Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/865175.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Human, Dark_Derek, Dark_Past, Self-Harm, Depressed
      Stiles, Stalking, Obsession, Sadism, Murder, Brief_Mentions_of_Harm_To
      Animals, Mentions_of_Character_Death, Loss_of_Virginity, Biting, Blood,
      Breathplay, Rough_Sex, Anal_Fingering, Hair_Pulling, Insults, Creeper
      Derek, Masturbation, Stabbing, Serial_Killer_Derek, mentioned_past_Derek/
      Jennifer_and_Derek/Kate, Alternate_Universe_-_Dark, References_to
      Suicide, mild_possessive_behaviour
  Series:
      Part 5 of derek_hale's_dark_passenger
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-01 Words: 8061
****** you make me wanna die ******
by poetictragedy
Summary
     The very short and very tragic love story between a sociopath and a
     depressed teenager.
     (warning: this fic does not have a happy ending; read at your own
     risk.)
Notes
     If you came looking for a happy story, you're in the wrong place.
     This fic is tragic and pretty disturbing, so if that's not your cup
     of tea you best exit out right now and never, ever look back.
     This fic came to be because a friend of mine gave me a prompt, a long
     time ago, for another pairing, using The Pretty Reckless' song ["Make
     Me Wanna Die"] (which is where the title comes from, obvs) as
     inspiration, and I just decided to write it as Derek/Stiles instead.
     I apologize for any mistakes you find... and for any warnings I may
     have left out. I tried to include them all.
Since birth, Derek Hale has been… different. 
In school, he was always the kid that sat in the back of the classroom and only
spoke when he was spoken to. The kid who was smart, yet antisocial, and who had
a knife collection, along with a affinity for fire and all things combustible.
That obsession with fire is what cost his family their lives. 
On a hot July night in 2007, sixteen year old Derek Hale doused the leaves and
brush around his home and lit them on fire. Later, he would tell himself that
he merely wanted to see what the house would look like encircled in flames.
The entire Hale family, young and old, burned alive in their sleep while the
arsonist and sole survivor stood, watching.
When the cops and fire department showed up later, Derek was covered in soot
and his hands were burned. Everyone assumed that he had tried to go back into
the house, to help, but Derek himself knew the real reason for the burns, for
the ashes on his clothes.
Sheriff Stilinski took him back to the police department and gave him a change
of clothes, which Derek took automatically. The sheriff took his apathetic
nature as one of grief and shock, which is why no one looked at Derek as a
suspect.
No evidence was found; any that had been there burned away with the family and
Derek was let go without a warning. All he got was a clap on the shoulder, a
warm yet sympathetic smile from the sheriff, and a ‘if you need anything, kid,
I’m here’.
Before leaving the police station for good, Derek caught a glimpse of a little
boy, who looked to be around ten, wearing a Batman shirt. He was sitting with
another little boy, wearing a generic sports t-shirt, and the two were talking
and laughing.
Derek, being sixteen, knew that he should have looked away but the kid was
perfect; with pale skin that was dotted with moles and golden eyes that seemed
so sincere when they looked at him. For the first time in what seemed like
forever, Derek Hale felt something.
That was the moment Derek swore to himself that he would come back to Beacon
Hills and find that boy, to see if thing had changed. 
And for the next six years, that unknown boy in the Batman shirt with the honey
eyes never left Derek’s mind, not even once. It wasn’t a sexual thing, though
the teenager couldn’t help but imagine the kind of man the boy would grow into,
but more of an… emotional connection.
When Derek graduated from college, he came back to Beacon Hills for the perfect
boy.
 
 
                                      xx
The first thing Derek does when he gets back to Beacon Hills is go to the place
where his childhood home once stood. It’s still there, of course, but it’s
mostly a pile of ash and burned pieces of wood.
Derek parks his brand new Camaro a few feet away and gets out, hands stuffed
deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, eyes scanning the wreckage in
front of him from behind aviators. He can remember the night, can remember the
flames and how the heat seemed to absorb into his body, and closes his eyes.
Everything rushes back to him at once and while any normal human being with
a functioning prefrontal cortex would feel pain or some kind of remorse, Derek
feels none. Maybe he feels happiness, a strange tingling in his limbs and a
pooling of heat in his stomach, but no remorse or pain is present.
Nor will it ever be.
The night of the fire, no one in the house screamed — or at least that’s what
Derek believes. He couldn’t hear anyone, not over the popping and cracking of
wood, the sounds of the flames engulfing the entire house. 
Standing in front of what used to be his home makes Derek want to burn the rest
of it down, though he knows by this point it would be useless. He walks forward
and kicks a few things: a burnt piece of wood, a doorknob, what’s left of a
teddy bear.
Derek stops in front of the steps, which are blackened pieces of lumber with
ash and dust and pine needles covering them. He considers taking a trophy,
something to take back to his apartment in San Diego, but thinks better of it.
The memories, he decides, are enough. He only takes trophies from the other
crimes he commits: a blue beanie from the Lahey kid in his English class that
Derek killed in freshman year; a pink, sparkly collar from the annoying
Pomeranian that lived next to him that he permanently shut up two months ago; a
picture frame from the house he burned down a year after moving to San Diego.
Derek remembers those things, remembers the first time he killed something (he
was six and it was a stray cat), and feels the same rush he had while doing it
all. He hums and shakes himself out before heading back to the Camaro, deciding
that he’s had enough of reminiscing. 
Now, he thinks as he climbs into the car, he needs to find the boy.
For six years, Derek wondered why the boy was at the police station and decided
that he probably belonged to one of the cops. So that’s where he figured where
he would look and ask around, to see if anyone knew of the boy he was talking
about.
The ride to the Beacon Hills police station is one Derek has been waiting far
too long for and his body is thrumming the whole way. He’s not surprised to see
that nothing has changed; there are few less cruisers in front of the building,
though that doesn’t mean anything.
When Derek parks and gets out of the car, he looks to the building, feeling
good about this. He has a good feeling that he’ll see the boy and maybe even
ask him out for a cup of coffee.
On his way inside, Derek runs smack into someone. It isn’t until the tall,
lanky kid backs up and looks at him that he realizes that this is the boy he
saw six years ago. He’s grown up but the eyes are the same and so are the
moles, the pale flesh.
"I’m sorry," Derek murmurs, flashing a brilliant smile.
The boy blinks, his cheeks pink. “It’s fine," he says in a quiet voice.
"Derek Hale."
“Huh?"
"I’m Derek Hale," Derek repeats, his hand coming out of his pocket to extend to
the boy.
"Oh." The teenager bites his lip and slips a long-fingered hand into Derek’s,
shaking it slowly. “Stiles — Stilinski. My dad’s the sheriff."
Of course. Derek remembers Sheriff Stilinski from the night of the fire and
forces a smile, though after fifteen years of practicing, it doesn’t really
feel forced anymore. Derek’s smiles come naturally, though he’s hardly ever
happy.
Derek brings his hand back and tucks it into his pocket. “Nice to meet you,
Stiles. I am sorry for running into you," he says and tips his head toward the
teen before walking past him, going straight to the information desk. 
When he leans against the desk, Derek can feel Stiles’ eyes on him and smirks,
casually flirting with the woman behind the desk. The woman who pops her gum
too loudly and smiles too brightly and whose laughter at his stupid joke is too
raucous. That alone makes Derek want to kill her, but he doesn’t.
Sheriff Stilinski comes out of his office to meet Derek and the two of them
exchange polite conversation. Which goes like this: “How have you been,
Derek?" "Fine, sir, just working. I graduated college a year early and I've
been working ever since." “Graduated early, huh? I bet your parents would be
proud." “Oh, I bet they would." “How’s your grandma doing?" “She died about two
years ago." “Oh, I’m sorry, son." "It’s okay; she was old." “How long are you
in town for?" “A few days." “Well, we should get together." "Definitely."
And Derek gives Sheriff John Stilinski a fake phone number, making the older
man promise to call him when he gets a night off. After getting a ‘yeah, yeah,
I promise’ from him, Derek leaves and goes back to his hotel room to find out
where John and Stiles Stilinski live.
It doesn’t take long to find that John, Sophia (deceased five years now), and
little Stiles Stilinski live on Oak Avenue. Just a few clicks after that and
Derek has a number for the house, though he doesn’t use it right away, just
jots it down on a takeout menu.
This, Derek decides later that night when he’s getting ready for bed, is going
to be well worth the six year wait. Even though things were never sexual with
Stiles when Derek was sixteen, now he can’t stop thinking about getting the boy
on his knees and his cock in that perfect bow mouth of his.
Derek jerks off to the thought of that and to the thought of fucking Stiles
while he has one hand wrapped around his throat, choking him. He comes with the
image of Stiles’ blood coating his hands and fingers in his mind.
 
 
                                      xx
Derek decides to stay in Beacon Hills for a little longer. He calls the
computer company he works for and tells them he’s taking some time off, that a
family member got sick and he’s taking care of them. His boss doesn’t question
anything, just tells Derek to take all the time he needs, and wishes his Aunt
Grace a speedy recovery.
How long, Derek wonders, before they realize he has no family left and that
there is no Aunt Grace and that he’s been lying to them this whole time? He
doesn’t know for sure, doesn’t even care, because his job isn’t as important as
Stiles.
Stiles Stilinski — a sixteen year old sophomore in high school. Plays on the
lacrosse team, though he’s benched for most of the season, and has a thing for
online roleplaying games. Best friend is Scott McCall, also on the lacrosse
team, and other than that it seems that Stiles is your normal, every day loser.
Which is perfect for Derek. If he decides to do this, to fuck around with the
boy, he could take him without anyone noticing. Maybe even kill him one day and
dump his body where it could be found. Scott McCall and John Stilinski would
mourn the kid — but would anyone else? 
Derek sincerely doubts it.
 
                                      xx
It takes two weeks of stalking and watching Stiles for Derek to even begin to
think about making a move. He keeps himself hidden, knowing that if the sheriff
caught him he’d be done for, and hacks into whatever of the boy’s accounts he
can get into. 
One night, well after midnight, Derek sits at the small table in his hotel
room, typing away on his laptop. He’s accessed Stiles’ therapist’s records by
sheer luck and has pulled the teenager’s file up, reading through it as he sips
coffee.
"Prone to panic attacks; has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder; shows
signs of depression; has night terrors." Derek reads this aloud to himself,
humming as he reads the therapist’s comments. “Stiles has the potential to be a
very bright boy, should he choose to open up and show how smart he can be.
Talks openly about thoughts of suicide and guilt over his mother’s death, which
he insists is his fault."
A few sessions down and Derek reads, “Stiles showed me his arms today. There
were burn marks and small cuts, straight lines and patterns carved into his
skin. I asked why he did that and he said, ‘To feel something’. No more talk of
the nightmares, though he told me before leaving that he burns himself as
punishment for his mother’s passing."
Huh. Stiles believes he killed his mother, too? God, could he be any more
perfect for Derek? Maybe, if only he had actually killed someone so they could
share that kind of bond. 
It takes another day and a half of searching for Derek to dig something up on
Sophia Stilinski, once Sophia Anderson. She was forty when she died of cancer,
just five years before, and there are numerous obituary pieces about her.
Derek even stumbles across a picture of Sophia and a young Stiles, the boy
smiling and holding onto his mother’s waist, his front two teeth missing. He
brushes his thumb over the screen, over the black and white image of Stiles,
and decides he can’t wait any longer.
 
 
                                      xx
It’s another day before Derek can approach Stiles. He parks his Camaro down the
street, in the garage of an abandoned home, and drinks coffee as he waits for
Sheriff Stilinski to leave.
When he sees the cruiser go down the road and the Jeep stay put in the
driveway, Derek gathers his keys before getting out of the car. He jogs down
the road, suddenly wishing that he had worn looser jeans, and walks up the
porch steps, taking a deep breath.
Derek knocks three times, rings the doorbell once, and steps back.
For two painfully long minutes, Derek waits for someone to open the door and
when Stiles pulls it open, standing in the door frame wearing a loose Beacon
Hills lacrosse hoodie, Derek smiles.
"Hey — Stiles, is it?" Stiles nods, his eyebrows pulled together. “I was
wondering if your father was home? We were supposed to get together for dinner,
catch up on old times, but he never returned my call."
Stiles looks Derek up and down, shrugging. “Dad just left for work," he says,
his voice flat and his expression blank. Oh, Derek thinks, this is going to
be too easy. “You can leave your number and I’ll have him call you back when he
gets home."
"Thing is, I’m kind of hoping to get together with him soon. I leave for San
Diego in a few days and I wanted to talk to John about some stuff pertaining to
my family’s case."
"Your family’s case?"
"Oh, you didn’t know?" Derek frowns, scratching the back of his neck lightly
before dropping his hand away. “My family was burned alive when I was sixteen.
I just wanted to see if any new leads came up."
"I’m pretty sure that’s a cold case by now, unless they clumped it in with all
the other unsolved cases." Stiles’ lips quirk into a grin. “So you’re probably
wasting your time," he mutters.
Derek knows he’s wasting his time; the case has been open for six years and
unsolved. It’s on the verge of going cold, yes, but he couldn’t care less about
it at the moment. All he wants is for Stiles to invite him inside and show him
around, maybe to his bedroom.
"Do you think I could wait?"
A crease forms in Stiles’ forehead and he shakes his head. “I don’t know if
that’s such a good idea," he says, his voice uncertain but his eyes roaming all
along Derek’s body and face.
"Please." Derek flashes a brilliant smile, all white teeth and charm.
"Well…" Stiles sighs and nods, opening the door before stepping back, motioning
for the older man to come inside. “But I have to warn you — I know how to use a
gun and I have a baseball bat upstairs."
Derek laughs and comes inside, breathing in deeply. The house is plain and
decorated in soft tones, with pictures hanging all along the wall. It’s sweet,
Derek thinks, and snorts at himself for even thinking that.
"I’m not going to hurt you," he says as he turns around to look at Stiles, his
hands held up in the air to show he’s innocent. 
"That’s what all the criminals say on television before they do hurt you."
"On television, yes, but this is real life and I’m not going to hurt you."
Stiles looks at Derek, like he’s trying to size him up, and mumbles ‘whatever’
under his breath before disappearing upstairs. He calls down a moment later and
tells Derek not to break anything or else he’s buying it.
With the boy upstairs, Derek pokes around on the lower level of the house, his
hands roaming over everything. A thin layer of dust coats his fingertips when
he pulls them back from a family photo and he wipes them on the couch, sighing.
Curiosity eats away at him, though, and he finds himself wandering to the
stairs, looking up at them for a long moment. The sound of muffled music comes
down and Derek smiles, walking up the staircase slowly, the old wood underneath
his feet creaking.
Derek stops at the top of the stairs and listens, following the sound of the
music to what has to be Stiles’ room. There’s a poster on the outside of the
door, some shitty band that Derek’s never heard of, and he lifts a hand before
knocking loudly.
A moment passes before Stiles answers, looking pissed. “What?"
"I just wanted to see if you’d like company," Derek murmurs, his smile soft and
unwavering as Stiles glares at him.
"No, not from some dude who could be a rapist."
Derek laughs, “I’m not a rapist."
"How do I know that?" Stiles challenges, his arms crossed over his chest; the
sleeve of his hoodie falls down a little, showing scars. He must notice Derek
staring at them because he drops his arms to his sides and blushes.
"Don’t you think that if I wanted to rape you, I would have done it by now?"
Derek asks and answers himself. Yes, he thinks, I would have held you down in
the living room and fucked you with my hand over your mouth.
Stiles narrows his eyes even more. “You have a point," he says and then licks
his lips, “but that doesn’t mean you haven’t thought about raping someone. You
know enough to do it as soon as I let you inside."
"That’s common knowledge."
"For rapists.”
"For the last time," Derek says, clenching his jaw, “I’m not going to rape you.
If it makes you uncomfortable, I can go downstairs and wait for your father
there."
Stiles cracks and huffs, walking back into the room. He flops down onto the bed
and Derek comes inside, shutting the door before walking over to the desk,
running his finger along a stack of books sitting on the edge.
"Doing some light reading?" Derek teases.
"Fuck you," Stiles snaps back and sighs.
This might not be so easy, Derek considers, because Stiles isn’t as open as he
thought. Depressed teenagers don’t act like this; they mope around and brood,
not snap at you and get angry. Maybe Stiles is bipolar and that’s why he’s
acting that way.
Derek sits down in the chair and turns around. “Are you always this bright and
happy with your other guests?"
"You’re the first."
"I’m honored." 
Time ticks by and Derek stares at Stiles, watching as he rolls his sleeves up
to pluck a rubber band on his wrist. It snaps against his skin, making a
sickening thwap noise that fills the air, and the teenager barely winces at the
pain.
"You do that," Derek motions to Stiles, “in front of a lot of people?"
Again, Stiles answers with, “You’re the first."
"Hmm." Stiles snaps the rubber band again and Derek twitches, his cock
hardening in his jeans as he watches. He knows that he shouldn’t be excited
about this but he really, really is. 
Not even Isaac Lahey had been this easy. The kid knew pain, always came to
class with a fresh bruise or cut on his cheek, and Derek had only killed him
because the boy snapped on him. Death should have been peaceful for Isaac but
he struggled until the very end.
Stiles won’t, though. Derek can tell by the blank look in his eyes as he snaps
the rubber band against his wrist, repeating the action over and over, and
wonders if he’ll accept his death peacefully.
"Why are you doing that?"
"Because it’s fun," Stiles says, snorting. “Why do you think, dumbass?"
Derek clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath through his nose. He can’t kill
the teenager now because he wants, more than anything, to fuck him at least one
time. To feel that mouth around his cock and feel Stiles’ Adam’s apple bob
against his hand when he’s holding his throat.
"I was just asking," Derek murmurs, shaking his head.
The snapping stops and Stiles sits up. “Well I already have one therapist, I
don’t need another," he mumbles.
"I’m not a therapist."
"Then what are you?"
"A computer programmer." Derek smiles, watching Stiles’ eyebrows raise in
interest. “Unless you need advice about your computer, I can’t really help
you," he says.
Stiles nods and smiles a little. “Cool," he says and scratches the inside of
his wrist, nails scraping along fresh cuts and old ones.
They talk about what Derek does, exactly, and he tells the teenager all about
the job he got in his senior year. He can tell that Stiles is getting more and
more interested by the moment because he leans forward, his eyes glazed and
fixed on Derek.
Half an hour later, Derek comes up with an excuse to leave. He gives Stiles his
phone number, the one to his disposable cell, and tells him to call whenever he
wants to get together again. When Stiles asks if Derek wants him to give that
number to his father, he says no and smiles before leaving and going back to
his hotel.
 
                                      xx
Two days pass before Stiles calls Derek. He keeps his eyes on the teenager,
though, and mostly just watches him practice lacrosse. Some asshole with the
name WHITTEMORE written on the back of his jersey keeps shoving the teenager
down onto the ground and Derek wants to kill him.
Because, as Derek sees it, Stiles is his to hurt — not this Whittemore kid’s.
When Stiles does call, Derek is laying on the middle of his bed jerking off,
like usual, because he can’t really do much else. He alternates between working
on his computer, reading books, and going through the rest of Stiles’ therapy
notes, which has become boring.
The phone rings and Derek grabs the small, black device that he’ll dump as soon
as he gets out of town. He hits the green call button and brings the phone up
to his ear, trying to keep his breathing even.
"Hello?"
"Derek?" Stiles’ voice fills his ear and Derek smiles, humming. “Hey, I was
wondering if you wanted to get together sometime?"
A shudder runs through Derek and he palms himself, his cock throbbing at the
mere thought of jerking himself to completion while Stiles is on the other
line. The boy could hear him gasp and grunt and Derek could lie, say he was
just working out or changing the oil in his car.
"Yeah," he breathes and swallows hard. “Give me thirty minutes and come by The
Beacon, hmm?"
Stiles goes silent for a moment before saying, “Okay. What room?"
"10B." Derek chuckles when the teen says ‘gotcha’ and hangs up.
Once he’s no longer on the phone and his attention is brought back to the task
(literally) at hand, Derek continues stroking himself. He thinks of Stiles’
mouth and his lips, which would look amazing wrapped around his cock, and
arches off the bed.
And, as always, Derek’s “session" ends with him coming to the thought of Stiles
laying on the ground, bleeding in front of him.
God, he’s so fucked — and he loves it.
 
                                      xx
Twenty minutes and one hot shower later, Derek walks around his room, shoving
papers into his bags. He’s naked with a towel wrapped around his waist, water
dripping down his skin, and his hair sticking to his scalp. Puddles of water
gather where Derek stood and he cleans them up with another towel before going
back to the bathroom to dry off.
The waiting is what’s torture for Derek. He never had to wait this long for
anyone else, especially not Isaac, and he’s jittery the whole time.
When someone knocks on the door twelve minutes later, Derek pulls a tight
fitting gray shirt over his head and does his jeans up as he makes his way over
to the door. After one more glance around the room, he opens it, and smiles
warmly at Stiles.
"Come in," he says, motioning to the room. The teenager steps inside and Derek
cannot shut the door fast enough. He wonders if Stiles would notice if he
locked it or not, deciding not to bother trying in case the teen freaks and
tries to bail.
Tonight, Derek’s going to play with Stiles and tomorrow… well, tomorrow might
be his last day. Depending on how well the sex goes. Hell, if it’s perfect,
Derek might take him back to San Diego.
Stiles moves to the bed and sits down. “I’m sorry for bugging you," he mutters
and tugs at the ends of his sleeves.
"You weren’t bugging me."
"And you’re just saying that." 
Derek rolls his eyes and comes over, sitting on the mattress next to Stiles,
putting a hand on his knee. “No," he whispers, “I’m really not."
"Huh." The teen looks down at the hand on his knee, then up to Derek, and makes
a lunge for him. Their mouths crash together, causing the older man to curse
when he bites his lip, and he pulls back, holding Stiles away from his body.
They breath heavily for a moment and Stiles breaks the silence. “Sorry," he
says and laughs brokenly.
"For?"
“That," the teen replies, flailing a hand at Derek’s bloody lip. “You’re six
years older than me and why would you even be into me?"
Derek pulls his brows together and licks his lips. “I am into you and age is
just a number, Stiles. You surprised me, that’s all," he replies.
"You… what?"
"I’m into you, too."
Stiles smiles and climbs onto Derek’s lap, the fingers of one hand tangling
into his damp hair, pulling him closer. Derek goes willingly and kisses the
teenager gently, smearing blood across his mouth.
When they pull back again, Derek groans. “Is this what you really want?"
"I’m a sixteen year old virgin," Stiles says, like that’s supposed to answer
Derek’s question, and snorts. “So, yeah, of course this is what I really want."
"Being a sixteen year old virgin isn’t so bad. I was seventeen when I lost my
virginity," Derek offers and shrugs. He can remember that night and who it was
with: Kate Argent, in the back of her father’s pickup truck. He came inside of
her with his hand wrapped around her throat and her nails digging into his
shoulders.
They both went home that night, bloody and bruised, and Derek still gets off to
the memories sometimes.
Stiles raises a brow, looking unimpressed. “Okay, yeah, and that was six years
ago. Now, in two-thousand-thirteen, people make fun of you for being a virgin
at sixteen," he mumbles.
"You make me sound old."
"Well," Stiles says, grinning, “you kind of are."
That pushes a button in Derek and he flips the teenager over onto the bed,
pressing Stiles’ body down with his own. “You were saying?"
"That doesn’t prove anything."
Derek clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing into slits as he looks down at
Stiles, whose cheeks are flushed and his mouth is open, tongue darting out to
lick his lips. God, those lips.
Without saying another word, Derek leans down and catches Stiles’ mouth in a
biting kiss. He can taste blood on his tongue and isn’t sure if that’s from his
split lip earlier or because he broke the skin of Stiles’ but either way, it
causes his cock to harden once more.
And the noises Stiles is making. Derek has never heard anything more beautiful,
not even coming from the mouth of Jennifer, his old neighbor, who squealed
loudly whenever she came… and who screamed beautifully when Derek stabbed her.
Those thoughts stir up something in Derek and he presses his hips down against
Stiles’, grinding them together with a groan. He can feel that the teenager is
hard, probably has been since the moment they kissed, and he chuckles darkly
against Stiles’ mouth.
"You want me to fuck you?" Derek asks in between kisses, nipping and sucking on
Stiles’ lips as he nods his head fervently. “Say it."
Stiles gasps and mumbles, “Fuck me."
"No, I want you to say ‘Derek, fuck me’. Just like that."
“Derek," the teen gasps, “fuck me."
"How hard?"
"As - ah - hard as you can." Stiles’ head lolls back as Derek thrusts their
hips together, rutting against the boy like he’s a teenager all over again, his
breath coming in short pants.
Derek pulls back after a moment, grinning. “I don’t think you want me to fuck
you that hard," he mumbles, his hands wrapping around the hem of Stiles’ shirt,
shoving it up his stomach. He manhandles the teenager into a sitting position
and tugs the fabric up and over his head, throwing it somewhere onto the floor.
"Yeah," Stiles breathes, shivering, “I do."
"Do you know how hard I can fuck?" Derek asks; Stiles shakes his head, eyes
locked on the older man’s, irises dark and pupils blown. “If I fuck you as hard
as I can right now, you’re going to be sore for days."
A whimper escapes Stiles’ throat and Derek grins.
"You want that, huh?"
Stiles nods, squeaking quietly.
God, what the fuck did Derek do to get so lucky with Stiles? The kid is more
than perfect and if he could fall in love with anyone, Derek’s pretty sure he
would have those feelings toward Stiles. For now, though, lust is a pretty good
emotion and Derek’s never wanted someone so badly.
"Get naked." Derek moves away from Stiles as he says that and stands, taking
his own shirt off, throwing it somewhere. He undoes his jeans on the way to his
bag and bends down to rummage through it, grabbing a bottle of lube and a
condom. 
Derek may be a psychopath but he does believe in safe sex for all.
When he turns around, Stiles is laying on the middle of the bed, naked save for
a pair of skimpy red boxer briefs. The front is tented and Derek is pleasantly
surprised at how big Stiles’ cock seems to be and he licks his lips, coming
over.
"I said naked — is that naked, Stiles?"
Stiles’ cheeks turn red and he shakes his head, taking his underwear off.
“Sorry," he mumbles, not meeting Derek’s eyes.
A hum settles low in Derek’s throat as he takes his jeans off, kicking them to
the side. He takes his black boxers off next, letting them fall into a pile on
the floor beside the bed as he climbs onto it. Stiles is shivering and Derek
thinks he looks beautiful like that, pale skin on display and shoulders
trembling.
Oh how Derek wants to tell him it’s going to be okay.
To calm the teenager down, he leans in and kisses Stiles lightly, easing him
down onto the mattress. He’s probably giving the kid a false sense of security
but, whatever, Derek likes to have his playmates calm before fucking them.
"Relax," is all Derek says before getting started.
After popping the top on the lube, he pours some onto his fingers and presses
them against Stiles’ entrance. Right off the bat, Derek slips two digits into
the teenager and his cock throbs when Stiles lets out a pained whimper, his
hands coming to claw at Derek’s back.
Stiles scratches him and Derek hisses sharply. “Sorry," the teen mumbles,
breathing harshly as he pushes back against the hand between his legs.
Derek doesn’t say anything; he works his fingers in and out quickly, wanting to
get Stiles ready as quickly as possible. He doesn’t think he’s going to last
long when he’s inside of the teen and groans, thinking about it.
The teen is hot and tight, like he’s never had anything inside of him, and two
fingers slip in and out easy enough after a few minutes. Derek slips a third
into Stiles and works these in and out a little slower, not wanting to tear the
teenager. 
A little pain is alright; something that requires a hospital? Not so much.
"Fuck," Stiles moans from above him, his hands in Derek’s hair, twisting and
pulling, nails scratching along his scalp.
Derek’s fingers start to separate, opening Stiles up. He whimpers and arches
off the bed again, his breath coming fast and shallow. The older man licks his
lips and thinks about biting Stiles somewhere but keeps his head in the game;
fuck the kid, dispose of him, like everyone else.
Maybe Derek won’t kill him until later; he did that with Kate, after all. It
wasn’t until graduation that he killed her and it wasn’t until after he’d
fucked her that he slit her throat.
"Shit." Derek breathes hard and pulls his fingers out, apologizing and saying
that he can’t wait any longer. Stiles makes him promise to go slow and, being
the fake nice guy he is, Derek lies and promises.
It takes a moment for Derek to get the condom open. His hands are shaking in
anticipation and, once he finally gets the packet open, he takes the latex out
and rolls it down over his cock. Stiles watches him and gasps, eyes rolling
back before fluttering shut.
Once the condom is on and his cock is lubed up, Derek pushes Stiles’ legs back
against his chest and lines up. The first thrust is met with resistance and
Derek has to smooth his free hand along the teen’s thigh to get him to relax.
Stiles nods and his muscles loosen, allowing Derek to slide in and, god, it’s
better than anything he could have imagined. He sinks his cock in all the way
with one sharp thrust and when Stiles cries out, Derek immediately clamps a
hand down over his mouth.
"Shh," he whispers, rotating his hips slowly. Stiles’ eyes are watery and he
nods, moaning against Derek’s palm, the muffled noises vibrating against his
skin.
This isn’t going to last long. Stiles’ muscles are clenching around him and
they’re too tight, Derek can’t even think properly with how goddamn tight the
teenager is. But he wants to last for a while, wants to give Stiles a proper
fucking and first time before doing anything else with him.
Derek pulls out slowly, at an achingly slow pace, and thrusts back in, angling
his hips in a way that has Stiles’ head snapping back. He lets it happen,
keeping his hand on the teen’s mouth so he’ll be quiet, though Derek wants to
hear him moan.
"If you promise to be quiet," he whispers, leaning over as he pulls out only to
thrust back in sharply, “I’ll take my hand off your mouth. Can you promise not
to scream?"
Stiles nods and Derek reluctantly pulls his hand away.
The first noise that escapes is a whimper, followed by a moan, and a shout that
has Derek bringing his hand down against Stiles’ throat. His palm smacks
against the teen’s Adam’s apple and he holds him down, groaning.
"Told you to be quiet."
No response comes from Stiles, only small, strangled noises.
Derek licks his lips and tightens his grip a little, pushing his hips up
against Stiles’ ass harder. He starts up a rhythm, a quick thrust-in/thrust-out
pace that has both of them moaning, except Stiles’ are a lot quieter and come
accompanied by sharp snorts.
The noises sound amazing to Derek and he chokes the teenager a little more,
getting another strangled noise from him. It goes straight to his cock and the
older man fucks Stiles harder, the other hand wrapping around one of his hips,
holding on tightly.
"You feel…" Derek breathes in deeply and lets his head fall back. “You feel so
fucking good. Soperfect," he whispers, punctuating the last word with a sharp
thrust of his hips.
One of Stiles’ hands comes up and scrabbles against his chest, nails scraping
along his skin. It takes Derek’s mind a moment to catch up and realize that
he’s cutting off Stiles’ air supply. He immediately pulls his hand away and
drops it down, wrapping his fingers along the teenager’s other hip.
The noises that come from Stiles are wheezes. Soft little sounds that never
cease to make Derek shiver and he can feel himself getting closer, his cock
slamming into Stiles even harder than before.
"Derek…"
"Hmm?"
"Can I — " Stiles croaks and moans, coughing lightly before finishing, “come?"
Derek’s head is spinning and he nods, letting the teenager stroke his cock as
he continues to fuck him. God, he may just keep Stiles around for a while
because fucking him sounds a hell of a lot better than killing him.
Then the thought of Stiles’ blood on his hands, on the blade of his knife,
crosses Derek’s mind and his orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut. He comes
hard, his hips stuttering against Stiles’ ass, and his breath coming out in
harsh pants, his hands never letting up on the teen’s hips.
When he comes down from his orgasm, Derek hears Stiles whimper and mewl, his
body moving against the bed as his hand flies up and down his cock. He grabs
the lube and pours some onto the teen’s shaft to help him before leaning down
to whisper things into Stiles’ ear.
Stiles comes when Derek says, “You’re such a good slut."
Thick ropes of come hit Derek’s chest and stomach and he groans, knowing that
the two of them will have to take a shower before Stiles leaves. He talks
Stiles through his orgasm and pulls out once he’s done, taking the condom off
as he stands, disappearing into the bathroom.
Derek flushes the condom down the toilet and comes back, motioning for Stiles
to join him. “We’ll take a shower," he says and Stiles smiles, nodding weakly
as he gets off the mattress, hissing.
The shower takes thirty minutes and Derek cleans every inch of Stiles he can
reach, making sure no evidence is left behind. When he’s sure that the teenager
is as clean as he can be, Derek helps him out of the shower and dries him off,
even helping him get dressed again.
"Can I see you again?" Stiles asks on his way to the door, a slight limp in his
gait.
"Maybe, we’ll see." 
Stiles nods, leans in for a kiss, and Derek presses one to his cheek. He
watches the teen walk down the hall and disappear into one of the elevators
before going back inside.
That’s when it hits him: Stiles doesn’t see this as just sex. He’s developing
feelings and probably thinks Derek is as well when, really, all the older man
wants is to fuck him.
Derek decides, that night, that he can’t string Stiles along anymore and he
sends the boy a text, telling him to come to the Beacon Hills preserve at three
PM the next afternoon.
 
                                      xx
When the afternoon, Derek checks out of his hotel room and packs his things
away in the trunk of the Camaro, leaving one bag out. He lays that one on the
passenger seat and goes back to his old house to look around one more time.
This is where it all started, the place where Derek’s obsession with fire,
death, and destruction laid its roots. He knows that he wasn’t always like
this, just doesn’t know what happened in his life to cause him to be so screwed
up… but he wouldn’t change anything.
As long as he’s not getting caught, Derek has no worries. He knows how not to
get caught, has picked up tips along the way, and if no one’s come after him
for killing Kate Argent, Isaac Lahey, Jennifer Blake, and the few others — then
why should he worry?
Derek walks around the property slowly, flicking a zippo open and shut, looking
at the place where he grew up. Where his sisters used to play and where his
brothers caught frogs to scare the women in the family. 
One time, his younger brother brought a toad into the house and wanted to keep
it; Derek ended up dissecting the thing in the clearing and told James that it
ran away. The kid, being four at the time, believed him.
There were other animals that Derek started out with, too: Laura’s puppy she
got for her birthday; Cora’s bird that she saved from the woods; the countless
fish Lee and James used to bring in from the creek. He even killed a squirrel
his mother was nursing back to health, all for the fun of it.
Now Derek has to kill someone again and his hands shake with excitement, his
body thrumming. It’s been so long and he knows that maybe he could go back home
without killing Stiles but it’s been something he’s dreamed about for years.
After making one trip around the house again, Derek checks his watch and grabs
his bag from the passenger seat of the car. He strips off his leather jacket,
lays it on the backseat, and starts walking through the woods.
The spot where Derek told Stiles to meet him is three miles away from where his
old house lays. He picked the clearing because it was the first place he came
to kill something and it holds a lot of memories. It’s empty when Derek gets
there and he gets ready while he waits. 
The hunting knife he brought with him gets hidden in the back of his waistband
and he puts the bag of spare clothes he brought behind one of the trees. Just
as he’s finishing up, Derek hears someone trudge through the woods and swallows
hard.
Stiles breaks through the trees then, smiling. “Hey," he says.
"Hello," Derek answers, motioning for him to come close. He immediately unzips
Stiles’ jacket and pulls it off his shoulders, throwing it onto the ground a
few feet away. That’s his trophy for this kill and he doesn’t want to get it
bloody, can’t risk it.
"Why did you want to meet out here?"
"Because… this place has a lot of memories and I wanted to be somewhere
peaceful when we had this talk."
The colour in Stiles’ face drains and he frowns. “Are you trying to tell me
that you don’t want to see me again?"
"Yes," is Derek’s answer and he sighs. “You’re sixteen, Stiles, and I’m twenty-
two. It could never work between us." There’s a pause and then he says,
“Besides, you’re too screwed up for me. What teenager cuts and burns himself,
then snaps a rubber band against his wrist just to feel pain?"
Stiles stares at Derek, tears welling up in his eyes. “Fuck you," he mumbles
and there’s no heat behind the words.
"I fucked you last night and it was good, yes, but who’s to say you won’t
become a common whore? You’ve had one dick, why shouldn’t you want to have
more, huh?"
"I won’t."
"Sure, that’s what they all say," Derek says and laughs, the noise sharp and
high, filling the air. “Look, you’re a good fuck and I’m sure we’ll do this
again but I can’t… be with you."
Tears stream down Stiles’ face and he wipes them away. “So, what, you used me
because I’m some depressed kid and I was easy?"
Derek hums, nodding.
“Fuck you, Derek!" Stiles hits Derek’s chest and the older man wraps a hand
around his wrists, holding them so he can’t do it again. “I was just starting
to feel good about myself and then you do this?!"
"I knew you would be easy. The depressed ones always are."
Stiles stares at Derek, fire in his eyes and his jaw set. “You make me wish I
had killed myself a long time ago," he mutters.
"Maybe you should have," Derek agrees.
A loud, frustrated noise comes from Stiles’ throat and Derek drops his hands,
ducking when he throws a punch at him. That’s when he grabs the knife from
behind him and he clamps a hand over Stiles’ mouth, shoving the knife into his
stomach.
The teenager’s eyes go wide and he whimpers against Derek’s hand, eyelashes
fluttering as the older man twists the hilt. Another noise escapes and Derek
takes the knife out before slamming it back in, over and over.
Blood covers the knife and Derek’s fingers, pooling on the front of his shirt
as he holds Stiles against him. When the teenager’s body goes lax and the life
is slowly draining from him, Derek lays Stiles down on the ground and plunges
the knife down in one more time.
Derek pulls his weapon out after the final blow and rummages through the
teenager’s jeans, grabbing his cellphone. He carries it over to the bag,
putting it inside along with the hoodie, making sure to use his least bloody
hand.
When Derek’s ready, he makes his way down to the creek and starts to clean up,
taking his clothes off before changing into the clean pair. He starts a fire
then, throwing his old outfit into the flames and tossing Stiles’ cellphone in
with it, but only after turning it off.
Once the fire is gone and Derek’s clothes are reduced to nothing, he heads back
to the Camaro, carrying his bag with him. The knife gets wrapped up in a sheet
of plastic and shoved underneath the passenger seat.
Derek looks back at the house, grins, and says a final goodbye before pulling
away from it, never to return again.
 
                                      xx
Twenty minutes outside of Beacon Hills, Derek calls 911.
"9-1-1, what’s your emergency?"
"Yes," Derek answers, pulling an accent, “I’d like to report a possible animal
attack."
The operator hums and answers, “What location?"
"Five miles east from the beginning of the preserve. It’s a young boy, looks
like maybe some kinda wolf or bear got to him."
"And may I ask what you were doing in the woods when you stumbled upon this?"
"I was going on a hike, saw the body, and ran, thinkin’ there was a bear in the
woods. Waited until I got to my truck to call."
Silence.
"And what’s your name, sir?"
Derek hangs up and disassembles the phone before throwing one piece out the
window at a time. He staggers it, only getting rid of a piece every thirty
minutes, and when it’s all gone, Derek makes his way back to San Diego.
 
                                      xx
Three days later, Derek turns on the news to see Sheriff Stilinski on
television, his eyes misty. He’s surrounded by other law enforcement officials
and they news channel brings up a picture of Stiles before John Stilinski
starts speaking.
"My son was murdered three days ago," he starts, “and his body was left in the
preserve. We’ve scoured the place for clues and any evidence but have yet to
find any. We think whoever murder Stiles may have raped him prior to the
killing."
John Stilinski pauses and another picture is brought up. “I’ve asked around and
talked to anyone that may have saw my son, to see if they can remember seeing
him with anyone. A few witnesses say they saw him with this unidentified man,"
he mumbles and they bring up an awful sketch of what’s supposedto be Derek. 
"If you know anything about this man, please call the Beacon Hills Police
Department immediately. Anything will help." John pauses and clears his throat
before thanking the crowd.
The news channel leaves the picture up for a few more minutes and Derek isn’t
worried; the sketch looks nothing like him. He shuts the television off and
goes into his room, taking down the box marked ‘memories’.
Inside, on top of everything else, lies a purple sweatshirt and Derek fingers
the fabric gently, smiling to himself.
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