Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1088952.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Wingfic, sort_of, Derek_Has_Issues, Past_Kate_Argent/Derek_Hale, GFY
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-19 Words: 3937
****** cover you with His pinions ******
by starr_falling
Summary
     Stiles smells like feathers and light. Before meeting him Derek
     didn't even know light had a scent.
Notes
     I wrote this waaaaay back before season 3 aired, but never posted it
     as it never felt quite right. It still doesn’t really, but it’s been
     3 months since I’ve even looked at it let alone worked on it and
     frankly, I’m sick of it sitting in my WIP folder. So I’m posting it
     as is.
     Title is from Psalm_91:4.
Derek watches avidly as Stiles moves above him, skin flushed, eyes never
wavering from his. Distracted by the sight of his beautiful milky skin, the
burning intensity of his eyes, the hot hard length splitting him open, he
barely notices the way the light and shadows shift around them, nearly
fluttering.
===============================================================================
The first time Derek ever met Stiles, he'd hardly paid him any attention. All
he could think about was Laura; finding her dead, cut in half. He didn't care
about the new wolf let alone his irritating friend. There was no space in his
mind, crushed by grief, to care what they were doing there, only that it was a
distraction he didn't want.
Still, even as he couldn't think of anything else, even as he sent them away, a
part of him couldn't help but catalog their scents just as he did with every
person he meet. Scott had smelled like a typical teenage boy, sweat and
hormones with a faint trace of medication. The wolf was so new to him that it
was barely present in his scent at all, so weak Derek would've missed it if it
wasn't so familiar.
But Stiles. There was something wrong with the way he smelled, and it intrigued
the small part of Derek that was paying attention. His scent was faint, almost
not there. He smelled nothing like any person Derek had ever met before. Like
feathers and resin and some strange not-scent that he couldn't place. It was
even fainter than his overall scent, more imagined than there, and Derek
couldn't figure out what it meant.
It irritated him for ages, this distraction he neither needed nor wanted. But
no matter how he tried to ignore it, that small part of his mind went over it
obsessively, worrying at it like a loose tooth.
===============================================================================
Derek arches into every thrust, desperate and helpless to do anything but match
Stiles’ every move. His eyes roam restlessly over Stiles' form, tracing every
beloved line with his eyes; the long graceful neck, the broad shoulders, the
narrow, lean chest. He's drawn, fascinated as always, by the freckles and moles
scattered across otherwise unblemished skin.
He groans as Stiles grinds against him, fingers digging into his sides. He
struggles for control, to keep from piercing Stiles with his claws. As it is,
he can see his fingers denting the skin, white at the tips with the strength of
his grip. There will be bruises there, he knows. Dark marks in delicate flesh
that will remind Stiles for days of this moment.
He’d panicked, the first time he realized that he’d bruised Stiles. Stiles had
laughed, pulling him close to whisper into his mouth how much he liked it, all
the places he wanted Derek to leave his mark. Derek has no idea what he's done
to deserve the beautiful creature over him, inside him, but he can only thank
whatever higher power might listen to the prayers of werewolves.
===============================================================================
The second time he'd meet Stiles – really meet him and not just exchanged a few
tense words or spied on him as he watched Scott – he was delirious with pain
and Wolfsbane poisoning.
He'd tried to focus all his attention on Stiles, to let the distracting boy
take his mind off his pain, off his likely death. It was surprisingly easy.
There was something about Stiles, something he couldn't quite put his finger
on. The faint smell of him, so hard to identify, cut across his own stench of
sickness and death this close, trapped in the small space of the Jeep.
Derek couldn't escape it, didn't even try really. It was certainly better than
smelling himself. As much as Stiles' complaints irritated him, Derek couldn't
blame him. He really did smell that bad.
But Stiles' scent was refreshing, pleasant in a way no teenage boy's was meant
to be. That close, confined together as they were, the scent was much more
intense than that day in the woods. The strongest scent was still that of
feathers, which was as confusing as it was intriguing. The scent was much too
strong, too central to his smell to be transfer from a pet. Even if somehow it
had been from a pet, it wasn't quite like any bird he'd ever come across
before.
There was another scent, not as strong, that was harder to identify. Strangely,
it reminded Derek of going to midnight mass on Christmas Eve, something he
hadn't done since his family died. It was rich and earthy, but somehow spicier,
wilder, than the smoke that had lazily curled through the small church his
family had attended for generations. It confused him, bringing back fond
memories he had long thought buried, even as it stirred baser longings.
He'd pushed those feelings away. Stiles was a child, barely sixteen, and Derek
refused to let himself even idly consider it. He wouldn't be the one to sully
his innocence, wouldn't let himself ruin Stiles the way he'd ruined himself.
Stiles deserved better than the burned and blackened husk Kate had left behind.
He had forcefully pulled his mind away from such thoughts. Focused on that
elusive scent, the not-scent that tickled at his nose and caught in the back of
his throat. It was strange, unlike anything he'd ever scented before, let alone
something he'd picked up from a person. It wasn't sweat, or hormones, or any
number of scents that could be transferred, that could linger, from things
Stiles had eaten, or brushed against or people he spent time with.
It was soothing and warm, and made him feel welcome and somehow lighter. Later,
after Scott had finally, finally, come through. When the pain and sickness were
gone, when all that was left was an ache in his muscles that would soon fade
into memory. He had stared at Stiles, limned by the low light of the
examination room, entranced at the way it had shone on his shorn hair, almost
creating a halo around his head.
It was light, he decided. The smell, elusive and strange and not quite human,
almost otherworldly, was what light would smell like, if it had a scent.
===============================================================================
Stiles moans above him, and Derek needs to taste it. Wants to lick the flavor
of his pleasure from his mouth until there's nothing left but Derek. He traces
his fingers up Stiles' sides, curving around his back, cupping his shoulder
blades.
A light pressure and Stiles is curving down, 'til they're chest to chest. Derek
swallows the moans the new position wrings from Stiles. Their movements become
frantic, grinding against each other. Derek loses himself in the heat of
Stiles' mouth. In the way his body accepts Stiles so easily, so greedily. In
the slick rub of Stiles' cock over his prostate with every thrust. In the way
Stiles' muscles shift under his fingers as he runs his hands up and down his
back, digging into all the tender spots.
It's easy to ignore the small, quiet part of his mind that insists the shifts
in muscle don't – quite – match Stiles' movements.
===============================================================================
The first time they'd had sex was after they had saved each other again. He'd
long since lost count of the number of times Stiles had saved him, or he
Stiles. Stiles still insisted he was 'winning.' All he could remember was the
way Stiles had looked at him, frantic and angry and some other, overwhelming
emotion Derek couldn't understand, wouldn't let himself understand.
He didn't know who moved first, only remembered hot and wet and Stiles. The
kiss was brutal, teeth clacking, the taste of blood sharp and oddly sweet. He'd
pulled impatiently at Stiles' shirts, growled in frustration at the extra time
it took to remove the multiple barriers between him and skin. Stiles never did
forgive him for ripping his favorite Batman shirt.
The feel of those long, clever fingers under his shirt, against the sensitive
skin at the small of his back, made his breath catch. His chest tightened,
overcome, and for a moment it felt like he was drowning again. He forced
himself to ease his grip, to let go long enough for Stiles to pull his shirt up
and off. The press of their chests threatened to undo all his control.
He captured Stiles' mouth again, needing his taste more than air. He pressed
Stiles back, moving him until he was trapped between Derek and the wall. Stiles
wrenched his mouth away from him, panting. Derek nipped at his jaw, his neck,
bit down on his Adam's apple. Stiles swore at that, babbled between pants;
encouragement, orders, nonsense sounds of pleasure.
Derek worried at the join of neck and shoulder as Stiles scrabbled at his back,
nails digging in, delicious pricks of pain. He ran his hands down Stiles'
sides, traced the flesh just above his jeans. The ragged moan that earned him
only spurred him on. He flicked open the button, easing the zipper down slowly.
Stiles made his opinion of that painfully clear. Derek laughed, slipping his
hand inside Stiles’ boxers. The strangled moan couldn't distract him from the
weight and heat of the flesh in his hand. He pulled Stiles' cock out,
fascinated, traced a thumb over the slick red head.
He'd lost himself in the feel, the taste, the smell, of this strange and
wonderful boy. Derek claimed his mouth again, rutting against Stiles' thigh as
he stripped his cock. It was quick and rough, denim creating an almost painful
friction against his dick. Stiles' hips stuttered, short sharp thrusts, cock
jerking in his hand. It was perfect; the feel of him pulsing, the wet splash of
come, the way the bitter smell only intensified Stiles' normal scent.
Derek came in his pants like a teenager, overwhelmed by everything that was
Stiles. They panted against each others' mouths, too wrecked to keep kissing.
Derek lay his head against Stiles' shoulder, unable to resist raising his
fingers to his mouth. Not even the truly filthy sound Stiles made could’ve
distracted him from the taste. Salty and bitter, with that elusive scent of
light somehow underlying it all.
He'd absently listened to Stiles babbling in between panting breaths as he'd
licked his fingers clean. The words barely penetrated his languid pleasure. But
he caught enough to realize - to remember. Stiles was still only seventeen, had
never been touched by another's hand before. Stiles was still innocent and pure
in a way Derek could no longer remember being, and Derek had sworn not to mar
him, not to dirty him with himself.
Even as his body shivered with the aftershocks, he could feel the sick twist of
guilt. He'd failed, had let his baser desires overcome his better sense. But it
wouldn't happen again. He silently swore to Stiles, to himself, that it would
never happen again.
But it did. Again and again and again. 'Til he lost count, 'til the guilt was
burned away by heat and pleasure and light.
===============================================================================
Stiles writhes in his grip, undulating in the most delicious way. It's hot and
perfect and not enough. Derek growls, rolling them over in one quick move. He
slams down on Stiles' cock, needing him deeper, needing Stiles as far inside
him as he can get, as close to being one with him as possible.
Stiles laughs around a moan, teasing Derek breathlessly about his control
issues. Derek doesn't bother to correct him, silencing him with a kiss instead.
It's his turn to groan, whatever control he might have snaps as Stiles sucks on
his tongue. His hips snap down, riding Stiles hard enough Derek has to brace
himself against the headboard to keep his balance.
Part of Derek still feels guilty, worries that he's taking advantage, that
someday he'll break Stiles the way he was broken. But it's easy to ignore it
now, while Stiles is under him, meeting him at every point, holding back
nothing and demanding everything. Stiles has long since proven he's far
stronger than Derek is, ever was, can ever hope to be. Derek cannot break
Stiles, not the way Stiles can break him. There's so little left of Derek that
is whole, but it belongs to Stiles, to do with as he pleases; to have, to keep,
to break, to heal.
He is Stiles', through and through, and he has never felt safer.
===============================================================================
Derek wasn't there, the first time Stiles did magic. He wasn't there, when
Stiles completed the circle of mountain ash, when he created a barrier to cage
the supernatural. But Derek had felt it the moment it happened. The snap of it
had almost been audible, the way it cut him off from his betas, trapped outside
while they were caught inside.
It had taken more effort than he would ever admit not to panic, not to demand
that Stiles remove it immediately. He could still feel them, but it was
distant, muted. That's why he hadn't felt – hadn't known – Scott was in
trouble, afraid and in pain, until he howled.
He was so worried, so focused on getting to Scott that he'd almost missed it.
The way Stiles' scent had intensified, sharp and so strong it was the only
thing he could smell for a moment. The scent of light, the not-smell that he
only ever scented on Stiles. As he broke the barrier, Stiles was all he could
smell, all he could hear. The sound of his heartbeat rushed through Derek, and
on the edges, almost drowned out, the sound of wings; of rustling pinions, as
if a flock of birds had just taken flight.
Derek didn't understand it, couldn't take the time to. As much as he wanted to
understand it, to understand him, he didn't have the time. Scott had needed
him, and his own desires took a backseat to that. He did spare one brief look
at Isaac and Erica, but their worried looks never changed. There was no
curiosity or confusion. He'd wondered how they could miss it, when it was all
he could feel, but they were still new to this life, still growing into their
abilities.
Derek firmly banished it from his mind, made himself focus on Scott. But later,
later he wondered. Wondered what it meant, the sound of wings. What exactly
that scent was. He thought it must be related to Stiles' magic. It was the only
time he ever heard the wings, and the scent was always strongest then, barely
present otherwise. But if it was magic, why didn't it ever happen around
Deaton? He'd never actually been present when Deaton did magic, he had no way
of knowing if there was ever the sound of wings. But that scent, the not-there
scent of light was truly not there with Deaton. He smelled of animals, of herbs
and wood, and – underneath everything else – that unpleasant medical scent
carried by anyone that spent time in a hospital. Animal or human, it didn't
matter, the scent was the same; sickness and medicine, bleach and death.
But if it wasn't magic, not some scent carried by everyone who could will the
world to change, then what was it? Derek tried to ignore it, to push the matter
out of his mind, but he couldn't. He almost asked once what Deaton knew, what
he suspected, but in the end he couldn't bring himself to. He couldn't bring
himself to trust Deaton, not completely. He wasn't sure if he was more worried
that Deaton would lie or tell the truth.
It bothered him though, the way Deaton looked at Stiles sometimes, when he
thought no one was looking. Deaton treated Stiles no differently than anyone
else, beyond teaching him to utilize his magic. But. The way he looked at
Stiles sometimes, with awe almost, was deeply unsettling. Deaton was a hard man
to read, and Derek didn't understand him well enough to parse what it meant
that he looked like that. That he sometimes looked at Stiles like he was the
most amazing and precious thing Deaton had ever seen.
It made him uncomfortable, like he'd seen the most private and personal part of
Deaton. It made him angry, both the human and the wolf possessive of Stiles in
a way that frightened him. He wanted answers and he suspected Deaton had them,
but he wouldn't ask for them. Wanted nothing more than to hurt him, rip him,
kill him, for daring to look at what was his like he had some stake in him,
some claim on him.
===============================================================================
Derek is so close, balls drawn up, every muscle tense in anticipation of
release. He can feel himself shifting, losing that last bit of control. His
nails lengthen into claws, digging into the wood of the headboard. He tries to
pull away as his fangs lengthen, worried about hurting Stiles. But Stiles
doesn't let him, twists long fingers through his hair, holds his head in place.
He could break the hold easily, but doesn't. Lets Stiles hold him, lick into
his mouth, trace his fangs with his tongue. Moans when he deliberately – it has
to be deliberate – drags his tongue across one tip, flooding Derek's mouth with
the sweet, salty taste of Stiles.
His climax slams into him, overtaking him in a rush. His hips stutter, losing
all rhythm as he comes between them. He barely has the presence of mind not to
bite down, to chase after the taste he has become addicted to. Stiles fucks him
through his climax, frantic and graceless. Derek watches him through slitted
eyes, mesmerized by the way he bites his lip, the way his eyelashes flutter,
the way he groans, deep and filthy, as he comes. Derek rumbles, eyes closing in
pleasure as he's filled with wet heat.
He doesn't move, savors this moment, engraves this feeling so deeply in his
memories he'll never forget it. Derek finally pries his eyes open when Stiles
sighs, a sound so full of satisfaction and contentment that he has to see it.
He needs to look at his beautiful face, open in a way it never is. It's
humbling, to know that Stiles, that anyone, could trust Derek so completely,
that they could be so open and unguarded. He's certain he doesn't deserve such
trust but he isn't strong enough to protect Stiles from himself.
===============================================================================
He'd found a feather once. Or rather Stiles had. It was several months into
this, thing, whatever it might be. They were lying together, basking in the
simple pleasure of skin against skin. It was the first time Stiles had ever
stayed after the sweat dried. The first time they'd ever had the time really.
There was no disaster, no life threatening event to rush off to. It was the
first time they hadn't come together because of adrenaline and desperation.
It was slow and sweet and just because. There wasn't any reason for it, other
than they'd both wanted, and they couldn't think of why they shouldn't. It'd
felt different, new almost, like it was their first time, that everything
before that didn't count, not really. It frightened Derek, in that small part
of his mind that didn't believe that good things could happen to him. That part
used to be so much larger, was nearly all he was, before Stiles. He thought he
should be worried about that, that Stiles had such power over him, but he felt
too good to think too much on it.
Stiles was plastered to his side, sweaty and breathless, so warm and
comfortable. Derek knew he should get up, clean up before they got stuck
together, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to bother. He was unsure
how long they lay like that, only that when Stiles finally moved, finally
shifted away, it wasn't long enough. It took more willpower than he would ever
admit not to clutch him, not to force him to stay.
But Stiles moved away, scrunching his face up in a way that was somehow both
comical and adorable, as their skin peeled apart. He laughed, couldn't help it;
couldn't remember the last time it had happened. Judging from the look of shock
on Stiles' face, it was before they'd met. Stiles had shaken his head,
muttering to himself lowly enough that Derek pretended he hadn't heard. But he
did, and he would never forget the fondness in Stiles' voice as he'd climbed
out of the bed.
Derek watched, entranced by the play of muscles even as he dreaded Stiles
leaving. But he didn't get dressed merely stumbled, still naked, into the
bathroom. The sound of water running was quickly followed by Stiles' return. He
was clean, but still smelled like Derek and sex. He threw a wet washcloth on
Derek's stomach as he crawled back into bed. Derek shivered at the cold water
on his heated skin.
He wiped himself mechanically, hating to clean off the evidence of what they'd
done, only the knowledge that the scent would linger allowed him to do so. He
tossed the cloth in the direction of the bathroom when he was done, before
turning back to Stiles.
He was holding a feather as long as his forearm. Derek asked where he'd gotten
it. Stiles said he’d found it in the sheets, asked where it'd come from. Derek
didn't answer, only shrugged. He had no idea where it'd come from, only that it
hadn't been in his bed before.
Stiles ran his fingers along the edges, first ruffling then smoothing the
barbs. It was shaded brown, a light nearly amber color close to the shaft,
growing darker until it was a rich chocolate brown at the tip. Stiles grinned
wickedly before shifting so he could drag the feather down Derek's torso. He
sucked in a breath at the tickle, faint and almost not there.
Stiles dragged it back up, detouring to circle first one nipple, then the
other. Derek groaned, cock twitching against his thigh. The scent of Stiles'
arousal was sharp. Derek grinned wolfishly at him as he pounced. Derek forgot
all about the feather, more interested in seeing if he could make Stiles squeak
like that again.
Later - much later - after Stiles had finally had to leave, he found the
feather on the floor. He studied it but couldn't figure out where it had come
from, how it had gotten into his bed. The coloring was strange, unlike any bird
he was familiar with, larger than anything he'd ever found in the Preserve.
He brought it to his nose, inhaled deeply. It smelled like a feather and resin
and light. It smelled like Stiles.
Derek kept it – bought a silk scarf for the sole purpose of wrapping it up – in
a box in his trunk, where he kept all he had left of Laura. A shirt she had
left in the Camaro, a necklace their mother had given her for her sixteenth
birthday, a book she never finished. Small things, unimportant things. It hurt,
to know there was so little left of someone who'd been his whole world for so
long. It terrified him to think that one day, this feather might be all he had
left of Stiles.
===============================================================================
He tries to pull away, to relieve Stiles of his weight, but Stiles' arms
tighten around him. Derek sighs but relents, lowers himself back down on top of
Stiles. He listens to the hum, more felt than heard, that Stiles lets out. He
knows he can't stay here long, he weighs too much for this position to be
comfortable for Stiles.
But he’ll stay. As long as Stiles wants him here, he’ll stay.
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