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Leading the pack through the woods is a game like Russian roulette is a game. Adrenaline floods Stiles, warms and energizes his limbs in the deep chill of the forest better than a shot of espresso.
He'd taken two of them before heading out anyway, sure the caffeine couldn't hurt.
It's been an hour since the nearly-full moon had risen to it's zenith. The time is edging closer to tomorrow than today but he isn't willing to chance pulling out his phone to check exactly how long he's been wandering in case the light of the screen somehow gives him away. Which, yeah, probably a stupid precaution considering anything close enough to see the light would be close enough to hear him trampling through the underbrush, but it's not like the pack needs any additional help to track him down.
Stiles takes a few seconds between two trees, warm breath misting in the half-light of the moon. He's been out for hours, now, and the uneven ground slick with rotting leaves paired with his less than meandering pace means his legs and lungs burn pleasantly. He wonders how Allison is doing; they split up nearly immediately after sending out the text message (Stiles and Allison r in the woods! come find us). She's probably made it further along their pre-planned routes, but Stiles is pretty sure Scott would have made a line straight for her. Lydia, too, probably, if just to get under Scott's skin a little when she thoroughly beat him there.
Something cracks in the distance and Stiles sucks in a breath, quick but quiet. He forces himself to stillness, pressed back against the rough bark of the tree and peering carefully around the trunk towards where the sound rang out. He has to remind himself that his friends are the scariest things in these woods.
A hand -- no, a claw, oh christ -- twists itself into the fabric of Stiles' hoodie, just under the dip of his throat. His heart rate, already elevated, jumps into high-gear and pounds in his own ears through the rush of surprised terror.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Derek snarls, teeth elongated but he is otherwise unfurred. That's a relief, at least. Stiles opens his mouth to answer and gets lifted from the ground and shaken, not unlike a ragdoll in the grips of an angry toddler. He feels his teeth catch on his own tongue and there's a sudden tang of copper in his mouth.
"Tracking," he gets out around the lack of air and throb in his mouth. "Scott said they needed practice?"
Derek presses him back against the tree, which is fantastic because it releases his throat from carrying most of his weight and terrible because, seriously, bark should not be sharp like that. "At night. In the woods. Alone."
"When you phrase it like that --" Stiles starts, then chews back the rest of his words when a growl and a steaming breath warms his face. He wraps a hand loosely around the wrist pinning him down and breathes through his nose for a few seconds.
Derek does not loosen his hold. Stiles keeps still. "There's a prize?" he offers lamely, after it's clear that Derek is really, seriously pissed off and not prepared to back down any time soon.
"What?"
"For, you know, catching us? There's a prize." Stiles' eyes widen when Derek leans in, eyebrows twitching curiously. Well, it could maybe be curiosity if he cancelled out the blistering fury. "It was to encourage speed and dedication. Sort of cold out here, what with it being January and a few minutes to midnight and all."
Derek inches even closer, eyebrows coming together like the inevitable destruction of glaciers moving towards impact, wiping out all life in their path. Stiles panics a little, flails his free hand until he has it twisted around the leather collar of Derek's jacket and pushes. It does nothing. He could probably move the tree sooner than he could move Derek. "If you wanted a kiss you should have gone after Allison!" he squeaks, joking desperately, and feels his skull ache where he's jerked it back against the tree. "That's what she promised Scott and Lydia, I'm sure she would have been happy to work you in on their weird little threesome."
Derek doesn't look angry anymore. He looks like Scott does when he's working through a problem paired with how Lydia looks when there's barely cooked steak being served for dinner. Stiles doesn't know how he feels about being treated like a particularly confusing bit of dinner.
Derek's hand loosens around Stiles' shirt, skates its way up and presses, unarguably, into the cut of Stiles' jaw. "What's my prize?" Stiles thinks maybe he's misheard until he gets a humorless eyebrow raise, which makes the question one of those rare non-rhetorical ones Derek likes to drop on him at the weirdest times.
"Starbucks giftcard," Stiles admits, and he can't help but wet his lips, not after Derek's been breathing hot and moist across them. It's maddening.
"Don't really like coffee," Derek says, and licks across where Stiles' tongue had been, a slow, wet drag that sends a zing of heat from his mouth to his toes.
"You had blood," he says a moment later while Stiles tries to get his brain back online, like there's any excuse to lap at someone's mouth with that sort of -- of proprietary ease.
Then Derek does it again, less abrupt but more forceful, no excuses this time, before he drags Stiles' lips apart with his thumb on his chin and licks across Stiles' teeth, which shouldn't be hot, it should be sort of weird and maybe gross but Stiles moans instead of flinching and opens up to it.
Derek gives off heat like a furnace and his mouth is like a brand across Stiles' lips but it's good, it's livening. He lets Derek sooth him and burn him and fuck him, it feels like, Derek so very present in his mouth and in his head and all around him. Stiles doesn't apologize when his nails catch the skin at the base of Derek's neck, just opens his mouth wider and draws a rumbling noise from Derek's chest with a tentative slide of his tongue.
There's a scrape of teeth against the throbbing cut on his tongue before Derek pulls back, and in the dim forest the shining wetness on Derek's lips could be spit or it could be blood; is more likely both. Stiles sways forward and impulsively sucks Derek's bottom lip between his own, passes the tip of his tongue across it to test, to taste, and gets his mouth opened up again for his trouble, findings inconclusive.
It's a kiss that doesn't leave much behind and Stiles finds himself coaxing it out a little longer, breathing in trickling gasps of air between swipes of Derek's tongue in his mouth until it's pull back or die, which shouldn't be a option given any consideration but it is because Stiles thinks it might be worth it, a little, to drag Derek in deeper.
Derek, the bastard, is hardly out of breath. Stiles is light-headed and clutching, utterly jealous of whatever werewolf skill has left him with spots dancing in his sight and Derek with a smug, utterly infuriating expression on his face. He wants to wipe it off, gears up to do just that but, Jesus, Stiles gets a good look at his eyes and feels his pulse stutter because they aren't hazel or even red, they're black, like the iris has swallowed away everything else and wants to swallow Stiles, too.
Stiles shivers and Derek sways in again, but he just breathes on him for a second, rubs his mouth in a not-kiss over Stiles' bruised lips, and steps back to leave Stiles sagging against the only solid thing left in the world. He's fond of the tree, now, willing to pardon the bruises surfacing on his back for its tireless support.
"Don't do this again," Derek warns, which is hilarious, Stiles is going to do this every day for the rest of his life.
"So you don't want your giftcard?" Obfuscation is better than lying.
Derek, because he's a dick, dips his hand into Stiles' coat pocket and fishes the envelope out. "I never said that."