
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/498368.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Sex_Pollen, Fuck_Or_Die, Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Dubious_Consent,
      Canon-Typical_Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-28 Words: 4021
****** Make Peace With Your Demons ******
by wangler
Summary
     When Peter poisons Derek with wolfsbane, Stiles makes a choice. He's
     not going to lose.
Notes
     The non-con is of the sex pollen / fuck-or-die variety.
     Written for the prompt dancing with the devil
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles hates the old, burned out Hale house. He understands that it’s there for
sentimental value, although value is definitely pushing it. But he gets it, he
does. The house stands for the same reason that his dad’s dresser is covered
with Avon perfumes and a small herd of porcelain lambs.

“Trap is the first word that comes to mind,” he says, following Derek to the
porch. He lets his feet shuffle in the dead leaves. If they’re walking into
death and mayhem, he may as well get it started now. “Followed by murder,
hunters, bleeding. Hey, maybe explosions.”

“Peter called me for a reason.”

“Yeah, well listen to yourself. Peter. Called you. For a reason. How about a
killing you reason?” Stiles asks. Ever since Peter’s latest round of beard-
stroking double crossing werewolf shenanigans, he’s solidly at the top of
Stiles’ shitlist.

“He can’t kill me,” Derek says, pausing at the creaky front stoop to glare at
Stiles.

Stiles raises his brow expectantly and crosses his arms. Just because his truce
with Derek turned into a reluctant friendship which turned into a weekly
Chinese take-out date which turned into a bi-weekly fuck-a-thon and a truly
obscene amount of cuddling, Stiles isn’t going to back down on the attitude
Derek requires to examine his life and choices.

Derek goes very still.

It’s weird. Stiles can literally see Derek having the same thought he does, the
moment he has it. His panic flashes in Derek’s eyes, even as Stiles is backing
away instinctively, ready to turn back to the Jeep, to drive back to the
others, because Peter can’t kill Derek.

But he can sure as hell kill Stiles.

Something whistles. Stiles knows the sound, because Allison’s been making him
learn how to shoot her huge, terrifying compound bows. It’s the sound of high-
speed, precision violence.

Stiles breaks into a run for the Jeep.

The first arrow hits the tree next to Stiles, and the next one hits—it hits
Derek. It hits Derek because Derek throws his body around Stiles and takes it,
and even as they fall, Stiles knows that’s exactly what someone wanted to
happen. No one with a shred of brain matter would shoot at a human member of
Derek’s pack without expecting the closest wolf to take it.

“These recoil like a bitch,” Peter says, stepping out of the shadows like the
goddamned cartoon character he is. He’s holding a bow and frowning at it
distastefully.

“I’ve noticed,” Stiles says, flattened under Derek’s seriously heavy body. It’s
hard to look remotely menacing like this, but he tries as hard as he can. He’s
definitely not lacking in bone-deep distaste for Peter. Between what Peter’s
done to Derek and what he’s done to Lydia, he’s earned a special place in
werewolf hell. “When I practiced sniping a dummy with your ugly mug on it.”

“Did you use my profile?” Peter asks. “Because the right is a little better
than the left. We’ve all got a bad side, I suppose.”

“He’s going to wake up any second now and kick your ass,” Stiles says. He
nudges Derek’s ribs hopefully. Now would be an awesome time to do that. It’s
not that Stiles is freaking out, but there’s only so long he can run his mouth
hoping Peter will start monologuing.

“Wrong,” Peter says. His expression doesn’t change, but the sound of his voice
rings out like a bark. Stiles’ ears are buzzing when Peter smiles slowly,
indulgently. “He’s going to wake up any second now, and he’s going to kill
you.”

“Empty threat. Trust me, I’ve heard it about a million times.”

“The wolfsbane is circulating through his body right now, accelerated by the
healing process. I had to order it from Croatia. Do you have any idea what that
cost me in shipping?”

“Your whole allowance?”

Peter laughs. “You should try to run, Stiles. Maybe you can buy yourself a
minute or two. Make peace with your demons.”

Stiles doesn’t want to believe Peter. It’s usually a safe bet to pretend it's
opposite day when Peter Hale is talking. But he can feel Derek stirring and
snuffling, and a tingly sense of dread makes Stiles' skin go cold.

“You wanna give me a hand?” Stiles asks. “I’m a little stuck.”

Peter drops the bow, reaches down, and lifts Derek. Then he throws Derek into a
tree. “Better?”

Stiles goes still, looking carefully between Derek’s shifted, slumped form and
Peter’s outstretched hand. Other than being inexplicably wolfed out in his
sleep, Derek looks okay. The bolt that hit him has already broken free, and
he’s not bleeding profusely.

“I got it,” Stiles says, inching back on his elbows, away from Peter. His heels
slide in the leaves.

Peter shrugs and straightens. “Hurry, Stiles.”

Stiles scrambles to his feet and runs. He’s not worried about Derek. Derek is
already waking up. He’ll wake up and he’ll fight Peter and he’ll win, because
he always wins when he fights Peter. Stiles just has to get the fuck out of
here.

He has his keys in his hand, his shaking fingers fumbling for the door, when
something hits him from behind like a freaking freight train, slamming him into
the front of his Jeep. The keys drop and Stiles goes boneless, trying to drop
with them. He needs his keys to drive, if he can drive he can outrun Peter.
Maybe.

A strong, clawed hand keeps him pinned to the Jeep. Stiles cries out, shocked
by how bad it hurts to have five triangular sharp-as-fuck claws pierce his
skin. “You are so dead,” he tells Peter, as he tries to twist to at least face
him. He’s not going down with his back turned.

Peter lets him turn and it’s—it’s not Peter.

It’s Derek.

Derek’s eyes are milky-red, sick and wrong. He juts his claws out again, whip-
fast, and they pierce Stiles’ shoulder as he presses Stiles down against the
Jeep’s hood.

They prepared for this. Maybe not well enough, but they did. They talked about
it before dawn one morning, sitting at the breakfast table at Derek’s
apartment, wearing nothing but sex-stained bedsheets and eating Pops.

“If you’re alone, you’re prey.” Derek said, gesturing with his spoon. If they
weren’t fucking, Derek was lecturing. Most of it was interesting stuff, and way
more accurate than anything Stiles found online, so Stiles listened, crunching
slowly so the chewing-sounds wouldn't drown out the important things Derek had
to say. “If you’re scared, you’re prey. One false step, and you’re prey. Humans
only survive with weapons and numbers.”

“What about mates?” Stiles asked, snickering.

Derek's spoon clinked down against his bowl. “Mates?” he asked.

“Calm down, dude. I’m not putting a ring on it. But there’s gotta be precedent
for that, right? Scott won’t hurt Allison. She’s not prey or whatever, even on
the full moon.”

“In the off chance you were attacked by a werewolf you were bonded to, it's
possible you’d... be mated with. Instead of killed,” Derek said, shifting in
his chair. Stiles was definitely going to talk about this mates thing all the
time to watch him squirm. “But keep a weapon on hand anyway. Always, Stiles.
That’s the only way humans survive, do you understand?”

“Right now I understand the glory of high fructose corn syrup and the forty
minutes we have before I have to leave for school,” Stiles said, licking his
spoon and looking at Derek’s mouth.

Stiles looks at Derek’s mouth. It’s open, drooling, toothy. I will rip your
throat out. With my teeth.

And it’s not that Stiles is giving up, or doesn’t want to fight, but he knows
exactly how this ends.

He can struggle, and raise about a dozen flags emblazoned with his status as a
big, trembling, pale pile of prey. Or he can try to make Derek remember that
they’re—that they’re something. That he’s enough of something that Peter Hale
knew exactly how to ruin Derek, how to steal every bit of ground Derek’s fought
for this past year. Peter’s crazy, but he’s clever, and if he honed in on
Stiles as the one person Derek wants to kill the least, well, that’ll be
flattering tomorrow, if Stiles can survive the next few minutes.

Stiles really, really wants to survive. Not only because obviously, but because
he’s not going to be a bloody pawn in Peter’s latest scheme. He’s not going to
help anyone take Derek down. Fuck that.

Anger is bad too. Aggression and fear are bad. He has to—god his shoulder
hurts. He just has to.

“Derek,” he whispers, turning his head slowly. His breathing has gone uneven
with pain. “Peter poisoned you, babe. But you remember me, don’t you?” He shows
Derek his throat, and fuck it, he’s still scared. There’s just no psyching
himself out of the terror that comes along with exposing his jugular to a
stoned, bloodthirsty werewolf. “Friend, not food. More than friends, maybe—ah!”

Stiles yelps and squeezes his eyes shut reflexively. His next breath surprises
him, both because he’s actually taking it, and because it blasts out of him
with a hollow sob. Derek is smelling his throat. He’s taking quick, agitated
whuffs. He’s scenting him. Stiles really hopes he smells good, but not in the
Thanksgiving turkey way. In the we just had sex this morning, please remember
that we did, and that it was good, please remember that way.

“Please,” he’s saying. “Please, Derek. Don’t let him do this to you.”

Derek's hips drive forward. It's just a push. Like a nuzzle that's way too
enthusiastic, and Stiles has never been so relieved to feel the hot ridge of
Derek's cock in his jeans. It's not an all clear, but it's a good sign.

Stiles doesn't move at all. It's not how they usually do it. They're both
pretty feisty in bed, but this isn't really Derek. This is an animal. Stiles
isn't exactly proud of his search history; he has a decent if not overly
graphic idea of how animals mate and it's kind of a violent foreplay thing
followed by holding really still. So that's what he does.

He's shivering.

Derek ruts slowly, as if getting a feel for it, and sniffs Stiles' face.

Stiles wants to touch Derek so bad. He wants to bring him back.

He whines softly, letting Derek see that he's giving in. Not giving up. Just
giving.

"Take it, Derek," he whispers.

The claws draw out of his shoulder with a gross, wet sound, and drag down
Stiles' ribs without ripping his shirt. A wave of dizzying nausea hits Stiles.
He hates the sight of blood, and it's a special kind of hate when it's his own,
tracked liked fingerpaint.

Derek hauls him up and buries his face in Stiles' armpit. He takes deep,
snarling breaths. It would tickle if tickling was the last sensation Stiles was
capable of feeling. Stiles goes limp, held like a rag doll, grateful that if
anything, the claws aren't ripping him up anymore, for now. Maybe there's a
short half-life on this wolfsbane shit and it'll wear off before this escalates
further.

Then Derek throws him down into the dirt, and Stiles blacks out briefly.

When he comes to, his first bleary thought is that he's in one of those
freakish Japanese horror movies he never should have downloaded, and Derek is
literally eating his guts. Then he recognizes the wet sounds as licking, and
not eating, and slowly registers the hot, slobbery sensation of Derek's tongue
all over his now-bare belly and up his chest and along his ribs and back at his
armpits and over the deep claw-gouges.

Stiles makes an aborted sound and Derek's eyes flash to his. They're still
cloudy and weird, like he's blind, but there's a purpose to his gaze now, a
dark fervor, and Stiles is no expert, but it doesn't look like hunger. At
least, not the messily devour prey kind of hunger.

There's a blur at the corner of Stiles' vision. Of course. Peter wouldn't be a
Hale if he wasn't lurking. Enjoy the fucking show, creeper, he'd say, if his
mouth didn't feel cottony with the lingering wrongness of climbing out of a
blackout. Peter doesn't make him angry now. It's galvanizing. He hasn't been
eaten yet. He's surviving. Peter, of anyone, should have known better. He's the
one who's always rhapsodizing about the power of human love.

Love. Huh.

Derek turns him over, and there's a moment of wooziness where Stiles isn't sure
if he's actually moving or if he's just dizzy. When the chill hits him, he
figures out that all the jostling was Derek ripping his jeans off. Possibly
with his teeth.

Determined to participate in this whole mating thing, damn it, Stiles pushes up
on his hands and knees. But his shoulder wobbles and gives out, and he cries
out as he flattens back against the dirt. Derek is there immediately, all over
him, licking the back of his neck, whining deeply, pawing at him.

"Dude, it's okay," Stiles groans. It's not really okay. He'd like a lot more
kissing and a lot less bleeding and a bed and less twigs against his dick, but
this is better than being dead and totally ruining Derek's life in the process
of getting dead.

Derek feels like an animal, heavy and clumsy against Stiles. They've never been
intimate with Derek like this. His breath smells different when he's a
werewolf. It smells sweet and dark. His cheeks, rubbing between Stiles'
shoulder blades, are rough with wiry hair instead of the warm buzz of his
almost-beard.

Derek acts like a fucking animal too. Without a courtesy notice, he sinks down,
broad-headed dick first, and tries to mount Stiles like Stiles isn't bone dry,
terrified, and flat on his belly with his legs kind of reflexively closed
because all that werewolf foreplay? Is seriously not working for him.

Stiles makes a hoarse sound. It isn't no because that might be a bad thing to
say to avoid the whole prey thing, but no. He draws his arms up under himself
and ducks his face down and tries to take a deep breath, as if that's gonna
help this happen. Everything's getting tunnel-y.

"Derek," he says.

Derek kicks Stiles' legs apart, and Stiles whines, struggling with instinct to
start fighting. He's about to snap, stretched too thin to endure this, when
Derek sinks again, but not with his dick. He sinks face first and mouths at
Stiles's ass. A lot.

For a while, all Stiles allows himself to feel is relief. Werewolf slobber
isn't his first choice in lube, but it's better than literally nothing. The
sensation of being licked, all over his butt, and oh—okay—inside of it, is an
afterthought. Stiles feels more or less numb and hopes it isn't shock settling
in like a crazy-blanket.

Then Derek strokes his back. There's no mistaking it. It's not a scratch, or a
push. Derek's thumb draws a semi-circle, back and forth, the way Stiles likes
it. It's the first semi-coherent shred of communication Derek's given him since
this started, and it's enough to hang some hope on.

The connection sharpens Stiles' awareness, brings him back. He's been self-
conscious about getting rimmed all the times Derek's done it before. Getting
rimmed by a massive, dog-feeling tongue in front of Peter Hale isn't tons
better. But it doesn't feel bad, especially compared to the relentless throb of
a bunch of little puncture wounds.

"Derek," he says. He moves in shivering increments, drawing one knee up to give
Derek more access, and tries not to think about the picture they make—Stiles
naked in the dirt and Derek in tattered, bloody clothes with the front of his
jeans torn open.

Stiles flinches when Derek turns him. For a moment, he thinks he's being mauled
or toyed with, but Derek is just clumsy with his hands, and it takes a few
swipes to roll Stiles over. In any other circumstance, Stiles would be
fascinated, eager to document the effects of this particular strain of
wolfsbane. Right now he just wants to shove it down Peter's throat and then
shove Peter off a cliff.

"Hey," he says softly, wishing it felt like he was talking to Derek and not a
stranger. He's seen Derek wolfed out plenty of times, but he's always looked
like kind of an ugly version of Derek, not this feral creature. He smiles with
his mouth closed, knowing better than to show his teeth. It's probably the most
pathetic smile in the history of ever, considering he's got dirt and tears on
his face, but if Derek's going to remember any of this, Stiles wants him to
remember that this was Stiles' bright idea. Mating, man. Mates.

Derek licks and noses Stiles' cheek and mouth, cleaning him. He makes low
noises that are somewhere between concerned and horny, and rubs his hard dick
against Stiles.

Stiles pulls his knees up and hooks his legs around Derek. It takes Derek
several hard, clumsy ruts to line his dick up. Stiles hisses, tensing, but the
werewolf slobber turns out to be surprisingly slippery. It doesn't hurt as bad
as Stiles expected it to when Derek finally pushes into him.

Maybe because he feels drunk and dizzy, Stiles forgets that he's supposed to
hold still and let Derek fuck him. He throws his arms up around Derek's neck
and hangs onto him. He isn't urging him on, because Derek's fucking him hard
enough, thank you very much, but he doesn't want to be alone. He wants Derek.
He wants to do this together, because this is scary, and it sucks, but they're
not going to lose.

He has a weapon. "Derek," he says, feeling like he's riding a mechanical bull,
or like a mechanical bull is riding him. "I won't let you go. I won't let you
go."

Fuck you, Peter. Human love is awesome.

Stiles blacks out again before Derek comes.

***

"Stiles. Stiles." Derek sounds like somebody died. The wet, broken terror in
his voice is what pulls Stiles out of what was a really nice dream about buying
a waterbed. "Stiles. Wake up. Please wake up."

"Mmph," Stiles says. "Working on it, dude."

He's still hurting all over, which is definitely a bummer. Judging by the
warmth and vague aroma of smoke, they're in the relative sanctuary of the old
Hale house. Stiles snuggles into the heat of Derek's body, hoping he's not
expected to respond with more than mumbling and vague consciousness.

"Stiles," Derek says. His heart thuds, rabbit like, hard enough for Stiles to
feel it. It's an awful feeling. Derek has never, ever felt like that before. "I
hurt you."

The anguish in his voice sucks the breath out of Stiles.

"What?" Stiles lifts his head and stares. It's getting dark. Derek's been—he's
been crying. "No way, man. I mean, okay, yes. But it was Peter's screwed up
wolfsbane arrow bullshit, not you."

Stiles is wrapped in the threadbare blanket he keeps on the floor in his
backseat. It smells like mildew. They're tangled together in a dusty corner,
Stiles tucked awkwardly against Derek's chest.

Derek has blood around his mouth and Stiles' shoulder feels sticky from the
thick slobber that appears to have helped all the punctures clot up.

"I could have killed you," Derek says. "And I—I hurt you." He's shivering.

"No," Stiles snaps. He's shaking too, like it's contagious, and wrenches the
gross blanket up around his shoulders. "No. Don't you get it? You didn't kill
me. We won." He grabs Derek's face in both hands, then decides that's way too
goofy, and punches Derek's shoulder instead, as hard as he can. "Listen to me!
We won!"

Derek stares at him, plainly uncomprehending.

Stiles really prefered being unconscious to this. "I did what I was supposed
to. I wasn't prey," he says. His voice breaks. "You didn't eat me because you
like me, I think. Mates, or whatever. Us! Peter didn't get it, he didn't. He
thought you'd kill me, and you didn't, see?"

"He's always known," Derek says hoarsely.

"Known?" Stiles asks, strongly disliking this confusing turn of events.

Derek touches him, his soft fingers trembling at Stiles' jaw and cheek, down
his neck, ghosting over the livid heat of his wounded shoulder. "That I wanted
you."

"It wasn't about killing me," Stiles realizes out loud. Then what? Peter's
trying to break them up? That sucks too. Not as much as killing, but even half-
considering it sends a spike of loss through Stiles that hurts more than
anything else has hurt today. No.

"I hurt you," Derek says. The broken record thing is getting old.

"Peter hurt me. And hurt you, you stupid asshole. He was using me to hurt you.
This isn't even about me. And it kind of should be, by the way."

Derek looks at him.

"Cause yeah, I'm hurt. But it wasn't you. And really shitty afternoon aside,"
Stiles says, "I had kind of an epiphany, and it wasn't even totally blood loss
related, and Peter can't take that away."

If Derek lets Peter win, everything was for nothing, and Stiles can't help but
feel, sullenly, that it would have been better if Derek had just ripped his
throat out.

Derek's still touching him like he's afraid he'll forget how to use his hands
again. "No," he says. "This was a mistake. You. You're—"

"No," Stiles says. "No. I will kill him, Derek. You are not breaking up with me
before we even figure out that we like each other, just because Peter Fed-Ex'd
himself some fucked up werewolf roofies."

"Don't I get a choice?" Derek asks. His jaw twitches. There's a depressing
smile hiding in there somewhere.

"Not today. Because that was really fucking scary. And I did a good job, I did
exactly what I was supposed to do, and I am not letting you go. I didn't let
go." Stiles is yelling now, and punching Derek for emphasis, but weakly now,
because fuck, fuck he aches, and his head hurts. "This is all completely insane
and you are not fucking leaving me alone when I didn't let go. Fuck you, Derek.
You don't get a choice."

Stiles' brief spike of energy fizzles pretty quickly. He's not sure how long he
can keep fighting what Peter's done. Especially when, as the adrenaline dips,
he starts to think that maybe he's just being a pushy idiot, that Derek only
fucked him because that's what they've been doing, that Stiles is a good lay at
best and the other stuff, the liking and mating and stuff, that was just in
Stiles' head.

Maybe he's being selfish, and Derek needs space, cause probably waking up with
a naked, bleeding human was scary too. And Derek has alpha responsibilities and
uncle problems and he's probably not even looking for a relationship or
whatever Stiles thinks this is.

"Sorry," Stiles mumbles. "Sorry. Yeah, you get a choice. Of course you do. God.
I'm not like Peter. I'm sorry."

"Your breath smells bad when you're sad," Derek says. "I don't like it."

"I need a bath. And probably some antibiotics. And gum, apparently. Dickhead."

Derek cups the back of Stiles' neck and presses their foreheads together. "I
don't know why I want you."

"Wow. Don't pile all the compliments on at once."

Derek draws him closer. His heart is still racing, but it isn't the ugly,
panicked thump that reminded Stiles of holding a small animal. He presses his
lips to Stiles' ear, and for a moment, Stiles thinks it's a kiss. Then Derek
whispers, "You scare me."

"But I'm basically like, a bunny compared to—"

"If you're mine, then I can lose you. Don't you understand?"

"I do," Stiles says. "That's how it works, Derek. That's how this works."

Derek sighs and pulls Stiles into an awkward, perfect embrace. "Fine," he says.
His thumb strokes a slow semi-circle against Stiles' back as he stands, lifting
Stiles.

Stiles allows himself to smile, shows his teeth. "Fine."
End Notes
     Written for the Stop_Drop_Howl challenge. Having 24 hours to start,
     finish and post was challenging! Especially because this did not turn
     out the way I intended it to.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
