
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/657437.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Teacher-Student
      Relationship, Headmaster, Forbidden, Secret_Relationship, Explicit_Sexual
      Content, Oral_Sex, Dirty_Talk, Rough_Sex, Painplay, D/s, Dominance,
      Submission, Underage_Sex, Psychopathology_&_Sociopathy, Cock_Slapping, No
      Werewolves, Dark!Derek, Triggers, Not_Suitable/Safe_For_Work, Age
      Difference, Porn, Bad_BDSM_Etiquette, Sadism, Masochism, Mild_S&M, Abuse
      of_Authority, Dark, Amorality, Moral_Bankruptcy, Exhibitionism, Semi-
      Public_Sex, Under-Desk_Blow_Jobs, Blow_Jobs, Ephebophilia, Teenagers,
      Abusive_Relationships, Fucked_Up, Dom/sub, Consent_Issues
  Series:
      Part 10 of The_Sterek_Porn_Collection
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-27 Words: 1918
****** A High, Rapturous Song ******
by Saucery
Summary
     Derek is a headmaster. Stiles is his favorite delinquent.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
===============================================================================
 
They all say he's too young to be a headmaster, that he's too wild, that he has
too much of a reputation - and in this town, any reputation's a bad reputation.
They say his wearing jeans to work means he's trying to be too chummy with the
students, that he won't be able to establish authority over them, that the fact
he sometimes fixes his bike on his lawn while shirtless is obscene and sets a
poor example, that his taste in music is radical, and that he is - for all
intents and purposes - the Antichrist.
If it weren't a private school and if all the board members weren't employees
at various Hale subsidiaries, Derek would be out of a job.
As it is, the Hales have been headmasters and headmistresses of the school for
nearly one century, and the board doesn't want to break with tradition, yet.
They might, though, if they knew that Derek is the Antichrist.
Worse than the Antichrist, maybe.
Because the truth is, Derek's unsuited for the position of headmaster for
reasons more serious than his sense of fashion.
He's unsuited because he wants things.
Boys.
A boy.
He's unsuited for the position because there's this one student he not only
wants to fuck, but does fuck, on a more-or-less regular basis. The kid's name
is Stiles, and he's sixteen, and he's so illegal that Derek should feel guilty
about it, but he doesn't. There's just something about Stiles, something that
raises Derek's hackles, makes him angry and hot and starved, makes him want to
shove the kid down on his knees and teach him where his place is.
It's -
He could go to jail for this.
He should go to jail for this.
He doesn't.
Miraculously, he doesn't, no matter how many times he has Stiles, no matter how
many times he bends Stiles over the desk and spreads open Stiles's ass and
licks him until he sobs. No matter how many times he gags Stiles with his own
rolled-up shirt to muffle Stiles's screams.
Derek is beginning to realize that he might be a sociopath. He's wondered,
before, about his coldness, about his ability to fake a smile (so like his
uncle), about his ability to charm, when he puts his mind to it, regardless of
whether or not he likes the person he's charming. But now, for the first time,
he realizes that he's a predator, that he always has been one, filled with a
lupine craving to rend and destroy and devour, and now, he's found the perfect
prey. Prey that won't run away from him.
And the best thing is that Stiles keeps coming back to him, with worse
misdemeanors each time, almost as though he wants a brutal fucking, wants to be
choked slowly while he's fucked, wants the bruises bitten into his thighs,
wants the dry handjobs that almost make him cry.
He keeps coming back, like he did today, and now he's where he belongs, on his
knees, under Derek's desk, rubbing his cheek against the denim on Derek's
thighs.
"You like that?" Derek asks, and runs his fingers through the short hair that
Stiles keeps cropped, as if that'll stop Derek from holding him still and
fucking his throat, if Derek wants to. "You like how rough that denim is? Maybe
I oughta spank you until you're red and fuck you with my jeans still on, so you
can feel that roughness against your sore little ass. You like the sound of
that?"
"I like what you like, sir," says Stiles, like an obedient pet, but his eyes
glitter with want, and his mouth is bright and flushed, his lips moist where he
licks them. A glistening, silky sheen.
Derek wants that silk on him, around him, so he urges Stiles forward with a
hand on Stiles's nape, a thumb stroking the warm skin there, being gentle about
it because he wants to be, because he wants to watch his cock stretch Stiles's
mouth open, gradually, wants to watch the boy take it and take it and try not
to choke. He will, eventually. He still isn't trained enough to know how to
take it all.
Still, it's a nice ride. Derek eases back in his seat and lets the kid do all
the work, lets him suck Derek's dick the way Derek's taught him, lets him drool
around the base of Derek's cock and trail cooling saliva all the way to the
tip, lets him lap lazily at the slit and work his way down again, patiently,
picking up on the fact that this is how Derek wants it, today. God, Stiles is
so intuitive - so right -
"Sir?" That's his middle-aged secretary, Lisa something, knocking at the door.
"Yes?" Derek curls his fingers around Stiles's jaw, presses there lightly, a
reminder to be quiet.
"I have some expense forms for you to sign, sir."
"Come in."
And she does, blousy and bustling as usual, a cross around her neck. If she
knew who was under his desk, doing what, she'd probably faint. Or squeal like a
stuck pig, and then faint. Derek imagines it in some detail, reading each
document absent-mindedly before signing it, the flourish of his hand confident
but his palms just ever-so-slightly sweaty, because he's getting hot, now,
because he's getting close.
Stiles - the devil - is making sure not to suck too loudly, not to slurp, but
he's also essentially gagging himself on Derek's cock, in order to stay silent.
His mouth pulses around Derek's erection, in a way Derek hadn't actually
thought was possible until now, but basically means that Stiles is trying to
breathe around him - trying and mostly failing - and just the image of that
alone is nearly enough to make Derek come.
"Sir," says Lisa, "wasn't the boy in here, a while ago? Stilinski?"
"I sent him out back," Derek gestures to the second door opening onto the rear
of the school grounds, "to clean up all that garbage."
"Oh, you're too kind, sir. For breaking the windshield of your car - what was
the boy thinking?"
"What, indeed?" Derek smiles, and nudges Stiles with one thigh.
Lisa titters at him, and it takes Derek a moment to realize that it's at his
smile. Just as seductive as ever, apparently.
Derek hands the papers back to her, still smiling, and lifts his hips a bit,
thrusting shallowly into Stiles's mouth. Stiles does choke, but keeps it
muffled, the breath from his nostrils fast and desperate.
Lisa thanks Derek for the signatures, waves in a ridiculous 'too-da-loo'
gesture and leaves the room.
Derek immediately returns his grip to the back of Stiles's head and fucks,
vicious and hard, until tears spring to Stiles's eyes, wetting his lashes, and
his face blushes the sort of ugly, blotchy color that presages Stiles's orgasm,
as well.
So the brat's been touching himself. He's been -
"Take it," says Derek, "but if you come now, you won't come at all, tomorrow.
You'll hurt too much to come."
Stiles pulls back to slur, "Make it hurt, sir, make it hurt - " before Derek
drags him back onto his dick and finishes coming in Stiles's throat, staying
there until Stiles swallows every last drop.
And then, the moment Stiles is done, Derek hauls him up, catching Stiles with
his pants around his own knees and his boxer-shorts shoved under a bobbing
erection, leaking pre-come, seconds away from coming. Derek grips it at the
bottom and squeezes, hard enough to earn a pained grunt from Stiles, and then
spanks it, with the back of his other hand, slaps it and slaps it until
Stiles's near-soundless grunts threaten to become audible, until Stiles's thin,
continuous whine threatens to grow too loud.
"Gag yourself," Derek says, and immediately, Stiles's wrist flies to his mouth,
stifling himself with his too-long uniform sleeve, and then, Derek turns Stiles
around until he's facing the desk and flips the pad for a clean sheet of paper
for Stiles to come on. He presses Stiles's dick down until it lies against the
pad - agonized, swollen and dark against the white paper - and resumes slapping
it, lifting his hand away when Stiles moans near-silently and tries to arch
into it, returning only when Stiles stills himself and wheezes and tries,
desperately, not to come.
He doesn't last long, even with the pain, and Derek watches Stiles's semen hit
the pad, hears it spatter the paper, and then forces Stiles to bend and lick it
clean.
"Did that hurt enough?" he asks, when Stiles is done, his eyes hazy and empty
and swept clean of all thought, at ease at last, not twitchy and restless like
he is, most of the time.
"Yeah," Stiles rasps, "no," and turns to sway forward for a kiss.
Derek lets him - enjoys the taste of their mingled come in Stiles's mouth - and
then pushes Stiles away, firmly, so that the boy can get dressed.
Stiles pulls his trousers up and zips them, while Derek crumples up the sheet
of soaked-through paper and throws it in the trash-can.
"That was your homework," Derek says. "You failed, by the way. Not only that,
but you were too busy sucking cock to clean the schoolyard, like I told you."
"What a terrible student I am," Stiles drawls, voice still hoarse. "I suppose I
have more homework? And another detention?"
"Your homework is keeping yourself open with the plug I gave you, last time."
Stiles bites his lower lip. Buckles his belt. Hm. A promising accessory… "And?
My detention?"
"Here. After school. With the plug still inside you."
"And if I don't listen?" Stiles blinks at him innocently. "What then, sir?"
"Then I suppose your belt will be put to more uses than was initially
intended."
"Those unimaginative belt-manufacturing guys," Stiles shakes his head. "Thank
god for us, huh?"
"Leave."
"Gotcha, Headmaster. Thanks for the lesson."
"No problem. Watch yourself, now. Any further damage to my car comes out of
your hide."
"Ouch," says Stiles, feelingly, but his eyes are dipping again, his smirk
widening. "See ya later, sir."
"Goodbye, Mr. Stilinski."
And Stiles is out, just like that, closing the door behind him.
Derek sits back down in his chair, toys with the paperweight for a while,
thinking, and then resumes his work.
Running a school isn't easy, after all. It requires concentration. Paperwork.
Bureaucracy. All things that Derek feels more ready to face, now that he's had
his daily fix.
One of these days, he'll call up Stiles's father and tell him what a nuisance
his son is being. Derek practically has to; it's getting suspicious that he
hasn't spoken to Stiles's dad, already. (Lisa certainly thinks he should make
that call, even if she hasn't said anything about it.)
So. Complaining to the parent. Who, despite being the sheriff, is still a
parent. Saying to that parent that excess detentions might be required. To
catch up on crucial coursework, of course, given Stiles's frequent truancy -
and Derek is being generous enough to offer his own time to mentor the kid,
isn't he nice? Not a bad headmaster, at all.
Something good for his reputation. Something good for his libido. Something
good for Stiles, because god knows the kid needs structure. Even if it's
structure in which he gets fucked on the regular. Those eyes, that mouth, that
ass - they're asking for it.
Perhaps Derek will use that belt, after all, even if Stiles does do his
homework.
Discipline is important.
 
===============================================================================

                                     fin.
 
End Notes
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