Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4175109.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Plot_What_Plot, Established_Relationship, Off-Screen_Negotiation, Dom/
      sub, Dom_Derek, Sub_Stiles, Stiles_Gets_Put_in_His_Fucking_Place, The_Id
      Wants_What_The_Id_Wants, And_Apparently_What_Mine_Wants_Is:, Discipline,
      Daddy_Kink, breath_play, boot_kink, Gratuitous_Use_of_the_Word_“Bitch”,
      Affectionate_Use_of_Homophobic_Slurs, Marking, Piss_kink, Humiliation,
      (kinda_not_really), Face_Slapping, Claiming_sex, Outdoor_Sex, Rough_Sex,
      face_fucking, Knotting, Oral_Knotting, knotting_that_hurts, Blood, Bad
      Stories_for_Bad_People, Dead_Dove:_Do_Not_Eat
  Series:
      Part 1 of Sure_As_Hell_Earned_It
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-21 Words: 2509
****** Sure As Hell Earned It ******
by Spitshine
Summary
     Stiles' filter is... not always that great. Lucky for him, Derek
     doesn't mind taking a few minutes out of his day to remind him what's
     what.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
“The fuck did you just say to me, pup?”
Stiles pauses midstep and midword, mouth a tiny pink O, eyes wide with a hint
of fear, every line of his body exuding shit-I-fucked-it-up-big-this-time.
“Um... nothing?”
His back's flat against a tree before he knows what's happening, hand tight
around his throat. “Don't. Fucking. Lie. To me.”
Stiles flails a little, trying and failing to talk. Derek's grip relaxes just
enough for air to pass through. “Nothing... on purpose... alpha.”
Derek flares his nostrils and hmmms thoughtfully, like he knows exactly when
and why Stiles calls him alpha and yeah, maybe Stiles should start doing it a
little more often if he wants it read as anything other than, “Please don't
punish me, daddy!” Because that, that right there, is an inarguable admission
of guilt.
One that gets him punished.
Every time.
He feels the fingers tighten infinitesimally before they lift him off his feet
and throw him to the ground. He lands on his back, ribs groaning and wind
knocked right out of him. He doesn't have time to catch it again before there's
a boot across his throat, rough tread digging into his windpipe, and Derek is
growling, “I think you're forgetting yourself, little bitch,” over the noise of
his zipper being lowered.
Stiles knows what's coming, closes his eyes against it even as he can't stop
himself mouthing, “Sorry sorry sorry,” as if there's any hope of his getting
off the hook now.
Which is why he gets a mouthful of hot, nearly clear piss. On the one hand,
Derek's recent obsession with health and hydration means it doesn't taste or
smell as bad as it used to—not that there's any way to escape the fact that he
is being pissed all over—but on the other hand, it means there's an awful lot
more of it whenever this happens (more often than Stiles really wants to admit
to himself, or to anyone else, for that matter). He swallows and sputters and
swallows again, wonders if this is anything like water boarding... wonders if
Derek would be down to try that sometime...
Then some piss manages to get into his eye, even through his clamped tight
lids, and all his thought processes temporarily shut down. “Ahh! Motherfucker!”
He tries to reach up a hand to wipe his face, but he'd landed on one arm and
Derek's quick to step on the other. Yeah, that means every pound of werewolf
muscle is on his throat for a hot second, but hey, Derek's fast. Stiles may not
have accelerated werewolf healing, but he does heal, and he really, really
likes walking around with treadmarks stamped into his skin.
“You stupid, pretty little bitch. You don't fight me. You fucked up and you
damn well know it, so just fucking lay there and take it. You sure as hell
earned it.”
And yeah, okay, maybe if Stiles was wired like a normal person, that wouldn't
make his heart swell and his brain melt, but he is most certainly not wired
like a normal person, so he blinks up at his alpha, a big dumb grin spreading
across his face... and promptly gets both eyes full of piss. “Shit shit shit!”
Derek, that jerk, just laughs. Not a little chuckle, either, a big, belly-
shaking laugh. “Dumb pup,” he murmurs, voice almost tender. “Did you forget
what's going on here?”
Stiles shakes his head violently, blinking against the tears spilling out and
mixing with the piss running down his face. The movement means that he gets it
in his ear, his hair, even up his nose. Derek swivels his hips to get Stiles'
crotch too and damn, he hadn't even noticed he was hard until now, but... yeah.
Definitely the case. He blushes despite himself, despite that this has happened
before and almost certainly will again, knowing that Derek loves every depraved
little wrinkle of his weird little mind.
Even Derek's superbladder has to run out eventually, though, and he crouches
down to give Stiles the last few drops directly into his mouth. “Who's the boss
of you, faggot?”
Stiles swallows reflexively, reminding his lungs how to breathe without that
weight on his throat, and rasps, “You are, daddy.”
“Damn straight. And because I'm so nice to you, because I think this lesson
might take a while, I'm going to let you strip before I give you the rest of
what you deserve.”
Stiles knows that it must sound and look humiliating to anyone on the outside,
being called “bitch” and “faggot” and getting pissed on, being pushed down in
the dirt and claimed like this, but to him... it feels affirming. Loving. Like
there's no part of himself he needs to hide anymore. He grins and scrambles to
get up, shedding clothes as he goes.
“Gonna wipe that smile right off your face, bitch. Can't use your mouth nice,
I'll use it for you.”
Stiles can be a good boy, he knows he can, he just... forgets to focus
sometimes. He's focusing now though, and he knows Derek likes him on his knees,
mouth open and waiting, so that's how he arranges himself, as soon as his
clothes have been pushed to the side in a damp, smelly pile. Head tilted back
to show plenty of throat but eyes closed, tongue just covering his bottom lip,
hands clasped at the small of his back. Just like he's been trained.
The slap is a bit of a surprise. Two slaps, really. Front hand, back hand. His
face burns with sting and embarrassment. “You little shit,” Derek hisses, so
close Stiles can feel the spit spray against his forehead. “You think you get
to control this? Open your fucking eyes, watch me fucking own you.” They fly
open almost without Stiles' volition and, wow. Derek's cock is just... there.
Only a werewolf could go from crouching to standing so fast but hey, no one's
complaining. Derek digs a finger—not clawed, but still goddamn sharp—in behind
Stiles' jaw, forces it open as wide as it will go, and thrusts in with
absolutely no preamble. “Gonna knot that smart little mouth, see if that will
stop you sassing back.”
Stiles tries to nod yes, it totally will halt any and all backtalk right in its
tracks, but between the fingers at his jaw and the hand gripping the back of
his head—he's started growing his hair out, as per his daddy's request, but
it's still too short to pull—and the dick spearing his throat, he can't hardly
move.
The noise Derek makes could be called a chuckle if it wasn't so grim. “I don't
believe you for a second, little bitch. I'll bet you can always find a way to
talk your way into a bad spot. But let's not push that tonight, hn? You're
probably in enough trouble for a school night.”
Stiles wants to protest, wants to defend his innocence, his ability to filter.
But that would just get him into exactly the bad spot Derek is talking about
and anyway, the cock in his mouth has started a punishing rhythm, pushing in
hard and deep enough for Derek's balls to hit his chin with an audible smack,
pulling out almost far enough for Stiles to catch a breath, stabbing back in
before he gets the chance.
He's groaning and gasping for air, drool and snot and tears running down his
chin, eyes rolling back in his head in pleasure. That and oxygen deprivation.
Not that he really knows the difference these days. As much as he preens and
loves it when Derek gives him his head and lets him show off his (recently
acquired but still brag-worthy) blowjob prowess, there's really nothing that
compares to just being taken and used like this.
Judging by the harsh moans Derek's choking back, he isn't the only one enjoying
this, either. “God, you're the most beautiful cocksucker I've ever met,” he
pants, stilling his dick deep in Stiles' throat, letting his bitch feel where
his knot is just starting to plump up.
Stiles hums appreciatively, takes the opportunity to run his tongue under and
around the hot swell.
That's all it takes. Derek sinks in balls-deep one last time, knot bulging out
behind Stiles' teeth and spills so far back in the boy's throat he can't even
taste it. Which, rude. Derek's jizz is just about Stiles' favorite thing in the
world, and Derek sure as shit knows it.
Knows it and doesn't give a shit, if the smirk on his face when Stiles rolls
his eyes up to glare at him is any indication.
“See? This is exactly what I'm talking about. You can't even talk, I'm trying
to teach you a fucking lesson about sassing me, and you're glowering at me.
Backtalking with your eyes. And for what? For being nice enough to take time
out of my day to show you what's what. You are setting yourself up for a world
of hurt, boy.” Derek slaps Stiles in the face, hard, and grinds his hips
ruthlessly against the jaws splitting wide around his cock.
Stiles moans in pleasure, hips bucking against nothing, which might be a
mistake because sometimes Derek gets angry when he's supposed to be punished
and is pleasured instead, but he can't help it. It just feels so fucking good,
being full and used however his daddy wants.
Derek yanks his hair sharply, probably with the intent of stopping that train
in its tracks, but that backfires.
Boy, does it ever.
Stiles jerks his hips one more time and shoots off untouched, all over the
ground between Derek's boots and even worse, on the boots themselves.
“You fucking sloppy, disobedient little bitch. I didn't tell you you could
fucking come, did I?” Derek's gone past anger to disbelief, like it's
incomprehensible he's been saddled with such an impudent toy.
And it's not fair, he's trying so hard to be good. He fucked up and said the
wrong thing, he knows he did, but he hasn't done anything since then. Not
really.
Okay, coming without permission was a mistake. Messing up Derek's boots was
really a mistake. But it just felt so good, Derek's knot filling his mouth,
Derek's cock filling his throat, the pain of his hair being pulled, the danger
of a clawed hand tracing his jugular. Derek knows that always sets him off,
permission or no permission, it wasn't fair to make him come like that, not
now, with Derek's piss still cooling on his skin, making him feel owned inside
and out, making him want to obey, to be a good, obedient boy.
It takes half an hour at least for Derek's knot to go down, but he doesn't
soften or let up on the dual laundry list of Stiles' fuck ups and Stiles'
forthcoming punishments. Stiles doesn't have much of a choice, just kneels
there and tries to take it best he can, cringing internally while he swallows
and swallows and breathes raggedly through his nose, now stuffy from crying,
tries to kneel pretty, the way Derek taught him, tries to prove he can be a
good boy for his daddy, a good bitch for his alpha.
Derek pulls out, finally, doesn't give Stiles a second to work his aching jaw,
just grabs his hair and tips him forward to land face first in his own mess,
cold and congealed in the dead leaves on the forest floor. “Clean up your
filth, bitch.” His tone is hard and flat and Stiles shivers in dread rather
than pleasure, moving his tongue over Derek's boots in long, frantic swipes. He
cranes his neck to look up at Derek when they're clean without moving his body,
desperate for approval. “That's a start. And your priorities are in the right
place, cleaning daddy up first. But there's plenty of mess left.” Derek glares
pointedly at the puddle under Stiles' cheek, and Stiles gets back to it,
grimacing as the dry leaves flake and stick in his throat. “Keep going,” he
growls, moving behind Stiles.
Stiles digs his fingers into the earth and groans when Derek yanks the heavy
steel plug out. It's narrow right before it flares out into its little handle,
doesn't keep him prepped.
But Derek doesn't care if he's stretched out nice and gentle; Derek just uses
the plug to hold the lube and come in there so he stays wet for his alpha. “Wet
and sloppy like a bitch in heat,” as Derek loves to remind him, blunt teeth
gripping the thick muscles of his back as he shoves in with one rough thrust
that sets Stiles to screaming, nails in again and again to keep him screaming.
It's only a handful of thrusts before Stiles is panting and begging, crying for
permission to come, he's so hard, balls drawn up so tight they almost climb
inside him.
“Only on my knot. Come before I tie you and you'll fucking regret it.”
But Stiles doesn't have to wait long, not the way Derek is plowing him without
mercy, chasing his own nut without finesse or consideration for human frailty.
It feels like the knot rips him apart when Derek finally explodes inside him,
filling him with gush after gush of hot, watery semen, stinging when it hits
his raw rim. It fucking hurts, it's too much, too big, too intense, but the
pain sends him right over the edge, more like being shoved off a cliff than an
actual orgasm. He sags forward, unable to control his own body when Derek's
claws raise pinpricks of blood on his hips, his thighs, his ass. It drips and
congeals in the leaves when Derek shifts them both onto their sides, burrowing
into the piss- and come-soaked earth.
“You took that like a champ, learned your lesson yet? Ready to be my good
little bitch now?”
“Yes, daddy. Gonna do whatever you say, be so good for you.”
Derek wraps a thick arm around his chest, pulls him even closer, nuzzles into
the back of his neck. “Already good for me, baby,” he whispers. “Wouldn't have
no fun at all if you didn't push me sometimes.”
Stiles could take that as an invitation to misbehave again, he supposes, but he
doesn't want to, not now, happy and sated and claimed. So instead he clenches
down on Derek's knot, twists his hips and fucks into his own hand languidly, no
real destination in mind, until Derek softens enough to slip out, a sticky
trail spilling out in the wake of his slack cock.
He shifts his hand, reaches down between his legs to finger his abused hole and
even his wimpy human nose can scent the blood when he touches a little tear.
“Fuck, Der, can't tell you how happy I am you stopped finally holding back.
Just want it... want everything, all of you.”
“You'll get it,” Derek snarls as he scrapes sharp canines down the side of
Stiles' throat, half-threat and half-promise.
End Notes
     Possible contenders for the fuck Stiles just said to him:
     “Knock knock.”
     “You're not the boss of me!”
     “But I don't like wearing [safety equipment].”
     Any dog joke, really.
     Would love to hear your thoughts on how Stiles managed to get his
     foot so firmly lodged in his mouth!
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