
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/643047.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Kate_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Dysfunctional_Relationships, Introspection, Rough_Sex, Explicit_Language,
      Past_Abuse, Sexual_Abuse, Mind_Games, Light_Sadism, Light_Masochism,
      Marking, Mention_of_Blood_Play, Suicidal_Fantasies, Homicidal_Fantasies,
      Masturbation, POV_Second_Person
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-17 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 1122
****** Love Letters ******
by synchronized_strangers
Summary
     You aren’t stupid. You can see where it comes from, the way you get
     off on watching him writhe, making him beg. When he’s so far gone he
     can’t bring himself to care how pathetic he sounds so long as you
     move, please, please...
Notes
     I really tried to tag for all the potential triggers in this but if I
     missed one or if you feel like there's something I didn't cover,
     please let me know in the comments. If you are in doubt as to whether
     or not this will trigger you, I'd strongly advise having someone you
     trust screen it first.
     As a fandom, we tend to assume that Derek is self-aware enough not to
     continue the cycle of abuse, but if you really think about it, he's
     used his body and his sexuality to manipulate Erica, physically
     intimidated Stiles, he spends all his time with teenagers and his
     psychotic uncle whom he physically dominates/murders occasionally.
     Derek's a pretty likely candidate to be involved in an abusive
     relationship.
     This part is from Derek's perspective. Part two will be Stiles. I may
     add a third if I feel there's anything missing and if you're still
     here, I hope you enjoy it!
See the end of the work for more notes
You aren’t stupid. You can see where it comes from, the way you get off on
watching him writhe, making him beg. When he’s so far gone he can’t bring
himself to care how pathetic he sounds so long as you move, please, please...

Nothing gets you hard like watching the self-loathing set in when Stiles comes
down from the high, fucked out and shaking on your bed and no matter how hard
he tries, he can’t quite force himself not to cry if he isn’t already. You
don’t hurt him, not really. Just bruises and frustration. Just your teeth on
his skin and the shape of your hands on him like a brand, but both fade with
time. Or they would if you let them. If he did. Stiles uses them like a clock,
counting down the days. Always back before the last one goes, ready for more.
Long fingers pressing against the greenish yellow, like a dare.

He doesn’t ask, “What are you going to do next?” Doesn’t ask anything,
actually. He just shows up, hard and aching, staring you down like it’s a game
he can win.

You did that -- caused that. He comes back for you.

Taking him apart with your mouth and your cock until what you’re left with is
an animal? Until he doesn’t care what he has to do or say so long as you let
him come? He’s hardly a person at all, just a set of urges wrapped up in skin
and sweat and blood when you’re finished. He’s absolutely wrecked.

It’s a heady thing, that power. You can see why she took it from you.

Because taking Stiles there, showing him what he really is underneath? It’s not
something you can give up. When he’s with you it doesn’t matter how many clever
tricks he has or if he’s a good liar. He can’t lie when he’s pressing up
against the hand on his chest, desperate and keening, his heart rabbit quick
and ready to burst. Even better when he reeks of shame and need, fear and rage
simmering just under that smooth, pale skin, so close to the surface you can
taste it like the bitterness against the back of your throat. You think that
might be what it feels like to get high.

You show him what that means, too. How thin his skin really is. How easily he
breaks... Just a little. Just enough to taste him -- copper and chemicals
rushing past your lips. Some days it’s all you can do not to bury your claws in
his chest and pull just to prove you can. Maybe that’s what Kate was trying to
do when she burned your family alive. She was vicious. When she used to come,
she’d give this little twist of her hips that made you want to die until it
didn’t. Until it was what pushed you over the edge, too.

Stiles is already skirting that line, already more turned on by what hurts than
by what feels good and if people think you’re cruel they don’t know the half of
what Stiles can do, of what Stiles does. They haven’t seen him on his knees,
his big, dumb eyes fixed on your face and trying not to choke or felt his
broad, long hands on you when he thinks you’re sleeping. He hasn’t touched them
like they’re the ones who might break.

Stiles is young and worse, he thinks he understands.

You still jack off to it at night, in the dark. The way he came to you, inside
your house where he’d never been, bright and alive in the burned out wreck of
your life. The way he’d said, “No one told me. I just put the pieces together.”
The way you needed him to shut up before you did something really bad.

It wasn’t like you meant to. You didn’t go looking for it to happen, but when
he was gasping and squirming between the wall and your body, when he was
hard... And the sound he made when you put your hand on his cock. Relief and
desire. Shock and fear. Of you. For you, and isn’t that a kick in the balls
knowing all you’d had to do all that time was reach out and take.

But what really gets you off, is that you aren’t just teaching Stiles to fuck.
It’s not just about working him loose for you, or not quite loose enough.
Sometimes you leave him tight so it burns when you push into the searing heat
of him, hotter even than the velvet plush of his mouth. It’s more than bodies,
more than getting drunk on the stench of sex.

It’s about breaking him down, tearing him open. It’s about setting his bones
into the right shape so that when you’re finished, what you’re left with is a
stronger Stiles. A sharper Stiles. A Stiles you can cut yourself on over and
over.

Because Stiles? Stiles is clever, and he’s learning. Even now, he’ll get a hand
in your hair and pull at exactly the right moment. Too hard to feel good.
Almost hard enough to scratch the itch. One day, he’ll know how to hurt you as
badly as you hurt him. You can see it sometimes, shining like his wet cheeks
when you’ve made him feel so good it’s too much, the thing he’ll be when you’re
finished.

It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful, and one day, maybe after you’re dead, Stiles
will break someone just as beautiful. He’ll rip someone else apart when you’re
gone.

He’s so strong. Stronger than you ever were. And maybe he’ll tear you apart as
a prelude to something better. If you’re really lucky, maybe he’ll even be the
one to kill you. You’d like that, probably, if he were the last thing you saw.
If it were his hands inside your chest.

And really, how much more pathetic can you get? Fantasizing about a sixteen
year old putting you out of his misery. What’s the phrase? Living vicariously?
Idiot. It still won’t mean you beat her. You didn’t win. You’d say Peter beat
you to it but it wasn’t a race. You weren’t even running. And after, when you
had the chance to end him? Stiles did most of the work then, too. It’s only
fair that you do your part now. If you’re going to make a boy do your dirty
work you might as well give him the tools.

Stiles is a fast learner. He’ll figure it out soon enough, what you want from
him. Maybe he already has. Maybe he’s not learning at all.

When you think about that, you come so hard you see spots.
End Notes
     I'm always around to chat on tumblr if you're interested. :)
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