because keeping them open is too much effort. His
body is poured across the sheets, melting there and one of Derek’s hands is now
following the crease of his ass, one finger just barely dipping in to trace the
heat of him.
“You want me to take what I want,” Derek rasps, head tipped down low enough to
breathe on Stiles’ neck. “I can smell it on you.”
If Stiles agrees, it’ll spoil the illusion of it, so he stays quiet but spreads
his thighs. It’s no more than an inch, just the hint of an invitation. Not that
Derek needs it, with the scent pouring off him. Even Stiles can smell it, the
low aching want wafting in the air between them.
Derek cups both of Stiles’ cheeks, one in each hand, then spreads him open with
his thumbs. Cool air ghosts over the hottest place on him and makes Stiles
shiver and clench, just a short twitch of muscle that doesn’t last because
Stiles is too loose and bone tired to hold it.
Derek keeps him like that for a full minute, maybe longer, spread open with the
weight of a hard stare seeping into him. Stiles feels it, Derek’s gaze locked
firmly on where he’s exposed.
“You’re so relaxed,” Derek breaks the silence, finally releases Stiles’ ass to
glide up his back and shoulders. “Won’t take much to open you right up.”
Fingers trip down the limp lines of Stiles’ arms, lift them up at the wrists
and raise them above his head. Derek presses them to the mattress, not hard but
firm. “Don’t move,” Derek says in his ear with a grin in his voice.
Yeah, he’s hilarious and Stiles would laugh if he couldn’t feel the slow scrape
of Derek’s beard dragging down his neck. He has his cheek pressed to Stiles
when he begins his descent, but his face turns and there are lips, another hot
rush of breath and the catch of teeth. Derek breathes him in deep on his way
down Stiles’ spine, skims blunt human nails along his sides on his journey
down. Stiles melts a little more, becomes one with the bed beneath him and the
mouth above him.
It seems to Stiles that Derek is holding the bulk of himself away from Stiles,
hovering angled away so there’s nothing to distract from the kisses that get
bitten into each of his cheeks.
Stiles is spread open once more and something hot and slick sweeps over his
hole, Derek’s tongue flickering and pulsing at the core of him. It makes sloppy
noises, lapping him open and making Stiles whine.
“I’ve never done this before,” Derek confesses into the open crease of Stiles’
ass, then tongues him again. He lets out a pleased hum as he does it, vibrates
it straight through Stiles so his hard-on pulses and leaks. That tongue back
there swirls and spears right into him and Stiles can’t fucking handle that
because it feels incredibly, amazingly good. He makes a choked sound.
Derek’s tongue pulls out of him, laps at him a little and then there’s what
Stiles thinks is a kiss dropped on his loosened up little hole. “I’ve never
wanted to do this before,” Derek says and, jesus, spits on Stiles. He can feel
it warm and wet, on and in his ass.
“Oh God,” Stiles sobs as two fingers push all the way into him. Stiles knows it
has to be two straight off because he’s done this to himself and can tell the
difference between one and two. Usually, it takes Stiles a while to work
himself up to two and it always burns when he does it, but not this time. No,
this time they sink right on in without any resistance.
He can feel Derek licking around his rim, tonguing languidly around the bulk of
his knuckles. Stiles is still all butter-soft, too tired and weak to move much,
but he so wants to push back on the fingers inside him. But then he doesn’t
really need to because they start moving, thrusting in and out, in and out.
Stiles loves having something in his ass, never really thought too much of it.
Lots of guys like it, by all accounts, doesn’t mean they’re gay. And maybe they
aren’t, but Stiles definitely is a little since he wants those fingers out of
him and Derek’s dick instead.
“Yeah,” Derek breathes. “Yeah, I’m gonna give it to you.”
So, it would seem that Stiles might have said that out loud.
Stiles hears more spitting, feels it and it is so fucking filthy, him laying
there and letting Derek spit into his ass. The fingers come all of the way out
of him, then push back in, push the slick inside to get him ready.
“Oh, God,” Stiles sobs again.
The fingers are pulled out again, Derek drops one last kiss on his stretched
out hole, and then Stiles can feel Derek rising up over him. He wants to be
able to turn around and look at Derek, but he can’t. There are more slick
sounds behind him, this time Derek using his spit to lube up his dick.
Derek uses one hand to keep Stiles’ cheeks spread open, the other to guide
himself in. The blunt head of his cock rests just against Stiles’ rim for a
moment, teases at it. Stiles is so damn close to begging, but chokes on the
words when Derek pushes in with a groan. “God,” Derek gasps. “God, look at
that.” His tone is reverent, one thumb sliding down to meet the place he’s
stretching Stiles open on his cock.
Stiles can feel the stretch, the thick length of Derek sinking slowly into him.
He feels it in all of the best ways and thinks it’s a good thing he’s doped up
on wolfy mojo for his first time being fucked, because he’s so loose it doesn’t
hurt at all.
Derek waits until he’s all the way in, balls pressed up between Stiles’ just
barely spread thighs, before he crashes down on him. Stiles grunts under the
crushing weight of Derek’s bulk, writhes a little to feel all of that bare skin
pressed into him.
“You feel so good,” Derek whispers in his ear, strangely sweet, almost adoring.
Derek blankets him completely, laces his fingers through Stiles’ and rolls his
hips. “You’re so good, Stiles.”
Mouthing at Stiles’ neck, Derek starts a slow, deep rhythm. It’s easy and
unhurried, cock shoved all the way in Stiles, pulling back only an inch before
sliding back in. It’s like Derek can’t bear not being all the way in him.
“Yeah,” Derek groans, lengthening his thrusts just a little, but keeping them
slow, moving in and out of Stiles so good. Stiles clenches down on him a
little, just to really feel the slick thickness. There’s something strange
about the invasion, but it’s mostly thrilling. Derek is fucking him. Derek Hale
has his dick in Stiles’ ass and it feels so damn good.
“I wanna keep you like this,” Derek tells him on a moan, gives a hard snap of
his hips that jars Stiles’ dick into the mattress.
Derek’s wrapped all the way around Stiles, straddling Stiles’ thighs together,
keeping him tight on his dick. He’s plastered to Stiles from pelvis to
fingertips, rutting into him harder and faster, stopping every now and then
just to grind in deeper with a sordid twist to his hips that makes Stiles’
balls tighten and jump.
“Wanna keep you stretched open on my dick, taking it so fucking good.”
Stiles would have never guessed Derek was a talker in the sack, would’ve
figured him for the kind to give up choked off growls and grunts. But no, it’s
a stream of filthy words instead as he starts to speed up.
“Yeah, gonna fuck you so hard, come in your sweet little ass so you smell like
me for days. Ready for it, aren’t ya?”
And Derek isn’t messing around anymore, starts rutting into Stiles fast and
hard, slapping his hips against Stiles’ ass cheeks. It sets off a perfect
rhythm on Stiles’ dick, bouncing it into the rumpled sheets. The friction on
his dick and Derek moving hard and fast in his ass makes Stiles keen and twist
a little. Every sweaty inch of Derek slides along his back, smashes him down.
Derek loses his words and punches out the sounds that Stiles thought he’d make,
but he doesn’t try to cut them off or hold them back. Derek is completely
shameless, moaning, gasping, grunting through each punched in slide.
“Fuck, fuck, come on,” Derek demands and rips his hand away from Stiles’,
shoves it under Stiles to curl around his dick.
Stiles comes straight away, as soon as Derek gets his hand cupped around him.
He comes long and hard, shooting over and over into the sheets around him as
his ass clamps down on the hard flesh fucking more and more eagerly into him.
Derek only goes silent when he comes, quiet as churches, grinding deep as he
lets go, jerking and twitching as he empties into Stiles. It lasts and lasts,
Derek rolling silently against him. He goes a little bit softer, dick slicking
its way easier through the come he’s pumping out. Even after he stops coming,
Derek stays inside Stiles, huffing hot heavy breaths against the side of
Stiles’ face.
It can’t last though. Derek is close to two hundred pounds of solid, lean
muscle and Stiles is just a tiny human. He needs to breathe and all the air is
getting crushed out of him. He doesn’t have to ask, Derek seems to sense his
discomfort and raises himself up to gently slip out of Stiles’ worked open
hole.
“Are you okay?” Derek asks, palming the sweat off Stiles’ neck, settling
himself carefully at his side. That strange warmth starts to build under
Derek’s hand again and Stiles shakes his head as sharply as he can.
“No more mojo, please. I need to be able to walk again at some point.”
They don’t speak again for so long that Stiles starts to drift a little,
hovering in that almost-sleep space. Derek stays at his side, hand resting in
the small of his back and breathes on his temple. Right when he’s about to slip
under, Derek breaks the silence.
“Deucalion wants me to give you the bite. He told me when he called to have me
collect you.”
Stiles is fully awake now, eager to hear more.
“But I don’t want to. I like you like this. You’re so soft right now, so easy
and….human.”
It takes every ounce of his will, but Stiles manages to squirm onto his side.
The movement actually causes a twinge of pain, his overworked legs and fucked
out ass. “Good,” he mumbles. “Cause I swear to Christ, Derek, if you try to
bite me, I’ll cut your dick off.”
Derek stares at Stiles with sleepy eyes and a small smirk. “Guess that settles
it then. I need to keep my dick.”
“For all the fucking, right?” Stiles asks with a grin, scootching himself up
against Derek’s side.
Derek wraps one hand in the crook of Stiles’ knee, drags his leg up until his
thigh is pressed on top of Derek’s crotch. His dick is getting hard against it.
And for the first time maybe ever, Derek agrees with Stiles. “Right.”
*
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