In case you missed the warnings, this fic contains non-con.
Title is a bastardisation of a line from a John Donne poem.
I own nothing.
Stile voice was flat in a way Derek had never heard from him before. Despite his occasional urges that people let Derek die, Derek had never actually gotten the feeling that Stiles genuinely wanted him hurt until now. It froze him just inside the boy's window.
"I need you to…" Derek started, pushing through it, but Stiles cut him off with an ugly laugh. The boy's head was turned from him but Derek could see the hunched set of his shoulders, could smell the way bitterness and embarrassment and bone-deep weariness leeched from him. It made Derek's skin crawl.
Stiles voice was low but it was cut through with a hurt that almost had Derek obeying on instinct…but no. He was Alpha. He didn't bend for upset teenagers.
"Stiles," he said firmly, choosing not to control the growl in his voice, but the teenager was up out of his chair, standing against his desk like it was a lifeline, face twisted with…anger? Hurt? Something. There was a bruise on his face.
Derek was on him in an instant, fingertips gentle on the too-hot skin, fighting the urge to lean closer and sniff, to lean closer and lick. Stiles slapped his hands away and Derek went, not because of Stiles actions but because of his smell. The harsh chemical smell of low self-worth and the high metallic tinge of belief.
"Don't touch me," the boy gasped out, voice wobbling in a way that hurt Derek's ears, whole body trembling like he was in pain but he wasn't, except for the bruise. Not damaged enough to produce this shock-like reaction. Derek wanted to get his hands on the boy, check him, gentle him. He almost whined with need for it but Stiles face was dark in a way Derek shied away from.
"You don't get to hit me with part of my own car and leave me in a dumpster like trash, then come asking for a favour," Stiles spat but his eyes were darting anywhere but Derek's face and his whole body was screwed up tight, like he was expecting to fight, like he was expecting to lose.
"That never happened." Derek's voice was low with anger but Stiles either didn't care or had a death wish because he laughed in Derek's face, a small painful sound that made Derek want to tear something apart and never, ever stop.
"You had your lackey do it," Stiles replied, turning away from Derek towards the door, "That's as good as." And he walked out of his own bedroom, leaving Derek standing, flexing his fists, useless.
Gods, but he wanted to hurt Erica. She hung in his grip, hands on his forearms but not tight, not trying to get away. Her eyes were wide with fear and submission and behind him, Derek could hear Isaac whine the way he always did when there was violence, and the way Boyd was shaking in his skin.
"You told me to get him out of the way," Erica gasped, high and pitiful around Derek's hand on her throat. Maliciously, Derek let his claws prick the skin, just a little, just enough to set her heartbeat racing, before dropping her.
"Stiles is not to be harmed," he snapped, addressing the entire room, "Ever."
The thing was, Derek couldn't punish Erica because he had sent her after Stiles, even knowing how she had felt about him, even knowing how vicious she could be in retribution. Derek was culpable, just as Stiles accused. It made him ache in unfamiliar ways, knowing he was at fault for the marring of Stiles skin.
He didn't know when it had happened, the odd need to protect Stiles from harm. At first it was because Stiles had taken him in, albeit with reluctance, and Derek hated to be in debt to anyone. Then it became something else, something to do with the way he watched Stiles skin move, the pale expanse of it stretching and rolling over muscle and bone. Derek had watched and catalogued and smelled and, somewhere along the line, Stiles skin had become Derek's territory.
It didn't make sense, not even in Derek's brain and Derek was born to his wolf, just as feral as he was domesticated, but that was the truth of it. In the hours spent counting Stiles moles while he bent over his laptop trying to find something that would get them out of their latest shit-storm; in the many times he'd had it, warm and smooth and so alive, under his hands as he jockeyed the boy about, at first to scare him then just for the scent of his blood rushing too quick through his veins, Derek had claimed Stiles skin as his own.
Part of him howled a protest when Stiles would come home from lacrosse smelling like grass and air and broken capillaries. He wanted to get his hands on that skin, find the hurt, see it and soothe it. He wanted to murder the lacrosse team. It was part of the reason he had been so harsh with Jackson. Sometimes Stiles would come around smelling like Jackson and pain and that had made Derek crazy.
It was a constant low-riding rage in his brain that Stiles was not, truly, part of Derek's pack. He was part of Scott's and Scott was an incompetent wolf as much as he was an incompetent human. Derek watched them when they were together, heads bent close, the way Stiles would laugh sometimes, barked and bright, and Derek burned.
Stiles got over it, or so he said, back to helping when Derek asked, though he made it quite clear that Scott was his Alpha of choice and he was only helping because the threats were bigger than they were individually. He wasn't okay though, his scent throbbing with a lacing of cynicism that Derek loathed to smell on him. It didn't belong, infecting Stiles usual tartly sweet smell with a low-grade hum of decay, and Derek hated that.
Erica had tried to apologise in her own awkward way, and Stiles had brushed her off with a smile and a joke, and Erica had walked away without realising that he hadn't offered any sort of absolution. Derek knew because he spent an inordinate amount of time outside the high school, listening in for the odd tha-dump bump of Stiles heartbeat.
The Gerard Argent thing nearly killed Derek. The smell of blood and hurt and ohGodsomuchpain almost turned him wild where he stood. He shadowed Stiles home, not making his presence known, and when he was sure the boy was safe in his room, Derek hunted down Scott who, predictably, was lurking near the Argent girl's house. Gods, Derek wanted to strangle Peter - who was back now, so Derek could put that plan in motion. He tabled the thought for later perusal.
Scott yelped and fought when Derek took him down, but gave easily enough when he felt that Derek was at the end of his tether, prepared to do him serious harm. Derek stayed above him for a long moment, teeth and claws dug in, until he could force himself back under control.
"You need to take better care of your pack," Derek snarled through fangs and dug his claws in deeper as Scott tried to bristle beneath him. He wanted Scott's blood on his teeth and it was taking everything he had to stop himself.
"I am," Scott growled and Derek snapped near his ear, letting fang flash in Scott's vision.
"You knew Argent was on the prowl and you didn't keep him close," Derek growled, so angry his vision was blacking out, "and you left him alone afterwards in favour of stalking a girl who wants you dead."
Derek roared the last few words, and Scott trembled beneath him. Derek could feel Scott's blood, slick on his claws, and wanted to rip him to pieces, wanted to destroy him for his stupidity and his inability to see past a warm cunt.
"You'll take better care of him or I'll take him from you," Derek snarled, allowing his claws to tear Scott's sides just a little, before throwing himself away from yet another of his failures and running.
Derek was done. Stiles had limped past him, face so bleak it hurt to look at, whilst Scott argued with the Argent girl over who should and should not have been involved in the raid that left several centaurs bleeding their foul blue blood on the cement, and Isaac with several arrow wounds.
Derek could hear Scott yelling about Isaac and how he was on 'their' side, as if they and an Argent would ever share a side and, as usual, Scott was backing the wrong person. Isaac would heal, he had Erica and Boyd and Derek to take care of him. Stiles, it seemed, was no more than an afterthought – he'd left and Scott hadn't even noticed.
Derek snapped. There were untold number of dangers upon them or heading their way; the Argents were still out for blood over the death of the matriarch and a pack of Alphas were just waiting to make their move. Derek would not lose Stiles to any of them.
He sent Isaac back to the warehouse with Erica, then stalked Stiles home and climbed in his window like a shadow as he took a shower. Derek could hear the boy's cut-off sobs from where he waited at the desk, could hear the way the boy moved clumsily from injury that would take far longer to heal.
To his credit, Stiles only jumped minimally when he entered his bedroom and found Derek in the dark. Derek could see his face was still wet, could smell that it wasn't just water, and waited although the howling beneath his skin was torture.
"I'm too tired, Derek," Stiles said, sounding so weary that Derek almost turned away, almost forgot about why he was there. Almost.
Instead, Derek stepped forward and caught him by the jaw, licking the skin beneath his eyes, feeling the taste of salt and sad and Stiles burst on his tongue, heady and overwhelming.
"What?" Stiles flailed, trying to twist away, but Derek firmed his grip and forced the boy to the bed.
"Drop the towel," he hissed, and whether it was instinct or exhaustion or preservation, Stiles did as told. Immediately, Derek pushed him down onto his back and climbed on top.
Stiles body was one long, taut line of tension beneath Derek but it didn't matter because Derek wasn't going to allow anyone to take this bright, loud, dangerous boy from him. Derek wasn't going to allow anyone to take the skin that was rightfully his. It was his. He'd fought with it and alongside it, he's fought against it, he'd bled with it and hurt it, he'd protected it. It. Was. His.
"Derek," Stiles whispered, his voice wracked with fear and that wasn't what Derek had wanted. He looked up, locked eyes with the boy pressed below him and he could tell what Stiles was seeing. Red eyes and wolf features and Stiles went very very still. Just like Derek had taught him. He remembered saying it, "Don't' draw attention to yourself," but it was too late for that.
Derek snapped his teeth in the boy's face, just a little, just to encourage him to stay, and Stiles whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut. There was a tear and Derek lapped at it, the flavour fresher than before, so much more intense.
Derek could feel his family judging him. This wasn't how they did things, they had always raised him to be as human as possible, but Derek ignored their disapproving eyes in his head. They didn't understand, couldn't. They hadn't met Stiles, didn't know how desired he was or how little he knew it. Left to his own devices, or Scott's, he'd only end up selling himself short or, worse, dead.
Derek clenched his teeth tight and swore in the silence of his mind that this would be the last thing, the only thing, he didn't give Stiles a choice in. Everything else he'd offer but this, he couldn't take the chance. Not with Scott and the Alpha pack and Peter.
Derek sniffed the skin beneath him, registered the scent of musk and fear and resignation. It hurt Derek's heart, the way the combination smelled like sickly roses, like Stiles was drowning with no way out. Derek would give him a way out.
Derek lifted his hands from where they were pinning Stiles and the boy didn't move, barely even breathed. When Derek was sure he would stay put, he slid down the boy's body and started at his feet, determined to cover every inch of that pale skin with his scent.
Derek took each toe into his mouth, sliding his tongue into the grooves in between, laved over the top and across both soles, careful not to miss an inch. He worked his way up shins and thighs, the rasp of Stiles body hair on his tongue zinging in his brain like electricity.
He paused when he got to Stiles groin. Derek wanted, oh Gods how Derek wanted, but he had sworn that he would let Stiles make his choices. Careful and slow, Derek nudged in and breathed in Stiles where he was at his most potent. Derek went dizzy with it, digging blunt fingernails into Stiles abdomen to bring himself back.
Stiles shook under his hands, still so fearful, and Derek quickly shouldered in further, shoving Stiles thighs apart and holding them wide with his knees, before licking all over Stiles groin, his dick, his balls, the soft skin just behind. Closer and closer he got to the place where Stiles smelled the strongest but, although his mouth watered for it, Derek held back, not yet not yet not yet a litany in his head.
Reluctant, Derek moved upwards, sure he hadn't missed an inch, continuing his journey over abdomen, dipping his tongue into bellybutton and the grooves between each rib, onto hands, sucking each finger into his mouth and sliding his tongue into every crevice, up arms, across shoulders and onto neck.
Here, Stiles fought a little. Of course he did, he was the researcher and he'd know the inherent offer a bared throat gave. Derek was firm, pushing at his chin, using his body to contain the weak struggles, until Stiles breathed out and went limp, head tipping back. Derek wanted to howl, wanted to whine and chuff and rub. Instead he licked a line from the hollow of Stiles throat all the way to his chin, and continued his quest. He covered Stiles throat, dipping behind and into his ears, making sure to get inside each crinkle of skin. He slid his tongue over Stiles chin and lips, pressing them open.
Derek didn't kiss, though he desperately wanted to, held that all back and simply ran his tongue over sharp human teeth, trailed the hard roof of Stiles mouth, around his gums, inside his lips, tasted the soft underside of the boy's tongue. Then he moved on, over cheekbones and nose, dipping just inside, just a little, up the bridge and over eyelids and onto his hairline.
"Over," Derek rasped, and Stiles went, pliant as a doll. Derek allowed himself to purr, chest firm against the boy's back, letting him feel his Alpha's pleasure.
Derek continued the all over the skin set out under him, until every millimetre was covered with his saliva, then returned to the boy's buttocks, shoving his legs wide and prying the cheeks apart.
Stiles shuddered and Derek rubbed his face against the boy's lower back in comfort. He looked at the pink furl, pinprick tight and the last non-claimed skin standing, before swiping over it, careful and thorough.
Stiles went wild under him, bucking and fighting, but Derek pressed his body down, swallowing the protest with heavier muscle until the boy exhausted himself.
"Shh, shh," Derek murmured against the boy's neck, "It's okay now, shh."
When the boy had subsided, muscles spasming weakly against Derek's hands, Derek sat back on his knees, letting his eyes trail the body laid out for him. He could hear Stiles laboured breathing, throat thick with snot and tears, and stroked his hand over all that skin he had claimed, soothing.
Stiles scent was changing, mingling with Derek's now, but it wasn't enough, not quite. Derek leaned down and rubbed himself gently on the swell of Stiles ass, the friction of his jeans on his erection making him mewl into the boy's hair.
There was one other thing he could do, one thing that would mark Stiles as thoroughly as he could without claiming the boy completely. Derek wanted to claim him, wanted to badly, but Stiles had to consent and not like this, not when he was still so fragile, heart thundering in Derek's ears.
Derek freed himself from his jeans and began jerking off, not fast and hard like he wanted, but slow and sweet so as not to startle the already brittle boy. Stiles made a high keening sound that had Derek's feral side rubbing its face all over his back, offering comfort and closeness and Pack.
When Derek came, it was with a quiet grunt, muffled by the way he had set his teeth on the boy's nape. Just to feel. Just to see. This time, when Derek held his thighs apart and opened him up, Stiles offered no resistance.
Derek made a pleased noise and let his thumb trail the dusky furl, watching fascinated as it fluttered under his touch. He wanted to put his tongue there, to lick and suck and own until Stiles was a fucked-out mess, begging and sweating and wanting. One day, when Derek had proven that he was a worthy Alpha to follow, when Derek had proven that he was worthy of Stiles, Stiles would offer it all to him and he would spend hours here worshipping the boy at the very centre of himself. One day, when Stiles understood that Derek could give him everything he needed, that Derek saw him, then Derek would have the chance to get inside.
Fuck, the thought of that. Inside where the skin was peach and hot-soft and so private, and Derek would get to touch it with fingers and cock, get to lance into it and feel it tighten around him, pull at him and stretch for him. Gods, one day…
But it wasn't this day, so Derek pulled himself back, stroking Stiles trembling thigh with fingertips whilst he ran his thumb through his own release and stroked Stiles little hole until it gave and let him in. He didn't screw in far, just enough to cover his thumbnail, twisting slowly around, feeling the muscle tighten spasmodically then loosen for him. Stiles was making little hiccupping sounds in his chest, and Derek caressed his back and along his side but his eyes stayed fixed where his thumb was breaching Stiles body.
After a few minutes, Derek gathered his remaining come, now tacky and cool, and with gentle jabs began feeding it into Stiles loosened hole. Stiles made a strangled noise but Derek shushed him, pausing with his thumb inside to lean down and lick his neck, offer reassurance and affection, let him know he was doing so well.
Derek continued until all of his release was inside Stiles body, his hole pink and slightly puffed from the attention, shiny and sticky, then pushed Stiles legs together and used his thighs to hold them like that, keeping his come inside that hot channel, settling his weight on Stiles back.
Derek could smell it already, the way Stiles scent was changing to deeper incorporate Derek's. It wouldn't last, not forever, but long enough for all wolves to know that Stiles and his fierce loyalty and his unyielding intelligence, his brilliant blazing heart and his warm living skin belonged to Derek, to Derek's pack.
Derek put his mouth to Stiles ear and just breathed a moment, choosing his words with care. He knew the boy well enough to understand that the wrong step here would undo all of his hard work, break everything open and leave a festering wound that would be unbridgeable.
"Stiles," he murmured, nudging the boy's head until he saw eyelids flutter, "Stiles, you're ours now. You're ours and we'll get you through this, we'll get through this together. You're ours now, okay? We've got you. I've got you."
Derek was sure he wasn't imagining the slight lessening in the tension of Stiles body, still pressed into the mattress underneath him.
Thank you for reading.