Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/869197.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Demon!Stiles, Possession, POV_Derek
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_Devil's_in_the_Details
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-04 Words: 2284
****** The Greatest Show on Earth: Rerun ******
by grimm
Summary
     He's losing pieces of time. There's blood on his sheets and in his
     mouth. There are bruises on his skin and voices in his head and
     Stiles is pretty sure he's going crazy.
     -
     Stiles' possession from Derek's point of view.
Notes
     Long promised, it's finally here, the explicit side of the story.
     Non con issues lie in the fact that Stiles cannot give consent, as he
     is possessed. Unaware that it's happening, but it's still happening
     nonetheless.
Stiles is changing and it takes Derek a while to notice. When he does, it's in
fits and spurts because sometimes he seems the way he's always been and
sometimes he's…different. There's something in the way he holds himself, his
shoulders straighter, a faint grin playing around the corners of his mouth like
he's got a joke he's dying to tell. His newfound confidence pulls at Derek in a
way it shouldn't.
Derek knows Stiles is attracted to him. He's too young to know how to control
himself and sometimes the smell of lust rolling off him is so strong that Derek
has to leave, has to find somewhere where he can jerk off to the thought of
Stiles heaving underneath him. He wants Stiles, has wanted him since the day
Derek first saw him and Scott in the woods and smelled the salty, boyish smell
of him, of cheap aftershave and laundry detergent and spunk. But though Derek
is a monster, he is trying his best to be human and good, and he doesn't touch
Stiles because he does not want to be arrested (again). He's a predator, but
not like that.
Sometimes Stiles looks scared. He stares at his hands like he's never seen them
before and he reeks of nervousness and unease. Derek asks Scott, privately, if
Stiles is all right, and Scott stares at him like he's some sort of new alien
life form (which is unfair; Stiles is part of his pack and Derek has the right
to be concerned about him). Eventually Scott shrugs and says that Stiles hasn't
been sleeping well, which seems to be about right, judging by the deep circles
under his amber eyes. Derek doesn't go home and get himself off to the thought
of Stiles on his knees, those whiskey-colored eyes staring up at him through
dark lashes. He doesn't.
Things are happening in the woods and it unsettles him. There are animals torn
to pieces amongst the trees, blood spread across the ground, and the scenes
smell familiar but not. He can't put his finger on it, and it worries him.
He holds a pack meeting one night and at the end, when everyone rises to head
to their cars, Stiles is slow to move. He dawdles like he wants to say
something to Derek. Derek watches him expressionlessly, though his heart pounds
in his chest and he's suddenly glad Stiles isn't a werewolf, can't smell his
agitation. He watches Stiles open his mouth, shut it, turn toward the door,
then suddenly he's turning again, that faint, confident smile lifting the
corners of his lips, and he steps into Derek's space. Derek doesn't move, just
stares at Stiles as he lifts a hand, brushes his fingertips along the line of
his jaw, and presses his lips to Derek's.
It shouldn't happen, but it does. Derek has behaved himself for a long time and
here he is now, in this moment, and he didn't even have to make the first move.
That's an invitation if he's ever seen one. The kiss starts slow, careful, but
the heat of Stiles' mouth pulls at him like a moth to the flame and he's
faintly surprised at the strength of the boy, at the way his fingers clutch at
his shoulders, at the bold way his mouth opens and his teeth catch against
Derek's lips. His fingernails dig into Derek's skin and his touch seems to say
I'm not going to break.
Derek startles himself by groaning into Stiles' mouth and the boy laughs
softly, slipping his arms around Derek's chests to press long, strong fingers
against his vertebrae. "C'mon," Stiles murmurs into his ear, and his voice is
unlike Derek's ever heard it. It's deep and jarring and rattles Derek to the
core, ignites a fire in his bones. "I'm not a fucking flower."
It's a challenge, an invitation, and Derek growls, a low rumble deep in his
chest. He shoves Stiles back against the wall of the entrance hall, rucks up
his shirt so he can paw at his soft skin, bites at his lips until they're
swollen and red. Stiles makes an approving noise and wraps his skinny legs
around Derek's waist, letting the wall support him. The noise he makes when
Derek bites at his throat is exquisite, one that Derek will play over and over
in his head later while he lays on his mattress on the floor and fucks into his
hand. Derek sucks a bruise into his collarbone and keeps pressing his fingers
to it even as the mark turns purple.
Later, Derek will worry about how easy it was to lose himself in this boy, how
quickly he gave up his pretense of chivalry when an invitation was offered to
him. He will worry about how good the boy smelled, of copper and electricity,
how salty his skin was under Derek's tongue. He'll worry about how quickly they
went from kissing to Stiles' hand around their cocks, and how sure Stiles was
of himself, despite the fact that Derek had it on good authority that Stiles
hadn't so much as ever kissed anyone before.
But that will be later. Now, Derek tilts his head back and comes with a rough
cry seconds after Stiles, and Stiles lifts his hand to his mouth and licks the
spunk from his fingers, his eyes focused on Derek the entire time. He slips out
of Derek's grip, hitches his pants back up around his hips, and disappears out
the front door with a wave. Derek listens to him drive off, open-mouthed and
panting and tells himself it won't happen again.
It does, of course.
Stiles hangs back at the end of every pack meeting after that, smug and happy
and assertive. Derek tries, for Stiles' sake, to take things slow, but Stiles
seems absolutely uninterested in the snail's pace Derek tries to set. Derek's
daydream of Stiles on his knees is realized the second time he stays behind and
it's even better than Derek fantasized - there is no imagination in the world
great enough to truly visualize the image of Stiles' mouth stretched around his
cock, or the feeling of his tongue swiping over the head of his dick. He
doesn't mean to come on Stiles' face but he does and Stiles just takes it,
opening his mouth to catch Derek's seed.
They fuck the third time. Stiles kneels on Derek's lumpy mattress and keens
when Derek works him open with two blunt fingers. Derek's panting and
unraveling rapidly by the time he pushes inside Stiles, red clawing at his
vision, the wolf in his head howling for liberation. Stiles encourages him with
his mouth hanging open and his hands fisted in the sheets. He's more vocal than
Derek thought he'd be, and the words coming out of his mouth are filthy,
obscene, nothing that he'd ever expected to come out of Stiles' mouth, just a
lewd stream of consciousness that has Derek's dick throbbing.
" - fuck, fuck, your fucking cock, harder, harder, fucking split me open, fuck
- "
Derek shoves Stiles' shoulders to the mattress, fucks into him harshly, his
hands burning at Stiles' waist. He can feel his claws sinking into Stiles' skin
and Stiles moans at the pain, lust spiking off his skin. Stiles is already
marked with bruises and red lines from Derek's claws and Derek eyes them
proudly, thinks Mine.
It becomes a thing they do. Stiles hangs around after pack meetings or shows up
after school. Sometimes Derek goes to Stiles' house after dark and comes
through the window where Stiles is always waiting, loose-limbed as he lounges
in bed and looks at Derek in a way that makes him want to crawl out of his skin
and inside Stiles (so he does). He doesn't let the way Stiles fucks like a
champion worry him - some people are fast learners, he thinks - and he doesn't
let the way he's starting to smell like Stiles bother him either, even if the
rest of the pack is starting to notice. It finally feels like there's something
good in his life, and he's not going to let it slip out of his fingers.
He has to lift his head when the odd events of the woods bleed into the human
world. It's not just animals any more - a woman is torn apart in her home.
Derek breaks into her house after the police leave and stands in her bedroom.
He stares at the blood sprayed across the walls. It's not something a rogue
werewolf would do, and he's not sure it's something a mountain lion would do
either. He's never seen anything like it.
Derek holds a pack meeting that night to discuss the killing. Stiles is quiet
throughout, unusual for him. He's watching his hands again like he's afraid
they're about to take on a life of their own and he won't meet Derek's eyes. He
doesn't stick around after the meeting like he usually does, but heads out to
his car with everyone else. Derek follows him, slightly concerned by his
unease, and slips his arms around his waist, halting his attempts to get his
car door open by leaning his long body against Stiles'.
"What's wrong?" Derek murmurs, slipping his hand under the edge of Sties'
shirt, seeking the reassuring warmth of his skin. But Stiles - Stiles isn't
responding the way he usually does. He's frozen and he smells like fear and his
heart is beating faster than a rabbit's. Derek pulls away from him, unease
welling inside him, and asks again, "What's wrong?"
He can smell the salt tears in Stiles' eyes and the fear Derek smells hurts him
like a knife to the heart. Stiles whispers, "Why did you do that?"
"I thought we - " Derek swallows, fights the panic rising in his chest. Stiles
is acting like they've never touched before. He swallows again and covers the
hurt with anger. "You know what? Never mind."
He turns, leaving Stiles standing by his car, and he's just gone through the
front door when realization hits him. Stiles' change, his growing confidence,
the way he seems to know exactly what he's doing in bed. The way he looks
frightened sometimes, like he doesn't know where he is or how he got there. The
way he watches his hands like he's lost control of them. The way he smells like
copper. The way he smells like blood.
Derek stumbles out onto the back porch and vomits onto the grass. There's
something wrong with Stiles, has been for months, and he was too busy being
fucking greedy - greedily fucking - that he was willing to overlook the fact
that a member of his pack was sick, ruined, taken. He ruined a seventeen-year-
old boy because he ignored all the warning signs and wanted a mouth on his
cock. His stomach heaves again and he throws up again.
When he can think straight, he calls Deaton and everyone but Stiles. They're
furious at him but he lets them have their anger, feeds it into his own. Deaton
tells them what to do and they spend all night preparing. When the sun rises he
heads to the Stilinski house and gets there in time to see the sheriff
scrambling into his squad car and peeling off down the block. Derek can smell
Stiles/Not-Stiles in the air and takes off around the house, following his
scent into the woods. Now that he knows to look, it's not Stiles' scent; it's
what he's been smelling in the woods for months and it makes his skin crawl.
He catches up to it running through the trees and it's sobbing. He thinks it's
Stiles in control now but he can't chance it so he tackles the boy to the
ground and feels him go still as Derek hauls him to his feet, arms cinched
tight around his waist.
"What's wrong with me?" Stiles moans, and that desperation - that's Stiles, and
it turns Derek's stomach.
"You're not you," he replies grimly.
Derek feels the shift when the thing inside Stiles takes over and he shudders
when it starts to laugh, high and mocking. It makes him want to peel his skin
off, like a thousand hot baths will never get him clean again. It mocks him the
whole way to the house, laughs at how pliable his mind was, how happy Derek was
to take the innocence of a teenager. It preens and purrs, tells Derek how good
his cock tasted, how it loved swallowing his come, how it relished being shoved
to the mattress and rammed into, over and over and over. The scream it makes
when Lydia exorcises it turns Derek's stomach but fills him with a nasty sort
of satisfaction that dissipates the moment Stiles comes back into himself.
Derek sees the moment Stiles realizes what's happened, his face going pale.
Derek forces himself to keep watching even though it's tearing him apart
inside. He watches the rest of the pack leave, and he watches Stiles lean
forward and rub his hands over his face. Derek forces himself to move forward
and he opens his mouth, trying to find the I'm sorry he desperately needs to
say. The words die in his throat when Stiles looks up at him, his pale face
drawn and miserable. Stiles is sorry - sorry forDerek, and that's wrong, that's
so wrong, and he - Stiles is standing up, wrapping his arms around Derek. Derek
stiffens, listening to Stiles' heart hammer inside his ribs and then he lifts
his arms, holding him so tight he feels the boy's bones creak.
It's not over, Derek thinks to himself. We're just beginning.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!