
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/434122.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Isaac_Lahey
  Additional Tags:
      Kink_Meme, Claiming, Public_Claiming, Rough_Sex, Rape/Non-con_Elements
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-06-14 Words: 2047
****** Holy Water Cannot Help You Now ******
by affectingly
Summary
     I'm the Alpha.
     It rings in Stiles' ears, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.
Notes
     Kink meme fill...
     "Derek/Stiles Derek shows Isaac who Stiles belongs to ,dubcon,
     claiming
     After basically wolfing out on Isaac, Derek decides to show just
     exactly who Stiles belongs, via sex. So, Derek takes Stiles on the
     floor, rough and fast, in front of Isaac, setting his claim on Stiles
     and letting Isaac know not to touch what's his.
     As soon as their done, Derek fixes Stiles to look decent and ditches
     with Isaac. Which is why Stiles' dad found him just standing there."
     http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/
     4407.html?thread=2657591&style=mine#t2657591
     Ended up closer to noncon than dubcon, my apologies to the original
     prompter.
     Title from the Florence + the Machine song, "Seven Devils."
I'm the Alpha.
It rings in Stiles' ears, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. He fidgets,
trying to catch his breath, fingers curling and uncurling as they clutch at his
own flannel shirt. He glances as Isaac, sees him staring back and it makes him
shiver, scramble up, press himself to the cool wall.
Derek notices, too, glancing back over his shoulder at Isaac.
Stiles wipes the sweat off his face, stuttering, "Y-you should probably get
going, right? Because... because my dad will be here soon and there could be
other hunters and --"
He stops abruptly when Derek looks at him again, his eyes glowing red once
more. Stiles swallows hard. He has no reason to be nervous. There's no REASON
for Derek to hurt him. Derek just saved him. It's illogical, and yet... yet
something doesn't feel right to Stiles.
"Derek?" asks Stiles. “Dude -- um, could you quit with the glowing red eyes and
the looming? Okay, I get it. You're the, ah, you're the Alpha and I'm happy for
you and I'm glad you could keep me from being maimed by one of your overzealous
attack dogs or -- or not DOGS, I didn't mean -- WHAT I MEANT, is that it's
lucky you were here and I, um... Derek?"
"You have a point," says Derek.
And if Stiles does have a point he doesn't know what it actually IS, but he's
just...super glad Derek seems to know because maybe that means he will LEAVE
before Stiles' dad comes in and he has to explain, like... his LIFE. "That's
GREAT, that's fantastic. I'm glad we see eye to eye on this. Now, about your
escape from jail and not being CAUGHT --"
"If I hadn't been here, he wouldn't have known you're off-limits," continues
Derek, as if Stiles might as well not have been talking. Which, if Stiles is
honest, and he typically likes to be with himself at least, what with how his
life is filled with werewolves and insanity, it's not exactly the first time
someone has pretended Stiles wasn't speaking at all.
Whatever. That's nothing anyway compared to the sinking, sick feeling Stiles is
getting in his stomach because Derek's eyes are still that ominous, death,
blood, end-of-the-world color and he's still looking at Stiles and Stiles is
starting to feel as if he's a Christmas ham Derek doesn't want to share.
"I'm off-limits? That's... um, great. I... you know, I wouldn't worry about it.
Really, what are the chances there'll be werewolves and you won't be around. I
mean, right? Right? Come on..." Stiles trails off as Derek turns fully around
to face him. He really does not have a good feeling about this.
When he first started interacting with Derek on a semi-regular basis, Stiles
couldn’t help but notice certain things. Derek's always been a bit... ODD
around him, always stared longer at Stiles than anyone else, never stopped to
ask if it was okay to touch Stiles, never hesitated to slam him up against a
wall or smack him upside his head. Always behaved as if... as if Stiles should
just do whatever Derek wanted, and Stiles put Derek's aggressiveness around him
off to the fact that Stiles is human and therefor weak in Derek's eyes.
Anything else, Stiles dismissed as fantasy, as Stiles projecting. Derek is hot
and Stiles couldn’t help but notice that, pay attention in ways that were
probably counterintuitive to like, you know, staying alive. But it’s always
been there, always lingering in the back of Stiles’ mind.
Right now, it’s rearing its ugly head, twisting up in Stiles’ gut as Derek
advances on him. He desperately wants to dismiss the wild theory as half-baked
nonsense, as panic-fueled hysteria that’s making Stiles' overactive brain come
up with an explanation for Derek Hales' general inexplicableness, but when
Derek narrows his eyes and tips his head to the side, assessing Stiles, his
stomach clenches up.
Stiles takes a jerky step to the side, and another and then he's running for
the door, and he's almost at the threshold when he hears fabric rip and he
realizes belatedly it's his shirt giving way, but not enough, as Derek grabs
hold of it and hauls him backward. He trips, stumbles, flails as he slams
bodily against Derek's broad chest, Derek's arms trapping him easily. Stiles
struggles, babbles as he tries to shove away, kick out, anything to get Derek
to release him.
"What -- what are you doing? Didn't you -- didn't you HEAR what I said about my
DAD, he's going to be here any minute, probably with all those Argent assholes
and -- and wolfsbane and like -- silver and holy water or, or WHATEVER. DEREK,
let me GO, what's WRONG with you?"
Except Stiles already knows the answer to that question, sees it in the burning
glow of Derek's eyes. Being an Alpha has changed him, its taken away all the
humanity Stiles used to be able to glimpse, or at least hidden it so deep even
DEREK can't find it now.
"It's simple," says Derek, one arm wrapping around Stiles like a vice, caging
his arms to his sides, pinning him in, the other hand coming up to grasp Stiles
around the back of the neck, thumb pressing dangerously to Stiles' throat and
forcing Stiles to tip his head back. "He can't be expected to respect the
Alpha's property if he doesn't even understand that you belong to me."
Stiles' breath leaves his lungs in a rush, the blatant statement of possession
stealing over him and making it hard to remember petty tasks like how to inhale
and exhale. Stiles shivers from head to toe, squirming as best as he can in
Derek's iron grip.
"That's – holy hell, Derek, that's insane. I'm not... you've never even -- I'm
not yours!" he shouts, and instantly he realizes it's a mistake.
Derek snarls and before Stiles can even TRY to react, to take it back, Derek is
kissing him hard, insistent tongue pushing its way into Stiles’ mouth. It’s hot
and slick and coaxes an involuntary response from Stiles. This is not what
Stiles ever had in mind, the few times he’s allowed himself to dream, to close
his eyes shut tight and jerk himself off in the dark of his room.
“Derek,” he lets out on a pleading whisper.
Derek rumbles, and he must take it for consent instead of an attempt to make
him stop, because the next thing Stiles knows, Derek has him on the ground. His
face is pressed the cold, dirty floor as Derek shoves Stiles’ shirt up, yanks
his pants down over his hips, exposing him.
Oh god, how is this HAPPENING to him? Every gulp of air feels red-hot in
Stiles’ lungs, his chest too tight. He can’t breathe. He can’t THINK. He – he’s
having a panic attack, he realizes with a horrible lurch in his stomach. He
hasn’t had a – not since – his next gulp of air sounds more like a sob.
“Derek, you can’t – not – please, just not here,” whispers Stiles, ashamed that
his cock is starting to swell in his pants.
Derek only growls, grabbing Stiles’ wrists and roughly yanking them behind his
back, holding them both there with one hand. The other disappears for a time
and as Stiles tries to catch his breath, he can’t even think about where it
might have gone, what Derek is getting ready to do. But then it’s back, rough,
slick fingers shoving between Stiles’ asscheeks, wet with what Stiles assumes
must be spit.
Stiles searches the room for any help, for any hope that this is not about to
happen, but his eyes meet Isaac’s just as the first of Derek’s fingers push
inside of him and Stiles has to shut his eyes tight as he bites his lip to keep
from crying out.
It’s – it’s unfair, supremely, horribly unfair, because Derek knows exactly
what he’s doing, is merciless as he works Stiles open. Stiles tries to make
himself relax, take what Derek is giving him. This is happening, he can’t stop
it. He can’t even control his own body or how it’s reacting to Derek, to the
insistent presses against his prostate, the heavy weight and burning heat of
Derek’s body hovering over him, pressing him down.
His cock is trapped in his jeans, maybe Derek planned it that way, his thighs
trapped together by the span of his jeans. It’s making everything worse and
better at the same time, making Stiles helpless in ways that he never wanted to
get off on, but he is despite himself.
And Derek isn’t exactly taking his time here, either, already up to three
fingers. He can’t, Stiles is supremely aware of the impending arrival of
reinforcement and he burns at the thought of his dad finding him like this. It
makes him give in, despite the pain, despite the shame of it.
His body goes obediently slack for the first time, all the fight going out of
him, pliant for Derek. He stops struggling entirely. It’s much too soon, but he
begs for it anyway, hurries Derek along. “Please, please, give it – just do it,
okay.”
Derek growls, but he releases Stiles, and for a split moment Stiles actually
considers running, making another break for it, but then he hears the clack of
Derek’s belt buckle, the drag of the zipper. He shivers and realizes his cock
is throbbing in time to his own heartbeat, his ass clenching around nothing,
and he hates himself but he doesn’t move.
Stiles feels the blunt drag of Derek’s wet cock, smeared with precome and his
own spit probably. That’s the only warning he gets before Derek is pushing in,
irregular, hard snaps of his hips as he works his cock deep.
It burns, it hurts, and Stiles sucks in gasp after gasp as he tries to handle
it, his hands finding their way to the ground, scrabbling uselessly at it as
Derek blankets his back and rolls his hips in hard, pointed jolts.
“Mine,” snarls Derek, “You’re mine. Every werewolf who comes across you will
know now. You’re the Alpha’s, you’re not to be touched. They’ll smell it on
you, who you belong to.”
Stiles whimpers, god, that’s embarrassing. He’s whimpering. He can’t help it.
Hot tears leak from the corner of his eyes, his cock trapped painfully in the
coarse confines of his jeans, Derek’s cock stretching him, filling him and
dragging, pushing against his prostate again and again and when Derek demands,
“Say it,” Stiles responds despite himself.
“Yours,” he croaks. “I’m yours.”
“Good boy,” says Derek, and then he’s yanking at Stiles’ shirt collar, pulling
it until Stiles’ shoulder is exposed and his jaw clamps over the exposed skin.
Terror and desire flood Stiles all at once and he comes with a sound that’s as
close to a howl as he’s ever gotten.
He whites out then, the combination of orgasm and panic overtaking him for
several moments and when he comes to, Derek is groaning and coming, a slick hot
mess that Stiles can feel leaking out of him as soon as Derek pulls out.
He doesn’t have time to even think about it because then Derek is yanking him
up, yanking the sticky disaster that is his jeans up over his ass and
straightening his shirt with a smirk.
“That oughtta do it,” says Derek, seemingly satisfied. “Gotta go, think the
cavalry has finally arrived.”
He tucks himself back in and turns his attention to Isaac who is still slumped
on the floor. “Let’s go.”
Stiles watches with a shocked, vacant stare as they escape out the window.
Later, after his dad arrives. After Stiles has been interrogated and hugged and
scolded and fed and grounded and ungrounded and finally sent home.
Later, he remembers his shoulder.
His heart slams against the inside of his chest, hammering with anxiety as he
pulls his shirts off, casts them to the side, and looks in the mirror.
His stomach flips and his knees wobble, threatening to give way as he stares.
Nothing. There’s nothing but slightly red indents in the shape of Derek’s
teeth. He didn’t break the skin.
Yet, a voice inside his head whispers, and Stiles can’t figure out if it’s
hopeful or horrified.
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