Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/553942.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      American_Horror_Story-flavored_AU, Violence, Murder, dark!stiles, Major
      Character_Death_(before_the_story), bottom!Derek, Underage!Derek, Ghosts,
      Podfic_Available
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-04 Words: 3532
****** you are the spark, you are the darkness ******
by the_rat_wins
Summary
     When Derek Hale and his parents move to Beacon Hills, Stiles finally
     gets what he's been missing.
     An American Horror Story-style AU.
Notes
     This is the direct result of having watched the first series of
     American Horror Story in one sitting yesterday (wow, guys! What a
     show!), so there are many references, but should make sense even with
     no prior knowledge of AHS.
     Derek is fifteen, and Stiles is a few years older.
     Unbetaed, so feel free to point out any mistakes and I will gladly
     correct.
     ETA: The very talented Jinxy has recorded an absolutely beautiful
     podfic of this!
"Wow," Stiles whispers. "Look at him. He's kinda . . . perfect."
"Slow down, Stilinski," Lydia says behind him. "You should probably try having
a conversation with him first. Or at least let him get out of the car."
Stiles lets out a breath. "Right. Just . . . wow."
He can almost hear her rolling her eyes.
"Nice. Because you being in love went so well for everybody last time." Then
she's gone.
"Fair enough," he says, to himself, to anyone else who's hanging around. "But
seriously. Wow."
***
Derek slouches down as far as possible into the backseat. This house looks like
somewhere the freaking Addams family would live. Which, okay, secretly, he has
to admit that he thinks it looks sort of awesome up close like this, when it’s
not just a picture on the realtor's website. But he's not going to tell his
parents that. He is making this move under protest, and they're going to know
it every step of the way.
He can feel the ache of his bond with the pack, stretched beyond recognition
all the way across the country, and it makes him want to howl. He stares out
the window into the woods that surround the house, wishes he was shifted and
running through them, running away, running back to New York, back to the rest
of the pack.
"Well," says his father, "here it is." Derek scowls again. "C'mon, Derek, admit
it. You love it, don't you?"
"Why's it so big when it's just going to be us," he mutters, unwilling to give
his father the satisfaction of hearing that what he wants to say (that he hates
it and it's awful and they need to go home) is a lie.
"Because Laura will need a room when she's on break from college," his mother
says. "And because . . ." She breaks off, clears her throat. "And because we're
going to need the space to start again. Here. With new people, new—"
"New family?" Derek grates out harshly. He hits the button on his seatbelt,
jerks on the door handle to let himself out of the car. He can feel the anger
rising to choke him. "I'm going to go look around the woods. I'll unpack my
stuff later."
His parents say nothing, but he can feel them trading a worried glance. As he
lets the door slam shut behind him and begins to run, the soft, wet dirt
shifting under his sneakers, he thinks he can hear his mother choke back a sob.
Who cares, who cares, who cares.
The words settle into a mantra as he runs, pounding as fast as he can through
the trees.
***
Stiles can hear the boy, Derek, crashing through the woods toward him. He's
making no effort to be quiet, to avoid branches or underbrush. It just a rage-
fueled sprint, no purpose, no destination. Derek is pure, animalistic
frustration, hot anger bubbling up and heating the air around him.
Smolder, Stiles thinks, and laughs.
It gets so cold around here sometimes: Lydia's cutting remarks. Jackson's icy
blue stare. The chilled edge of metal. He wants to stand behind Derek and feel
the heat rising off his body. 
Derek and his angst are almost to the rock where Stiles is stretched out in the
sun, a book in one hand and his knife resting close to the other.  Maybe Stiles
arranges himself a little, makes sure a strip of skin between his jeans and his
shirt is showing, lets his legs fall open. So what? A guy's allowed to try to
make a good first impression.
And when Derek appears at the edge of the clearing, he does stop and stare. But
then things go ever-so-slightly to shit.
"What are you doing?" he demands. "This is private property, you shouldn't be
here."
Wow, what a charmer! Stiles sure can pick 'em.
"If you're trying to play nice with the new kids on your first day," he says,
"you're not doing a very good job." He sits up, stretches in a leisurely way,
and lays his book down on the rock next to him. Then he finally lets himself
look directly at Derek. It's just been glimpses till now, through the car
window and as he took off into the woods.
Derek had apparently pulled his T-shirt off as he ran, and it's hanging loosely
from one hand. Stiles tries not to let his eyes linger too long, but it's hard.
Derek is staring back at him, and Stiles feels his breath catch for a second.
His eyes flick upward, and he sees Derek swallow convulsively.
Derek stripped to the waist and panting, staring up at him from dark sheets.
The same unconscious swallow, and his eyes flutter shut as Stiles leans down.
"It's our property," Derek repeats, and maybe he's a little more breathless
than before. "You can't be here."
"I was here first," says Stiles. "I'm not hurting anything."
Derek's eyes go to the knife next to his hand, and Stiles scoffs.
"C'mon, I know you just got here, but it should be pretty obvious that you
don't want to wander around the woods without something to protect yourself.
There's animals out here, you know. And who knows what kind of crazies." He
grins, waggles his eyebrows meaningfully.
Clearly against his will, Derek gives an amused snort. Stiles pats the rock
next to him. "So, are you going to play angry guard dog, or are you going to
come say hi?"
Derek hesitates for another long moment, his blue-green eyes almost unnaturally
wide as he stares at Stiles. Then, suddenly, all the tension leaves his
shoulders, and with a shrug, he crosses the clearing and climbs up.
It's like being socked in the stomach, having Derek so close to him: the heat
of his body, the scent of sweat from his run, the dampness as he licks his
lips.
Getting hard right now would probably put them off to an awkward start. Stiles
tries to calm down.
"What are you reading?"
Stiles runs a finger across the spine of the book. "It's a play," he says,
"about two guys at the end of the world."
"Dark," Derek replies, mocking, and Stiles looks down, smiles a little.
"Not really. It's actually pretty funny."
"So what are you doing here." Derek's eyes are drilling into him again, but the
tone is calmer.
"My mom died," Stiles says. "A couple years ago. She liked it out here, the sun
on the rock, the wind through the leaves. I come here to think about her
sometimes." All more or less true, although none of it is related to Derek's
question.
"We just moved here," Derek replies after an uncomfortable second.
"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock."
Derek opens his mouth angrily to retort, but Stiles cuts him off.
"Why here? Nobody's lived in this house for years." Also totally true.
Those piercing eyes finally look away, drop to the ground, and Derek mumbles,
"Back in New York, my dad, he did . . . something wrong. It's kind of hard to
explain if you're not . . . But we had to leave the rest of our family, and now
we're here. For now."
"Hmm," says Stiles. Another awkward pause.
"I'm Derek." Silence as he waits for Stiles to reciprocate. "Who are you?" he
demands impatiently after a second.
"Stiles. I've been here for a while."
"Okay." Derek is shifting uncomfortably. "See you around, I guess," he finishes
as he slides off the rock, avoiding Stiles's stare.
"Bye," Stiles says softly, and he watches him disappear back into the woods.
***
Derek runs even harder now, farther out into the trees. He can still hear his
parents in the distance, and he wants to be out of earshot, out of range, just
gone.
Something else besides his anger from before is strumming through him now,
pumping around his body. An insistent hum of frustration.
He makes a low noise, and reaches down to palm himself as he runs. In his mind
he can see the face of the guy from the clearing—Styles? Stiles? What the hell
kind of name is that, anyway?—and the warm light-brown of his eyes, and his
mouth, open and soft, like it's still right in front of him, inches away.
What the fuck, what the fuck, he knows he's fifteen, but this is ridiculous.
He's about five seconds from just dropping to his knees and jacking off on the
forest floor.
And once he thinks about it, he can't stop himself. He goes down, panting, and
fumbles frantically at his jeans for a few seconds before getting them open,
wrapping a hand around himself, and he's so unbelievably hard, leaking precome
like he's been playing with himself, but he hasn't, and oh god.
He sobs a little, no tears, but it’s so good it  almost hurts, and he comes
onto the ground in front of him. He gasps for one long second, then flops over
and onto his side, like his strings have been cut.
"What the fuck," he whispers.
***
They're down in the basement, near the cells, listening to the Hales move in.
Stiles is stretched out on the floor, and Lydia is lying on a bench above him,
her eyes closed, running her fingers through Jackson's hair as he leans back
against her.
He's glaring at Stiles, but what else is new.
"You're an idiot," she says, without opening her eyes. "You were then, and you
are now."
"Shut up," Stiles says, mulishly. He's throwing his knife up into one of the
wooden beams of the ceiling, just hard enough that it will drop back into his
hand and he can do it all over again.
"Seriously, what do you think this is going to change? Is it going to make you
feel better?"
"Maybe." God, he wishes she would shut up sometimes. He throws the knife with a
little more force, and it sticks in the beam.
"And how exactly do you think this is going to end, Stiles? Hm? Is he going to
leave his family for you? Is he going to die for you? Is he going to love you?"
"Shut up," he says again, and when the knife drops back into his hand, he sits
up, reaches over, pulls back on her gorgeous hair, and slits her throat. She
dies gurgling.
"You know, Lydia, most of the time, I wish I'd cut your tongue out, too," he
informs her, lying back down.
From his place at her feet, Jackson sneers. The drip of blood from Lydia's
throat slows, then finally stops.
"Doesn't change the fact that you're an idiot," she says, when her vocal chords
have healed.
"Yeah," he says.
His knife hits the wooden beam. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
***
Derek had been home-schooled in New York, where there were enough kids in the
pack and enough people willing to teach them that it made sense. In some ways,
public school is as bad as he was expecting. In other ways, it’s even worse.
The kids are mostly snotty, and those who might have been tolerable company are
happy with the friends they have, and not about to go out on a limb to make his
acquaintance, which suits Derek fine. Fewer people to have to pretend to be
friendly and normal around.
But there is one teacher who almost makes it all worth it. Ms. Argent is clever
and snarky and doesn’t take shit from any of the students. She makes him want
to pay attention. To English. Right now she’s teaching them the play that
Stiles had been reading in the woods that day, and he was right. It’s pretty
funny.
And sure, Derek is fifteen. There are nights when he remembers the way Ms.
Argent (Kate) leans over his shoulder to point something out in the text
they’re reading, her breast so close to his arm that he can feel her body heat,
and he imagines her pressing just that little bit closer. Even though that is
all kinds of screwed up, not to mention, like, illegal.
But most nights, his mind is somewhere else entirely, because after that first
afternoon in the woods, it seems like Stiles is everywhere. Derek has no idea
how he does it, because he should be able to hear every move that Stiles makes.
But Stiles appears behind him without warning so many times that he eventually
stops even thinking it’s weird. If he’s on a run in the woods, or if his
parents are out somewhere, he can more or less count on Stiles showing up.
And Stiles, it turns out, is awesome.
He went to Beacon Hills High, too, and commiserates with Derek about how awful
it is (apparently Stiles wasn’t popular, which, whatever. Stiles is, as
previously stated, awesome, so clearly Beacon Hills residents are all morons.)
And when Derek feels like he’s going to scream with how much he misses the
pack, Stiles listens to him shout and rage about his father, about California’s
stupid lack of weather, about . . . life. And how much it truly sucks
sometimes. Then he’ll smile this wry little smile that says Stiles knows
exactly what he’s talking about, and he’ll make some observation or joke that
will make Derek want to smile, too, and it’s just. Awesome.
The first time Stiles (finally, finally, Derek’s been thinking about this ever
since that first day, when he had to run off into the woods to touch himself
because he wanted Stiles so much) leans in to kiss him, Derek realizes that he
doesn’t actually know how old Stiles is. So maybe this is illegal, too.
He doesn’t really care, though, because Stiles’s mouth is just as soft and
sweet as it looks. And Stiles is willing to do way more than just kiss with it.
***
Derek is everything Stiles was hoping. No. He’s better.
He tries his best to take it slow, to just be there for Derek in a way he
obviously needs. Stiles doesn’t know what the hell is up with his weird-ass
family, but it’s clearly messing with Derek's head in a pretty profound way.
And Stiles just wants to make that shit stop, because he remembers, back before
his mom got sick, back before his dad—he remembers what family is supposed to
do. It’s supposed to keep you safe, to make you happy. If you love someone, you
should never, ever hurt them. And Derek’s family isn’t doing a very good job of
that at all.
But Stiles can.
And the first time he can’t hold himself back anymore, can’t stop himself from
putting a hand around Derek’s arm, pulling his body in closer, putting his
mouth . . . Derek is happy. So fucking happy. He rubs up eagerly against
Stiles, all that heat, and it’s so good he almost can’t stop, just wants to go
again and again and again.
Lydia likes to heckle him when she catches them, but she can get over it.
Because Derek, Derek is forever. And sure, maybe Stiles used to think Lydia
would be forever, but this is different. This is real.
She’s just jealous, probably. He doesn’t know why. She’s got Jackson forever,
doesn’t she? Just like she wanted. Can’t Stiles have what he wants, for once?
Just this one goddamn time?
So, he starts to get comfortable. He shows up around Derek’s parents more, and
that’s definitely a mistake.
***
"It's just that he's over here a lot,” his mom says. “Like, a lot. I'm not even
sure how he gets in half the time. And he's a few years older than you. I just
don't want you to ever feel like he's . . . I don't know, honey." She sits down
next to him, cups a hand to his cheek. "Like he's pressuring you, or—"
Derek knocks her hand away and glares. "God, Mom, what the hell are you talking
about. It's not even like that with us."
It's totally like that with them. He knows the only reason his heartbeat stayed
steady over that sentence is that Stiles has never pressured him for anything.
He’s never done anything except put his hands and his mouth and his dick
exactly where Derek is aching for them.
"My mom thinks we spend too much time together," he says.
"Hmm," says Stiles, pretending to think as he slides slowly back into Derek,
who can't help but grind against him, trying to get him inside faster. "I'm
finding it difficult to imagine what 'too much time' with you would look like,
but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be anything like this. This feels like . . .
just the right amount of time."
"Yeah," Derek pants. He can feel a drip of precome welling up, where he’s rock-
hard and untouched against his own stomach. Oh god, could he come just from
this? The weight and pressure of Stiles in him? "Just the right . . . oh god."
“You’re mine,” Stiles whispers into the back of his neck,  an open-mouthed kiss
against his skin every time he says it. “You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re
mine.”
***
But that’s not the only mistake he makes.
***
“Who’s coming by to look at the house?” Stiles asks. Derek is calling from his
cell phone, and sometimes cell phones don’t react all that well when Stiles is
on the other end.
“Ms. Argent, my English teacher. She’s doing some weird historical piece for
her master’s degree, and she said something about the history of the
house—look, Stiles, I wasn’t really listening, I just said yes to make her shut
up and stop touching my arm. And I forgot I have baseball practice. Can you
just show her whatever she needs to see and then kick her crazy ass out?”
“Sure,” Stiles says, quietly.
“Thank you! So fucking much! She gives me the creeps.” Derek pauses, probably
looking to see if there’s anyone who might overhear. “Hey,” he says, and his
voice is low and intimate, the same way he sounds when Stiles is inside him. “I
love you.”
Stiles closes his eyes. “I love you, too,” he breathes back.
Yeah, he can guess what Kate motherfucking Argentwants with this house. It's
because of him. She knows, or at least she suspects. And that's why she’s been
trying to get close to Derek, touching him.
Stiles screams so loudly that one of the upstairs windows breaks. Whoops.
Should probably clean that up beforeMs. Argentgets here.
***
When she arrives, he makes sure the front door is open enough that she can just
push her way inside.
“Hello?” she calls out. “Derek said his friend was going to be here? Anybody
home?”
He can see the outline of the big containers she’s carrying in her backpack,
gasoline and lighter fluid, probably. He wonders what her original plan for
incapacitating Derek was, but he thinks he knows. If he hadn’t been planning on
killing her anyway, that thought definitely does it.
She makes her way down into the basement, because everyone and their mother
knows that it happened in the basement, and he follows, knife in hand. Lydia
and Jackson are down there, watching her silently as she unzips the backpack.
Would what she’s planning on doing set them free? Do even they care? Allison
and Scott might, but he’s never seen them, so. Who knows.
(He’d wanted to leave Scott out of it. Scott was family, Scott would never have
hurt him, just like his dad would never—but Allison saw Lydia, and when Scott
saw Allison . . .)
“Fucking Argents,” Stiles hisses, as he comes up behind Kate and opens up her
stomach with his knife. “He’s mine, and you bitches can’t fucking have him.”
Stomach wounds kill relatively slowly. Sepsis and shock. He makes sure she dies
off the property, because there is no way in hell he’s spending his afterlife
with Kate Argent. The role of “sassy deceased femme fatale” in this haunted
house is filled to perfection by one Lydia Martin, and they are not auditioning
understudies.
***
When Derek finally comes back, late after a grueling practice, Stiles is all
over him so fast, he not only forgets to ask how Kate’s visit went, he pretty
much forgets that she ever existed. Her, or anyone else, honestly.
"You're everything I ever wanted," Stiles whispers as he works his way into
Derek. He's slick and hard, and it hurts, but it’s good. He runs his fingers
down Derek's back, traces where they're joined together, where Derek's skin is
hot and stretched. "Why couldn't you have gotten here sooner?"
Derek huffs out a laugh, gasping a little under Stiles's thrusts. "Got here as
soon as I could."
"Wasn't soon enough," Stiles says quietly, and Derek starts to smile, god, such
a stupidly romantic thing to say, it's so . . . Stiles. But Stiles isn't
smiling, isn't giddy with his love for Derek. He's angry. Angry and sad.
Derek clenches around him, trying to get him closer, to make him feel how real
they are, how good this is. "Well, I'm not going anywhere now."
"Nope," says Stiles, and there's his smile, bright and beautiful. Derek can
hear it in his voice. "Not if I can help it." And Derek shudders underneath
him, warm and safe.
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