Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/623864.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-04 Words: 1807
****** possessed by light ******
by x_(ordinary)
Summary
     Stiles' honey-gold eyes drink in the sight, greedy in the textbook
     definition of the word (adjective, having or showing an intense and
     selfish desire for something, especially wealth or power). It's true
     to the letter, because Stiles craves the power to reduce this man to
     pieces, to lovingly gather them up, to tape together his shard glass
     insides that match his own.
     --
     In which not everything is as it seems.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Derek is wrecked.
It's written in his skin, carved in between the corded muscles of his arms, in
the frenetic pace of his bobbing throat, in the slightest quiver of his
stomach, abdominals clenching. And oh, what abdominals they are. Stiles doesn't
have the senses of a wolf (preternatural, enhanced, unbelievable), but even he
can see it, hear it. Taste it.
Stiles' honey-gold eyes drink in the sight, greedy in the textbook definition
of the word (adjective, having or showing an intense and selfish desire for
something, especially wealth or power). It's true to the letter, because Stiles
craves the power to reduce this man to pieces, to lovingly gather them up, to
tape together his shard glass insides that match his own.
Crawling forward, he feels like something awe-inspiring and gorgeous instead of
sixteen and awkward, because Derek looks at him with hazel eyes and blown
pupils, glinting in the darkness. They're on the floor like uncivilized
creatures, because beds and soft things are overrated and that's not what he
wants from Derek, not what he needs. They're in the burnt up husk people
sometime mistake for a house, covering up the bad memories in a way they don't
talk about.
Stiles' lips (sinfully pink, he's been told on good authority) wrap around
Derek's aching length, and he tastes like salt-musk-sweat, and Stiles is
careful to cover his teeth, to try and remember what he's seen in porn and what
to do now. He falters, for a moment, sitting back on his haunches, looking down
at Derek's naked form. Derek groans, because it was just a taste, the smallest
of them, and it seems like Stiles in a teasing mood, today.
"It's not fucking fair," Stiles mutters with a shake of his head, still raking
over Derek's body with his eyes, wants to take him apart bone by bone to
categorize him, to put him in a box for his admiring only, a butterfly pinned
inside a box. "You're an adonis, jesus christ."
Derek laughs weakly, and his face is just as flushed as Stiles' is, and his
blunt nails dig into the floorboards.
"Shut up," he says, still reluctant to accept the compliments because they're
something he's heard all his life, the sum of his worth, a pretty face, and
Stiles slides a hand up his leg, nails raking along his thigh, coaxing out a
soft exhalation. "Get over here."
"Who do you think you are," Stiles replies with a drawl, his nails tracing
patterns into olive skin, but his lips are quirked into a smile, crooked in a
way that Derek is too familiar with, this smile that isn't quite right, that
makes him feel like he's in Pleasantville, in a reality that's off kilter just
enough.
Stiles makes him feel like his chest will burst, overinflated with conflicting
desire-guilt-need-rage, and the way he's lazily jerking Derek off doesn't do
anything to assuage any of it.
"The alpha?" Derek replies with a laugh, mostly a puff of air, steadfastly not
bucking into Stiles' clever fingers if it's the last thing he does. At this,
Stiles throws his head back with a laugh, and finally stradles Derek's hips.
It's not the velvet soft of his mouth, but grinding against the teenager's dick
is still too excellent, and the guilt fills him up to the brim.
"Quit it," Stiles murmurs, dragging nails up Derek's front, angry red lines
following shortly thereafter. They stay there, among the mottle of bruises both
new and old, and the bitemarks that are slowly starting to crop up across his
skin. Stiles treats him like a canvas, or more accurately, something wonderful
to defile. "Anyone ever told you that you live too much in your head?"
"Laura," Derek replies, one hand clasping Stiles' hip, the other cradling his
chin. Stiles jerks away from the tender gesture, like a stallion shies away
from a bridle. Refusing to be contained. Insisting on independence, even as he
starves for contact.
"Don't talk about your sister in bed!" He sounds almost scandalized, stopping
for a minute, and Derek pushes himself up onto his elbows, cocking his head
like a confused dog.
"We're not in a bed, Stiles."
"Don't be obtuse." He leans forward, aiming to shut Derek up, and their kiss is
bite-blood-vicious, with no teeth clack because Stiles is too busy worrying at
Derek's lower lip, and it makes him smile. He pulls Stiles closer, and he's
successful only because Stiles wants to be moved, his form tightly compacted
with strength hidden away like a squirrel does nuts.
Derek could protest it, but he wants this, wants their relationship full of
snark and cruelty and half-snarled words, wants it even though Stiles visibly
flinches at the idea of a relationship, at the word of it. The R word. Not as
bad as the L word, but close.
Their lengths rub against each other, the friction electric dancing down
Derek's spine, the heat in his belly pooling molten hot. He pants against
Stiles' lips, bucks his hips and moans as Stiles ducks his head, nosing into
the hollow of Derek's throat.
"Dude," Stiles says, voice thick with something, a something that's probably
arousal, "you smell delicious. Better than, I don't know. Cake. Better than
curly fries." Derek laughs, but his arousal spikes, and he feels the knowing
smile curve against his skin.
"Thanks," Derek murmurs dryly, and he's not even sure if he's surprised anymore
when he means it. He reaches over towards where his pants had been thrown, or
at least what's left of them, and procures a tube of lube. He slicks up his
fingers, and it takes a while because Stiles is tugging at his nipples,
twisting them too hard, until he outright snarls, a loud sound that's sharp in
the air, not echoing at all, muted by the walls of Stiles' room.
"I mean it," Stiles says emphatically, and his voice is a little slurred, his
eyes blown, and Derek presses two fingers inside of him at once, shocking him
out of it. It hurts, he knows it does, but Stiles grinds his hips down anyway,
eager for it, for the stinging swell of something both pain and pleasure.
Derek lets himself drown in the way Stiles loses control.
Stiles always stripped him clean, laid him out before letting Derek take him,
and he knows the rules. He presses a third finger into him, into the heat
that's burning up and yielding to him all the same, and Derek curls his fingers
and it's Stiles' turn to shout. He digs his nails into Derek's shoulder, and he
finds that he doesn't mind, despite the fact that those clever hands of his
have drawn blood. It's not the first time, it won't be the last.
"Fuck me already, jesus christ," Stiles moans, and the snap of his hips tells
Derek he thinks he's ready. He's not, but he wants it, and the longer Derek
puts it off the crueler Stiles gets. Instead of arguing, he reaches down to
lazily fist his own cock, withdrawing his fingers, waiting just a moment, and
then the fat head of it is pressing into Stiles.
As expected, he's impossibly tight, and Stiles thrashes on top of him, sinking
down inch by inch, his own cock hard as nails, and Derek reaches to touch him.
His hand is batted away, Stiles' eyes glimmering in the shadows. "No," he
growls. "Not yet."
Derek feels the weight of Stiles against his hip, and doesn't pause. He grabs
for those sharp hips, fingers caressing the prominent hipbones, and promptly
lifts him and drags him back down, setting the pace brutal and too much, too
fast. Stiles' voice goes stuttery, and he brings his thin arms to link around
Derek's neck, pulling him closer, muttering incoherently, and their banter
bleeds away in favour of something darker.
Stiles wants to hurt, and god help him, Derek wants to oblige. His hips arch
upwards with every thrust, the sound of Stiles' cock slapping against his
belly, his balls tightening far too early but he breathes through his nose, and
Stiles is damn near screaming at him for more, to go faster.
He's got a feeling that Stiles wants to bleed out all the hurt, but Derek knows
there's not nearly enough blood in that compact body to do it.
Instead, he pushes Stiles to the ground, throws coltish legs over his shoulder
and rams into him, hard. Stiles shivers from head to toe, pressing his fingers
inside Derek's mouth, meeting his gaze with an intensity Derek sometimes finds
frightening.
The fingers alone are a little terrifying: he's seen them main and cut and
shred, but he trusts Stiles, so he sucks, laving his finger along them as he
presses into Stiles and fucks him wide open.
"Shit, Derek, I'm gonna, gonna," Stiles hisses, twisting away from a sloppy
kiss to fling his head aside, tears collecting in his eyes from the intensity
of it, and Derek disobeys his previous orders, wrapping a large hand around
that leaking erection, strokes it the way he knows Stiles likes it, too hard
and fast and relentless. He keeps it in time with the pace he's fucking Stiles
at, and he knows like Stiles preferes Captain America to Iron Man that it's
what drives him crazy, like he knows his internet porn addiction, like he knows
that Stiles is the Alpha.
Stiles comes hard, and his blissed out face is something that sears into
Derek's mind no matter how many times he's seen it, burning a Stiles sized hole
into Derek's heart that can never be repaired. His eyes gleam red like blood,
and he wolfs out because he's the Alpha but he's also a teenager, still not
surefooted in his control.
Derek comes a little after, after switching so Stiles is laid out on his hands
and knees, but Derek is already sated, because Stiles has met his completion,
and pleasing the Alpha means something to him, even if he's not a wolf. It's
what you do, giving them what they want, and Stiles had made it very clear that
he wanted Derek, in every possible way, at any given moment, for any reason,
feasible or otherwise.
The teenager curls around Derek, possessive, and murmurs soft words like if
anyone else even looks at Derek, then he'll ruin them, their families, their
lives.
Derek lays there, staring up at the ceiling, fingers brushing over the triskele
tattoo at the base of Stiles' neck, watching the motes dance in the dim light,
the windows mostly blocked off by heavy curtains, just one sliver of light
bleeding through.
Stiles carves an S into Derek's back, lazily, with an extended claw, golden
eyes shining in mirth as he marks his property.
Derek is wrecked.
It's written in his skin.
 
 
End Notes
     look liz i wrote....sort of sexy stuff!
     and surprise stiles is the alpha!
     ...surprise!
     title is from Richard Siken's "Crush", bless your heart, guy who
     inspires everything fandom ever.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!