
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/476699.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Consent_Issues, Bondage, Tickling, Teasing, Embarrassment, Rough_Sex,
      Claiming, Pack_Dynamics, Shapeshifting, Rimming, Orgasm_Delay/Denial,
      Dominance, Humor, Romance, instincts, Dirty_Talk, Pain, Porn, Season/
      Series_02
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-03 Words: 3718
****** Deep Down in His Blood ******
by wangler
Summary
     “Do you want me to get you wet?” Derek asks, low now, like a growl.
Notes
     *Very light d/s undertones, more of a pack dynamics submission thing.
     *The bondage is pinning down, holding wrists.
     *Consent issues are in relation to tickling.
     *I swear this is mostly fluffy.
Derek has a lot on his mind.
He has Peter and Gerard and the kanima and hunters to deal with, a pack to
train, a reluctant dipshit werewolf to babysit and his pack’s assortment of
family members, friends and significant others to wrangle. Including Stiles,
who shows up in the woods when they’re training and installs Wi-Fi in the den
and comes by one day with an awkward, huge piece of furniture in the back of
his Jeep and says, “It’s a Papasan! Barely freaking used. Ten dollars. That’s
right.”
For a while, Derek thinks Stiles is there to watch over Scott. But later, after
Scott and Allison have broken up and gotten back together every other Monday or
so, things even out and the pack solidifies. Wolves and humans work together
the way the Hales did, when the Hales filled a big, happy house and couldn’t
sit down for Thanksgiving dinner without stacking three tables together and
using paper plates because they didn’t have enough china to serve more than a
dozen people.
They're a pack. Scott is happy and relatively safe. He belongs.
So it doesn't make sense for Stiles to be there for Scott.
While Derek tries to figure Stiles out, he notices Stiles watching him a lot,
as if studying him in return. It's disconcerting. Stiles watches him over the
edge of his heavy textbooks and glances at him when he’s got a mouth full of
French fries and looks over while he’s playing Call of Duty with Scott on the
TV they set up in one of the railcars.
Stiles keeps an eye on Derek even when he's not contradicting him or trying to
track everyone’s plans or scheduling Pack Meetings because no one bothered to
check their emails on the Google group.
It begins to feel—something. Not suffocating. Not even bad, really. (Derek
appreciates proximity; it's hard to get used to it again, but it's what the
wolf wants, and it makes the pack stronger to stay close.) He can't place what
sets him on edge about Stiles' behavior until he's exhausted after a long full
moon night keeping Erica and Boyd from tearing each other apart. He goes for a
walk to clear the scent of their agony from his nose, and finds Stiles sleeping
a block away in his parked Jeep. Derek doesn't wake him.
Fondness, that's it. That's the unfamiliar response to everything Stiles is and
does.
It still frustrates and confuses Derek, but at least he knows what the feeling
is.
Derek doesn’t mark down the day they first kiss, but he knows it was spring,
because Stiles pulled away, smiling like he was drunk, and then sneezed all
over Derek’s shoulder.
He doesn't mark down the first time they fuck, but he holds Stiles for a long
time afterwards.
Fucking Stiles is like training the betas. It calms Derek, it gives him focus.
It’s a rhythm. He learns the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat and how it changes just
before he comes. He listens to the way Stiles forgets to breathe when he feels
good. He tastes Stiles’ sweat and come and lets the unfamiliar pull of a bond
form. He tells himself it’s good for the pack, especially when it comes to a
human, who won’t bond as naturally as the betas do. He doesn’t call the way he
feels around Stiles joy or happiness, because Stiles still irritates him most
of the time.
(Because you can’t be born an abomination and not believe in fate. You can’t
shrug off superstition. You can’t admit you want something or it’ll burn, like
everything else.)
Derek finds something like comfort in the routine of their physical
relationship, but he can't shake the feeling that Stiles needs something. He
wants something he’s not getting. The awareness of this snags at the edge of
Derek’s perception like a hangnail. Derek ignores it because whatever it is,
it’s low on the hierarchy of shit to deal with, starting with keeping them all
alive.
But he gets a pretty good hint one afternoon, when the betas are learning Judo
from a DVD on Erica’s laptop. She’s using Stiles as a dummy and throws him onto
a mat made of flattened cardboard boxes over and over, until Stiles is
breathing hard and his face is all red. He fights her, making her work for
every throw, and when he lands on his back, gasping with the wind knocked out
of him, he glances around the room until he spots Derek and their eyes meet and
the realization hits Derek just as the scent does. Derek feels his skin prickle
up with sweat because how are the others not noticing?
Stiles is aroused. Wanting. Getting off on—something. The pain? The pressure of
Erica’s knee against his sternum? Erica?
Erica gives him a hand and hauls him up and they square off to begin again.
Derek barks, “Enough. Stiles, come here," and grabs Stiles by the arm when he
wobbles over, still winded.
“Dude, I’m fine,” Stiles says, as Derek drags him out of the room. “I have
like, four shirts on, and we put styrofoam under the cardboard. It’s
practically regulation Judo shit, I looked it up on Wikipedia.”
Derek releases Stiles in the back storeroom that’s full of junk and old
furniture. The room's lit by one dingy skylight, and a beam of midday sunlight
from above lights dust floaters like confetti.
“Fine!” Stiles backs up, trips on a piece of plywood, and catches himself
against a rusted filing cabinet. “One shirt. And I didn’t look it up. But they
probably do it on hardwood or something anyway. And Wikipedia will get you a
giant C- on your Shakespeare papers, FYI.”
“I’m not worried about the mats,” Derek says.
“Oh... ‘kay.” Stiles licks his lips and gestures at the door with his chin.
“So. Awesome talk. You’re totally welcome for helping—whoa—”
Derek takes Stiles by the collar of his tee shirt and the waistband of his
jeans and throws him onto the mattress on the floor. Stiles bounces onto his
back with a grunt and pushes up onto his hands.
Derek approaches him slowly, never taking his eyes off him.
“What the hell? I thought we talked about using our words,” Stiles says. He
goes pale under the dust that settles on his sweaty face.
“Shut up, Stiles.”
“Are you mad at me?” Stiles asks, voice sharp with irritation but earnest, like
he really needs to know.
Derek will think about that later. “Do you want me to be?” he asks.
Stiles’ heartbeat stutters. “What?”
Derek sinks to the mattress. With Stiles caught off guard, all he has to do is
crawl forward. One knee pins Stiles by the thigh. His other leg pins Stiles’
opposite leg down. He sweeps Stiles’ wrists together with one hand and locks
them against the mattress with his weight.
“Is this like, a private Judo lesson?” Stiles asks.
Derek simply waits.
When Stiles’ instincts kick in, he moves like a wolf, his body responding
naturally to the threat and his desire. He turns his head to the side, exposing
the tendons and arteries at his neck.
“Is this some kind of power trip?” Stiles asks quietly. His heartbeat has gone
rabbit-fast, but he covers it well, breathing slowly and keeping his voice
even. He's not afraid, but he's keyed up. Adrenaline sours his sweat and pulls
the last of the flush from his cheeks. “Because dude, alpha and all? I sort of
know you’re in charge.”
Derek takes his free hand and slides his thumb under the edge of Stiles’ shirt,
running it from the exposed tufts of dark hair below Stiles’ belly button to
the thin, pale skin that stretches over his ribs.
“And that? Tickles," Stiles gasps out.
“Is that so?” Derek asks. He drops his fingertips to Stiles’ skin slowly, one
at a time, like he’s playing music. When his pointer finger makes contact,
Stiles’ throat clicks with a swallow.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, his body coiling, the muscles pulling so
tight they’re practically singing. “Derek.”
Derek doesn't actively decide to do it. It just happens, as if it's meant to.
He wiggles his thumb at the divot between two of Stiles’ ribs and Stiles
arches. For a beat, it’s like Derek punched him. Stiles' breath sucks in and
his face scrunches up and then snap, he’s laughing. It’s loud and hoarse.
Stiles’ entire body shakes with it.
“No no no, don’t tickle me!” he cries out. “Shit, Derek! Don’t tickle—”
Derek does it again. Harder.
Stiles’ laugher hits a hysterical pitch and he fights this time, deliberately
jerking his arms and kicking. Holding him down takes about as much effort as
yawning. The most difficult part is not smiling. Even distressed, Stiles' laugh
is infectious, big and full-bodied.
Derek tickles Stiles until his laughter becomes harsh wheezing.
“I hate you,” Stiles pants out, after Derek lets him catch his breath. “I’m not
five, you dick. Stop tickling me.”
“I noticed that,” Derek says, placing his hand on Stiles’ crotch, where his
erection strains at his jeans. He rolls his palm at it, base to tip, and
watches Stiles shiver.
Stiles blushes. “Damn it.”
“Tell me what you really want, or I will stop.”
“I told you to stop, jerk-off.”
Derek inhales slowly, letting the wolf scent Stiles. Arousal. Embarrassment.
None of the hollowness of fear or the spark-hot smell of anger. “I can let you
go, right now. Or you can tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want...” Stiles looks at him and falters.
“Let me make this easier. Do you want me to hold you down?”
Stiles’ eyes go wide, and then he nods.
“Do you want me to stop tickling you?”
It’s probably the longest stretch of time Derek’s seen Stiles stay quiet.
Then Stiles shakes his head.
Derek’s arousal is like a living thing, curling along his skin and fighting his
control. The wolf doesn't want to play games with Stiles. The wolf doesn’t want
to give him this. The wolf wants to dominate Stiles with teeth and a bloody
fuck on the cold concrete and this—this is probably why Derek’s mom took him
aside when he was fourteen and told him they’d find him a werewolf mate, that
he had to be patient.
“Do you want me to get you wet?” Derek asks, low now, like a growl.
“Derek.”
“Do you want me to make you whine for it like a bitch?” Derek asks, his tongue
sticky with the words. This is a dangerous, stupid game. The air is dry and
Stiles’ skin is hot and he could take him by the throat right now, could take
him.
"Yeah," Stiles says, the sound barely audible. He squirms his mouth like he's
swallowing more words and pushes his hips up against the hand still draped
lazily over his crotch. He watches Derek closely, wide-eyed and not scared, but
something. Trusting. Hopeful.
Fuck, it cuts Derek apart.
Stiles isn't trusting Derek to be gentle; he's trusting Derek to hurt him. The
need in Stiles is like a chasm, strange and intoxicating.
Nothing Derek's ever done qualifies him to deal with whatever misfiring
impulses in Stiles' brain want him to be tormented by a werewolf who could rip
his throat out, but he's beyond stopping now. Not when Stiles is wiggling into
Derek's touch.
"You'd make a good wolf," Derek muses, as he lets his fingers bump-slide back
along Stiles' ribs. "You could afford to be this reckless, if you were."
"I wouldn't want to show up the others. They're trying so hard to be good,"
Stiles says. Derek can't tell if he's joking or not; Stiles' voice trembles
with the effort to hold back laughter as Derek's fingers begin tracing tight
circles, the pressure threatening to become a merciless tickle again.
Derek waits until Stiles' skittering gaze catches and sticks. "Tell me you want
it," he says, slow and deliberate. It's an out, and it's the last out Stiles
will get.
Stiles nods.
"Tell me!" Derek shouts. He feels a rumble of concern from outside the
storeroom and ignores it. The betas won't come barging in here unless he calls
for them.
"I want it," Stiles says. He reeks of embarrassment now. The scent lingers at
the back of Derek's throat.
Derek doesn't give himself time to let that sink in. He doesn't want Stiles'
shame. He wants his (need, joy) laughter, so he lashes his fingers against
Stiles' side and up under his shirt to the hot clutch of skin and sweat and
hair at his armpit. He digs his blunt fingertips into the hard plane of bone
beneath the skin and muscle.
"Fuck—fuck!" Stiles shouts, twisting helplessly. His laughter is primal, like a
bark, like a howl. He starts to say no, again and again, but the sound catches
on a long, drawn out nngghhhh each time. It's an admirable level of control.
And it won't last long.
Derek measures out his attacks, driving Stiles to sobbing gasps and pausing to
let him breathe before beginning again, always on a fresh patch of Stiles'
skin. He shifts above Stiles, never letting him escape, only allowing the brief
illusion of freedom before he pins him in another position.
When Stiles is on his stomach, clawing at the mattress and bucking his hips,
Derek grinds against his ass. He feels lightheaded, his breath coming in low,
hoarse chuckles as he ruts against Stiles' and torments that hysterical,
howling laughter out of him. The next time he stops tickling, he keeps moving,
showing Stiles how hard he is.
Stiles goes boneless and whines quietly, his cheek against the mattress. The
side of his face is streaked with tears, his lashes clumped together with them.
Derek stares, fascinated at the wreck of him. He's never see Stiles cry, but
he's smelled anguish on him, and there's no anguish here now. Stiles radiates
want and even as he sniffles between breaths, he moves. It takes Derek a moment
to realize he's trying to rub himself off on the mattress.
"I know it hurts," Derek says, dizzy in a way he's never felt before. Not
fucking, anyway. Not fucking Stiles. "I'll help you."
Instinct pulses in him as he yanks Stiles' jeans open and down his thighs.
Stiles is so sweaty from practicing and struggling it's like he really is wet.
A ripe desire to mate hits Derek like a gunshot and he snarls out a quick laugh
and says, "Stiles."
Of course this boy would find one more way to aggravate him, to make him itch,
inside and out.
"Yep, right here," Stiles says weakly. He doesn't move at all, as if his wrists
are still pinned down to the mattress. "Oh my god. My ribs hurt."
"You'll live," Derek says, the sound garbled as he licks his own fingers
messily.
"And my dick hurts."
"Does this hurt?" Derek touches Stiles' hole, waits for that first flinch to
subside, and enters him in one long, probing slide. He curls his fingers and
twists them, making Stiles feel it all, without a chance to catch his breath
and let the burn pass.
"Uh huh," Stiles says. His fingers clench into fists. "Fuck, Derek. Come on.
Yeah."
Derek palms Stiles's back, right between his shoulder blades. He presses, not
too hard, but enough to show him he can't get away. Enough to feel. "You're a
brat, pup," he says, grinning.
He fingerfucks Stiles like he tickled him, finding the spot that makes Stiles
cry out and nailing it with pulsing thrusts that aren't quite enough to get him
off. Without slick stuff, he can't do it for as long as he wants, but it's
enough to drive Stiles into a state of mindless groaning and low, pained
whimpers.
"Derek, lemme come, please," Stiles says. He's chewing and licking at his own
knuckles and clawing at the mattress. "It hurts."
Derek drags in a shuddering breath. "I want to fuck you."
"Awesome," Stiles says, like he's being strangled.
"Don't freak out," Derek says.
Stiles, after being tickled half to death and fingerfucked within an inch of
his life, apparently has a lingering shred of self-preservation. He pushes up
on his elbows and looks back at Derek. "Uh?" His eyes go wide. "Oh my god."
Derek can count the number of times he's changed in front of Stiles on one
hand, and it's never been at a time like this. But he doesn't want to rip
Stiles apart. He needs to make him slick. Needs to make him wet.
"I feel like this is against the law, probably. In this county, anyway—oh god!"
Stiles shouts, when Derek takes him by the ass and spreads him open and licks
him from the pink rounds of his balls to his tailbone in one long, hard swipe.
"Oh, fuck me. Oh my fuck."
It's a struggle to keep his teeth clear of Stiles' tender skin, and Stiles must
feel them—must know the danger—because he goes very still, trembling and
breathing in tight whistles from his nose. Derek growls, pleased at the
submission. Stiles is a good boy. He's so hot inside. He tastes so good.
When the soft scent of blood rises to the surface of Stiles' skin under Derek's
bruise-hard grip, Derek changes back. A moment of worry flares until he sees
that he hasn't scratched Stiles. His claws remained unchanged, dormant in his
human hands.
"Stiles," he says.
Stiles peeks one eye open, waits a moment, and blinks his eyes open fully. "Oh,
hey, you're back." His cheeks are so unevenly flushed they look like they're
splattered with berry juice.
"I didn't go anywhere."
"You did. You were like... excavating, dude. I don't even know."
Derek snorts and opens his jeans. "Ready?"
"Like you would not believe."
"No, stay on your stomach," Derek says, when Stiles starts to get up, all of
his limbs trembling like he's just learning how to move.
He waits until Stiles is flat again, and sinks onto him, enjoying the tight
burn-press of fucking into Stiles when Stiles' legs are pressed together. Like
this, Derek can bite down on Stiles' meaty, strong shoulder like he's holding
him down with his jaw the way he wants to, deep down in his blood.
One slow thrust, and another, and they're both wet enough for him to snap down
with force.
"Yeah," Stiles says, the word gusting out of him on a downstroke. His fingers
flutter, grasping blindly until they find Derek's.
After that, they're quiet. There's nothing gentle about it. Derek dimly recalls
starting this for Stiles, but now it's for him. He doesn't want to be slow or
tender. He doesn't want to kiss. He doesn't want to think about what Stiles
needs. He wants to fuck this boy until he smells like wolf and can't sit down
without remembering that he's Derek's.
Derek fucks him ruthlessly. The mattress jumps beneath them, and Stiles
breathes and breathes, echoing the rhythm of Derek's harsh, panting breaths.
Stiles comes, but Derek's awareness of it is only a passing thing—the smell of
semen and the sensation of Stiles' body clenching around him. Derek fucks him
through it, and his own orgasm builds like a slow cramp, aching down his back
and up his legs. It pulls a cry out of his throat as he slams home and writhes
there, wanting it to last longer than it does, wanting to fill Stiles, needing
to claim him.
"Dude," Stiles says. It must be later, because the sweat on Derek's body is
starting to cool, and Stiles feels clammy beneath him. "If we're gonna be
honest here, I'm not even sure what just happened."
"I pretty sure we had sex," Derek says irritably.
"Yeah the giant werewolf schlong in my ass tipped me off to that one."
Derek pulls out, groaning at the sticky tug. Stiles echoes the sound and rolls
onto his side and moans, "My liver, my liver!"
"What?"
"You guys didn't have cable?" Stiles asks.
Derek glares. Something feels off. It's not Stiles being an obtuse smartass
already. That's normal. It's something else.
"You're acting strange," Derek says.
"Sorry if I don't know the protocol for closet sex after school, in a weird
werewolf hideout, with a werewolf," Stiles says.
"No, it's not that," Derek says, ignoring Stiles' huff of indignation. "You're
relaxed."
"I'm not. I'm sticky. And I hurt in places I didn't know existed until today,
thanks."
Derek throws a leg and arm over Stiles and lets the momentum ease Stiles onto
his back, and then he kisses him. Stiles' lips are salty with dried tears and
sweat. There's tension in Stiles' body, but the astringent, faint smell of
agitation that Stiles wears like cologne is gone. Stiles kisses like a
teenager—sloppy and quick, with no finesse.
"You look smug," Stiles says, after Derek frees Stiles' mouth from the
onslaught of kisses. "Is this because you made me come by screwing me?"
"It was the friction against the mattress," Derek says. He lets a quiet moment
pass, and asks, "Are you hurt?"
Stiles hesitates, his heart already skip-beating with a lie before he sighs
softly and admits, "A little. Just sore though, not actually like, injured." He
worries at his lower lip. "Is it bad that I like it?"
"Probably not any worse than my instinct to breed you," Derek says.
Stiles blinks twice. "I don't know if I have the hips for it. And my dad's
allergic to dogs."
Derek sinks his forehead to Stiles's shoulder and laughs for a long time.
They should move. They both need showers and Stiles should rest. The others are
still working out in the main room. Derek can hear the thumps of their bodies
landing against the cardboard mat. They should be practicing on the concrete if
they're not throwing Stiles around.
Stiles.
He's drifting, not sleepily but dazedly, smiling to himself even as he winces
through a stretch.
Derek nips at Stiles' jaw instead of saying, I don't know what I'm doing.
"So," Stiles asks. "Are werewolves ticklish?"
"Immune," Derek says quickly. "Totally immune."
Stiles gives him a wicked, knowing look. "Uh huh."
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