
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/569866.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale, Kate_Argent, Danny_Mahealani
  Additional Tags:
      Rape_Fantasy, Violence, Character_death_fantasy, Creeper!Derek,
      Sexualized_Violence, Dark!Derek, Teen_Wolf_kink_meme_fill, Ambiguous/Open
      Ending, Season_1
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-22 Words: 2097
****** Faint ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Derek doesn’t want to do the things he thinks about doing to Stiles;
     he doesn’t want to think the things he thinks about doing to Stiles.
     But thinking isn't doing; thinking isn't wrong.
Notes
     Inspired by the teenwolfkink prompt: Derek tries to hold back the
     wolf inside and prevent himself from raping sweet, innocent Stiles. I
     already had part of this written but it had no direction. Then I saw
     this prompt and although it had already been WONDERFULLY filled, it
     inspired me to add a bit more and finish my fic.
     While there is no character death in this fic, there is fantasized
     character death, as well as violent and sexual and violently sexual
     fantasies.
Derek doesn’t want to dothe things he thinks about doing to Stiles; he doesn’t
want to thinkthe things he thinks about doing to Stiles. But his family is
gone, Laura is dead, an alpha is rampaging through Beacon Hills, and the only
tenuous connection he has in the world is with a selfish sixteen year old boy
wrapped up in stupidity and immaturity and the stench of puppy love, the stink
that will be forever seared into his mind and will forever be associated with
the ashes of his family, the festering of death.
So Derek doesn’t fightit when he drowns the buzzing of Stiles’ voice with
quick, dark little fantasies; imagines his hand around the boy’s throat – his
jawsand teeththen finally his fangs– and pretends he can feel the fluttering of
the boy’s Adam’s apple against his palm. He licks the roof of his mouth at the
phantom taste of sweat and tears and blood.
He doesn’t wantto dothose things to Stiles; he doesn’t want to thinkabout doing
those things to Stiles. But thinking isn’t doing. Thinking isn’t hurting, isn’t
tempting, isn’t wrong - it isn't, it isn't - just annoying - when he tries to
ignore the thoughts, anyway, it’s just exhausting and annoying, like Stiles,
like teenagers, and he’s so tired of fighting what he does, what he needs to
do, what he is, he doesn’t bother fighting the thoughts.
-
Even before his life was engulfed in flame and smoke and bitterness, Derek
lived a lot in his head. So after his world becomes blistering, lingering,
stinging pain, it is instinctual to retreat to his mind. He can hide things
there; hecan hide there. The only things that linger on the outside are
aggression and rage, manifesting through glares and displays of dominance and
flights of violence.
-
It’s not like Derek thinks about choking and biting and ripping Stiles into
pieces all the time. The thoughts only come to him every now and then, only
when he’s already stressed and tired and pushed past the brink, only when his
heart and bones and muscles are shaking and he can’t make them stop. The
thoughts only come when he can’t make them stop.
-
Derek isn’t sure when his fierce mental trysts with Stiles’ breakable body
slide from tiresome to relieving. But one day he finds himself pushing his
thoughts along the road to visions of claws dancing through Stiles’ skin
instead of just letting his thoughts wander there on their own.
-
The twisting, bruising day dreams become one of Derek’s richest indulgences.
The thoughts are relaxing; they give his mind a release he can’t find from
physical exhaustion and his body the illusion of the relief he can’t allow his
howling, raging wolf. The thoughts are vacations; not the heat kissed summers
spent at the beach, not the crisp winters climbing and tumbling through snow,
not the short trips stolen between school breaks, not the joyous excursions he
knew with his family, but easy and simple and freeing all the same.
-
Eventually the thoughts sharpen. Eventually the thoughts turn. Eventually the
thoughts are nudged with lips as well as teeth, shaped with tongues as well as
claws.
If the thoughts had flickered with this kind of heat in the beginning, Derek
would have stopped them, would have never let himself come to seek them out
like shelter when his wounds are too deep and he just needs to rest, needs to
distract himself from the way his own body and mind and soul are being torn
apart by drifting into thoughts of devouringStiles whole. But the thoughts,
like every animal fighting for survival, evolved, and he already has them
etched so deeply into his fur and skin, he has no choice but to ride the
mutation out.
-
But Derek has always had a difficult time keeping the lines straight between
violence and sex and feelings. He thinks the roots of it are buried in Kate,
that it was her tongue and fingernails and blood that nurtured the sick seeds
into the now murky forest of his thoughts.
He should have recognized the warning signs, the glaring, blaring danger signs;
the ache in his nails when Stiles stretched his arms over his head, exposing
his tender skin, the urge to press Stiles face forward into the wall instead of
pushing himself against Stiles’ back, the need to seehis fear and fierceness –
taste it- instead of just smell of it.
He should have recognized the hunger that stirred in his chest at Stiles
idioticdisplays of loyalty towards Scott.
-
When Derek is overwhelmed by chaos and confusion and terror and loneliness, he
retreats to the fantasies for focus.
He will bury every emotion, memory, and frantic thought, then delve with
complete abandon into the hollow of Stiles’ throat, the flecks of gold in his
eyes, the sweep of his lashes, the way his hands move over his skull when he
runs his fingers through his short hair; he loses himself in one thing, in one
shallow simple little thing, wallowing into the warmth until everything else
freezes peacefully in place, if only for a while.
Today Derek thinks of the way Stiles’ candy pink mouth slacks, open and pliant
and inviting, when the boy sleeps. He thinks about the way Stiles’ lips, always
moving, always barbed, look so sweet and soft. He thinks about wrapping his
fingertips around the delicate curve of Stiles’ jaw, pushing and pulling to
keep the mouth spread, but he wouldn’t have to, because the boy will do that on
his own, unconsciously offering himself, unconsciously proving himself prey –
defiant, cunning, clever and lovely prey. So he moves on, thinks about licking,
gentle and greedy, into Stiles’ mouth. He thinks about dragging the tip of his
tongue softly inside, dipping in to taste the inside of the boy’s left cheek,
then his right, then mapping his teeth. He thinks about sucking the boy’s
tongue into his own mouth before sinking his fangs in so the blood and cries of
Stiles’ painpleasurepleasurepain will gush directly into his mouth, so he can
catch every drop, everything Stiles gives – everything Derek will take. He
thinks about how accommodating the pretty mouth would be when the brain which
made it so wickedwasn’t in control. He thinks about slipping his thumb through
those open lips, wetting the pad with Stiles own heat, and then dragging it to
wet Stiles’ mouth. He thinks about pushing in three fingers, four, about making
Stiles sleep slick mouth take so much that the boy would wake up with spit
running down his chin and tears trickling from his eyes.
The thoughts are inspired by nights spent outside of the boy’s window, watching
– but only watching, only thinking, never ever really wantingand never ever
doing.
-
There are days when throbbing pulses of pain beat with such deep concentration
that Derek allows thoughts of Stiles to batter the hurt away. He allows the
thoughts to slam and swirl and overtake him. He allows his mind to run, free of
the bindings he forces on his own wolf, to trace the razor edges of every way
he could have the boy – soft and sliding and sweet, hard and bruising but still
so sweet, completely and all at once or piece by piece and over time, seducing
or luring or soothing or just taking, keeping. He allows himself to imagine it
all at once, allows it all to fill and flood his mind completely.
So often Derek wants to give in to despair and loss, but there are so many
reasons to keep fighting, to keep pushing, to keep pathetically hoping. The
thoughts are the only place he can safely submit, the only place he can utterly
surrender.
-
Derek knows where most of the thoughts spring from – Stiles incessant words,
his scent, his spirit, his heart – that always beats so fast -the way he flings
himself without a second thought into the fray, the way he starts working with
Derek out of fear and a desire to help Scott and the way he keepings working
with Derek out of trust that Derek has absolutely no right to but clings to
pitifully.
There are some thoughts that he can’t trace to the point of origin.
There are thoughts of that boy, the one whose number Stiles knew without
looking into his contact list, the one who Stiles kept lookingat even though
the he was clearly looking at Derek. Danny, Stiles had said with a bright
smile, and something brief but dark sparked in Derek’s mind.
Derek thinks about Danny, and about Stiles. He thinks about Danny looking at
Stiles like he had looked at him. He thinks about Danny taking Stiles before
Derek does, kissing and touching and fucking, not like Derek could, not nearly
enough for Stiles. He thinks about Danny trying to claim Stiles and leaving
Stiles wanting, desperate and keening, needing so much more, needing what only
Derek could give him. He thinks about watching while Danny fucks into Stiles
with human force, too gentle to get Stiles off, and he thinks briefly about
letting Danny come in Stiles before running his claws through Danny’s body –
decides he wouldn’t actually allow Danny to finish before he severed his spine.
He thinks about ripping through Danny’s back while Stiles writhes, terrified
and confused but still hard, still waiting. He thinks about how Stiles would
only be satisfied – how Derek and his wolf would only be satisfied - once Derek
was inside of him, fucking him hard and completeand in the heated blood of
someone too stupid to realize Stiles already belonged to Derek.
The first time these thoughts play out – so smoothly– in his head, Derek has to
remind himself again that they are just thoughts. Thoughts that just happen.
Thoughts that don’t mean anything – not that the wires connecting sex and
violence and the urge to protect and the urge to tear are so fundamentally
fucked up he will never be rid of them, not that he is an animal, not that he
is out of control, and certainly not that he wants Stiles – not in any way, not
at any depth, not in reality.
Derek reminds himself again – just thinking, not wanting, not doing, never ever
doing– and wraps his calloused hand around his cock, thinking – just thinking –
of the scent of Stiles fear and desire, of the red that would coat Stiles
thighs and the way Stiles would scream, the cries that would drench Derek in
Stiles and wash the rest of the world away.
-
Derek starts retreating into his thoughts too often.
-
The fragile uncertainty that is Derek’s life snaps all at once. He can’t hide
in his memories or his plans or his feelings or his fantasies. When Kate
strings him up, tortures and twists him, keeps him breaking but not broken, he
can barely think at all.
-
The words vibrate, jackhammer repetition slicing through Derek’s conscious and
subconscious until the thoughts are bouncing though his empty insides.
Peter, Laura, Alpha, Alpha, Alpha, Peter, Laura, Alpha, Alpha, Alpha.
-
There is nothing to think about, Derek tells himself, and tries to shut his
brain off. He can’t afford the hesitation or the extra sting of thinking. His
mind continues whirring, though, guilt and insecurity and doubt and hurt. He
keeps thinking that he can’t kill his only family. He keeps thinking that he
has to avenge his sister, he has to avenge everyone. He keeps thinking that he
can’t be the Alpha. He keeps thinking that he can’t risk Scott becoming the
Alpha, can’t let Scott touch Peter, can’t let Scott who has repeatedly refused
to be part of his pack destroy the only pack he has left.   
His claws manage to rip through the frantic thoughts and sink into Peter’s
skin, slide through his uncle’s throat and let his life and madness and pain
and power flow into the earth. Blood dampens the soil but it is not the ground
the glows red.
-
Derek is the Alpha now.
He takes everything in; the feel and smell and charge of the air, the earth,
Peter’s charred body, the haggard breathing and frightened stares of the human
hunters, the confused anger rolling from Scott, the terror that always
saturates Jackson to the bone, and Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.
Derek is the Alpha now and he can finally shut his brain off, can finally stop
thinking for once. (Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.)
Because Derek is the Alpha now and Alpha’s don’t think.
Alpha’s do.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
