“You know,” Stiles said as he leaned heavily on the pool table, watching as Lydia cheerfully decimated Scott, “You know who’d be really great at pool?” He reached sleepily for the pint of beer he’d placed on the edge of the table and would have sent it crashing to the floor if it weren’t for Scott and his werewolf superpowers. “Thanks Scott!” he retrieved the glass from his friend, sloshing only a little on his shirt before managing to make mouth meet glass.
“Derek,” Stiles continued. “I bet Derek would be really, really great at pool.” Allison arched her perfectly shaped eyebrow at him before sharing what appeared to be a meaningful look with Scott. He would investigate that further, but later. Now, he wanted to finish his beer – and then maybe get another one.
When Lydia had presented them all with fake IDs for Allison’s birthday, Stiles had been obsessively concerned that they’d wind up getting busted at a bar in Beacon Hills by his dad, so he’d made Scott drive them to the next town over. At first he hadn’t been too impressed with the pub they landed in, a little local spot called Terry’s. The chrome lighting could only make up for so much, and he’d barely choked down his first pint.
Stiles had never really liked beer. Whoever thought that drinking something that smelled and tasted like vomit was a good idea was sorely mistaken. Only it hadn’t seemed so bad after his second glass, and now that he was working on his fourth he found it quite enjoyable. Plus, the warm, beer-buzzy feeling made him want to hug everyone.
“Why do you think Derek would be good at pool?” Lydia leaned over the table and effortlessly sunk the eight ball, making Scott groan in frustration.
“Hmm?” Stiles asked absently, his attention fixed on his hands where he was carefully sending a text to a contact named ‘BigBadWolf’.
We are playing p ool. You should comeplay.
“Why,” Lydia repeated indulgently, “do you think Derek would be such an excellent pool player?”
Stiles looked up from his phone and stared at her. “You’ve seen his arms, right? He’s got arms like… like a freaking lumberjack.” He’d never actually seen a lumberjack—did lumberjacks still exist?—but he bet they had arms just like Derek’s. All big and burly and thick with muscle.
His phone vibrated in his hands and he blinked rapidly down at it, trying to focus on the words.
Where are you? Are you at a bar?
IS SCOTT WITH YOU?
Stiles glared down at the screen. There was no need for yelling. Really.
He took another long swallow of his beer, enjoying the cool slide of it down his throat, before typing a reply.
Yes scott. yes bar. TERRYS.
He could yell too. So there. Smirking, Stiles placed his now empty glass onto a nearby table and looked up to see Lydia staring at him.
“What?” He asked, defensively.
“Who are you texting?”
“Who am I texting? What, seriously?” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Derek. Obviously. So he can come beat you at pool.” With his arms, he felt like adding, but maybe he’d said too much about Derek’s arms. Or had he just thought too much about them? Whatever. He’d bet his shirt that Derek’s giant arms would be a match for Lydia’s giant brain.
With that, Stiles eyed his nearly empty glass and made his way towards the bar. He hoisted himself up onto one of the stools and slapped a hand down on the worn surface of the wood.
“Barkeep!” He called, grandly, and then beamed at the ancient looking man in a grimy sports jersey who was sitting beside him. He loved this place.
Thirty minutes later, Derek pulled into the parking lot of Terry’s with a screech. He unbuckled his seat belt and was out the door in a blur of motion. He could see Scott’s mom’s car parked a couple spaces down and strode purposefully into the bar with a low growl.
The bar was so dimly lit that even with his keener-than-human senses it took his eyes a moment to adjust before they focused on Scott, standing at a pool table watching Lydia teach Allison how to play. He couldn’t see Stiles and felt a momentary flash of concern.
It wasn’t that Stiles was Derek’s problem, exactly, but if Stiles got into trouble it was a sure bet Scott would be close behind. At least that’s what Derek told himself, because there was no reason for him to be worried about Stiles. Except for right now, clearly, because four seventeen-year-old high school kids should not be in a bar on a Tuesday night. He would bet a great deal of money that Stiles had spearheaded the venture.
He began to head towards Scott when he caught a familiar whiff of scent. It was a particular scent that he only ever associated with Stiles, fragrant sweetness with a lick of heat, like a cinnamon heart. Head cocked and eyes narrowed, Derek sniffed inquiringly at the air until he found its source.
Stiles was leaning eagerly into the personal space of the man sitting beside him at the bar. By the looks of it, the man was getting very exasperated.
With a long-suffering sigh Derek changed course and made his way over to his wayward charge.
“…and most people don’t even realize that Spike was originally supposed to die in season two,” Stiles was saying, arms waving emphatically, “But what would Buffy have done if they didn’t keep him around? She couldn’t even have sex with Angel without him turning evil, which is terrible chemistry. I mean, think about it. But Spike was always evil. Their love was,” He paused, eyes locked earnestly on the other man’s. “Epic.” And then he gave a loud yelp of surprise as Derek’s large hand closed over the back of his neck.
“Sorry, sir,” Derek placated the man, and diligently ignored Stiles squirming under his grip. “My kid brother’s had a bit too much to drink. I’ll get him out of your hair.”
The man grunted something that might have been a thanks and turned back to his beer.
Derek tightened his hand around Stiles’s nape, pressing closer to lever Stiles off his stool and marched him towards the pool table where the other three stood, looking guilty.
“You’ve settled up?” Derek fixed his eyes on Scott, who nodded. “Good. Outside. Now.”
With Stiles still firmly held in front of him, Derek strode out of the bar. Lydia, Scott, and Allison trailed after him like ducklings.
Glancing around, Derek led them to where Scott's car was parked at the end of the lot. He finally released Stiles, and the boy opened his mouth to let Derek know exactly how he felt about being pulled out of the bar by the scruff of his neck, but Derek spoke before Stiles could form the protest.
"Scott, did you drink any of Allison's beer tonight? Or Lydia's?" He asked, with a quick glance at both girls. His voice was as rough as it always was, but the worried set of his jaw had Stiles swallowing the sarcastic comment he had finally decided upon.
"Um, no," Scott replied, puzzled. "I don't think so, anyway. I only had one drink. And why would drinking their beer would be worse than drinking my own?"
"He didn't," Lydia spoke up. "Allison and I were both drinking raspberry ale—he would have noticed if he accidentally took a sip of ours."
"Okay." Stiles could feel Derek relax minutely beside him. “That’s good,” he said.
"What the hell then, man?" Stiles finally exclaimed, his arms flung out dramatically. "I invite you to Terry’s to play some nice friendly,” he emphasized the word, "pool, and you barge in like... like some sort of grumpy force of nature and drag us out to ask if Scott accidentally drank lady beer?" He pushed a finger into Derek's chest, barely making a dent in the firm muscle. "So what, because Scott's a werewolf now he has to be manly all the time? He has to drink Big Angry Man Beer like you?"
Derek blinked down at Stiles. "I—no. I don't care what kind of beer Scott drinks. Not," he added, glaring at Scott "That he should be drinking any beer when he’s underage."
"Then why does it matter if I had some of Allison's?" Scott was beginning to sound annoyed as well.
Derek huffed, answering reluctantly. "There's been a… an incident. A pack was out at a bar and one of the female members had her drink spiked with GHB -"
"A date rape drug?" Lydia asked, eyes wide.
"Yeah, only her reaction was very different than it would’ve been if she were human. Instead of becoming sedated or compliant she became hyper aggressive. If it hadn't been for her Alpha noticing her eyes changing and getting her out before she completely turned, who knows how many people — how many humans — she could have hurt. As it was, she nearly crippled a member of her pack." Derek's mouth was a thin line of worry. "I can't ban you from drinking alcohol, Scott, since you still refuse to join my pack. But — for the safety of everyone around you — you should stick with bottled beer that you open yourself."
"Okay," Scott said, his face serious.
Stiles was so close to making a joke about someone trying to roofie a werewolf and winding up with a fanged and clawed very much not-victim. He actually opened his mouth to speak when the implications of what that would mean for a bunch of innocent bystanders hit him. Stiles felt slightly ill, remembering the time Scott had tried to kill him in his first few months of being a werewolf. Stiles knew how deadly an out-of-control werewolf could be and couldn't imagine what would happen if one of them wolfed out in the middle of a crowded bar. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he began to think he actually would be sick.
While the others continued to talk, Stiles lurched his way towards the back of the bar. If he did wind up puking up four pints of beer and several dozen chicken wings, he at least didn't want to do it in front of everyone. He still had some dignity left.
Once he'd rounded the corner, Stiles leaned against the cool brick of the wall, breathing deeply. He felt less like getting sick now, but the buzzy out-of-control sensation he'd been enjoying for most of the evening suddenly made him panicky. He shouldn't have had this much to drink — he shouldn't have had anything to drink. What if something had happened to Scott? What if someone—some spineless worm of an asshole—had slipped a date rape drug into Allison's drink and Scott had ingested it and started wolfing out? Stiles wouldn't have noticed Scott changing. There was no way. Half the night he’d been sitting at the bar. And even if he had seen Scott's eyes glowing their bright wolfish gold, Stiles wasn't sure he'd have been clear headed enough to get Scott the fuck out of the bar before he hurt someone.
Jesus Christ, what if Scott had wolfed out and hurt Allison? Stiles would never have forgiven himself. And Scott would never have forgiven him either.
Stiles’ stomach gave a vicious lurch and suddenly he was on his knees, retching violently.
By the time his stomach had emptied up its entire contents, Stiles was weak and shaky. Pushing himself up off the ground with one hand, he used the other to wipe at the sweat that beaded on his brow. His mouth tasted sour and his eyes stung with tears, half from the force of heaving and half from self-disgust. All Stiles wanted to do in the entire world was to crawl directly into his own bed but, before he could, he would have to go out and face Scott and Allison and Lydia. Oh, god, and Derek.
Maybe if he were lucky Derek would’ve already left and there would only be his classmates left to mock his inability to hold his alcohol.
Stiles rubbed quickly at his eyes to destroy any trace of tears and took a deep, steadying breath before heading back around the corner to the parking lot, his usual shit-eating grin back on his face.
Stiles's grin faltered as he stepped into the parking lot and realized that Scott (and Allison, and Lydia) had disappeared. With the car. His eyes swept the parking lot a little desperately, hoping maybe he'd just forgotten where they'd parked, but nope. There were a couple beaten-up old trucks scattered close to the bar's entrance, and then there, at the other end of the parking lot, was Derek. The older man was leaning back against the side of his sleek black car and looking for all the world like he'd rather be anywhere else. Stiles could relate.
Slumping his shoulders in defeat, Stiles made his way across the parking lot towards Derek, muttering several unflattering things about Scott's parentage.
"So what, did you scare off my ride?" He asked once he got close enough. He could see Derek's lips quirk slightly which only made him scowl.
"I don't know why you'd want to ride home with someone whose father—“
"Ah, werewolf hearing. Right. Because that never gets old," he rolled his eyes. Despite the fact that he'd thrown up his last couple of beers, there was still enough alcohol in his system that Stiles knew he wouldn't be sober for a while yet. Now that Scott and the threat of him wolfing out was gone, though, Stiles kind of missed the giddy carelessness he'd felt earlier in the evening. Now he just felt thick-headed and irritable.
Derek pushed himself off the car and pulled open the passenger side door. "Come on, I'll take you home."
Stiles gave a curt nod of assent and slid into the seat. The interior of the car was dark, though the dash glowed with some sort of fancy sound system. He snapped on his seat belt and absently rubbed his fingers over the smooth leather of the seat.
"Why'd they go without me?" He asked as Derek pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. He could see Derek glance over at him, but kept his eyes fixed on the dashboard.
"I told them to."
"Why?" He couldn't keep the hurt and anger out of his voice.
"Because I could hear you puking. Scott could too, but I figured you wouldn't want the girls to know." He glanced back over at Stiles, one eyebrow arched. "Especially Lydia."
Stiles flushed and glared out of the window. He'd had a massive and crippling crush on Lydia for as long as he could remember. Lately, though, he found himself thinking of her with a more brotherly affection. It was as though as soon as he knew her as a real person and not just his dream girl his feelings had begun to fade and shift into something different.
"You're welcome, by the way."
Stiles's glare darkened but he mumbled a ‘thank you’ anyway. He supposed it wasn't Derek's idea of a great night to have to drive his drunk—and probably reeking of vomit—ass home.
"Oh shit!" Stiles smacked a hand to his forehead and then found himself thrown into his seatbelt as Derek nearly swerved off the road. "Sorry, sorry!" He winced.
Derek turned his head once again to Stiles and glowered, his hands clenched tightly into fists on the steering wheel.
"Sorry," Stiles squirmed under the intensity of the older man's furious eyes. "I just remembered—you can't take me home. I told my dad I'd be staying over at Scott's and I can't, like cannot, go home drunk. Not if you ever want to see me alive again."
"What makes you think I want to see you again, alive or dead?" Derek asked dryly as he turned back to face the road.
"Just like, as the decent human—er, were-being—that you are. Most decent people don't want to see other people dead. It's like a thing." Stiles could tell that he was rambling, but the dull leaden feeling in his stomach had eased off. Something about Derek's presence, no matter how annoyed, made him relax.
"And what," Derek's grin flashed big and white in the darkness of the car, "Makes you think I'm decent?"
“Um,” Stiles swallowed and tried desperately not to think of how indecent he’d like Derek to be. These relatively newfound feelings of pure and unadulterated lust were drastically different than what he’d felt towards Lydia. He could barely have envisioned kissing her. It felt too much like, well, not to go all Shakespearean, but, as though she was something far too beautiful for him to profane with his unworthiest hand.
Yeah. Stiles was the biggest dork in the world. And he was never going to get laid.
With Derek, on the other hand… Stiles had absolutely no trouble imagining Derek on his knees in front of him, his lips wrapped around Stiles’s cock and—and he’d better stop this train of thought right now, because he could feel himself hardening in his jeans.
Glad that the darkness of the car hid his deep blush of mortification, Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his seat and forced himself to think of Coach wearing lingerie.
“You can stay at my place, if you can’t go home.” Derek sounded less than enthused.
“I’d say thanks—but I’ve seen your house, remember? Do you even own any furniture that’s not, like, crispy?” As soon as he said it Stiles wished he could take it back. Probably not the best idea to remind the werewolf he’d be spending the night with about his dead family. He imagined how he’d feel if someone made a joke about his mom. “Sorry,” he said hastily. “Sometimes my mouth moves before my brain has a chance to catch up. It’s a problem. I’m working on it.” He slunk down in his seat. He was beginning to wish this entire night hadn’t happened. “You can just take me home, if you want.”
“It’s fine,” Derek said, “I’ve moved.”
Stiles sincerely hoped Derek’s new place had a spare bed, or at least a couch. He did not want to have to sleep on the floor.
Just thinking about sleeping made his eyelids suddenly heavy and Stiles leaned his head back against the headrest. They were still at least twenty minutes outside of Beacon Hills and Stiles thought it might be best for everyone if he took a quick nap. He couldn’t say anything else incredibly stupid if he was asleep. Well, hopefully not, anyway.
Derek sighed as he pulled up in front of his place. Stiles was fast asleep in the passenger seat and it was amazing how non-threatening the kid seemed when he was sleeping. Awake, Stiles was a terrifying whirlwind of energy and intelligence that Derek had trouble keeping up with, but for some reason always found himself enjoying the chase. Here though, Stiles looked like a normal seventeen-year-old boy, with nothing on his mind but girls and lacrosse. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing that it was his family’s fault that Stiles’s reality now included Kanimas and hunters and werewolves. He’d hoped the fact that the kid was still human would be enough to keep him safe, but it was becoming clearer to him that when Peter turned Scott he had put everyone in Scott’s life in danger.
On the other hand, as he ran a speculative eye over Stiles’s prone form, Derek suspected Stiles was too smart and too inquisitive to have ever been content living the life of an average teenager.
Deciding it was time to head in, Derek leaned on the horn for the pure pleasure of watching Stiles try to jump a foot in the air, arms flailing and eyes panicked, only to be jerked back by his seatbelt.
“Jesus Christ,” Stiles said, weakly, sinking back into the chair as he realized that there was no alarm going off, and he wasn’t tied up, and that Derek was actually just that much of a dick. “You could have just been like, ‘Hey Stiles, wake up’.”
“Hey, Stiles,” Derek flashed his teeth in a wicked grin. “Wake up.”
“Douchebag,” Stiles muttered under his breath, knowing full well that Derek could hear him. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Stiles opened his door and got out of the car. Craning his neck back he looked up at the huge unlit building in front of him. “Hey,” he called as Derek moved around the car to his side, “Are you sure we’re in the right place? This looks like some sort of old abandoned warehouse where at least a dozen people have been murdered in totally unrelated events over the past couple decades.”
“Home, sweet home,” Derek winked and headed towards the giant steel doors, keys jangling in his hand.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Stiles’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. “I’m going to die in here.”
The door opened with a horrible creaking noise and Derek vanished inside. Not wanting to be left standing alone outside of Murders R Us, Stiles scrambled after the werewolf.
Hello, and thank you for reading my fic! This is the first chapter of a larger piece so I'm already several chapters ahead, and will be posting a new one every Thursday. Podfics are soon to follow. I'm really excited about this fic, and I hope you stick around :)
I couldn't do this without my betas - the wonderful Halite who makes sure all my canon is correct, and my lovely partner Paradisgatan who ensures I am understood. And thanks to Kat who made the header!
Podfic for Chapter One is available here.
As he stepped inside the warehouse, Stiles gave a wary look around him. The inside was as cavernous and imposing as the outside, but, from what he could see in the light of the single bulb hanging over him, it was empty. Save for Derek, of course, who was leaning nonchalantly against the doors of one of those archaic elevators that resembled a cage more than anything. Seriously, what was with this guy and leaning on things? Not to mention his apparent affinity for decrepit and uninhabitable living conditions.
The door clanged shut behind him and Stiles gave a stifled yelp, darting forward. He heard Derek give a wry snort of amusement and made a face at the werewolf as he slowed to a walk. “You know, when most people move they tend to upgrade,” he commented, as Derek pushed open the elevator doors and gestured for Stiles to enter.
“What makes you think I haven’t?” Derek hit the button on the inside of the elevator and it started moving upwards with a shuddering jerk that had Stiles, still feeling the affects of the beer, grabbing at Derek’s arm to steady himself.
“The fact that you’re living in a warehouse—hah, a werehouse, get it?”
Derek did not appear to get it, as he simply raised an eyebrow. The man had no sense of humour. Stiles suddenly realized that he was still clutching at Derek’s bicep—his very, very muscular bicep—and hastily pulled his hand away as the elevator came to a sudden halt.
Derek opened the doors and Stiles walked quickly through. They were in a small entryway, a large sliding metal door with several suspicious looking dents in it standing in front of them. Stiles was pretty sure that at least one of them was from an axe. Derek stepped past him and unlocked the padlock before sliding open the door.
Please, please, don’t let there be rats, Stiles prayed as he followed Derek into the dark room. There was a large bank of windows opposite the doorway and Stiles could make out the faintest hint of another spacious, empty room by the orange glow of the streetlights below as Derek pulled the door shut. At least if there was no furniture there’d be nowhere for the rats to hide, he reasoned. Though this would also mean he’d be sleeping on the floor. And if there weren’t rats, he’d bet there were bugs. He gave a small shudder, his skin suddenly crawling with a hundred imaginary insects.
He jumped, startled, as Derek placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him further into the room. The warmth of Derek’s hand seemed to burn through the thin fabric of his t-shirt into his skin and Stiles fought the urge to lean back into the touch. He wished he weren’t still so drunk. Or no, he wished that he were more drunk so his mind would stop racing a million miles a second and just let him enjoy the contact.
Clearing his throat he found his voice. “Yeah, hi, once again: not a member of Team Supernatural. I can’t see where I’m going. It’s pitch black.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
If Stiles didn’t know any better he could have sworn Derek sounded a bit upset.
“I—uh—sure. I mean I trust you not to eat me, but, uh, not necessarily to stop me from walking into a wall.”
Derek huffed out a breath and Stiles would have bet a lot of money that he was rolling his eyes. “Fine.” He stepped away and Stiles tried not to feel too disappointed at the loss of his touch. A light flickered on and Stiles blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.
Well, he hadn’t been wrong about standing in a vast and empty cavern. The only piece of furniture he could see was a dusty, old table standing by the windows.
“Lovely,” he said dryly. “I can’t wait to see where I get to sleep.” He wondered whether he’d be safer from bugs under the table or on top of it.
Derek stepped up behind him and for the second time that evening encircled the back of Stiles’s neck with his hand. Stiles swallowed, hard, and brought back the image of Coach in women’s underwear as Derek’s hand tightened and he brought his head down to speak in Stiles’s ear. “For someone who needs a place to crash, you’re not being very grateful.”
Stiles could feel the tips of his ears flush. He was being an ass. He knew that. But sarcasm was his time-honoured shield and he didn’t know how to act around Derek without it. Derek left him off-balance and nervous and Stiles reacted to that with bad jokes.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He knew Derek probably wasn’t happy about having to babysit a drunk teenage boy who wasn’t even a member of his pack. He should be thankful that Derek hadn’t just dropped him off outside of his house and left him to face his father. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. The hand at the back of his neck relaxed and after a lingering second—or had Stiles just imagined that?—it dropped away.
“Come on.” Derek nodded to a spiral staircase in the left corner of the room.
As they made their way up the stairs, Stiles couldn’t help but admire the way Derek’s black jeans stretched over his ass as he climbed. It was probably due to this incredibly distracting visual that he somehow managed to trip over his own feet and slam his shin painfully into the iron stair in front of him.
“MOTHERFUCKER!” He pushed himself back to his feet, one hand grasping the rail for support as he bent down to rub at his bruised shin. Derek, unfazed, continued climbing the stairs.
“I’m fine, by the way.” Stiles could feel his eyes stinging with the sharp throbs of pain radiating from his leg, but he’d have bitten it off sooner than admit yet another weakness to Derek. Fuck, he wanted a drink.
Derek unlocked another door at the top of the stairs, this one much smaller than the one downstairs. Stiles wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find behind it. He just hoped it held some sort of soft surface that he could sit down on.
Derek stepped inside the room and switched on the light as Stiles, teeth gritted against the pain, walked to the doorway and stopped short.
It was as large and open as the room below them, but that was where the similarities ended. The floors were covered with hardwood that gleamed as if brand new and the space was fully furnished. To Stiles’s left there was a large L-shaped couch facing a big screen TV, with a matching armchair and a dark wooden coffee table. The room opened up further into a kitchen on the right, which was at least three times the size of the one at Stiles’s house, with an island and bar stools in the center and seemingly endless shiny countertops. Beyond that, the room was dark and Stiles assumed that Derek’s bedroom occupied that end.
He gave a low whistle, impressed. Stiles had never really thought about it before, but the Hales had been a wealthy family. In retrospect, he supposed Derek had inherited most of their money, which would explain how Derek was able to afford to turn the top floor of a warehouse into a surprisingly stylish loft.
“Not bad,” he said and made his way over to the couch to flop down. Before butt could meet cushion, though, Derek was shaking his head and gesturing to the dark bedroom beyond.
“The bathroom is through there and to your right. Go get washed up before you sit on my couch. There should be an extra toothbrush in one of the drawers.”
Stiles sighed dramatically to indicate how much of an inconvenience this would be for him, but he grudgingly followed Derek’s direction. Truth be told, he was glad for the opportunity to wash his face and once he’d brushed his teeth he felt about a thousand times better. Running a hand through his hair—it wasn’t as short as it used to be, he was thinking of growing it out—he looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked pale, but at this point it might be due as much to how tired he was feeling and not just the puking. Hopefully Derek would have a spare blanket and he could just stretch out on the couch and sleep. Though actually, he wouldn’t mind something to eat, first. His stomach growled at the thought.
Drying his hands on the towel, Stiles returned to the living room, glancing around to see that Derek was grating cheese in the kitchen and that a frying pan sat on the stovetop. He unconsciously gave a pathetic, grateful moan and slid onto one of the bar stools. “What are you making?”
“Bacon too?” Stiles tried not to sound too hopeful.
Stiles moaned again. “I could kiss you,”
Derek turned slowly to face him, his eyebrow raised. “Is that so?”
“I—um—” Stiles stammered, colour high on his cheeks. “Figure of speech. You know. What are you drinking?” He thought an abrupt change of topic might be best.
Derek’s gaze seemed to rest for a second on Stiles’s mouth before he turned back to the stove. “Beaujolais.”
Stiles stared blankly at the wine glass beside Derek. “Wine.”
“Can I have some?”
“You drink wine?” The incredulity in Derek’s voice had Stiles sitting up straighter, a stubborn tilt to his jaw.
“Yes. I love it. I drink it all the time.” He’d never had a sip in his life.
“Alright then, glasses are in that cupboard,” he nodded to one on the other side of the kitchen. “Help yourself.”
Smirking, Stiles got off the stool and went to grab a glass. He brought it to where the bottle sat open by the fridge and filled the glass nearly up to the top. Careful not to spill, he got back onto his stool and took a large gulp. His eyes began to water immediately and his face twisted into a horrible grimace at the taste.
“Great,” he said, strangled.
“I’d hope so,” Derek replied with his back still to Stiles. “It’s an eighty dollar bottle.”
Stiles, stubbornly in the middle of another gulp, choked.
“You drink eighty dollar bottles of wine?” He asked once he recovered. It was his turn to sound incredulous.
Derek shrugged as he placed several strips of bacon on the frying pan. Stiles thought he looked a little embarrassed as he reached for his own, much more polite, glass of wine. The delicate glass looked absurdly fragile in his large hand. Stiles felt suddenly hot all over and he didn’t think it was only because of the wine.
“It was Peter’s thing,” Derek said, “I wanted to impress him, so I’d drink it too. Then I guess I just started to like it.” Derek’s sudden bout of honesty and personal information left Stiles speechless. To cover it up he took another, more cautious sip of the wine. He supposed it wasn’t as bad as beer.
His stomach gave another loud growl and Derek pulled the bacon from the stove, placing it on a plate in front of Stiles. He arched an eyebrow at how full Stiles’s glass of wine was, but merely said, “Wait for the eggs.” Stiles nodded vigorously and as soon as Derek’s back was turned he grabbed a piece and stuffed it in his mouth, not caring that it was almost hot enough to burn.
“I said, wait.”
Stiles stuck his tongue out at Derek’s back, and drank some more wine. He thought he was beginning to enjoy it. Or at the very least, he was enjoying how it made him feel.
After what seemed like an eternity, Derek finally slid a plate full of cheesy scrambled eggs in front of him. Stiles made a happy sound in his throat and dug in with the fork Derek provided. He paused for a second to grab another slice of bacon and noticed Derek staring at him.
“What?” He asked around a mouthful of bacon.
“Did you seriously just drink that entire glass of wine?”
“Yeah,” Stiles returned to the eggs. They were seriously delicious. They might be the best eggs he’d ever had. Not that he’d ever tell Derek that. Mr. I-Drink-Expensive-Wine-and-Have-a-Secret-Penthouse-Derek. Like who did he think he was anyway, a supervillain? That was the only kind of people who had secret lairs—though he supposed Derek was a werewolf, and that was pretty close to being a supervillain.
He finished his last mouthful of egg and pushed the plate away. Derek snatched the remaining piece of bacon before Stiles could get to it and stood to rinse the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Stiles gazed mournfully after the bacon as it disappeared into Derek’s mouth. He had a really nice mouth, Derek. If Stiles were a piece of bacon, that’s where he would like to end up.
He lifted his glass back to his lips and then frowned, realizing it was empty. “Can I have more? Since you ate all the bacon, I think it’s only fair.”
Derek looked like he might be prepared to debate that notion. Instead, he simply looked up at the ceiling as if praying for patience and brought the bottle of wine over to the island. He topped off his own glass and poured Stiles a very small amount. Derek thought Stiles had had more than enough alcohol this evening. He’d hoped that the greasy breakfast food would mop up what remained of the beer in the kid’s system and when Stiles had asked for wine he’d (foolishly) assumed that Stiles would be so turned off by the taste that he wouldn’t make it past the first sip. He should have known better.
Stiles pouted at the tiny amount in his glass and looked as though he was ready to protest, but seemed to think better of it. He looked over at Derek who was watching him with wary eyes. Stiles sighed. He knew that look. That was the look he’d been given by every single teacher and every single adult in a position of authority after they’d realized that Stiles was more than they bargained for. What followed was always one of two things. One, they’d decide it was best to just ignore him completely, or two, they’d do everything in their power to make him fall in line. For his own good, of course. He could never figure out which reaction he hated more.
He couldn’t help the fact that his brain didn’t run quite like other peoples’ any more than he could help the fact that he was just generally smarter than the vast majority of people he’d met in his life. Until Scott, Stiles had never had someone who liked that about him. Scott was probably still the only person, other than his dad, of course, who did. He knew Allison was his friend now, and probably Lydia too. But that wasn’t the same. They didn’t actually understand how terrifying it could be, being Stiles. They just thought he was this odd sort of goofball who had moments of entertaining genius. They had no idea what it was like actually being in his head.
“What’s wrong?” Derek’s voice was sharp with concern, and Stiles realized he’d been frowning at the countertop for too long.
“Nothing, sorry.” Stiles gave a lopsided grin. He seemed to be apologizing a lot this evening. Purposefully brightening his expression, he brought his glass up to toast Derek.
Now it was Derek’s turn to frown. “You’re lying.”
“Are—” Derek gave a frustrated growl that did not actually sound as though it could come out of a human throat. Stiles’s eyes widened and his tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips.
“Do that again,” he prompted, leaning forward in his seat.
“I will not.”
“Come on! Does your throat actually shift on its own or something? How does that work?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?” Stiles made to cross his arms over his chest and lean back in his chair—except, as he remembered at the last second, he was sitting on a stool, not a chair. His arms shot out to grab the lip of the island before he overbalanced and he just barely managed to catch himself.
“Okay, how about we move to the couch?” Derek picked up the wine glasses and walked over to place them on the coffee table. He stood and waited while Stiles, with much eye rolling, acquiesced.
Flopping back against the dark blue pillows, Stiles decided that moving to the couch had been an excellent idea. Not that he’d admit as much to Derek, but as soon as his body had hit the cushions he’d relaxed and the tense knot that had formed in his stomach when he caught Derek’s wary glance was nearly dissolved. He knew by now that he should just be used to that kind of reaction, but he always found that it hurt.
Whatever. He would finish his measly little glass of wine and then spread out over the incredibly comfortable couch and go to sleep. It wasn’t like he really cared if Derek liked him or not. Just because he wanted to climb on top of Derek’s lap and rub his face all over that dark stubble and nip along Derek’s firm chin did not mean that he had a crush on the guy or anything.
He propped himself up on his elbows and let his eyes wander over to Derek, who was sitting upright on the short half of the L. The soft material of the black t-shirt he wore clung to his chest, and Stiles wondered what it would be like to slide his hands up and under it and feel Derek’s skin hot against his palms. He’d bet Derek’s muscles would flex and tense under his touch and that thought had Stiles digging his fingers into the couch to stop himself from reaching out.
Not that he didn’t know what Derek’s chest felt like—he vividly remembered earlier this year when he’d spent what felt like hours in the pool clutching at a paralyzed Derek, trying to keep the two of them afloat as Jackson-the-Kanima had prowled along the edge of the water. But the entire time he’d been desperate and terrified. It was not exactly the ideal time to cop a feel. Since they’d both escaped relatively unharmed, however, the pool had become one of his favourite go-to jerk off fantasies. He had little trouble imagining a soaking wet and fully dressed Derek pushing him up against the side of the pool, shoving a leg in between Stiles’s, and lowering his head to growl filthy things in Stiles’s ear while his chest crowded up against him and caught his breath in his throat.
He really, really needed to stop thinking about Derek’s body. It’s just that it was such a nice body. So big. And strong. And sitting across from him. And scowling.
Oops. Stiles had been staring again.
This wasn’t the first time this evening that Derek had caught Stiles watching him with heat in his eyes. Over the last month or so he had been trying to ignore how Stiles’s scent tended to spike sharply with desire whenever he saw Derek. For a while, he’d reasoned that Lydia’s presence had caused it, but it soon became apparent that she was not always around when it happened. It made Derek uncomfortable—not Stiles’s attraction to him, but the fact that Stiles was unable to hide it from him. Had Derek been human he probably would have been unaware until this evening that Stiles was even remotely interested. But Derek wasn’t human, and so no matter how perfectly Stiles hid what he was feeling, Derek could smell it on him. It made for an imbalance of power that, at least in Derek’s mind, made Stiles firmly off limits. He couldn’t make any kind of advance towards Stiles, no matter how much he might want to, because he knew Stiles wouldn’t say no. Derek wouldn’t touch Stiles without his full consent and that couldn’t happen unless Stiles was the one to initiate something. Just because Stiles’s body wanted something didn’t mean his brain did as well, and Derek refused to take advantage of that.
This was why he could only sit and scowl as the heady scent of Stiles’s arousal thickened and the boy looked at Derek with hungry eyes. It took nearly every ounce of Derek’s willpower to stay on his side of the couch and not climb across to press hard, urgent kisses to Stiles’s mouth until he was writhing desperately beneath him. The image was so clear in his mind that Derek’s fingers tightened unconsciously around the glass in his hand and it shattered, wine spilling over his lap and a sharp shard of glass slicing into his palm.
“Fuck,” Derek bit off the curse and fought the instinctive urge to leap to his feet. Doing so would only send broken pieces of glass onto the floor and god only knew where else. “Stiles, can you get the garbage bin from the kitchen and bring it over here?”
Stiles, who had jumped to his feet, nodded and raced to the kitchen to pull it out from under the sink. He paused for a second to grab a roll of paper towels and returned to the couch. Placing the garbage bin beside Derek so he could easily pick the shards off his lap and the surrounding couch and toss them in, Stiles pushed the coffee table out of his way and knelt on the floor in front of Derek.
It took Derek a second to understand that Stiles was picking up the few pieces of glass that had made it onto the floor and he forced himself to focus on the broken glass, and not the fact that Stiles was literally kneeling between his legs. Pulling the glass that had embedded itself in his palm out proved to be ample distraction. Despite the fact that he was an Alpha werewolf and—as Stiles had stated earlier, a Big Angry Man—Derek couldn’t help a sharp indrawn breath as he watched the glass slide out of his skin and bright red blood follow in its wake. Stiles was there instantly, a large wad of paper towel in his hand, plucking the bloody piece of glass from Derek’s grasp and tossing it into the garbage before pressing the paper towel into the palm of Derek’s hand.
His touch was surprisingly gentle. Derek opened his mouth but found it dry and he had to swallow before he could speak.
“Thanks,” he couldn’t help the tone of surprise. He knew that Stiles was bright, of course, but he wouldn’t have expected anyone to be this competent after drinking the amount that Stiles had in the last hour.
Stiles looked up to meet Derek’s eyes, the wry smile on his lips showing that he knew exactly what Derek was thinking. “I’m good in a crisis—you should know that.”
“Yeah, I guess I do,” Derek murmured, thinking of the time that Stiles had saved him from drowning, or worse. His eyes moved searchingly over Stiles’s face, trying to puzzle out what it was about this boy that he found so compelling. Stiles flushed at the scrutiny and bent his head down to look at Derek’s hand as he pulled the paper towel away to examine the wound.
“I’ll be fine in a couple minutes. Werewolf healing.” Derek’s voice was rough even to his own ears, and it didn’t escape his notice that he could easily have pulled free of Stiles’s hand, but hadn’t.
“It looks like you’ve already stopped bleeding.” Stiles took the paper towel away completely and dropped it in the garbage bin. He made to get up but paused, the briefest hesitation, before he placed his hands carefully, one on each of Derek’s thighs, and pushed himself up so that he was kneeling upright.
Derek froze, eyes wide and breath shallow. Stiles pressed in closer until his mouth was a hairsbreadth from Derek’s. He stilled, but Derek could hear the rapid beat of his heart.
This is the second chapter of a larger piece so I'm already several chapters ahead, and will be posting a new one every Thursday. I'm really excited about this fic, and I hope you stick around :)
I couldn't do this without my betas - Halite who has been at turns delightfully patient and irritatingly demanding, both of which are greatly appreciated; and my partner Paradisgatan cause she lets me drink all the wine and then checks my grammar.
The playlist I've been using to write LMW can be found at 8tracks.
Graphics are done by Kat!
Podfic for Chapter One is available here.
“Stiles,” Derek said, not sure how to continue with the boy crowded in so close between his spread legs. He wasn’t sure how to think with Stiles’s wine-sweet breath ghosting over his lips. Derek swallowed, eyes dropping to Stiles’s mouth before he pulled back as much as the couch would allow and spoke again, more firmly, “Stiles.”
Stiles ignored him. He pressed in again, fingers digging into Derek’s thighs and brushed his lips lightly over Derek’s. Derek made a choked noise in his throat and his hands came up to cup Stiles’s face and deepen the kiss.
Stiles’s lips parted eagerly under Derek’s and he delved into that wet heat with his tongue. Stiles tasted intoxicatingly like wine and Derek surged forwards until their bodies were pressed together in a firm line. Stiles’s hands moved up Derek’s thighs to slide behind Derek’s back and slip up under his shirt. The sharp bite of fingernails on Derek’s skin had Derek breaking off the kiss. Stiles took the opportunity to nuzzle into Derek’s throat, rubbing his cheek along the thick stubble.
This was a bad idea. Stiles was drunk and, like any teenager, he was just feeling horny. Derek needed to stop this before it went any farther. He should never have brought Stiles back to his place, knowing what he did. He should have just dropped the kid off at his own house and left him to deal with his father.
Derek placed his hands on Stiles’s shoulders and gently pushed him back. “You’re drunk, Stiles. This isn’t what you want to be doing.”
“Yes, it is.” Stiles was absolutely sure there was nothing else he’d rather be doing.
“You won’t think so in the morning.”
“Yes, I will.” He could see where this was going, and was suddenly very angry. He stood. “I’m not a kid, Derek.”
“Stiles, you’re seventeen and you’ve been drinking. A lot. You don’t know what you want.” Derek got to his feet, avoiding Stiles’s gaze as he picked up the garbage bin and brought it back to the kitchen.
“I want you.”
Derek turned to look at Stiles who was still standing, furious, in the middle of the living room.
“I want you,” Stiles continued, “and I know you want me, too.”
At Derek’s silence a triumphant gleam entered Stiles’s eyes, and he visibly relaxed. Derek was instantly suspicious.
“It’s not that simple,” he gritted out, preparing himself for a fight.
“Okay.” Stiles seemed to be unconcerned and he sat back on the couch before toeing off his sneakers.
“It’s not,” Derek insisted. He didn’t know why Stiles wasn’t arguing with him. Stiles never passed up the chance to argue, and he certainly never passed up the chance to tell Derek he was an idiot. Maybe Stiles was actually way more drunk than Derek had realized—which meant that kissing him was something Derek definitely should not have done.
Fuck. He was tired and stressed out and guilty and confused and hopelessly turned on and Derek just wanted to go to sleep so he could wake up and pretend this night had never happened.
“Can I have a blanket?”
“What?” Derek focused back on Stiles who had sprawled out over the couch. “Don’t –” he started forward but stopped himself. He thought it might be best if he didn’t get within touching distance of Stiles for the rest of the night. “There’s probably still glass on the couch. You shouldn’t sleep there. You can take the bed.”
Stiles bounced up off the couch, eyes gleaming. “I saw your bed when I used the bathroom earlier. It’s a big bed. More than enough room for the both of us.”
Derek, who had just placed the garbage bin back under the sink, blanched. He was able to picture far too easily what might happen if he were to crawl into bed with Stiles.
“I’ll take the couch.”
“There’s glass on the couch,” Stiles countered with a smirk.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” There was no way he was going to get any sleep tonight anyway, not knowing that Stiles would be lying just a few steps away in his bed.
“Alright, have it your way.” Stiles got up and made as though to head into the bedroom, pausing suddenly as though a thought just struck him. “Oh, you probably want to shower.”
“What?” Now Derek was picturing Stiles in his shower and he had to step closer to the island to hide how appealing that thought was to him.
“You know, the wine.” Stiles gestured to his crotch and Derek felt his face heat as he fought not to look.
“Right.” The wine. The wine he’d spilled all over himself that had soaked through his jeans and was now uncomfortably sticky. He would really like a shower. “You won’t mind?”
“Nope. Take all the time you need.” Stiles sat back down on the couch. “I’ll just watch TV or something.”
“Okay.” Derek wasn’t sure how he felt about leaving Stiles unsupervised. At least it was a safe bet that the kid didn’t know how to use a corkscrew so his wine would be safe. “I’ll just be a couple minutes,” he added, hesitating in the door of his bedroom.
“Great,” Stiles dismissed him with a casual glance and picked up the TV remote. As Derek closed the door he still felt a bit uneasy, having no idea what was going through Stiles’s brain. At least he could just send the kid packing off to bed once he got the wine washed off, and then this night would be over. Giving one last lingering glance to the door behind him, he stepped into the bathroom.
As soon as Stiles heard the shower start he bolted up from the couch, pausing only to turn off the TV, and slipped quietly into Derek’s bedroom. He knew he only had fifteen minutes, max, before Derek emerged.
Even as he’d brought his lips up to kiss Derek, Stiles wasn’t sure of the reaction he’d receive. He’d been drunk enough that for one of the few times in his life he’d felt reckless. He figured that even if Derek had completely, firmly rejected him, he’d at least have gotten to kiss him. Then at least he’d know that there was no chance so he could try and move past this. What he hadn’t anticipated was the strength of Derek’s reaction, and as Derek’s tongue had slid into his mouth Stiles had been grateful that he was already on his knees because if he’d been standing he was sure his legs would have given out with shock and the sudden desperate need that had him rock hard and aching.
When Derek had pushed him away he’d thought that was it. That maybe Derek had kissed him back just for the hell of it but decided that he wasn’t really into it after all. But for all of Derek’s protestations of why they shouldn’t continue, one was noticeably missing… Derek wasn’t turning Stiles down because he wasn’t interested; he was doing it out of some misguided sense of nobility. And that was definitely something Stiles could work around. If he was good at anything it was wearing people down until they eventually did exactly what he wanted.
So with that in mind Stiles decided that he would wait in Derek’s bed for the man to emerge from the shower. Not only would he get a chance to see Derek nearly naked and probably still wet, a thought that had Stiles unconsciously licking his lips, but he’d also give Derek a chance to see just how great Stiles would look in his bed.
Unbuttoning his jeans and dropping them to the floor, Stiles sat down on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks. The bed was huge, probably a king if Stiles had to guess, and the sheets were a purple so dark it was almost black. He yanked his shirt up over his head and tossed it to the floor in a pile with the rest of his clothes. Stiles knew he couldn’t ever compete with Derek or Scott for a perfectly muscled physique, but he knew he wasn’t bad to look at. Sure, with his clothes on he tended to look a bit scrawny, but he did play lacrosse (even if he never made it off the bench during a game) and he’d gotten into the habit of working out in order to slow his brain down when his thoughts started whirling out of control. He’d caught Danny checking him out a time or two in the locker room, so Stiles knew that once his shirt came off he did not disappoint.
He thought his pale skin would actually work to his advantage on the dark sheets, so he slid between them. The bed was almost obscenely comfortable. Stiles shifted around for a minute, trying to decide how to best show off his torso. Man, this really was a comfortable bed. Maybe the most comfortable bed he’d ever been in. It was so big he could sprawl out as much as he wanted and there was still more room. The shower was still going, so Stiles thought he’d just close his eyes for a second and snuggle down into a pillow while he waited for Derek to get out. As soon as the shower stopped he’d flip so he was lying on his back, not his stomach like he was now, and give Derek an eyeful of his chest. He’d just take a minute or two and rest his eyes.
When Derek had turned off the shower and hadn’t been able to hear the sound of the TV he sighed heavily. He knew it was a mistake to leave Stiles alone. Who knew what he was up to now? But he’d been glad to clean up, so he just hoped Stiles hadn’t done anything too crazy. Grabbing a towel from the rack, Derek wrapped it around his waist and stepped out into his bedroom to grab a change of clothes.
The sight and scent of Stiles stretched out half-naked on his bed assaulted his senses and he bit back a groan. Stiles’s sleeping back was a long tempting line and Derek wanted to crawl across the bed and bite into the sweet curve of ass that peeked out just above Stiles’s boxers. He wondered what Stiles would look like, waking up to Derek’s mouth on him. Derek actually had to step back into the bathroom and close the door to stop himself from finding out. He leaned back against the closed door and shut his eyes, contemplating a second shower. This one cold.
You’re being ridiculous, he told himself. He was an Alpha, for fuck’s sake. He could walk past the sleeping teenager in his bed without molesting him. He had self-control. It just seemed to sort of falter around Stiles.
Taking a deep breath he steeled himself and walked out the door. He moved briskly, refusing to even let himself glance at the bed. He stepped up to his dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out a pair of pajama bottoms and a clean white shirt. He was halfway through tugging off his towel to change into them when Stiles shifted on the bed, nuzzling deeper into the pillow. Derek clutched the towel to his waist, grabbed the clothes, and fled.
Stiles moaned and arched up into Derek as the werewolf pressed a sucking kiss to his neck. Stiles was desperate for friction and he ground himself into Derek, panting and sweaty and so, so close to orgasm. His hands curled around Derek’s hips and dug into his bare skin, pulling him closer, and Stiles could feel Derek grin wolfishly against the skin of his neck. Stiles threw his head back and gasped and without warning woke up because someone was pounding loudly on the door.
“Wake up, Stiles. I made coffee.”
Stiles brain took a couple seconds to catch up. He was hopelessly twisted up in the sheets of Derek’s bed and it looked like instead of grinding into a very naked and very willing Derek, he’d been humping the mattress. Stiles winced and slumped back down onto the pillow. Sweat was now drying coolly on his skin, but he was still painfully aroused.
“Uh, I’m just going to wash up first. Then I’ll be right out,” he called to Derek. Derek grunted in acknowledgement and Stiles heard him move away from the door.
Oh, god. He just realized Derek was a werewolf.
Okay, he knew Derek was a werewolf—but in this moment that fact was particularly relevant because being a werewolf meant you had werewolf hearing and werewolf hearing was excellent and so Derek, the werewolf, with his werewolf hearing, had probably heard Stiles attempting to sleep-fuck his bed. Oh, god.
Stiles buried his head under the blankets. He knew he’d have to get up in a second because he was gross and sweaty and probably smelled like sex. But he just needed a moment to lie there in mortification.
This was not a part of the newly formed Operation Seduce Derek, which really needed a cooler name when he had more time to think about it. He knew he’d need to be in control for any overt seducing, or at least seem like he was, because if he’d learned anything last night it was that Derek was terrified of ‘taking advantage’ of him. Stiles, of course, thought this was ridiculous, but whatever. So, when Stiles initiated said operation – which he had clearly failed to initiate last night when he fell asleep before Derek got out of the shower – he would have to make it very clear to Derek that he was sober and fully aware and purposeful in his actions.
This had been none of those things. It would just be one more reason for Derek to step back from Stiles and throw up another wall, and Stiles wasn’t going to let that happen. He had to clean up and try to gain back whatever ground he’d just lost.
Thus resolved, he climbed out of the sinfully comfortable bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom.
Derek heard the bathroom door close and let out a sigh of relief. He’d woken up to the sound of Stiles twisting and turning restlessly in the other room. He’d been about to dismiss it and go back to sleep when Stiles had given a needy whine and then said Derek’s name in a strangled voice. Derek had buried his head in his hands and tried to tune out the sounds. Which had proved to be impossible, because Stiles was a moaner.
Derek got up and moved into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of orange juice to try and focus on something other than what was going on in his bedroom. On his bed. With Stiles and a dream version of himself. Derek fought a rising tide of jealousy—which was stupid, because who got jealous of themselves? Gritting his teeth, he began to grind some coffee beans in order to keep his hands busy. Surely this would be over in a second or two.
Five minutes later, hands clenched into white knuckled fists, Derek stalked over to his bedroom door and hammered on it. Any longer having to listen to Stiles get it on with Dream Derek and he was going to barge into the room and show Stiles exactly how much better the real thing was. But since Derek couldn’t do that, he needed to make it stop.
He poured some cream into his coffee and sat down at the island, willing his tense muscles to relax. He would get some caffeine into Stiles and then he could take him home.
“Boy, you look grumpy,” Stiles remarked as he emerged from the bedroom and slid into a stool beside Derek. “Rough night?”
Derek scowled. “It was fine.” Stiles hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt, just pulled his jeans up over his boxers. Derek was studiously avoiding looking at the thin line of hair that led down Stiles’s stomach. Derek had expected that Stiles would pick up some of his scent after spending the night in his bed and that, combined with the smell of Stiles’s arousal, had Derek’s hackles rising. Stiles smelled like Derek had spent the night fucking him. Derek didn’t want Stiles to smell like Derek had spent the night fucking him unless Derek had spent the night fucking him. Not that he was going to fuck him. His scowl deepened.
“You look exhausted. It was the glass, wasn’t it? I told you, you should have slept with me.”
Derek choked on his coffee.
“Just sayin’.” Stiles grinned as Derek coughed. “I don’t even have to be back home for a couple hours. We could fix that mistake.”
Derek, now recovered, abruptly stood up from the island and busied himself by grabbing a mug for Stiles. “We are not having this conversation again.”
“Why not?” Stiles leaned forward and co-opted Derek’s mug, making a face as he tasted the coffee and realized there was no sugar. Focusing back on Derek, he continued, “Your problem was that I was drunk. I’m not drunk now. I am one hundred percent sober.”
Derek turned to face Stiles and leaned back against the counter, considering his options. When he came to a decision he placed the empty mug down. This wasn’t going to be pretty, or pleasant, but he couldn’t think of anything else that would work. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Stiles repeated, uncertain.
“Okay. You made a good case for yourself. You want to fuck, so let’s do it.”
Stiles swallowed, and shifted uncomfortably in his stool. “I—”
“I could use a quick lay.” Derek pushed off the counter and moved until he was standing in front of Stiles, who had swung his stool around so he was facing Derek, his back to the island. Stiles no longer looked so cocky.
Derek placed his hands on the counter on either side of Stiles, caging him in. He could hear Stiles’s pulse race and his breath came shallow. Derek stepped closer, invading Stiles’s space. “That’s what you want, right?”
“I—I don’t—“ Stiles stammered, eyes darting wildly. He wasn’t sure what was going on. His heart pounded in his chest and it was hard to breathe. He didn’t like where this was going. He wanted Derek, but… this felt more like a threat than a proposition.
“Come on,” Derek moved one of his hands to grip the bare flesh of Stiles’s hip, his thumb stroking possessively over Stiles’s skin. “You begged me for it all night. You think I didn’t hear you this morning? Moaning my name, so desperate you practically fucked a hole in my mattress.”
Stiles’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. He wasn’t sure how to function with this combination of blinding arousal and an equal amount of panicked trepidation. He didn’t know whether he wanted to bolt out the door and never come back, or drop to his knees and beg for Derek’s cock.
Derek hadn’t anticipated the effect this tactic would have on him. Stiles’s eyes were wide with fear and that said prey, but the colour high on his cheeks said it wasn’t only fear he was feeling. A thrill of excitement ran through Derek’s body, the kind he’d only ever felt when hunting. He wanted Stiles to run. Wanted Stiles to run so he could chase him, and once he’d caught Stiles he would fuck him against whatever hard surface he could find so that Stiles understood that this wasn’t a game. Whatever good intentions he’d had when he started out with this had fled.
“The bedroom’s right there,” Derek jerked his head back in the direction of it. “Let’s go. If you haven’t changed your mind.” Run.
Stiles couldn’t move. For maybe the first time in his life his brain had ceased to function and he felt as though he were standing at the edge of a precipice with nowhere to go but down. He licked his dry lips and watched as Derek’s eyes tracked the movement. Stiles had wanted Derek plenty over the last handful of weeks, but he had never wanted Derek as much as he wanted him right now. He felt a blazing wildness rise up in his chest and, knowing he wouldn’t make it far; he shoved Derek back and ran for the front door.
Derek bared his teeth in a snarl and hurtled after Stiles.
Stiles made it halfway out the door before a hand grabbed his bicep in an iron grip. He was thrown off balance, the hand not coming from behind him like he’d expected, but from someone standing just in front of the doorway on the small landing of the stairs. He was jerked to a stop, and the adrenaline running through his veins had him fighting viciously against whoever held him. A second hand came up to fist in his hair and yank his head back, the sharp pain in his head and neck making Stiles freeze.
“Good morning, Derek,” Peter said pleasantly as he forced Stiles to turn back and face Derek, whose eyes had turned a bright, burning scarlet. “Now, didn’t I ever tell you not to play with your food?”
This is the third chapter of a larger piece so I'm already several chapters ahead, and will be posting a new one every Thursday. I'm really excited about this fic, and I hope you stick around :)
The playlist I've been using to write LMW can be found at 8tracks.
Graphics are done by Kat!
Podfic for Chapter One is available here.
Derek smelled Peter a split second before Stiles swung the door open. The moment Peter laid hands on Stiles, Derek saw the world flash red and he knew his eyes followed. He could see Peter’s hand tighten in Stiles’s hair and the boy made a soft noise of pain, though his eyes stayed glazed, pupils blown wide with desire.
“Well, that’s interesting.” Peter’s nostrils flared and he brought his face down to sniff at the exposed line of Stiles’s neck, where Derek could see his pulse beating wildly against his skin. “Did you know your boy liked it rough?”
“Let him go.” Derek’s voice was a low growl of warning, his hands flexing at his sides as his fingers shifted into long, deadly claws. No one touched Stiles like that, no one but him. He took a step forward, a vicious, animal part of his brain urging him to tear Stiles out of Peter’s hands and rip Peter to shreds for daring to touch something that belonged to his Alpha.
Peter smirked; clearly more amused than frightened by Derek’s reaction. He gave Stiles a push forward that had him stumbling towards Derek, breath catching in his throat as he saw Derek’s clawed hands. Stiles swallowed around a dry throat, still unable to think clearly as the adrenaline rushed through his body.
“Stiles,” Derek said, not taking his still-red eyes off Peter, “I think it’s time for you to go home.”
“Uh, yeah. Okay.” Stiles glanced between the two werewolves, neither of whom appeared to be paying the slightest attention to him. He could feel the tension in the air and, though Peter had yet to do anything wolf-ish, Stiles hadn’t missed how he’d casually shifted into a fighting position. Stiles took a deep breath to clear his head and walked into Derek’s room to pick up his t-shirt from the floor and pull it on. Coming back into the main room, Stiles moved as quickly as possible, brushing past Derek and Peter and forcing himself not to run once he hit the stairs.
Neither Derek nor Peter moved until they’d heard the large sliding door close and the elevator start.
“What do you want, Peter?” Derek’s claws were slowly melting back into fingers.
Peter moved further into the room, stepping around Derek to make his way into the kitchen and help himself to a cup of coffee. He’d clearly interrupted something between Derek and the boy—the scent of their combined lust still hung heavy in the air. Peter was sorry he hadn’t waited another fifteen minutes or so before coming over. Judging by Derek’s worked up state and the boy’s needy little breaths, he’d have been treated to quite a scene. It had been a long time since Peter had seen his nephew lose control like that. He was going to be very interested in how this played out.
Taking a seat at the table, Peter gestured for Derek to do the same. Derek’s eyes had faded back to their regular green but they gave a quick flash of irritation at being invited to sit down in his own home. Nevertheless, he complied and sat down across from Peter, crossing his arms expectantly over his chest.
“I looked into what you texted me about last night—the wolf with the reaction to the GHB.” He took a sip of his coffee, idly wishing it were hotter.
“And,” Derek prompted impatiently.
“And,” Peter continued after a pause, “that’s not the first time it’s happened.”
Derek’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t heard of any other instances.”
“That’s because the first two involved omegas. The only reason this one got so much attention is because she was with a pack.”
“Fuck.” Derek reached absently for his own mug of coffee and took a quick swallow, grimacing at the taste of cold coffee. “What happened?”
“I can’t say for sure. One was killed at the scene and the other was wounded, but escaped. Both were in public places and both lost control and shifted. The first wolf was at some biker bar and, the instant she attacked someone, they all went after her. Her head was blown off by a shotgun. There was only one other casualty.”
Derek shook his head in disbelief. They had been lucky, then. There weren’t too many ways to kill a werewolf, but beheading was one of them. He was grateful that only one human had been killed. “What about the second time?”
Peter stood up and went to place his mug in the microwave. Lukewarm coffee was disgusting. He set the timer for a minute and then turned back to Derek. “It was at a concert. Three casualties. Security called the cops and they showed up within minutes. The wolf was shot several times but fled the scene. The cops assume that he was on some kind of drug—and none of the witnesses were exactly sober either, so there’s no APB out on a wolfman.”
“Lucky us.” Derek rubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted. He did not want to have to deal with something of this magnitude after getting so little sleep the night before. “So we’re looking at a pattern, then?”
For the first time since he arrived at Derek’s place, Peter looked grim. “It looks like someone is trying to out us.”
“When did the first two events occur?” He was going to have to discuss this with the Alphas of the other packs in California, to try and figure out what course of action to take. It was always possible that the first incident had been an accident, and maybe even the second, but a third one made that seem unlikely.
“The first was in March, the second in July. And the third, as you know, the night before last.” Peter didn’t need to watch as much CSI as he did to know that the perpetrator was escalating.
“It’s been the same drug—GHB—each time?”
“Yes, as far as I can tell.” Peter shrugged. “There’s not much to go on, but all three lost control in public and attacked whoever was closest.”
“Okay,” Derek sighed. “Thank you for your help on this.”
“Anything for my Alpha.” Peter gave an exaggerated bow before dumping the rest of his coffee in the sink. “I’ll keep my eye out for anything else similar to this,” he added as he made his way towards the door. No matter what he might think about Derek’s status as Alpha now, this was a problem that had the potential to cause a lot of issues for werewolves in general. Until it was resolved he’d have to keep the rest of his plans under wraps.
“By the way,” he paused in the doorway, “You should really get more sleep. You look like shit.” With a smirk, he closed the door behind him and headed down the stairs.
Derek was in desperate need of a nap, but he glanced towards the door of his bedroom with no small amount of trepidation. He’d have to wash the bed sheets before he would be able to. There was no way he’d have anything resembling a restful sleep in the bed Stiles had spent all night in. He got up from the island and put both his and Peter’s cups in the dishwasher. He was going to run a load of laundry and pack, as he’d have to leave today if he wanted to speak to all the other Alphas before the end of the week. And then, god willing, he would get a couple hours of sleep before he had to hit the road.
Stiles pulled up outside Scott’s house in his battered old jeep. As was tradition, he was here to pick Scott up for the first day of the school year. He was glad it fell on a Thursday, and for the first time in his life he actually wanted to go back. After Tuesday night, and then the… events… of Wednesday morning, Stiles was in dire need of something to distract him from thoughts of Derek.
As Scott came out the door, his mom appeared in the doorway behind him, waggling a lunch bag that Scott appeared to have forgotten. Scott took it from her and gave her a quick peck on the cheek and, as he made his way towards the car, Stiles gave his mom an enthusiastic wave. She returned it with amusement before heading back inside and closing the door.
“God, you’re such a kiss ass,” Scott bitched as he tossed his backpack in the backseat.
“Whatever, I like your mom.” Stiles waited till Scott put on his seatbelt before pulling away from the curb. “Do you think if I asked nicely she’d make me lunch too?”
“Make your own lunch.” Scott leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “Oh hey, did your dad totally freak out when you came home drunk?”
“When I came home drunk?” Stiles was confused. He hadn’t done that.
“On Tuesday. Derek said he’d take you home. So did your dad, like, lose his shit?”
Right. Tuesday. When Derek took him straight home and absolutely did not bring him back to his very nice loft and engage in some incredibly hot foreplay that had left Stiles more sexually frustrated than he’d ever been in his life.
“Ah… no, it was fine,” he said, vaguely. “He was passed out on the couch by the time I got home, so he didn’t even notice.”
“Really?” Scott winced in sympathy. “I didn’t realize he’d started drinking so much on weeknights.”
Stiles focused on the road in front of him, feeling like a piece of shit. He never lied to Scott. He didn’t want to and, in fact, he’d love to pull over and tell Scott everything and grill him about what might be going through Derek’s mind. But Stiles wasn’t sure what he thought about what happened on Wednesday morning—assuming he could keep his hand off his dick once he started thinking about it, which he hadn’t been able to do so far in the twenty four hours since—and so he didn’t want to talk about it.
Plus, he reasoned, Scott had lied to him about something like this before. Scott had totally made out with Lydia and hadn’t told Stiles. That was actually worse than this, because Scott had known how Stiles felt about Lydia. So really, he was way less of a douche than Scott.
Stiles felt better.
“Hey, are you okay?” Scott looked worried and Stiles realized that he’d been quiet for a couple minutes.
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Stiles pulled into the parking lot of the school. “I’m just kind of worried about him, you know?” Which wasn’t really a lie. He was worried. He just wasn’t that worried about his dad’s drinking right now, is all.
“It’ll be okay,” Scott gave him an encouraging smile and grabbed their backpacks out of the backseat, tossing Stiles his.
“Thanks,” Stiles pushed open the door and got out of the car, locking it once Scott was out the other side. “Alright, let’s go get the quality education our parents’ tax dollars pay for.”
Scott snorted and followed Stiles into the school.
Allison gave a startled yelp as Scott grabbed her arm and dragged her into an empty classroom as the lunch bell rang. “Scott!” She hissed, “What are you doing?” She’d known their breakup had been hard on him, but she didn’t expect this kind of behaviour.
“Sorry.” Scott stepped back, releasing her. “I want to talk about Stiles.”
“About Stiles?” Her eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong with Stiles?”
“He lied to me this morning. Right to my face!” Scott was indignant and he began to pace. “I think something’s going on.”
“Something bad?” Allison felt guilty for thinking that Scott wanted to talk about them, when he was so clearly worried by whatever was going on with Stiles.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Scott was frowning and he looked more than a little uncomfortable. “I think you and Lydia should go talk to him.”
“If he lied to you, why do you think he’d tell us the truth?” Now she was concerned.
Scott visibly squirmed. “You know that thing I told you, like a month ago? About how I think Stiles—” he broke off, a pained expression on his face.
“How you think Stiles likes Derek?” Was this seriously what this conversation was about? Allison rolled her eyes. Why did boys always make everything so dramatic?
“Yeah, that.” Scott looked relieved that he didn’t have to say it. “Anyway, Stiles lied about going home after the bar on Tuesday. I think something happened. With him and Derek,” he clarified, needlessly.
“Uh-huh. And you want Lydia and me to talk to Stiles about this, why?” She was beginning to frown. “Do you have a problem with Stiles liking guys?”
“What? No! I don’t care if he’s into dick now.” Scott looked annoyed, what kind of small-minded person did Allison think he was? “I just—why can’t he be into a nice guy? Like Danny. Danny’s a great guy. I would one hundred percent support that relationship.”
“What’s wrong with Derek?”
Scott stared at her like she’d sprouted an extra set of eyeballs. “What’s… what’s wrong with Derek? Seriously?” He sputtered.
Allison shrugged, amused. “I guess he’s a bit older, but so what?”
“Allison,” Scott spoke patiently, like he was speaking to a three year old, “Derek is a werewolf.”
“Scott,” Allison said just as patronizingly. “You’re a werewolf.”
“I know that.” He glared, irritated. “But Derek’s an asshole and he’s a werewolf. Stiles already has too much shit going on in his life. He doesn’t need Derek making things worse.”
“Because you already do enough of that?” As soon as she’d said it, Allison wished she could take it back. Scott flinched and took a step back from her.
“I know it’s my fault that he’s mixed up in all of this supernatural crap, but that’s my point.” Scott sighed. “He doesn’t need any more to deal with. And Derek just, like, attracts bad shit.” Plus, he still thought Derek was way too old for Stiles. It was creepy.
“Stiles is smart, if something is going on with him and Derek, he knows what he’s getting into.”
“Does he?” Scott met her eyes, searching. “You thought you knew what you were getting into with me and look how that turned out.” He couldn’t help the slight bitterness in his voice.
Allison gave a sad smile. “That was different. Plus, my family was already tangled up in things. I would have gotten involved eventually—that’s not on you. And,” she continued before Scott could protest, “Stiles is already a part of all this weirdness. You need to trust him to make his own choices.”
“Still,” Scott wasn’t going to just let this go and hope for the best, “Can you guys please talk to him? If he isn’t okay talking about this with me, maybe he’ll talk to you.”
“Okay, I’ll ask Lydia.” She wasn’t sure if it would do any good, but at least Scott might stop worrying so much. She actually thought Stiles and Derek would make a good couple. They’d probably balance each other out a bit, and that was something they both needed.
As Stiles stopped at Scott’s house at the end of the day to drop him off, he couldn’t help the nervous drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel. Scott unbuckled his seatbelt and then reached behind him to grab his bag. Stiles opened his mouth, and then shut it. And then opened it again as Scott got out of the car.
“Hey, have you heard from Derek since Tuesday?” He blurted, not meeting Scott’s eyes.
“Yeah, why?” Scott’s eyes narrowed, but he figured if Stiles wanted to pretend like nothing was going on, he’d play along. For now.
“No reason. Just wondering.” Stiles gave what he hoped was a disinterested shrug. Scott nodded and closed the door, heading towards his house. “Okay, but—” Stiles shouted out the window. Scott turned around expectantly.
“That whole thing. With the, uh, GHB. That sounded serious. I just want to know if I need to be worried about you.” Stiles was allowed to be worried about his friend. That’s all this was about. It’s not like he cared that he hadn’t heard from Derek since he ran out of his place yesterday. It’s not like Derek owed him anything. It’s not like there was anything the two of them needed to discuss. Stiles was just concerned about Scott, like any best friend would be.
“He texted me on Wednesday, said he’d be out of town for a couple days.” Scott shrugged and turned back to his house, calling over his shoulder, “Nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, no, that’s—I’m not worried!” Stiles yelled after Scott. As soon as his friend had disappeared into his house Stiles slumped over, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. God, that had been embarrassing. He was surprised Scott hadn’t seen right through him.
He needed to pull himself together before this got out of hand. So what if Derek had texted Scott and not Stiles. It’s not like Stiles cared if he was out of town, doing whatever dumb werewolf things he did. Taking a deep breath he straightened up and headed to his house. He’d have dinner with his dad and then play video games till he passed out. He had lots of other things to do that didn’t involve wondering why Derek Hale wasn’t texting him.
Only, when Stiles got home, there was a note from his dad on the table saying that he’d be working late and that there was a frozen pizza in the freezer for Stiles. He stared bleakly at the note. He’d had frozen pizza for dinner all last week. He didn’t want to eat another frozen pizza in front of the TV. He wanted to have a nice, sit-down meal with his dad.
He could call Scott and probably get himself invited over there for dinner, but Stiles felt bad enough about lying to him that he didn’t want to have to do it any more than necessary. Stiles crumpled up the note from the table and tossed it into the garbage before grabbing a cold coke from the fridge. He actually wished he had homework or something to do instead of spending the evening bumming uselessly around the house.
Three cans of coke and two episodes of Battlestar Galactica later, Stiles stood in front of the open freezer door, staring at the unappetizing box of pizza that probably contained more cardboard in the actual pizza than there was in the box. He really, really did not want to eat it but his stomach was growling loudly and, just as much as he didn’t want to eat the pizza, he didn’t want to have to run to the grocery store. If he did that, Stiles would have to put on actual pants instead of wandering around in his boxers and a t-shirt, and he had no intentions of doing that.
Stiles closed the freezer door and opened the cupboard. Maybe he could cook something. It couldn’t be that hard. His dad cooked stuff all the time. And Derek, Derek had cooked the other night. If Derek could do it, Stiles was sure he could as well. Not that he cared what Derek could or could not do.
Stiles groaned and ran a hand through his hair. He needed to stop. It was bad enough lying to Scott—did he really need to lie to himself as well? It was hardly like he was saving face.
He, Stiles Stilinski, had a Thing for Derek Hale. And, if he was going to continue on this bout of honesty, he’d had a Thing for Derek for a while. He wasn’t sure why or how it had changed, but Psycho-Probably-A-Murderer-Derek had turned into Oh-My-God-He’s-So-Annoying-Derek and then somewhere along the way he’d become Hot-As-Fuck-Derek, and it was all Stiles could do to keep his hands to himself around him.
It was worse now, now that he knew Derek had his own Thing for Stiles. The whole mess had seemed so easy and so simple on Tuesday night, with the alcohol thrumming through his veins and making everything crystal clear. He wanted Derek, Derek wanted him. How could anything complicate that?
Pretty easily, it turned out.
Stiles pulled a carton of pasta out of the cupboard and filled a pot with water, setting it on the stove to boil. He’d add the jar of pasta sauce he’d seen on the shelf above and have a meal that wasn’t frozen pizza. At least then he could feel accomplished about something. Even he couldn’t screw up pasta.
While he watched the pot, Stiles’s mind went back over what had happened on Wednesday morning. He’d woken up still feeing a bit drunk and giddy from the night before. He was convinced that he’d be able to wear down Derek’s silly protestations and in no time at all he’d get to have his lips and hands back on Derek. Only that hadn’t happened.
Stiles was pretty sure that Derek had just been trying to scare him and it had nearly worked, because the casual, almost cruel way that Derek was speaking to him had Stiles second-guessing everything he thought he knew about Derek. Except that as soon as Derek’s arms had caged him in and Derek’s breath was hot against his lips, the things he’d been saying started to make Stiles hot all over, and not only with embarrassment. He could tell that part way through his act Derek had stopped pretending and his intent had become real. This maybe should have scared Stiles more, and it did… but the thrill of fear he’d felt when looking into Derek’s eyes and knowing without a doubt that Derek would pin him to the floor and fuck him until he was screaming had only made Stiles want it more than he’d wanted anything in his life.
Stiles wasn’t sure what Derek wanted, though. Was Derek, like he’d said, just looking for sex? Would Stiles have just been an easy fuck if Peter hadn’t interrupted?
His water was boiling and so Stiles dumped some pasta into it before sitting back down at the kitchen table to wait for it to cook.
If all Derek wanted was sex, Stiles wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Would that be so bad? Just having sex with Derek? The sex would probably be amazing, if Wednesday was any indication.
But how real had Wednesday been? Stiles was mostly certain Derek had been just as into it as Stiles had been. Like, fairly certain anyway. Well, he thought he was pretty sure that maybe Derek had been into it…. What if he hadn’t been into it though? What if the whole thing was really about scaring Stiles off and Stiles was some sort of freak who’d gotten off on it? Maybe Derek thought Stiles was a total perv now.
But, then again, Derek had kissed him back on Tuesday.
Or, his mind insisted, Derek had humored a horny drunk teenager because that was easier than dealing with a sulky drunk teenager. Because Derek had kissed him back, but he’d also turned him down immediately after. Maybe he’d made Derek so uncomfortable on Wednesday morning, so cocky and sure that Derek wanted him, Derek had felt he’d had no other choice than to try and scare him away so he didn’t have to deal with Stiles’s horny teenage bullshit when he clearly had his own problems.
Oh, god. Stiles dropped his forehead to the table, mortified. What if he’d spent the last couple days in a state of near-constant arousal thinking about Wednesday morning and the feeling of Derek’s fingers against his bare skin and his body hot and hard against Stiles’s, and it had just been Derek trying to brush him off?
A sharp hissing noise jerked him out of his self-pity and he suddenly realized he could smell burning. Shit. The pot on the stove was bubbling over, and he reacted on instinct, leaping up to pull the pot off the burner—and scalding his hand in the process.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He swore, dumping the entire thing into the sink and then sticking his hand under the facet to run it under cold water. Belatedly he realized that the burner was still on, and that was where the horrible charred smell was coming from. Dashing back across the kitchen, he turned it off and then had to run back to the sink to turn off the tap as the pasta had clogged the drain and the sink looked about to overflow.
With a groan he sank back into his seat at the kitchen table. His hand hurt. He was starving. He’d humiliated himself in front of Derek, who must now think that Stiles was some sort of sex freak. This was the worst day ever.
Reluctantly he got up and set the oven up to preheat for the frozen pizza. He’d eat the whole damned thing and then play video games until his eyes fell out or he fell asleep, whichever came first.
This is the fourth chapter of a larger piece so I'm already several chapters ahead, and will be posting a new one every Thursday. I'm really excited about this fic, and I hope you stick around :)
The playlist I've been using to write LMW can be found at 8tracks.
Feb 2016 edit: I have no idea why the header pics have vanished but I'm putting them back up!
Graphics are done by Kat!
Podfic for Chapter One is available here.
Thanks for reading!
By the time Derek got back to Beacon Hills it was nearly 2am on Monday morning. He made his way wearily up the stairs and opened the door to his loft, tossing his duffle bag carelessly to the side and stumbling straight into his bedroom. His shirt was torn in several places and there was dried blood tacky against the side of his face. He didn't bother to wash it off or undress before falling bonelessly into his bed.
As exhausted as he felt, he knew it would take a while before his mind could wind down enough for him to sleep. He'd known it wouldn't be easy to enter other packs's territories as an Alpha and to try to convince them that he wasn't there to challenge them, but to warn them about a serious threat. What he hadn't realized was how much posturing there would be and that in several packs he'd had to fight some of the Betas to prove himself before he could even have an 'audience' with their Alpha.
All in all, it had been a frustrating and futile weekend. He wasn't sure how many of the other Alphas took him seriously. Most of them seemed more concerned with proving they were bigger and badder than Derek than with listening to what he had to say.
Derek took a deep breath to try to relax and discovered that, despite having washed the bed sheets, Stiles's spicy cinnamon-sweet scent still lingered on his pillow. He sighed. Apparently there was nothing he could do to escape the kid. It was bad enough that he'd spent half the weekend checking his phone for a text. Stiles never shut up when you wanted him to, and now, as soon as Derek wanted some sort of indication that he was okay, he got nothing. Derek wished fervently that he could get Stiles out of his mind. That he could stop thinking of how Stiles's pulse had beat like a wild thing just under the skin of his neck when Derek had pressed him back against the island, and how he wanted nothing more than to bite down over it and feel it throbbing against his tongue.
He wanted to know how Stiles was doing, wanted to make sure that Stiles was okay after what Derek had done on Wednesday, wanted to make sure that even though his body had reacted his head was on board as well.
Derek gave an annoyed growl and shoved the pillow off the bed. This was the fifth night since Wednesday he'd lain awake thinking about Stiles. He was getting new pillows first thing tomorrow.
After spending the entire weekend stuck at home, grounded from the TV, his Xbox, his phone, and Scott, Stiles had been pitifully glad to be going back to school on Monday. He really should have cleaned up the mess in the kitchen before going to bed on Thursday, he knew that, but he thought that grounding him for the whole weekend was a major overreaction on his dad's part. Stiles had cleaned it up once he got home from school on Friday, though by that point it had been pretty disgusting, with the sink full of smelly half-dissolved pasta that had gummed itself to any available surface.
Stuck at home, he'd spent the weekend going through various emotional extremes, from obsessively re-organizing his DVDs no less than three times (alphabetically, by release date, and finally alphabetically by genre), to lying, apathetic, on his bed for what felt like hours on end, to replaying every interaction he'd ever had with Derek over in his brain to try and figure out what the hell was going on. When his dad finally gave his phone back and there was no new text from Derek on it he had to resist the urge to hurl it against the wall, knowing that breaking his phone would only lead to him being grounded again.
He'd thought being back in school and having his friends around would be enough to distract him from thinking about Derek. He'd been wrong. He had been completely unable to focus in any of his classes and Scott had gotten so tired of trying to hold a conversation with him that he'd given up entirely, saying he'd see Stiles at lacrosse practice that afternoon and that he'd better be able to pay attention to that or Coach would make him run laps.
So now Stiles was in the library on his free period at the end of the day. It would have been amazing to leave school early on Mondays, but unfortunately lacrosse practice fell on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays this semester, so Stiles had to stick around. He was staring moodily at his biology textbook, completely unwilling to open it and read the chapter he was supposed to have already read this weekend, when Lydia dropped her books down on his table and made him jump a foot in the air.
"Jesus," he scowled at her. "Warn a person before you do that."
"Looks like we have the same free period this semester," she smiled sunnily at him. "So tell me about the sex you had with Derek."
"I—what—no. I did not. I absolutely did not have sex with Derek. Who told you I had sex with Derek?" Stiles spluttered, completely thrown.
"Scott told Allison you did." She leaned in. "So how was it?"
"I didn't have sex with Derek!"
The librarian glared at Stiles. He shrunk back in his seat, and hissed "I did not have sex with Derek!"
"Well, apparently Derek didn't take you home like he said he would last Tuesday, and Scott thinks you guys totally did it." Lydia smirked, leaning back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. "So, if Derek didn't take you home, and you didn't have sex—"
"Then what did you do?"
Goddamnit. Stiles should have known Scott could tell when he was lying. But why would Scott let him get away with it? Probably because the whole thing made him awkward. Scott was such a douche. Stiles had to listen to all his whining about Allison, but as soon as Stiles had any kind of drama, Scott conveniently avoided the topic.
Stiles eyed Lydia. On one hand, he desperately wanted a second opinion on what had happened, but, on the other hand, he wasn't entirely sure if he could trust her. Plus, it was kind of weird to be telling his last crush about his new crush—if 'crush' could be used to describe his feelings about Derek. He had no idea how to describe his feelings about Derek. All he knew was that he had feelings. And they were about Derek. And Derek also maybe had feelings and they might be about Stiles. Though they could just be sex feelings. Or there might not be any feelings on Derek's end, and Stiles was also probably a pervert.
Yeah, he needed help. He gave a resigned sigh and leaned forward in his chair.
"So, I didn't go home on Tuesday night."
Lydia rolled her eyes. "Yes, Stiles, that has been established."
"Do you want to know what happened, or not?" He glared and she mimed zipping her mouth shut. "Okay then. I've kind of had a… thing… for Derek. I don't know when it happened but all of a sudden it was, like, whoa. And then he showed up on Tuesday and you guys left me there with him," he paused to scowl at her. "Anyway, I told my dad I'd be spending the night at Scott's and I couldn't go home because I was kind of drunk,"
"Really drunk," Lydia corrected.
"Whatever. I was drunk. So we went to Derek's place and he was cooking and there was wine—"
"He gave you more alcohol?" This time the librarian whirled around to shush Lydia, and Lydia flashed an apologetic smile before focusing back on Stiles. "And since when do you drink wine?"
"Why does everyone get so hung up on that? I'm sophisticated. I like wine. Anyway so we had some wine and eggs—"
"Wine and eggs?" Lydia interrupted. "Sorry, not the point. Keep going."
He waited a beat to make sure she was done, and then Stiles told her everything. He told her about Derek breaking his wine glass, about kneeling between his legs and kissing him, and about Derek's sudden and unwanted bout of nobility.
"But he kissed me back, right," Stiles said, "And he was into it. Like, really into it." He grinned. "So the next morning I, um, well," he avoided Lydia's gaze. "I figured his problem the night before was just that I was drunk, you know? So since I was sober I sort of—propositioned him. I was teasing. Kind of." He swallowed, not sure how to explain the next part, but it was the part that he really needed help figuring out.
"So what happened?" Lydia leaned in close.
"It was weird. He said okay, but it was too easy, so I was like, wait, what is going on? And then he's like, 'Yeah, I could use a quick fuck, so sure, why not. The bedroom is right there.'" Stiles flushed a bright red and fixed his gaze firmly on the table in front of him. "And I was just sitting there like an idiot because I didn't think he'd actually go for it and then he was towering over me, saying stuff—" He broke off.
Lydia gestured impatiently for him to continue.
"Just stuff, okay. Hot stuff. Really, really hot stuff. But it was also kind of scary and intense and I'm pretty sure he that at first he just wanted to freak me out so I'd run off but then it was like he was totally into it and it was really fucking hot. I think if Peter hadn't interrupted us we'd have—" Well, he wasn't really sure what they would have done, but he'd bet it would have been amazing. Stiles sighed.
"So, what you're saying is he called your bluff, but you—predictably—froze up, and when he kept pushing it you got turned on?"
"I—yeah." Stiles kind of hoped the ground would just swallow him up right now. "Which is weird, right? He must think I'm a total freak show."
"But you think he was turned on too, right?"
"Yes. Maybe. I don't know." He squirmed. "Then Peter showed up and I left. And I haven't heard anything from him since.
"Okay," Lydia said, "for starters, you're not a freak. Some people are just into that kind of thing. From what you're telling me, it sounds like he was into it too." Lydia sincerely wished she could have been there to witness Wednesday morning. "Scott said Derek was out of town on some werewolf thing, so he hasn't been avoiding you on purpose."
"Yeah, but he didn't even text me." Stiles could hear the whine in his voice and inwardly cringed.
"Derek is probably just as confused as you are."
"I doubt that," Stiles muttered under his breath.
"He is," Lydia said firmly. "He has no way to know how you felt about the whole thing and I bet he thinks he took it too far and scared you off. Which I bet he is now regretting."
"Okay, but even if that's true—and I'm not saying it is—what do I do?"
"Ignore him," Lydia repeated.
"How did he react when Peter interrupted you?"
"Uh," Stiles thought back. "He was mad. Really mad. He sort of wolfed out."
Lydia smirked, "I figured. He seems like the possessive type, which means the best thing you can do in this situation is ignore him. Trust me, it will drive him crazy."
"But I don't want to drive him crazy."
"Yes, you do." She hoped she'd get to be there when Derek finally snapped.
Stiles frowned, opening his mouth to ask another question when the bell rang and all around them people started gathering their things to head home. He stuffed his textbook in his backpack and got up. He had to go to his car to grab his lacrosse bag before practice.
Lydia followed, sliding her arm through his. "Come on, I'll walk you to your car." She fluttered her eyelashes up at him and he rolled his eyes with a grin.
"Thanks for listening," he said as they stepped out of the front doors.
"Oh, any time."
"You're going to tell Allison everything, aren't you?"
"You bet." She smirked and then suddenly stopped, tugging on his arm so that he followed suit.
She nodded to the parking lot where Derek, wearing big dark sunglasses and his leather jacket, stood talking to Scott. Leaning up she whispered into his ear. "Ignore him." Then she gave him a bright smile and dashed back inside the building.
Stiles took a deep breath and headed towards his car, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.
Derek tensed as he saw Lydia whisper something into Stiles's ear before beaming at him and then hurrying back into the school. So while Derek had spent the last several days worrying about Stiles, Stiles had clearly had things other than Derek on his mind. A quick flash of anger had Derek's hands clenching at his sides, and it took a moment for him to bring his attention back to Scott.
"Sorry, what did you say?" Derek asked.
Scott sighed. "I asked what time you wanted us to come over tonight."
Stiles had made his way over to them, his eyes sharpening as he heard Scott repeat his question. "What's happening tonight?"
"Pack meeting." Derek fixed his gaze on Stiles. "I want you, Lydia, and Allison there as well."
Stiles's heart had begun to pound when he'd heard Derek say the words 'I want you' and he fought to keep his breathing even.
"You know," Scott interrupted loudly, "I still haven't joined your pack. So it's not really a pack meeting."
Derek turned his attention back to Scott. "Just be there at eight."
"Okay, we'll let Isaac and the girls know." Stiles, deliberately casual, looked at his phone to check the time. "We've got to go or we'll be late for practice."
Derek gave a curt nod and walked off in the direction of his car.
At five minutes after eight, Stiles was parked outside of Derek's warehouse. He'd actually been early and had to drive around the block a couple times so he wouldn't be the first one there. He'd spent the last five minutes sitting in his jeep staring at the clock on his dashboard and wondering how much trouble he would get into if he just turned around and drove home. The giant knot in the pit of his stomach from seeing Derek earlier that afternoon still hadn't gone away. If anything, Stiles thought it had gotten worse.
After lacrosse practice, he'd come home to shower and tried three different jean and t-shirt combinations before he'd decided what to wear. He'd been too nervous to eat dinner (leftover meatloaf) and had downed a coke instead, leaving him jittery and wired. The dashboard clock showed 8:06pm and finally Stiles made himself get out of the car and head in.
As the elevator pulled him up to Derek's floor, Stiles wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. His heart raced and he hated that Derek would hear it as soon as he walked into the room. The elevator ground to a halt and he took a deep breath before pulling the doors open and stepping through. The steel door to Derek's place stood open and with a quick prayer that he could follow Lydia's advice and ignore Derek as much as possible, Stiles stepped through.
"Stiles!" Lydia came out of nowhere and threw her arms around him in a hug. "We were waiting for you! I saved you a seat," she smiled brilliantly up at him. Without waiting for his response, she grabbed his hand and lead him to a section of the large room that now contained a set of living room furniture that looked second-hand. Stiles was glad he wouldn't be sitting on the floor, and was pathetically grateful that this meeting wasn't going to take place upstairs. If he'd had to sit on the couch where he'd kissed Derek, Stiles wasn't sure he'd have been able to stay.
Scott and Isaac and Allison were already there. They'd claimed the couch, with Scott and Isaac on either side of Allison. Derek sat alone in an armchair, arms crossed over his chest and thighs splayed open. Stiles swallowed and tried not to think about the last time he was between Derek's legs. Lydia pulled Stiles with her to a threadbare loveseat.
"You're late." Derek didn't bother to hide the anger in his voice as Stiles sat down on the loveseat and Lydia snuggled up beside him.
"Uh, yeah," Stiles had prepared a whole excuse to say but was distracted by Lydia pressing herself up against him. He shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry."
"Great," sarcasm dripped from Derek's tone before he brought his focus back to the group as a whole. "There's been more than one werewolf drugged with GHB over the past several months. We believe it's intentional."
"'We'?" Isaac asked.
"Me and Peter. He looked into it after I spoke to all of you last week."
"How?" Stiles knew he was supposed to be ignoring Derek, but he wanted to know how Peter had 'looked into it'. He didn't trust Peter as far as he could throw him. Which wasn't very far. "Did he google 'roofied werewolves' or something?"
Derek frowned. "No. That's not important, Stiles."
"I think it is." Lydia slipped her hand into Stiles's. "Stiles has a point. How do we know we can trust Peter?"
Derek's jaw tightened. "We can trust Peter."
"I don't trust Peter." Scott leaned forward. "For all we know, he's been the one drugging other werewolves."
"And why would he do that?" Derek growled in frustration. "If you," he looked at Stiles, his green eyes dark with anger, "had let me finish I would have told you that whoever is doing this seems to want to reveal the existence of werewolves to the human population. Peter has no desire to see that happen, because that would cause us to be hunted by everyone, and not just kept in check by people like the Argents. Do you really think that the majority of humans would wait until a werewolf had killed a human before deciding we were dangerous and needed to be put down? Peter does not want to put our entire species at risk like that."
"Derek's right," Allison put in. "It would be stupid of him to do something that would put his own life on the line."
Scott looked like he wanted to argue, but Allison touched his thigh and he backed down.
"Two werewolves, other than the one I told you about, have, for no apparent reason, shifted in public places and attacked humans. This can't be coincidence—someone is actively trying to 'out' us." Derek glanced at Scott and Isaac. "This is serious. We can't risk having either of you losing control in public. That's why I've asked the three of you here," Derek looked to Allison, ignoring Stiles and Lydia on the loveseat. "I need there to be one of you with one of them at all times."
"The buddy system?" Isaac grinned at Allison. "Sounds good to me."
"It doesn't sound good to me," Lydia said bluntly. "What are we supposed to do if they're drugged? We can't do anything to stop them. Not unless Allison lends us some of her dad's guns, and I doubt you want us shooting Isaac or Scott."
"It's not a perfect plan," Derek conceded reluctantly, "but at least the three of you will notice if either of them start to change, and hopefully you can get them somewhere more secluded before they fully shift."
Derek didn't feel comfortable putting the three humans in so much danger, but what else was he supposed to do? Short of giving them shotguns full of wolfsbane like Lydia had suggested, the best Derek could come up with was at least having a minute or two of warning before all hell broke loose. As far as plans went, it was a shitty plan, but at least it was a plan.
"Special K," Stiles offered. Everyone turned to look at him. At their expectant silence he continued. "Ketamine. It's like a horse tranquilizer. We used it on Jackson when he was the Kanima, remember? Scott should be able to get some more from work. We can carry it in EpiPens or something. Deaton should be able to figure out how much will put a werewolf down for the count." He shrugged. "If we notice Scott or Isaac start to change we can just stick them and that should help counter the effects of the GHB."
There was a beat of silence. Derek gave Stiles a quiet, searching sort of look. Stiles met his gaze and felt surprisingly calm looking into Derek's soft green eyes. They'd figure this out. If someone was actively targeting werewolves, that was serious and intense and scary. But they'd figure it out and they'd get through it. He could feel the corners of his lips turn up in a gentle, rueful smile. He'd been an idiot, thinking Derek was purposefully ignoring him this week. Derek had been busy. Obviously he'd had way more on his mind than Stiles. And that was okay, because both of them cared about this odd little pack they'd created, and Stiles and Derek would have more than enough time to figure out what it was between them.
Lydia broke the silence with a loud squeal and leaned up to press her lips against Stiles's cheek in a wet kiss that left lip-gloss smeared against his skin. "You're so smart!" She crooned, wiping away the lip-gloss with her thumb.
Stiles blinked down at Lydia, confused and flattered. She was being awfully nice to him today. She must have felt that he needed some extra reassurance after he spilled his guts to her in the library earlier. When he looked back, Derek's eyes had darkened and he was no longer looking at Stiles, but had pulled out his phone and was sending a text. Stiles suddenly doubted the confidence he'd felt only seconds earlier. Uneasy, his hand tightened in Lydia's, and she squeezed back.
"Wait," Isaac spoke up. "If Peter was the one who looked into all of this—where were you all weekend?"
Derek slid his phone back into his pocket and looked up. "I went to the other packs here in California. I thought they'd need to know what was going on."
"You don't have an easier way to communicate with them?" Allison seemed genuinely curious.
Derek hesitated a second. He still didn't entirely trust Allison. He knew better than to judge someone by his or her family, but she was an Argent, and they'd done enough damage to the Hales.
"Derek?" Scott prodded.
"We have a message board," Derek answered, reluctantly.
"A what?" Stiles could barely contain his laughter. "Seriously? What is this, 1995?"
Derek glared. "It's effective, discrete, and can be updated by any wolf within the United States."
"Why didn't I know about it?" Scott sounded put out, and Isaac looked a little hurt himself.
"Because you're not eighteen." Derek held up a hand as Scott opened his mouth to protest. "Listen, that's just the way it is. It's a security issue. I'll get you an invitation to join when you turn eighteen."
"So why didn't you just post on the message board or whatever?" Stiles asked.
"Because," Derek sounded impatient. "I thought this was a serious enough issue that I wanted to meet with the other Alphas personally." Not that it had done any good, he added silently. "Peter went through a bunch of the site's archives and discovered two posts that indicated an incident like this had happened before. No one else seemed to have connected them to the most recent one because the earlier two werewolves who had been drugged were Omegas. They had no pack looking out for them." He glanced around the room, careful to make eye contact with everyone. "We need to be looking out for each other. Scott," he focused on the boy. "Please speak to Deaton tomorrow about the ketamine."
Scott nodded. He didn't think they'd have a problem getting any.
"Okay, if that's it?" Derek waited a minute, but no one spoke up. "Thank you for coming tonight." He stood, and Scott, Isaac, and Allison followed, the three of them making their way quickly out to door. Stiles made to get up but Lydia caught his arm.
"Can I get a ride home with you, Stiles?" She asked.
Stiles nodded, and they made to leave. Stiles managed to make it nearly to the door before a hand clamped down on his shoulder, fingers bruising against his skin. His mind blanked; empty save for a wild surge of need that left him breathless.
"Sorry Lydia, I need to have a word with Stiles." Derek tightened his grip and Stiles thought his knees might give out under him. "Can you catch up with Allison?"
"I guess," Lydia huffed. She fought to hide the pleased quirk of her lips. "I'll see you tomorrow, Stiles." She gave a coquettish wave and sauntered out the door.
As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her Derek released his grip on Stiles and strode towards the large door of the loft. He slammed it shut and slid the bolt home.
This is the fifth chapter of a larger piece so I'm already several chapters ahead, and will be posting a new one every Thursday. I'm really excited about this fic, and I hope you stick around :)
The playlist I've been using to write LMW can be found at 8tracks.
Graphics are done by Kat!
Podfic for Chapter One is available here.
Thanks for reading!
Stiles jumped at the sharp sound of the door slamming, and his heart gave a little stuttering leap as Derek locked it.
“Had a good weekend, did you?” Derek moved away from the door and circled around in font of Stiles.
“Um,” Stiles wasn’t sure what Derek was talking about. His weekend had been shitty because he’d been grounded the entire time. Which Derek would know if he’d bothered to text Stiles. Stiles felt a flicker of anger.
Derek took a slow, deliberate step towards Stiles. “It looks like Lydia enjoyed herself.” Thinking of how she’d cuddled up to Stiles on the loveseat, Derek’s loveseat, made Derek’s lips curl back into a sneer.
Stiles took a second to understand what Derek was saying. Was he really jealous? Of Lydia? Suddenly Lydia’s actions that evening made sense, and Stiles gave a low groan. “Listen, it’s not like—”
“Like what?” Derek took another careful step, closing the distance between them.
Stiles swallowed and stepped back, his shoulder blades brushing the cold metal of the door. “It’s not like that.”
“What’s it like, then?” Derek placed a hand on Stiles’s hip, thumb slipping under Stiles’s t-shirt to brush lightly over Stiles’s bare skin. “Is it like this?” He brought his lips down to press an open-mouthed kiss to Stiles’s neck, tongue flicking out to taste salty skin. Stiles sucked in a breath, his head falling back against the door at the combined sensations of Derek’s soft lips and the rasp of his stubble against Stiles’s hypersensitive skin.
“No, it’s—” Stiles broke off as Derek scraped his teeth lightly over Stiles’s jaw. This gentleness was so different than what had happened the week before and Stiles felt thrown off, unnerved, because for all of Derek’s delicate, careful touches and his quiet words, Stiles could swear there was a sharp edge of darkness to his actions. It was that unspoken threat that had Stiles’s breath catching in his throat and had him hardening in his jeans. “Derek, what—”
“How about this?” Derek cut him off again, pressing closer so that Stiles was trapped against the door. With one hand still at Stiles’s hip, he used the other to trail light fingers over the length of Stiles’s cock through his jeans. Stiles tried to thrust into the contact but Derek’s hand had already dropped away. He made an angry, frustrated sound and shoved Derek back.
He knew Derek let himself be pushed and that only made Stiles angrier. “It’s not like that with Lydia and you know it,” he snapped.
“No, it’s not,” Derek agreed. An arrogant smirk crossed his face and Stiles’s eyes narrowed. Derek moved then, lightning quick, and suddenly his hand was wrapped around Stiles’s throat and he was pressing Stiles into the door with the full weight of his body.
Derek could feel the rapid beat of Stiles’s pulse under his fingers and he gave a low, pleased growl as he forced his leg in between Stiles’s and found him rock hard. “It can’t be like that with Lydia because it can’t be like this,” his fingers tightened as he pressed his thigh more firmly against Stiles who couldn’t stop a needy whine from escaping. “Can it?” Derek met Stiles’s eyes and noted with dark satisfaction that the boy’s pupils were blown wide. “Can it?” He repeated himself when Stiles didn’t answer.
“No,” Stiles whispered. It felt like every nerve of his body was on fire, and that if Derek didn’t keep touching him, didn’t keep looking at him with his eyes dark and hungry, then Stiles might burn away to ash.
“Good.” Derek leaned down and gave Stiles a bruising kiss, feeling a hot rush of pleasure at the way Stiles’s lips parted readily under his. He licked into Stiles’s mouth, tasting the sweetness of the coke he’d clearly had instead of dinner.
Stiles’s hands came up to grasp Derek’s hips and his fingers dug in with an edge of desperation. There wasn’t enough room between Derek and the door for Stiles to move enough to get the friction he wanted. Derek’s leg was warm and firm between his, but the angle was all wrong and Stiles whimpered—actually whimpered—into Derek’s mouth.
Derek pulled back with a slow grin, his hand on Stiles’s throat, keeping him pinned against the door. Stiles squirmed, flushing as Derek let his eyes run slowly over Stiles’s body. Derek’s hand around his neck was a steady pressure that wasn’t enough to cut off his breathing, but served as a very real reminder to Stiles that he was completely at Derek’s mercy. This probably should have made Stiles cold with fear, but, instead of panic, his veins surged with a reckless abandon that he had to fight in order to stand still and not drop to his knees in front of Derek and surrender completely.
Derek ran a thoughtful tongue over his teeth, considering Stiles. There was one obvious problem with this scenario—Stiles was wearing far too many clothes. Luckily for both of them, Derek had just the solution. His grin returned, wider than before and with a distinctly wolfish glint. His hand around Stiles’s neck loosened slightly, and Stiles made as if to break free but Derek’s eyes were suddenly, terrifyingly red. Stiles’s heart stopped, real fright licking at the edges of his arousal.
The hand around Stiles’s throat flexed as the bones in Derek’s fingers shifted underneath his skin and where blunt fingertips had pressed into his neck there was now the delicate bite of claws that only just avoided drawing blood. Stiles stood rigid, unable to move for fear of those sharp points. He would have thought that this, the wicked sharpness of those claws so close to his jugular, would have been enough to snap him out of this thrall Derek had him under, but as strong as the urge to flee was, his need to stay was stronger.
The sharp sent of Stiles’s unease had Derek pausing, ready to pull back if Stiles actually fought this, but the scent of his desire didn’t abate. If anything, Derek would have sworn the heady perfume of it intensified.
“Uh, Derek?” Stiles finally found his voice, unable to help a slight quaver.
“Stiles.” Derek’s free hand came up to the neckline of Stiles’s t-shirt and he carelessly sliced the thin fabric open to the hem, baring Stiles’s pale skin. The rapid rise and fall of Stiles’s chest with his breathing was much more interesting without his shirt in the way.
Stiles could feel Derek’s hand around his throat return to its more human state, and he sagged back against the door in relief. He’d been eighty-five percent certain that Derek had been about to gut him, and ninety-eight percent certain that he wouldn’t have done a thing to stop it. Much like his favourite literary heroine, he needed to sort out his priorities. That thought was stopped in its tracks as Derek’s hand lifted from his throat to slide the remnants of his t-shirt off his arms and Stiles realized he was now shirtless.
Derek slid his hands around Stiles’s waist, pulling him closer and bending his head to brush a chaste kiss over Stiles’s lips. Stiles arched up into him, chasing Derek’s mouth with his own until he could slide his own tongue against Derek’s slightly parted lips. Derek gave a low purr of pleasure and bent his head to nip at the jut of Stiles’s collarbone.
The feeling of teeth against his skin had Stiles’s eyes rolling back in his head and it was only Derek’s grip on his waist that kept Stiles standing. Derek smirked and nudged Stiles back so he was once again pressed against the solid steel door. The metal was cold against his skin and he could feel a bolt digging into his shoulder. The discomfort managed to clear Stiles’s head long enough to realize that Derek had pushed him back so he’d have something to support him, because Derek was suddenly on his knees in front of Stiles.
With one hand splayed over Stiles’s stomach to hold him in place, Derek rubbed his cheek over the front of Stiles’s jeans, feeling the heat of Stiles’s cock through the fabric. Stiles made a choked noise and Derek could see his hands pressed flat against the door behind him, as though Stiles couldn’t bring himself to touch Derek, or didn’t think he was allowed to. Derek buried his face in Stiles’s crotch and inhaled, breathing in the scent of the precome that had begun to leak from his cock. Stiles’s hips gave a quick, abortive jerk as he fought to remain still.
“Good boy,” Derek murmured, pleased at how quickly Stiles caught on. He gave Stiles’s erection one last, slow rub with his cheek before moving up to lick along Stiles’s bare flesh above the waistband of his jeans. The thin line of hair that led into Stiles’s jeans was coarse under his tongue and Derek resisted the urge to follow it all the way down, instead moving to Stiles’s hip where he bit down, sucking a dark bruise into the delicate skin.
“Oh, fuck.” Stiles’s head fell back against the door, his fingers scrabbling against the smooth metal as he took a deep breath and tried not to come in his pants. The sight of Derek on his knees in front of him was almost too much for him to handle, and he had to slam his eyes shut and focus on his breathing.
Derek looked up the long line of Stiles’s body and saw him fighting to stay in control. He closed his teeth harder over Stiles’s hip and felt Stiles’s stomach muscles quiver under his hand and his hips thrust with need under Derek’s hold. Derek swirled his tongue over the bruised flesh and pulled back.
“Is this what you want?” He ran his free hand up the inside of Stiles’s thigh, fingers sliding teasingly over Stiles’s cock before moving higher to snap open the button on Stiles’s jeans. Stiles swallowed and gave a rapid nod, his eyes still closed and breathing thready.
“Say it.” Derek slowly pulled the zipper of Stiles’s fly down, the rasp of it loud in the empty room.
“Yes.” Stiles couldn’t help the pleading note in his voice. He wasn’t even sure that he was embarrassed by it.
“Beg me for it.” Derek pushed Stiles’s jeans down to his thighs, one hand still pressing Stiles firmly back against the door as the other returned to slide his boxers down and free his cock.
“Please.” Stiles could feel Derek’s breath hot against his dick and he thought he might die if he didn’t feel Derek’s lips on him. “Please, Derek, please,” he begged, his voice ragged.
Derek leaned forward and licked a beaded drop of precome from the tip, the taste sharp in his mouth. Stiles moaned, and Derek opened his mouth and slid his lips over the head before swallowing Stiles down in one smooth motion. The sensation of being enveloped in the wet heat of Derek’s mouth had Stiles gasping for breath. Derek’s tongue ran over the underside of Stile’s cock and he had to dig his fingers into Stiles’s stomach and hip to keep Stiles from thrusting into him.
Next time, Derek would let Stiles fuck his mouth, but this time, this first time, Derek was in control.
The feeling of Derek’s mouth working over and around him overwhelmed all of Stiles’s other senses. He felt mindless and greedy and all he wanted was to drive himself over and over again into Derek until he came. The way Derek’s hands held him still, preventing him from moving even an inch, made Stiles snarl in frustration. At the same time, the pressure of those fingers—surely leaving more bruises—felt like an anchor that kept Stiles form losing himself completely. Derek flexed his throat around Stiles, working to take him in deeper and fighting past his body’s resistance. Stiles bit back a curse and lifted his head to look down at Derek. The werewolf rolled his eyes up to meet Stiles’s gaze and the sight of Derek’s spit-slick lips wrapped around Stiles’s cock made Stiles groan, but it was Derek’s green eyes, dark and smug with the knowledge that he had brought Stiles to the frantic, razor-edge of orgasm, that had Stiles’s fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists. Stiles knew Derek could leave him there, maybe would leave him there, and the thought made him writhe desperately. “Derek, please. Please let me,” he begged, too far gone to have any dignity left.
Derek’s grip on him loosened and Stiles’s hips moved before his brain could catch up, slamming himself as far into Derek as he could go and as his cock hit the back of Derek’s throat he came with a sharp cry.
Derek swallowed as Stiles pulsed hot and bitter in his mouth. He eased back when Stiles grew soft, giving one last swipe of his tongue over the oversensitive head to make Stiles flinch back with a garbled protest, too spent to form words. He had to catch the boy as he slid down the door, lowering him carefully to the floor.
Stiles leaned his head back against the door and closed his eyes. Maybe he could just stay there for the rest of his life. Derek probably wouldn’t mind too much. Stiles didn’t think his legs would be able to function again any time soon, maybe never. The warm glow of orgasm left him feeling pliant and sated, skin flushed and chest still rising rapidly with his breathing.
Derek felt a sudden wrench of envy curl in his gut, looking at Stiles splayed out bonelessly against the door. He wanted to be the only one who had ever made Stiles look like this, the only person who could break Stiles down until he was pleading and frantic, and the only person who knew what Stiles looked like when he finally got his release. He crawled up between Stiles’s legs, his hands on either side of Stiles’s hips and devoured his mouth in a hot, savage kiss.
Derek tasted like Stiles’s come and, as Derek pulled back, Stiles rolled the unfamiliar bitterness around with his tongue.
Derek couldn’t help the vicious tide of anger that rose dangerously in his chest. Knowing he was making a mistake, but needing to hear that he was the first and only person to have Stiles like this, he spoke, damning himself. “Did you taste as good in Lydia’s mouth?”
Whiskey-gold eyes met Derek’s green ones and the rise and fall of Stiles’s chest slowed. Derek expected a furious, sputtering denial, and then an argument. They would fight and Derek would apologize to Stiles through the hard press of hands on his body, the delicate balance of pleasure-pain, and the hot touch of lips against unexplored skin.
What he hadn’t expected was the blank look in Stiles’s eyes. The moment those words left Derek’s mouth, Stiles simply shut down. Derek understood with swift horror that he’d miscalculated. He’d meant to hurt, and he knew Stiles, knew Stiles well enough to know that Stiles fought like a lion when backed into a corner. He’d been counting on it. He’d been prepared to block the blow he was sure would be coming his way, but Stiles wasn’t throwing a punch. He wasn’t shouting. Stiles didn’t even look angry. He just looked… blank.
Derek pulled back and Stiles calmly got to his feet, pulling his boxers and pants back on. With an absent thought he picked up the torn remnants of his t-shirt from the floor. Derek could hear his pulse slow and steady.
“Stiles?” Derek asked hesitantly. Stiles looked at him and Derek lifted a hand to—to do what, he wasn’t sure, and he dropped it uselessly back to his side. “Stiles, I—” he swallowed, feeling his own heart pound with the realization that he didn’t know if he could fix this.
Stiles waited a beat and, when Derek said nothing more, he turned to the door, unlatched the bolt and slid it open. He didn’t bother to wait for the elevator but made his way to the stairs and was gone.
Derek remained standing in the doorway. He could hear the calm, measured beats of Stiles’s heart as he left the warehouse and walked to his jeep. Derek’s muscles tensed. If Stiles waited, if Stiles stopped with even half a second’s indecision, Derek would go after him. But Stiles didn’t even hesitate. Derek heard the car door open and shut, the low rumble of the motor starting, and then the jeep pulled away.
Derek stood bleakly in the doorway for a full minute before he moved on autopilot to pull the door shut. He should have gone after Stiles. Even though he didn’t pause, though he didn’t wait. Because Derek had put that terrifyingly empty look in Stiles’s eyes. Derek should have kept his mouth shut, should have dealt with his own issues. Or, if he couldn’t do that, he should have had a fucking conversation for once.
He could still taste Stiles in his mouth and felt sick to his stomach. There’d been such a pleased, sated look on Stiles’s face—a look Derek had put there—but instead of leaving things like that, he had done what he’d always done. He’d pushed too far and too fast.
Despair hung heavy in his chest. Maybe it was for the best that he hadn’t followed Stiles. If he left it here he’d cause no further pain. Stiles could hate him, get over him, and get on with his life.
Derek moved across the room and up the spiral staircase. Once in the kitchen, he bypassed the wine rack and went straight for the liquor cabinet. Grabbing an unopened bottle of whiskey he headed into the bedroom. He didn’t bother with a glass.
He took a long swallow from the bottle before placing it on the bedside table. He hoped the whiskey would burn away Stiles’s lingering taste.
Except that he still hadn’t got new pillows. The cinnamon spice that said Stiles echoed teasingly in the air. Rubbing his hands roughly over his face Derek sank to the edge of the bed. As much as he knew rationally that the best thing for Stiles would be if Derek walked away, he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d fucked up massively and awfully and he would do whatever it took to make it up to Stiles. However long it took.
If you can make it up to Stiles, a brutal part of his mind whispered. If he can forgive you. And then, if he even wants to.
He took another drink and reached for his phone, scrolling through the contact list until he found Stiles’s name. His thumb hovered above it. He brought the bottle back up to his lips and then, before he could hesitate—he’d done enough of that tonight—sent a text.
Stiles we need to talk.
He waited a long moment. Nothing. He checked the clock on the bedside table. Stiles had left fifteen minutes ago. If he’d gone straight home he’d be there already. Derek checked to make sure his phone was still on. It was. He scrolled back down his contact list and sent another text.
He turned the sound all the way up on his phone. He didn’t want to miss the call from Stiles.
Except that there was no call from Stiles.
Derek waited a full two hours, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring at the phone lying silent in his hands. The whiskey bottle on the bedside table was nearly empty, and he entertained the thought of driving to Stiles’s house and shouting until Stiles came out to talk to him. Except Stiles’s dad would probably pull out a shotgun and if the Sheriff shot Derek he’d realize what Derek was, and that would be bad.
Derek sent another text.
I just want to say thank you to everyone who's reading and following this fic! The comments and kudoses (kudos-ing? kudusses?) are always appreciated, and it means a lot that you'll take the time to let me know what you think. So thank you, and I hope you stick around, because things are heating up...
The playlist I've been using to write LMW can be found at 8tracks.
Graphics are done by Kat!
Podfic for Chapter One is available here.
I can be found spending a lot of time on tumblr.
Thanks for reading!
I'm going on vacation next week (beaches and booze and bikinis!) and unfortunately will not have internet access, so tonight I'm going to post Chapter Seven and Chapter Eight. That means there won't be an update next week, but I'll be back with Chapter Nine on November 21st.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
"Are you going to check that?" Scott asked as Stiles's phone buzzed for the third time that hour.
"Are you sure?"
"Yep." Stiles didn't even look away from the TV screen. They were sprawled over the couch in Stiles's living room playing Mortal Kombat vs DC Universe.
Scott frowned. Stiles had been ignoring his phone all day at school, and Scott wasn't an idiot. Lydia had told Allison what Stiles had told her about Derek, and Allison had told Scott and probably Isaac as well. Scott wasn't sure what he thought about that, but he definitely didn't want to think too hard about it. The point was that now Scott knew that Stiles and Derek had done… stuff.
He didn't really want to think about exactly what kind of stuff they did, because Stiles was his best friend and picturing that was just gross. Plus, Derek was, well, Derek. So, when Lydia had caught up with the rest of the group the other night, Scott knew that Stiles was probably staying back to do…stuff… with Derek. Which, whatever. If Stiles wanted to do stuff with Derek's stuff, Scott couldn't really say anything against it. He'd certainly enjoyed doing stuff with Allison.
Except that Stiles had been totally weird all day. He'd gotten about eighty bazillion texts and hadn't looked at any of them, but he hadn't turned his phone off either. It was as if he wanted to know there were texts, but didn't want to know what they said, which was weird.
Man, Scott really, really didn't want to talk about this. But he had to. For Stiles. Because Stiles was Being Weird (or Weirder, anyway).
On the screen in front of them Subzero blasted Batman, effectively containing him in solid ice and then jump kicked him. Effectively smashing him into tiny pieces.
Scott gave a huff of disgust and tossed his controller down on the couch. Stiles's phone buzzed again.
"Okay, this is stupid." Scott lunged across Stiles to grab for his phone, which sat on the arm of the couch. Stiles shoved him back. Scott pushed Stiles into the back of the couch and tried to crawl over him. Stiles gave a grunt as Scott's weigh landed on him and used all his strength to push Scott off the couch.
Scott hit the floor with a yelp of surprise but was up in an instant, grabbing at the phone before Stiles could get to it.
Stiles jumped up from the couch. "Dude! You can't use your werewolf superpowers like that!"
"Can too," Scott smirked and waved the phone teasingly in front of Stiles.
"Isn't there some kind of code where you can't use them for evil? You're being evil. This is evil."
"This isn't evil. This is good. I am using them for good. I'm basically Batman."
"Stealing is not good. And Batman doesn't even have superpowers!" Stiles waggled his fingers. "Give me back my phone."
"Are you going to check your texts?"
Stiles looked mutinous. "They're my texts. I don't have to check them if I don't want to."
"Fine, then I will." Scott danced back as Stiles leapt at him. He scrolled quickly through Stiles's recent messages while dodging Stiles's frantic attempts to reclaim his phone. He did feel a bit bad about using the whole werewolf thing to his advantage, but it wasn't like Stiles would ever have won before Scott was a werewolf, so, really, this just maintained the status quo and saved them both a lot of rug burn.
You can't ignore me forever.
Can we just talk?
Where are you? I'll come to you.
STILES STOP IGNORING ME.
Jesus. Derek sounded more than a little desperate. Scott never thought he'd witness that. He kind of wished he'd never had to. Taking pity on Stiles, who was panting and red in the face from his efforts, Scott tossed the phone back to him.
"Man, what did you do to Derek?"
"What did—" Stiles sputtered, indignant. "I didn't do anything!"
"Then why is Derek acting like you stood him up for prom?"
Stiles gaped at Scott. "Why do you think I'm at fault here? I thought you didn't even like Derek?"
"I don't," Scott frowned, kind of wondering that himself. "But, I mean…" if anyone was going to screw things up… the sentence hung unfinished in the air.
"Great." Stiles flung himself back on the couch. "That's great. Thanks Scott. Thanks for your support."
Scott had the decency to look embarrassed. "Sorry."
"I don't fucking know what happened, okay? One moment we were—" He probably shouldn't tell Scott about the blowjob—the mindblowingly hot blowjob that would set the bar for every other blowjob Stiles would ever receive, not that it looked like he'd be receiving any for the next umpteen years of his life. "Well, we were—" he tried to continue.
"Yeah, please, please don't tell me what you were doing." Scott looked pained.
Thank god. "Okay so we were, uh, doing what we were doing," Stiles looked studiously at the carpet. "And then all of a sudden, like out of fucking nowhere," he clarified, "Derek hulks out into this controlling douchebag. Acting like he's got some claim on me. Last week he couldn't give a shit, but then last night he's obsessed with whether or not I had sex with Lydia." And yeah, okay, Derek's initial jealousy had been hot. Like seriously, be-careful-you-don't-burn-yourself-hot. But he'd taken it too far, and there were lines you didn't cross. Derek had just waltzed right the fuck over those lines, and seemed surprised when Stiles didn't want to stick around to see if there was anything else Derek could make him feel like shit about.
Scott's eyes narrowed. "What'd he say to you?"
"It doesn't matter." It did, but there was no way Stiles would be repeating it. "I left."
"Good." Scott started to pace, his hands balling unconsciously into fists. "What the fuck is his problem? Like he can't tell he's the only one you want? Like you're not wearing a neon sign on your forehead that says 'I want Derek Hale'?"
"Hey, whoa, what are you talking about?"
"We can smell it, Stiles." As soon as he said it, Scott wished he hadn't. As if this couldn't get more uncomfortable for both of them. But he was too pissed at Derek to let the Alpha plead ignorance about Stiles's interest. "It's been obvious you were into him for like a month, at least. And like, really into him." Fucking Derek Hale. If Derek could just not be an asshole about everything, Scott wouldn't have had to be having this conversation and he wouldn't have had to feel like he was contributing to the look of stunned hurt that Stiles now wore.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Scott gave a helpless shrug. "I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. It didn't seem fair."
Stiles could see that. "Uh, thanks." But god, how awkward was that? So all the times they'd been in the same room as Derek and Stiles had been so sure he'd been cool as a cucumber while trying to not look as though he was imagining what Derek Hale's lips tasted like, not only had Derek known, but Scott had known as well. And so had Isaac.
Stiles really had to stop hanging out with werewolves. A person needed his privacy.
"So what are you going to do?" Scott tried to get this conversation back on track; well aware of how embarrassing it was for both of them.
"I don't know," Stiles said, morosely.
"I could beat him up for you?" Scott looked cheerful at the suggestion. "Knock some sense into his stupid head?"
"No. Thanks, though." Stiles's phone buzzed again.
"You're planning on ignoring the problem until it goes away, aren't you?" Scott sounded resigned.
"You know that's never worked for you, right?"
Derek's texts had stopped after Tuesday. He'd called once on Wednesday but Stiles hadn't picked up, and Derek hadn't left a message. It was now Friday, and Stiles wasn't any more sure about how he felt. He was angry with Derek, angry that Derek had let his own idiotic issues ruin what had been Stiles's first real sexual encounter, and he was angry at himself for being so upset by what Derek had said. Stiles had pretty thick skin. It took a lot more than implying that he'd had a lot of sexual conquests to make Stiles feel like crap. And, really, if anyone else had accused Stiles of sleeping with Lydia, he would have been overjoyed. So why was he miserable?
Stiles stared unhappily at the rows of frozen dinner in the freezer aisle at the grocery store. His dad was working, again, and Stiles absolutely refused to eat another frozen pizza. There were no more leftovers, and he wouldn't try to cook for himself after the disaster that had been the last time. This was going to be the lamest Friday night in the history of all Friday nights. Scott was working, so they couldn't hang out. Isaac and Allison were going to a movie tonight, and Lydia had a date. If Derek hadn't been such a complete and total ass on Monday, Stiles bet he could have also had a date.
He kicked sullenly at the freezer door. If Derek had just kept his stupid, overly possessive mouth shut, Stiles bet he could have talked his way over to Derek's place tonight. And then he could have talked his way into Derek's pants. God, he wanted into Derek's pants, but no, Derek's great big ego had cockblocked him. Well, that and Stiles's pride. He supposed if he had responded to one of Derek's text messages, he'd have an apology by now, but there was no way he was letting Derek say he was sorry over text message. And Derek hadn't even done that. Not one of his thirty or so texts had contained the words 'I'm sorry'. If Derek couldn't even do that, the odds of him ever doing it in person were nil, which meant that Stiles and his pride would be sleeping alone for the rest of their lives. There was no way he was letting Derek back in his pants without an apology, no matter how much he might really, really want Derek back in his pants.
Which he did. A lot.
Stiles opened the freezer door and pulled out a Hungry Man dinner. He guessed it would have to do. At least it would be a change from frozen pizza, though he suspected that they were all made of the same cardboard and food colouring paste, rearranged into different shapes to resemble 'pizza' or 'mashed potatoes'.
"Tell me you're not actually going to eat that," Derek said disapprovingly from behind him. Stiles nearly smacked his face into the still-open door of the freezer in his haste to turn around.
Derek looked amused and stepped back so that Stiles could close the door and remove that particular safety hazard. Derek was wearing his usual dark jeans and leather jacket combo and was holding an overfull grocery basket.
"What, are you stalking me now?" Stiles tried to hold onto his earlier thread of anger and not get distracted by the hollow of Derek's throat peeking out over his dark grey shirt.
"No," Derek said, though he had caught Stiles's scent from the other end of the grocery store and hastily abandoned the fresh tomatoes he'd been inspecting to go find Stiles.
"Good." Stiles clutched his Hungry Man dinner to his chest and reminded himself that, even if Derek had the most talented mouth Stiles had ever, and possibly would ever, experience, he was still a dick. A huge dick. Fuck, now he was thinking about Derek's dick. Which was probably big, and thick, and—Stiles jerked his gaze up from where it had wandered down Derek's body.
"Are you here with your dad?"
"Do you smell gun oil?" Stiles raised his eyebrows.
Stiles's dad usually smelled more like whiskey than the oil on his service weapon, but Derek didn't have the heart to tell Stiles that. "No."
"He's working," Stiles said shortly.
"Let me make you dinner," Derek took a step towards Stiles.
"I can make my own dinner." Stiles brandished the Hungry Man box defensively.
"That's not dinner."
"Is—" Derek broke off with a growl. Why did conversations with Stiles always wind up like this? "Come on, I promise it will be better than," he paused for a second to read the description on the box "'Salisbury steak with mushroom and onion gravy'."
"I'm fine," Stiles insisted. He didn't need Derek's pity dinner. He was perfectly capable of feeding himself. He turned to head towards the tills but Derek reached out and caught his wrist in a light grip. Stiles could easily have pulled away, but the feel of Derek's fingers brushing against his skin held him still and sent his pulse racing.
"Please," Derek met Stiles's eyes. "Just dinner."
Stiles bit his lip. The Hungry Man steak did look pretty disgusting, and the last thing Derek had made him had been delicious. Sure, Stiles had been drunk so anything with a little grease would have tasted heavenly, but the confident way Derek had moved around his kitchen indicated that Derek was probably an excellent cook. A part of him felt like he needed to hold out for a real, honest-to-god 'I'm sorry', but Derek looked so uncertain. It was as if, despite the fact that he could hear and feel Stiles's heart thunder at his touch, Derek wasn't sure if Stiles would say yes. Damnit. Stiles could feel his resolve crumble, but he wasn't quite ready to let Derek completely off the hook.
"So," he tried to sound casual, "Like a date?"
"I—" Derek paused, licked his lips. "Yes. Like a date."
"'Like' a date, or a date?" Stiles could see Derek fighting not to squirm, and he had to bite the inside of this cheek to keep the grin off his face.
"A date." Derek swallowed.
Stiles paused, savouring the uncomfortable expression on Derek's face. "Okay. But I just came from lacrosse practice so I have to go home first."
Derek nodded, unable to help the feeling of relief that swept through him. "Meet me at my place in an hour?"
"I'll see you there." Stiles gave a jaunty wave before he turned and shoved the frozen dinner back into the freezer and headed to his car.
Standing under the spray from his shower, Stiles felt calm for the first time since Monday. He knew he'd left Derek's with a steady heartbeat and easy breathing, but that hadn't been because he was calm. That had been a cold state of nothingness. Now though, with the hot water beating down against his neck and shoulders, the clean smell of soap in his nose, and the knowledge that in less than an hour he'd be sitting in Derek's kitchen watching the werewolf cook for him, he felt completely and utterly relaxed.
Maybe this whole GHB thing would blow over as a spate of accidents that just happened to involve werewolves. Maybe the biggest problem Stiles would have this school year would be trying explain to his dad that he was dating the much older Derek Hale. Maybe all the crazy shit they'd dealt with throughout the last couple years was over now, done with, and he could finally focus on choosing a college major. He thought he might be leaning towards journalism, but he wasn't sure yet.
Turning the water off, Stiles stepped out from the shower, rubbing a towel vigorously over his hair. Now that it was longer, he actually had to dry it. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he squeezed some toothpaste onto his toothbrush and began to brush his teeth. He wondered if he should bring anything to Derek's? He had insisted that this evening was a date, and if a girl had been making Stiles dinner he definitely would have brought her flowers.
He leaned over and spat into the sink, grinning at his reflection at the thought of handing Derek a bouquet of roses. It was probably best just to bring himself. He put on some deodorant and hung up the towel, padding, naked, into his bedroom to pull on a fresh pair of boxers and jeans. Sitting on his bed to put on his socks he eyed his closet. He should wear something other than a t-shirt, right? Something with buttons.
Stiles made a face before getting up off the bed and walking over to his closet. The floor was a pile of discarded—but clean—clothes, and everything else was haphazardly hanging off the hangers. There were exactly three dress shirts at one end. There was the black one that he'd worn to his mother's funeral, which he wouldn't touch if it was literally the last item of clothing he owned, and there was the white one he'd worn to the Winter Formal, but it was still stained with Lydia's blood. He guessed that left the last shirt, a dark blue button down with the tags still on.
He pulled it off the hanger and tossed it on the bed while he rummaged around his desk for a pair of scissors to remove the tags. He'd been at the mall with Allison looking for an anniversary gift for Scott, back when she and Scott were still together, when she'd got it into her head that he needed to 'update his wardrobe' or whatever. She'd bullied him into buying the blue shirt, saying that the colour brought out his eyes.
Which was dumb, he reflected as he buttoned up the shirt in front of his mirror. His eyes were brown. They weren't like Derek's, that pale green that seemed to change tantalizingly from light to dark at any given moment. Derek had great eyes. Allison should teach Derek how to show off his eyes. Not that Derek really needed any help with that. His eyes were sort of a work of art on their own. And, really, once you combined them with his ridiculously long eyelashes and the full set of lips that looked so, so soft surrounded by all that rough stubble, well. Stiles cleared his throat and adjusted himself in his pants. Nature had helped Derek out more than enough already.
Stiles stepped back into his bathroom to run a comb and a tiny bit of gel through his hair. He wasn't very confident in his hair styling since he'd had less than an inch of hair for the majority of his life, but he thought it looked okay. He ran a critical eye over his reflection in the mirror. There was nothing he could do about the paleness of his skin or the light scattering of moles, but the shirt fit him well, and for once a suggestion of muscle could be seen through the thin fabric. He took a deep breath, suddenly nervous, and, with one last look at his reflection, he headed out the door.
If Stiles wanted a date, Derek would give him one. He'd left the grocery store without buying anything and had driven across town to the Italian market to pick up ingredients for spaghetti carbonara—something he was sure Stiles would enjoy. Once he'd arrived back at his place, he'd unpacked the groceries and ducked into his bathroom for a quick shower. He'd chosen a pair of black jeans that were darker and slightly less worn than his usual and paired them with a crisp white dress shirt.
He used the remote for his sound system to fill the loft with the quiet strains of Snow Patrol and glanced at the clock over the microwave as he stepped out of the bedroom. He still had about five minutes before Stiles was due to arrive. He moved into the kitchen and opened a drawer on the island to pull out a box of matches. He disappeared back into the bedroom for a moment and he came out holding two fat white candles. He placed one on the living room coffee table and the other in the middle of the island before lighting them and tossing the discarded matches in the garbage. Stiles would probably tease him for it, but Derek thought an Italian dinner was incomplete without some candlelight.
He could hear the sound of Stiles starting the elevator on the ground floor of the warehouse and it put a stupid, eager sort of smile on his face that he was glad no one else was around to see. Derek quickly schooled his features into a more neutral expression as the elevator stopped on his floor. He was in the process of opening the wine he'd chosen when Stiles walked through the open door and Derek's heart stopped for one long, endless beat.
The deep blue shirt Stiles was wearing lay open at the neck, framing the soft hollow of Stiles's throat. Against the blue, his skin looked pale and delicate, and Derek's fingers ached to touch him. But it was Stiles's eyes that caught and held him, the warm amber gold almost luminous in contrast to the dark blue material.
"Hi," Stiles couldn't help the flush of pleasure at Derek's stunned look. Maybe Allison had been on to something after all.
"Hi," Derek murmured, his gaze still fixed on Stiles.
I'm going on vacation next week (beaches and booze and bikinis!) and unfortunately will not have internet access, so tonight I'm going to post Chapter Seven and Chapter Eight. That means there won't be an update next week, but I'll be back with Chapter Nine on November 21st.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Derek uncorked the wine and placed it on the counter before stepping around the island and making his way towards Stiles. Stiles swallowed, his mouth dry as he watched the smooth glide of Derek's muscles under his shirt. Derek stopped mere inches from Stiles and slid a hand around Stiles's waist, fingers splaying against his back and pulling him in so close that Stiles could feel the heat radiating from Derek's body. Derek's other hand rose to tilt Stiles's chin up and he lowered his lips towards Stiles.
"No," Stiles's voice was firm, though his pulse thrummed at Derek's touch. Derek stopped moving instantly, his lips a breath away from Stiles's. "Let's get this straight—you don't kiss me until I say you can. You're not my Alpha. You don't have any claim over me."
Derek's thumb stroked slowly over Stiles's chin and Stiles thought that Derek would kiss him anyway. Instead, he stepped back, and Stiles let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" Derek's pleasant voice belied the dark heat that had risen in his eyes at Stiles's refusal. Stiles swallowed and tried not to think about what the heat in those eyes promised or how that unspoken threat had him taut with anticipation.
"Yes." He would be glad to have something to keep his hands and mouth busy. "Please," he added as an afterthought, suddenly feeling awkward. Maybe he should have let Derek kiss him. But no, Stiles squared his shoulders as he followed Derek into the kitchen and hopped onto one of the bar stools. He needed Derek to know that he wouldn't put up with the kind of shit Derek pulled earlier in the week.
On the other hand, he considered as he watched Derek pour him a glass of wine—white, this time—he might not be opposed to a little jealousy now and again. Monday had been fucking hot until Derek had taken it that one step too far. So maybe jealousy was okay, as long as Derek wasn't a total idiot about it.
Stiles lifted the glass to his lips and was pleasantly surprised by the taste. It was lighter and sweeter than the red, the bojowhatsit, he'd had last time. This was actually kind of good. He made a noise of approval as he took another sip. "What's this one called?"
"Frascati." Derek poured himself a small taste, swirling the wine around for a moment before taking a sip. Stiles licked his lips. He didn't know what it was about seeing Derek holding the fragile wine glass that made his skin feel hot and flushed, but he had to take another quick drink from his own glass before he lost all his credibility and asked Derek to kiss him when it hadn't even been five minutes since he'd told him not to.
That maybe hadn't been the most well thought out plan. It was a bit like shooting himself in the foot, really, but it was too late to back down. He'd have to give it at least an hour. Stiles figured he could last that long. Probably.
There was a long, slightly awkward beat of silence as Derek topped up his glass and Stiles's fingers played nervously around the stem of his own.
Derek opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it. He looked down at the glass of wine in his hand and back up at Stiles. He cleared his throat. "About Monday, I—"
Stiles cut him off with a shake of his head. "I know. It's fine." Derek looked like he might protest, so Stiles spoke again before he could. "It's fine," he insisted. Derek closed his mouth and Stiles didn't miss the way the tension he'd been carrying all evening seemed to slide out of him.
"So," Stiles mimicked Derek and swirled the wine in his glass. "What meal are you 'pairing' with this?" Yeah, that's right, he googled wine.
Derek rolled his eyes as Stiles nearly sloshed wine over the sides of his glass. "Spaghetti carbonara."
"Sounds yummy," Stiles was down with any pasta he didn't have to try and boil himself.
"It will be."
Stiles's eyebrows raised at Derek's casual arrogance, but he let it slide. Since he had no idea what the 'carbonara' part of 'spaghetti carbonara' meant, he couldn't really comment anyway.
Derek opened a cupboard and pulled out a large saucepan that he filled with water before setting it on the stove to boil. "Scott texted me earlier to say he got the ketamine from Deaton," he said while pulling a dish of butter out of a different cupboard and placing it on the island along with a butter knife and a small plate.
"Yeah," Stiles buttered the bun that Derek placed in front of him. "He gave me an EpiPen full of it in English class."
"Do you have it on you?"
"It's in the car—don't worry, mom, I keep it in my backpack at school," Stiles added when he saw the disapproving look on Derek's face. "But it's awkward to carry around in my pockets, and really, are you worried about someone drugging you in your own kitchen?"
Derek wasn't, but it was a matter of principle. "You should always have it with you," he insisted.
"Okay, okay, I'll tape it to my forehead when I get back to the car." Stiles rolled his eyes. "Have you heard anything else about this guy?"
Derek had pulled out a cutting board and a wicked looking knife and was using them to finely chop some thin, bacon-y looking meat. "Peter's keeping an eye on things."
Stiles snorted. "Yeah, I can see him trolling your message board." There was probably nothing lamer than a bunch of werewolves communicating through a message board. A thought suddenly occurred to him, "So do you guys have like, usernames then?"
Derek didn't answer, just continued cutting.
"Oh my god," Stiles breathed delightedly. "You totally do." He wondered if he googled 'secret werewolf online club' he'd find the website. He popped the last bite of bread in his mouth. "Come on," he mumbled through a full mouth, "Tell me what yours is."
"No," Derek said, shortly. He scooped up the meat and set it to the side in a small bowl.
"Please?" Stiles wheedled.
"I don't know why you find this so fascinating," Derek grumbled. There was no way in hell he was letting Stiles find out what his username was. He moved to the fridge to pull out some parmesan and pecorino cheese.
"It's just lame, dude. Werewolves are supposed to be cool, not losers posting on message boards from their mothers' basements. It's kind of sad."
"It's practical. It's not supposed to be anything other than practical."
"But it's so lame."
Derek placed another of the fresh Italian buns in front of Stiles and looked at him pointedly. Stiles picked it up and began to butter it. They were delicious buns, and they meant he could drink more of the wine without becoming totally hammered. He wanted to get a nice buzz going, but that was it. Speaking of delicious buns… a thought struck him, and he looked up at Derek with an accusing eye. "You're just trying to keep my mouth busy eating so I can't make fun of your dorky message board."
Derek let his gaze drop to Stiles's mouth. "Well," he licked his own lips, slow and deliberate. "Since you won't let me keep it busy with anything else…"
Stiles grinned, knowing exactly what Derek was doing. He licked some butter off his fingers, never breaking eye contact with Derek. "Bad dogs don't get treats."
"Is that so?" Derek came around the island and Stiles forced himself to stay still as the werewolf loomed behind him, his body a line of heat against Stiles's back though Derek was careful not to touch. "I thought," he said, running his fingertips lightly up the back of Stiles's neck and Stiles's hands clenched with effort not to shudder, "You liked it when I was bad?" His fingers reached Stiles's hair and tightened.
Stiles sucked in a breath.
Derek closed the distance between them and Stiles could feel the thick, hard shape of Derek's cock against his lower back. Stiles didn't fight the shiver that ran through him this time and Derek pressed in closer as he felt Stiles move against him. His other hand slid around Stiles's waist to cup Stiles's rapidly hardening dick between his legs. Stiles squirmed, caught between wanting to rub back against Derek's erection and wanting to thrust into his hand.
Derek gave a low chuckle in Stiles's ear, the hand in his hair fisting and pulling Stiles's neck back in a taut line. "What I think you're forgetting, Stiles," he murmured, and licked over the pulse that beat wildly in Stiles's neck, "Is that I'm not a bad dog. I'm the big, bad, wolf." His teeth closed over Stiles's throat and Stiles bucked helplessly, caught between too many sensations to stop a moan from escaping.
"That," Stiles managed, once Derek had pulled back slightly and Stiles could breathe normally, "is probably the corniest thing you've ever said." But Jesus fucking Christ, it had been hot.
Derek stepped away with a grin, giving the back of Stiles's head a swat as he moved to the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs. "You're just pissed 'cause that makes you Little Red Riding Hood."
"Does not." Damnit, it did. He shifted in the stool, having to adjust his jeans to accommodate for his painfully hard dick. He took some satisfaction in noticing that Derek was having the same difficulties. Stiles reached up to prod gingerly at the spot on his neck where Derek had bit him. His skin was still damp from Derek's tongue and he could feel a bruise forming. He swallowed, fingers rubbing over the bite mark once more to draw out a spark of pain that went straight to his cock.
Derek cracked the eggs into a mixing bowl, rolling up his sleeves to expose his muscular forearms while he beat them, and Stiles had to bite down on his lower lip to try and maintain some semblance of control. He seriously regretted his earlier decision about no kissing. If he hadn't done that, he probably could have persuaded Derek that dinner could wait an hour. Or two. But no, his idiot brain had decided to try and make some sort of point and now Stiles was going to have to make it all the way through dinner in this distracting state of arousal.
Well, okay, if he cried uncle he was sure Derek would give him a hand. Or mouth. But that would mean Stiles had lost, and he had no intention of losing. This was a game that two could play, and if there was one thing Stiles loved, it was a good game.
Derek ground a dash of black pepper over the eggs and set the bowl aside. He added the spaghetti to the water on the stove, which had now reached a boil. Stiles rested his elbows on the island and took a sip of wine, the crisp taste and cool slide of it down his throat giving him a measure of calm. He knew he wasn't exactly the kind of person who could pull off seductive—unlike Derek, who seemed to have that down to an art form—but that didn't mean he was entirely hopeless.
He took another swallow of wine, needing a bit of liquid courage, and spoke. "I was thinking about you last night when I jerked off." He could see Derek's shoulders tense from where he was carefully bruising a clove of garlic with the flat of a knife, his back to Stiles. Stiles caught his tongue between his teeth, waiting a beat before he continued. "I was thinking about sitting on your couch," he glanced over to it, feeling his heartbeat pick up slightly as he pictured the scene. "And you were standing in front of me." His lips parted unconsciously. "You made me press my hands on top of my thighs and told me I couldn't move them, and then…" Derek had stopped, hands frozen. Stiles swallowed, his own hands flexing around the wine glass as he remembered how the last time he'd thought about this he'd had his fingers wrapped around his dick and had been panting into his pillow. "Then you unbuttoned your jeans and brought out your cock," Stiles could feel his cheeks heating. "You had a hand in my hair so I couldn't move, and you started to fuck my mouth. Slowly, at first, 'cause you knew I'd never done that before, but then you started to speed up and I had to trust you not to make me choke…" he trailed off as Derek abandoned the garlic, stepping over to turn off the burner on the stove before turning around to face Stiles.
"Ask me." Derek's voice was hard, edged with something dark that made Stiles's breath hitch. "Ask me," he repeated as he began to stalk around the island towards Stiles.
Stiles felt a bright flash of triumph. If he were smart he'd probably just quietly accept his victory, but he couldn't help a cocky grin as he watched Derek close in on him. Stiles: 1, Derek: 0. "Don't you want to hear what happened next?" He tilted his head inquiringly. He wondered how much it would take to get Derek to completely lose control. The idea sent a hot rush of adrenaline through his veins. He really, really shouldn't taunt the angry werewolf, but he remembered Derek making him beg on Monday, and suddenly he didn't feel so charitable after all.
"Stiles," the low warning in Derek's voice was unmistakable.
Stiles slid off the stool, leaving it between him and Derek as he backed away. "You were so careful and I was relaxing into it, into the rhythm of you sliding over my tongue," he licked his lips at the memory, hoping that before the night was out he'd be able to feel the weight of Derek's cock in his mouth in more than just a fantasy.
A growl rippled out from Derek's throat as he shoved the stool to the side and continued pursuing Stiles, who continued backing up, not taking his eyes off Derek and just hoping he wouldn't trip.
"But then you stopped being careful." Stiles shivered, eyes dropping to where Derek's cock was clearly outlined in his jeans. "You—" he broke off because suddenly Derek was in front of him and his back was to the cold stainless steel of the refrigerator.
Derek's breath slid hot over Stiles's lips and he gave in. "Kiss me?" There was a moment where he thought Derek might refuse to, that he'd take the opportunity to punish Stiles, but then Derek's lips crashed brutally into his and Derek shoved his tongue into Stiles's mouth and Stiles's hands came up to fist in the crisp white fabric of Derek's shirt to drag him closer.
Derek nipped sharply at Stiles's lower lip, his hands moving around Stiles's waist to grab his ass and grind him into Derek. Stiles tasted the thick copper of blood in his mouth before Derek pulled back. Stiles tongue probed lightly at the small cut on his lip, surprised at the dull throb of pain. Derek brought his hand up to cup Stiles's chin, his thumb smearing through the drop of blood on Stiles's mouth as crimson swirled at the edges of his green irises. Stiles felt his knees weaken as Derek's thumb slipped past his lips into his mouth, and Stiles closed his lips around it, his tongue sliding against the pad of Derek's finger.
Derek's teeth flashed wide and white at Stiles, not so much as grinning as baring them. "Bedroom." He stepped back, dropping his hand. "Go." Stiles swallowed and turned hurriedly in the direction of the bedroom.
Derek grabbed the sound system remote from the kitchen counter before moving to follow Stiles and he hit the button that turned it off, plunging the loft into silence. As he stalked Stiles out of the kitchen he flicked the light switch and suddenly the two candles were the only source of light in the cavernous space. He could hear the leap in Stiles's pulse as the boy came to an abrupt stop.
"Derek?" There was a note of uncertainty in Stiles's voice as he blindly took a step forward. He could hear Derek's careful, measured footsteps behind him and felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck as he stumbled through the doorway to the dark bedroom. He felt like prey.
Unlike Stiles, Derek moved easily through the darkness. "The bed, Stiles." Derek said, close enough to Stiles that the boy could feel his breath damp against the shell of his ear. Stiles flinched, lurching away with his arms spread as he tried to orient himself in the dark. The loft was large enough that the candlelight from the kitchen and living room barely reached into the doorway of the bedroom, and everything beyond was a vast emptiness as far as Stiles could see. The bank of windows to his left had been shrouded in curtains and so he had only the vaguest idea that the bed was against the far wall and, if he remembered correctly, several feet to his right.
Stiles stopped, taking a deep breath as he tried to calm his rapid heartbeat. This wasn't hard. He'd been in this room before. He could find the bed. He just needed a second to get his bearings. He knew Derek wouldn't actually hurt him. Not permanently, anyway, but with just the right kind of pain/pleasure that had him mindless and greedy for more. Except that as he stood blind in the dark room with every sense on alert and the taste of his own blood in his mouth, he couldn't help the instinctive terror that came with being alone in the dark with something that might eat you.
He took a step forward, and when he encountered no resistance he took another, and another, until suddenly his shins were bumping up against a mattress and he gave a quick whoop of victory. He whirled around to try and see where Derek was but there was a sudden hand on his chest that shoved him and he toppled back with enough force that the breath left his lungs and he lay stunned and gasping until Derek's hand gripped tight in the front of his shirt and hauled him up until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, Derek standing with his thighs between Stiles's legs.
Stiles was still fighting to get his breath back when Derek's free hand came up to fist in his hair and drag his face forward so that he was pressed against the front of Derek's jeans. Stiles could feel the heat of Derek's cock through the denim and when Derek thrust obscenely against Stiles's face Stiles's hands clutched at Derek's thighs.
"No." Derek let go of Stiles's shirt to catch his wrist in an iron grip, his other hand still painfully tight in Stiles's hair. "No hands, remember?" He released Stiles's wrist and when Stiles was too slow to react Derek twisted his fistful of Stiles's hair making him bite back a whimper of pain as he flattened his trembling hands on top of his legs.
"Good," Derek's grip loosened slightly. "Good boy."
It was embarrassing how hearing those words come out of Derek's mouth made Stiles rub his cheek eagerly into Derek's cock, his own dick painful and aching in his jeans.
"Is this what you want?" Derek gave a lazy roll of his hips into Stiles, holding him still so that he couldn't press into it. "Is this," he brought his hand up and flicked open the button on his jeans, "What you've been thinking about doing? What you've been thinking of me doing to you?" He slid his zipper down and rolled his hips forward again so that the cold metal bit into Stiles's skin. Stiles's hands had stopped trembling and now they dug into his legs as he fought to stay still.
Derek overwhelmed all of Stiles's senses. With the room so dark and Derek pressed so close, Stiles felt like he might be drowning in the rough scratch of denim and the musky scent of Derek's arousal. It was Derek's hand tight and painful in Stiles's hair that tethered him as Derek's voice slid silkily through the darkness, low and purring with thunder.
"Do you think your little fantasy prepared you for this? For what it would actually be like for me to fuck into your mouth?" Derek pulled his cock out of his jeans, sliding the wet tip of it over Stiles's lips.
Stiles's tongue darted out, tasting bitter precome and brushing lightly over Derek's dick. As Derek pulled back Stiles tilted his head up as much as possible with Derek's hand still tight in his hair. He couldn't actually see Derek's face, just the looming suggestion of it above him, but he grinned, licking the taste of Derek from his lips. "I was hoping it'd be better, actually."
"I see." Derek stroked himself, and the breath Stiles had finally regained left him. "So you're ready for the feel of my cock in your throat? Being totally helpless, unable to stop me from just," Derek pushed the head past Stiles's lips. "Slamming in to see how far I can go?" He pulled out and pushed back in, slightly deeper this time.
Derek's words had Stiles squirming, skin flushed hot with mortification and need. He tried to make himself relax, tried to adjust to the alien feel of hard flesh stretching open his lips and pressing down against his tongue. Derek was right, this wasn't anything like Stiles had imagined it would be. Derek moved slowly, the hand in Stiles's hair almost a caress, fingers stroking gently over Stiles's skin as he continued to thrust steadily in and out, going deeper each time.
Stiles moved his tongue tentatively against the underside of Derek's dick and Derek's hips stuttered. Stiles felt a hot rush of pleasure and did it again. Derek chuckled above him and the sound of it had Stiles stilling, unnerved.
"It's that easy, is it? Already learning tricks." Derek pushed in again, faster and deeper than he had before. Stiles's eyes widened, his fingers tensing on his thighs as Derek's hand clenched tighter in his hair. Stiles fought the instinct to pull away, focusing on the smooth glide of Derek in and out of his mouth and the sharp taste of precome. His own cock strained against the confines of his jeans as Derek moved faster and Stiles had to struggle to breathe between thrusts.
Both of Derek's hands were in Stiles's hair now, holding him still and close as Derek's movements lost their steady rhythm. A particularly deep thrust had Derek's cock hitting the back of Stiles's throat and he gagged, throat spasming around Derek. Derek bit off a curse and Stiles could feel him getting ready to pull away as his orgasm neared. Fuck that, Stiles thought, and he moved his hands to grab the backs of Derek's thighs, holding him there despite Derek's strangled "Stiles!" as Derek's body shuddered and Stiles swallowed the hot, bitter spurts of his come.
Stiles released his grip on Derek's thighs as Derek withdrew from his mouth. He hadn't been able to swallow all of Derek's come and he licked the remainder off his lips, noting how the taste was different from his own. Derek's hands in his hair had slackened, and they moved down to cup Stiles's face, tilting it up so that Derek could bend down and press a warm kiss against Stiles's mouth, his tongue slipping past Stiles's spit-slick lips to taste himself. Stiles made a quiet, pleased noise in his throat and arched up into it, his hands resting back against the mattress to hold himself up as Derek pressed closer.
"You didn't have to do that," Derek murmured against Stiles's lips, thumbs stroking over Stiles's cheeks.
"I wanted to." Stiles could feel himself blush, which was silly considering what he'd just done. "I wanted to taste you."
Derek's eyes closed and he let out a measured breath, trying to retain some semblance of control. Stiles shifted slightly under him, all too aware of his own cock, still hard and aching in his jeans, and unsure about Derek's sudden silence.
Derek took one more slow breath, reining in his urge to throw Stiles back against the mattress and fuck him until he babbled incoherently. Stiles was new to this, and Derek wouldn't take things farther than he could handle.
Stiles opened his mouth, a question unformed on his lips but Derek interrupted him. "Move back." He nodded to the expanse of bed behind Stiles.
Stiles wet his lips and scooted back on the mattress until he sat in the middle, his legs sprawled in front of him and weight resting on his elbows. Derek let his eyes roam slowly over Stiles's body, lingering on the bare expanse of flesh that was exposed by the dark blue shirt rucking up over Stiles's hips. Stiles tried not to wriggle with embarrassment at the scrutiny.
Derek glanced up, catching the insecurity in Stiles's eyes. He shook his head, an amused smile curling his lips. "Do you know what you look like?" He asked, placing his hands on the bed and beginning a slow crawl up towards Stiles.
Stiles flushed and looked away, shaking his head. Derek had crawled up between Stiles's spread legs and now he shifted so that his knees pressed into the bed on either side of Stiles's hips, straddling him. Derek kept his gaze level with Stiles's as his hands moved to the buttons on Stiles's shirt and began undoing them one at a time. He could see the pulse jump in the hollow of Stiles's throat as his fingers grazed over the bare skin of Stiles's chest. The boy's lips were parted, colour high in his cheeks.
"You look—" Derek undid the last button on Stiles's shirt and slid his hands up Stiles's bare sides, parting the shirt so that the deep blue framed Stiles's pale skin. Derek dropped his eyes to follow his hands as they trailed back down Stiles's body to flick open the button on his fly. Fuckable. He was going to say Stiles looked fuckable. But, "You look like you belong here."
The raw honesty in his own voice surprised him and he paused with his fingers on Stiles's zipper.
Stiles let out a breath like he'd been holding it. By now his eyes had adjusted to the faint light from the candles in the other room enough that he could just make out Derek's face above him. It was pretty obvious that Derek hadn't meant to say what he'd said, and Stiles didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Though he couldn't help the odd flip his stomach gave at hearing it. "So that's your fantasy then," he joked, "Keeping me chained to your bed?"
Derek's teeth flashed in a grin, his fingers finishing their task of undoing Stiles's pants. "Why don't I show you exactly," his fingers curled under the waistbands of Stiles's jeans and boxers, "what I had in mind?" He yanked them both down Stiles's legs, pulling them off and tossing them in a heap to the floor behind them. "We'll save the chains. For next time." He didn't miss Stiles's sharp intake of breath and smirked as he slid his hands up the inside of Stiles's thighs, pressing them apart and open.
Stiles tensed as Derek moved up between his spread legs. He felt far more vulnerable than he'd like to, as Derek had tucked himself back into his jeans and, unlike Stiles, was still fully dressed. The denim of Derek's pants was rough against his skin, and Derek's weight pressed more fully into him as he reached past Stiles to open the drawer of the bedside table. Stiles's cock was more than happy to finally be receiving some attention and he found himself arching up into Derek.
Derek found what he was looking for and turned his attention back to Stiles, whose hands were busy sliding themselves up and under Derek's dress shirt, digging into Derek's back as Stiles rutted against him. Derek closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into the curve of Stiles's throat as he struggled to stay in control while the boy writhed under him, Stiles's breath coming in hot pants against Derek's skin. Derek took a deep breath, ignoring the rich scent of Stiles's arousal, and pulled back so that he knelt between Stiles's legs.
Stiles made a noise of protest, his hands scrabbling at Derek's skin to try and keep him pressed close.
Derek bent down and took Stiles's cock into his mouth, running his tongue across its underside as his hand gripped Stiles's hip and held him down when he tried to buck up into the wet heat of Derek's throat. Derek moved up and down over Stiles's dick once, twice, letting the saliva that gathered in his mouth slide down the length of it before he replaced his lips with his hand.
The change in pressure had Stiles swearing and arching up off the bed as Derek's hand moved easily over him.
"Stiles." Derek's left hand continued to pump Stiles's dick as his right skimmed down past Stiles's balls to run light fingers over the puckered flesh of Stiles's hole. Stiles didn't seem to hear Derek, his hands clenching into tight fists in Derek's sheets as he thrust into Derek's hand.
"Stiles." Derek repeated, his hand lifting off Stiles's dick so he could be sure he had the boy's full attention.
"What?" Stiles tried to focus on Derek with eyes blurred with desire.
Derek circled Stiles's entrance with the pad of his thumb, watching carefully as Stiles's eyes lost their focus and he writhed into the touch. "Can I?" Derek asked, fingers pulling away as he reached for the bottle of lube that he'd retrieved from the bed stand and placed on the mattress beside him.
Stiles stilled for a second, biting his lip before he nodded.
"That's not enough." Derek flicked open the cap on the lube. "Say it."
Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away as his cheeks heated in embarrassment. "Yes."
Derek slicked his fingers with lube, rubbing them together so that when he finally pressed them against Stiles the liquid had warmed against his skin. Derek's other hand returned to Stiles's cock, resuming its steady up and down rhythm. Stiles stilled as Derek's fingers slid against the delicate skin of his hole, rubbing lightly over the puckered skin. The light touch frustrated him and he pushed back into it, hips rising off the mattress in a silent plea for Derek to give him more.
Derek quickened the movement of his hand on Stiles's cock and as Stiles moaned he pushed the tip of his index finger past the tight rim of muscle and into the heat of Stiles's body. Derek had to clench his teeth to stop a groan from escaping as Stiles's body tightened around him. He continued to stroke Stiles's dick with a smooth, even rhythm and let Stiles take a moment to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation.
The burn of the intrusion made Stiles suck in a quick breath, his heart beating in his throat like a wild thing. He took a couple shallow breaths before opening his eyes and looking down his body to see Derek watching him, cool green eyes steady on Stiles's face as he waited for Stiles to give him the go ahead. Derek's patient, level gaze slowed Stiles's breathing and he reminded himself that Derek wouldn't do anything that Stiles wasn't okay with. Stiles felt himself relax, slipping back into the pleasure-heady haze of Derek's hand on his dick.
"Okay," Stiles said, hips jerking as Derek's thumb slid over the head of his dick. "Okay, you can keep—" he broke off as Derek's finger pressed deeper inside of him, and Stiles's head fell back against the mattress at the feeling.
Derek's hand on Stiles's cock moved faster and he slowly curled his finger inside of Stiles as he leaned down to sink his teeth into the curve of Stiles's hip. Stiles made a choked noise and bucked up as Derek's finger pressed against his prostate and Derek's vision swam scarlet as he fought to keep his teeth blunt and human as they dug bruises into Stiles's skin. Stiles came with a strangled "Derek!", his come spilling hot and wet over Derek's fist as his body clenched around Derek's finger.
Thanks for waiting while I was on vacation! As promised, here's Chapter Nine and we're back to my regular schedule (updating with a new chapter every Thursday).
TW: Minor sexual assault/bad touch in this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
It had been two weeks since Stiles had derailed Derek’s plans for a home-cooked Italian dinner with sex and they’d wound up sweaty and naked on Derek’s bed eating cold, leftover pizza for dinner instead. In those two weeks Stiles had gotten laid—not that he was counting—on exactly eight different occasions. Nine, if you counted the handjob Derek had given him in his Jeep last night when they returned from a movie to find Stiles’s dad’s car parked in the driveway. And Stiles was counting the handjob. It had been a great handjob. Actually, everything Derek did was great. Stiles had finally sat still long enough for Derek to make him the spaghetti carbonara and it had been delicious. Derek was food, and sex, and wine, and Stiles was pretty sure he could live off that combination for the next fifty years of his life.
Not that he was thinking about spending the next fifty years of his life with Derek. His brain shied away from the thought. They’d seen each other almost every other day for the last couple weeks, and neither of them had said anything involving the R word or the B word or any other let’s-put-a-label-on-this-thing kind of word. Stiles was okay with that. Whatever they were doing, it was too new and so absurdly delicate that he was happy just to be around Derek. He’d have been happy to hang out with Derek even if there had been no orgasms. But he was really, really, like really, glad that there were.
Stiles yelped as Scott jabbed a pen into his shoulder. “Ow!” He turned around to glare at Scott. “What?” It was their last class of the day on Friday and their History teacher had given up on trying to make them focus. She’d told them to go read chapter twelve in their textbook (knowing full well none of them would bother) and had retreated behind a copy of Stephen King’s Cujo.
“Stop daydreaming about your stupid love life,” Scott scowled darkly. “You’ve been staring out the window and grinning for like five minutes. You’re grossing me out.”
Stiles rolled his eyes at Scott’s blatant hypocrisy. “At least I’m not making you re-read every single text message Allison ever sent you. Like you made me do. Yesterday.” It had taken an hour and Stiles was an amazing friend and Scott was lucky to have him.
“Whatever.” Scott’s scowl darkened, which Stiles wouldn’t have thought was possible because it had already been pretty dark to begin with. “You’re coming with me tonight, right?”
“To what?” Stiles had been planning to head straight over to Derek’s after school because lacrosse practice was cancelled due to Beacon Hills’ annual Fall Carnival which—his brain finally caught up—was exactly what Scott was talking about. Scott had gone with Allison last year, and the year before, and this year she was going with Isaac and Lydia and some guy Lydia was seeing. Stiles knew this because Scott had spent all of Math class on Thursday sending Stiles angry text messages on the subject. And then had made Stiles read through all of Allison’s texts at lunch to see if Stiles thought she was still in love with Scott. Oh, boy. “Yes, sorry. Obviously I’m going with you.” Stiles gave an incredulous shake of his head to show Scott how offended he was at the idea he’d let his best friend down like that.
“Thanks, man.” Scott rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just going to be hard, you know?”
“Yeah,” Stiles gave a sympathetic nod. He pulled out his phone to send a quick text to Derek.
Change of plans for tonight. Fall Carnival. If you win me an obnoxiously huge stuffed animal I’ll blow you on top of the Ferris wheel.
Derek’s reply was almost instantaneous.
And if I win you more than one?
Stiles smirked, fingers flying over the touchscreen as he typed.
Then when we get back to your place I’ll let you
He didn’t have a chance to finish the text because Scott gave a loud, angry groan of frustration and kicked Stiles’s chair.
“Stop texting your boyfriend!” Scott demanded.
“He’s not my—”
“I don’t care what he is, just stop!” Scott folded his arms across his chest and fixed Stiles with the saddest possible puppy eyes he could manage—which were really sad, considering that Scott was sort of an actual puppy sometimes. “So you’ll meet me there tonight? Just us guys?”
“Yep, I’ll be there.” Derek counted as a part of ‘us guys’, right?
“Okay,” Scott leaned back in his chair with a relieved grin. “Thanks. I knew I could count on you.”
The bell rang and Stiles stuffed his textbook into his backpack. “Anytime, man.”
Derek had his arm slung over Stiles’s shoulders as they waited at the entrance of the carnival for Scott. The night air was cool and even though he was wearing a jacket Stiles was glad of the heat Derek provided. He didn’t have any qualms about snuggling up to the werewolf’s warmth, his hand sliding under Derek’s leather jacket. The cackling shrieks of children who’d had too much cotton candy and were currently whirling through the air on various different rides combined with the slightly hysterical excitement of carnival music sounded cacophonous behind them, and Stiles recalled with no small amount of fondness the time he’d eaten six caramel apples and then after a round on the Scrambler puked them up all over his dad’s shoes. He’d try not to repeat that particular combination tonight.
“Stiles,” Derek’s eyes were fixed on something in the distance and leaned down so that his mouth was closer to Stiles’s ear and he could be heard. “Did you tell Scott I was coming?”
Stiles looked up at Derek, confused. “Well, he said ‘just us guys,’ and I mean you’re a guy so—”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Hey!” Stiles protested, pulling back so he could glare indignantly up at Derek. “That’s not—” But he broke off as Scott walked up to the pair of them, the dark glower from History class firmly fixed back on his face. “Hi, Scott,” Stiles finished weakly.
“Hi.” Scott’s voice was flat, eyes mutinous as he noticed Derek’s hand resting on the nape of Stiles’s neck.
“Scott,” Derek nodded in acknowledgement. “I was just keeping Stiles company till you showed up.” He tightened his fingers and Stiles bit his tongue to stop a yelp of pain from escaping. “I need to meet up with Peter, so I’ll see you guys,” Stiles did not miss the emphasis Derek placed on his last two words, and narrowed his eyes, “Later.”
“Oh,” Scott brightened. “Yeah. Cool.”
“Cool,” Stiles echoed, scuffing sulkily at the dirt with his shoes. Why did Scott’s stupid romance drama have to ruin everything? Couldn’t he just forget about Allison already or something? And now not only was he not going to get to blow Derek on the Ferris wheel, Derek was annoyed with him. Like Stiles hadn’t spent two years being the third wheel to the unit that was Scott-and-Allison. Would it really have killed Scott to suck it up for one night?
“You and Peter, that doesn’t have anything to do with the GHB thing, does it?” Scott looked suddenly anxious, and Derek turned back to them.
“No, but,” he cautioned, “Remember to watch what you drink. Stiles,” he locked eyes with the boy. “You have your EpiPen?”
“Yes, mom.” Stiles pulled open his jacket to show Derek where the syringe of ketamine sat in the inside pocket.
“Good. Text me if anything happens.” Derek gave Stiles a look that was almost soft before heading back towards the parking lot.
“Do you call him ‘mom’ in bed too?” Scott asked, with a lascivious wink.
“No, he actually prefers ‘Big Daddy,’” Stiles responded, deadpan.
Scott made a gagging noise and pretended to puke.
Stiles smirked and they bumped shoulders as they headed into the fair grounds. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Alright. I may never ask you another question ever again.”
“Then I have no idea how you’re going to pass the Chem final we have on Monday.”
They got in line for mini donuts, falling easily into the fall carnival tradition that they had perfected over many years. Up until Scott and Allison became Scott-and-Allison, Stiles and Scott had gone together every year. Stiles hadn’t realized how much he missed that until they were scuffling over the last mini donut and heading towards the bright lights of the midway.
“You know it’s cheating if you use your werewolf superpowers to win the game tournament,” Stiles advised Scott as they stepped up to play skee ball.
“That was never a part of the rules,” Scott countered. He was, of course, referring to the rules they had set up at age five when they’d created the tournament.
“I’m sorry that I never anticipated you turning into a werewolf when we came up with them. Which,” Stiles added thoughtfully “I really should have, considering we included an addendum for if one of us died and returned as a ghost.”
“‘No using invisibility to your advantage,’” Scott quoted.
“I think it’s only fair that the same rules apply now.” Stiles pushed his coins into the slot and hefted the wooden ball.
“Okay. I promise I won’t use invisibility to my advantage.” Scott grinned as he picked up his own ball.
Stiles responded by giving Scott the finger. Yeah, he’d missed this.
Scott was carrying a garbage bag full of stuffed animals by the time Stiles threw up his hands in defeat and declared Scott to be the Fall Carnival Game Champion Tycoon. He was pretty sure Scott had totally cheated and used the fact that he was a werewolf to win a couple of those prizes—everyone knew at least some midway games were rigged, right? But since Scott had won every year since they’d started the competition Stiles figured he’d let it go. Maybe he’d get bitten by a vampire or something and turn into one of those sparkly twilight freaks and then he’d give Scott a run for his money.
On second thought, that totally wouldn’t be worth the humiliation of having to be a sparkly vampire.
They were heading through the crowd towards the beer gardens and Scott was pulling stuffed animals out of his bag and handing them out to whichever kids crossed their paths, like some sort of weird garbage bag Santa, when they rounded a corner and almost ran right into Allison and Isaac.
“Hey, guys!” Allison’s voice was slightly higher than normal and Stiles didn’t miss the way her hand tightened around Isaac’s. Stiles was sure Scott didn’t miss it either. Great.
“Hi.” Scott’s death glare was back in full force.
“Having fun?” Allison asked, her smile strained.
“Oh, loads.” Stiles probably should ease off the sarcasm but he could tell by Scott’s clenched jaw that he was going to have to spend the rest of the evening listening to Scott bitch about Allison and Isaac and his feelings.
“Good, that’s… good.” She tugged Isaac’s hand, who gave Stiles an embarrassed sort of nod, and they brushed past Scott and Stiles and disappeared into the crowd.
“Come on,” Stiles grabbed Scott by the shoulder because it looked like he was about to go after the couple. “I’d really like that beer now”
Stiles planted Scott and his garbage bag at a table and went up to get them two beers. The bouncers at the doors had checked their (fake) IDs and let them through without a fuss. Stiles sent Lydia a silent thank you for their high quality. He handed over a twenty to the middle-aged guy with the big seventies-style glasses behind the bar—where did they find these guys?—and received two open cans of Budweiser and a handful of change. He stuffed the change into his pocket and grabbed the two cold cans before heading back to the table where Scott sat, visibly sulking.
“Here.” Stiles set a beer in front of Scott with a little too much force, and it foamed up over the sides of the can. Scott glared, and Stiles glared right back.
“I don’t know why you’re in such a bad mood.” Scott crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair as he waited for his beer to stop foaming.
Stiles’s eyebrows lifted at the snide remark. “Look, I get that you’re pissed at Allison but that doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me.”
“Maybe I’m not pissed at her, maybe I’m pissed at you.”
“At me?” Stiles was indignant. “What the fuck? I cancelled my plans to hang out with you tonight, because you can’t get over some girl. I don’t see how that makes me an asshole.”
“Yeah, you’re such a great friend,” the sarcasm in Scott’s voice had Stiles’s hackles rising. “Like you haven’t made it obvious you’d rather be hanging out with your boyfriend. Like it’s such a sacrifice for you to be spending time with me. Well good job, good for you. Have a fucking prize.” Scott grabbed a stuffed animal from his garbage bag and shoved it at Stiles.
Stiles looked down at the green giraffe and took a deep breath, reining in his anger before looking back up at Scott. “Okay, I’m going to give you a pass on this because I know seeing Allison with Isaac tonight was—”
“Oh, you ‘know’ how that was for me? You’re an expert on relationships now?” Scott leaned forward, his mouth twisted in an ugly sneer. “You let Derek fuck you and now you think you know what you’re talking about, is that right?”
“Whoa, Scott, that’s not—”
“What, do you think you’re in love now? You think you and Derek are going to ride off into the sunset, happily ever after? Open your eyes, Stiles. He’s never going to love you.”
Stiles reeled back in his chair, a strange, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Scott—”
“You’re not even a wolf. Do you think he looks at you and sees anything other than a human kid with a dumb high school crush?”
“The only thing Derek cares about is pack, and all you are is a fucking liability. Once he realizes he’s got to go out of his way to protect you because you can’t protect yourself, he’ll leave you without a second thought.” Scott stood. “And let’s just say I’m not looking forward to picking up the pieces.” He grabbed his bag of prizes and turned toward the exit.
Anger was hot and jagged in his chest, but when Stiles spoke his voice was cold and cruel and he used it with the careful precision of a weapon. “I guess you’d know all about leaving people. McCall family tradition, right?”
Stiles could see the moment his words hit home because Scott’s back went ramrod straight and his hands clenched to fists at his sides. Stiles picked up his beer and took a long swallow, and when he put it down Scott was gone.
Stiles knew that tomorrow he was going to feel like shit about what he’d just said, and that only made him angrier. He finished the rest of his beer in a matter of seconds before he moved onto Scott’s, sparing only a fleeting thought for the slightly off, too-salty taste of both of them. He put it down to the mini-donuts and cotton candy. Standing up he tossed both cans in a nearby recycling bin before striding out of the beer gardens.
The beer was quick to go to his head, and he was glad of it. He almost wished he’d gone back for a third. He started to make his way through the fair grounds to the exit. He supposed he couldn’t drive himself home now, but maybe he’d text Derek once he got back to his jeep. Scott’s words echoed mockingly in his ears, he’s never going to love you. Stiles shook his head, trying to clear it. He didn’t love Derek. And even if he did, it was none of Scott’s business whether or not Derek would or could love him back. Stiles wasn’t an idiot, he’d gone into this knowing exactly who Derek was. He wasn’t asking for anything more than Derek wanted to give.
Stiles stumbled, and he had to grab onto a tent pole to catch himself. The bright lights were making him dizzy, which meant he probably shouldn’t have downed the beer so quickly. He rubbed a hand over his face. He just needed to get out of the crowd and get some fresh air. He could see a dark, quiet alleyway between the rows of carnival stands and what looked like the trailers that hauled the equipment and rides. He could sit there for a minute until he was feeling better.
His vision blurred alarmingly as he passed through the tents and he would have fallen except that someone’s hand reached out to steady him. The grip on his arm felt familiar and Stiles blinked, trying to focus on the man’s face as he led Stiles to sit on an empty crate. The dazzling lights of the carnival whirled behind the man and Stiles could only make out the vaguest impression of his features.
“This is a bad part of town,” the man commented, crouching down so that his face was level with Stiles’s “For such a pretty face. Especially one that’s been drinking,” he added as his hand slid up to cup Stiles’s chin, his thumb brushing over Stiles’s bottom lip. Stiles tried to pull away but his body felt slow and sluggish. The man’s fingers tightened on his chin and his grin flashed white in the darkness of his face.
“You know, Stiles, I could never really figure out what Derek saw in you.” The hand that wasn’t cupping Stiles’s chin came up to run fingers through Stiles’s hair, and as those fingers grabbed a fistful, yanking Stiles’s head back in an all-too familiar move, he realized that it was Peter.
Peter’s hand moved from Stiles’s chin to press against the pulse point in Stiles’s neck, feeling it hammer wildly against his fingertips. “He’d go out of his way to threaten you, and it wasn’t until I interrupted your little… love game,” he smirked, “that I realized why.”
“Fuck off,” Stiles tried to bat Peter’s hand away, but he couldn’t quite get his body to move like he wanted it to and he only brushed ineffectively at Peter’s arm.
“See, I’ve threatened you plenty. And while you’re always delightfully insolent your heartbeat gives you away. Under all that brashness you’re always terrified, like you are right now.” His fingers pressed deeper into Stiles’s neck. “But when Derek threatens you, well, that’s another story.”
Stiles twisted his head in another attempt to escape but Peter just laughed and leaned in closer until his lips were against Stiles’s ear. “Is it just my nephew, I wonder, that makes you hot and hard when he’s got you up against a wall?” His tongue flicked out, running lightly over the shell of Stiles’s ear. Stiles shuddered, unable to help the hitch in his breath. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see that it was Peter who was making his body react. “Or would your heart pound just as prettily if anyone held you down and took whatever they wanted?”
Peter pulled back and Stiles sagged with relief, but then Peter’s hand tightened in his hair and Stiles’s lips parted in a sharp cry of pain. Peter closed in and slanted his mouth over Stiles’s, tongue sliding easily into Stiles’s open mouth as he swallowed the soft noise of protest Stiles made.
Stiles was held firm in Peter’s grip and his world narrowed to the hot slide of a tongue against his. A part of his brain was screaming, but he couldn’t focus past the overload of sensation that was Peter’s lips on his. He didn’t know if it was an hour or only a handful of seconds until Peter broke the kiss and once he did Stiles nearly slid off the crate except that Peter’s hand was still tight in his hair.
Peter’s brow was creased in a frown, and he ran his tongue over his own lips. “You don’t taste right.”
Stiles gave a weak laugh, his stomach roiling unpleasantly. It had taken until now for him to realize, but once he had, it seemed obvious. “I’ve been drugged, you fucking piece of shit.”
Peter bit off a curse. “Was it just you? Did Scott—”
“Scott didn’t drink anything.”
“Okay, let’s get you out of here.” Peter moved to take Stiles’s arm again but Stiles put a hand up to stop him.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” He was having trouble keeping his eyes open but the thought of leaving with Peter when he was this helpless had panic fluttering in his throat. “Get Derek.” Or Scott, or Isaac, or Allison, or anyone who wasn’t Peter.
For a moment Peter looked like he would haul Stiles off anyway, but he stepped back with a shake of his head. “Fine. Don’t go anywhere.”
Stiles gave him the finger before slumping forward to rest his head in his hands. He heard Peter’s rapid footsteps move away and only then did he let himself fall to his knees and vomit.
Wiping his mouth with the back of an unsteady hand, Stiles pushed himself up to his feet, leaning heavily on the crate for support. He had absolutely zero faith that Bad-Touch-Peter would return with the cavalry. Stiles was willing to be wrong on that front, but he didn’t want to risk being right.
He thought if he could just make his way back into the crowd he’d be okay. Surely a kind Samaritan would take pity on him if he collapsed at their feet? Stiles took a step forward and his legs gave out beneath him, sending him sprawling to the ground and driving the breath out of his lungs.
He rolled himself onto his back and lay gasping desperately for air. The small hints of panic he’d felt moments ago were beginning to grow into something larger, and he dug his fingers into the ground to try and steady himself. He would not panic, he would not panic, he would not panic.
Stiles forced himself to slow his rapid breathing and made himself go back through the events of the evening. Someone had drugged him—he recalled the strange taste of the beer and wanted to smack himself—and they’d probably meant to drug Scott as well. Which meant that the Big Bad was in Beacon Hills, and that was very, very bad. Then again, there was a silver lining, because instead of a roofied werewolf the Bad Guy wound up with a roofied Stiles, which would cause much less mayhem. Unless of course someone had meant to drug him, in which case Stiles might be in serious trouble. But that seemed unlikely. He hoped.
His vision blurred out again and he dug his nails ruthlessly into the palm of his hand, the sharp pain of his fingernails drawing blood clearing his head. He knew he didn’t have long until he blacked out and he did not want to be found flat on his back and out cold. He pushed himself up on his elbows, sweat breaking out over his forehead as he crawled back towards the crate where he managed to prop himself up so that he was at least sitting on the ground instead of lying on it.
He leaned back against the crate and closed his eyes. The ground felt like it was spinning beneath him and his breathing was ragged as he fought to keep from puking again. After what seemed like hours, he heard footsteps coming towards him and felt a wave of relief. Derek was coming to take him home.
“’Bout time,” he muttered, forcing his heavy eyelids open. But the face in front of him wasn’t Derek’s. Stiles had a dizzying impression of large glasses reflecting the spinning carnival lights before he had to close his eyes again as the woozy feeling intensified. “When’d you get glasses, Pete?”
“You’re not changing.” There was an accusing tone to the man’s voice that Stiles took offence to.
“Nope. I’m change… averse,” Stiles was pretty sure he was slurring badly now and he could feel himself sliding towards the ground again. The man with the glasses reached out and grabbed a handful of Stiles’s jacket, keeping him mostly upright.
“You’re human?” The man shook him and Stiles’s head knocked back against the wood of the crate.
“Ow.” He blinked owlishly up at the glasses. “Yeah.” This man was very rude; you couldn’t just go around asking people if they were human. Stiles didn’t like him, not one bit. His eyes were falling shut again and this time he didn’t bother trying to open them. Wasn’t Derek coming?
“But you came here with them?” The man shook Stiles harder and when that didn’t work he reached up and slapped Stiles across the face. Stiles felt his teeth cut into his cheek and he made a quiet noise of hurt, his eyes opening as he tried to get them to focus on the man.
“With who?” He was so tired. He didn’t want to answer any more questions. He just wanted to lie down on the grass and go to sleep for a bit.
“The werewolves. You came here with the werewolves.”
“Yup. They’re my friends. ‘Cept maybe not Scott anymore.” Stiles felt sad at that thought. He could feel the man’s grip on him loosening and he slid towards the ground.
“They’re no one’s friends.” The man’s voice was cold and Stiles wasn’t sure if he was still speaking to him, or to himself.
Stiles couldn’t keep his eyes open for any longer and as his face hit the grass he could hear the loud popping of fireworks in the sky above. He wished he could see them. He’d always liked fireworks. He’d just lie here for a moment and then he could watch them when he woke up.
“Stiles!” Derek’s panicked voice was the last thing Stiles heard.
I couldn't do this without my betas - Halite who never stops being encouraging; and my partner Paradisgatan because she'll edit my grammar even when she's really, really tired. And is totally going to law school even if it's "just" UNB <3
The playlist I've been using to write LMW can be found at 8tracks.
Graphics are done by Kat!
Podfic for Chapter One is available here.
You're welcome to come say Hi over on tumblr.
Thanks for reading!
Derek sat motionless in one of the waiting room’s uncomfortable chairs. A cup of coffee, long since grown cold, sat untouched on the table in front of him. In the chair beside him was a six-foot-tall stuffed lion in a vivid shade of pink. Scott paced along the wall on the other side of the room, his stricken face a stark contrast to Derek’s stern and unemotional one.
“Listen, I wouldn’t have—” Scott stopped and turned pleading eyes to Derek.
“Don’t talk.” Derek’s eyes didn’t lift from where they were boring holes into the Styrofoam cup of coffee. Scott kept trying to talk to him, trying to apologize for leaving Stiles alone to get drugged. Derek would deal with that later. He would deal with a lot of things later, but right now all of Derek’s energy was focused on listening to the weak heartbeat coming from the room down the hall.
When Peter had found Derek, Derek had been tearing a piece out of Scott for wandering around the carnival alone. Derek had just spent a stupid amount of money and a stupid amount of time playing ‘human’ at the midway games, all to win Stiles a stupid stuffed animal. It wasn’t so that Stiles would blow him on top of the Ferris wheel (he didn’t need a stuffed animal to make that happen) but because he wanted to see the goofy grin that would light up Stiles’s face when Derek gave it to him. The whole thing was stupid. Because while Derek was busy acting like a love-struck swain, Stiles was being roofied. And god knew what might have happened to him if Peter hadn’t found him.
Scott and Derek hadn’t even waited for Peter to finish speaking before they’d bolted off in blurs of motion to where Peter had left—left—Stiles. The sight of Stiles’s unmoving body lying on the grass, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, had made Derek’s heart stop. It wasn’t until he saw Stiles’s chest slowly rise and fall with a shallow breath that he’d been able to force his body back into action. He’d dropped the lion, barely realizing he’d still carried it, and carefully picked Stiles up before racing with him to his car and breaking several dozen traffic laws on the way to the emergency room.
Melissa McCall had met him at the doors—Scott had called ahead—and she’d taken over. Stiles had been transferred from Derek’s arms to a gurney and disappeared through a pair of double doors that Melissa wouldn’t let him through. She’d stuck him in the waiting room with a cup of coffee and sent Scott in to join him when he’d arrived. Scott had brought the stupid lion with him, so now the three of them sat in heavy silence.
“I didn’t mean to leave him.” Scott had resumed pacing and Derek glared up at him. “I didn’t,” Scott insisted. Derek hoped that if he just ignored Scott, he’d stop talking. “Okay, well I did, because he was being the biggest douche. Like, way out of line. But I wouldn’t ever have left him if I’d known—”
“But you did.” Derek rose to his feet, lips pressed tightly together. “There’s a fucking buddy system for a reason, Scott. But no, you thought your childish squabble was more important than Stiles’s safety.”
Scott stopped pacing and turned to face Derek. He opened his mouth to reply but Derek cut him off.
“What kind of Alpha do you think you’re going to be if you can’t even control your temper long enough to consider the safety of your pack?” Derek strode around the table. “Your pack needs to be your number one priority, not your teenage ego.”
Scott looked away, guilt eating at him. “I know, I made a mistake—”
“You can’t afford to make mistakes anymore.” Derek’s voice was harsh and biting and he stepped closer to Scott. “This? This is all on you. If Stiles dies because you made a mistake,” Derek couldn’t finish, his hands clenching at his sides as he fought the urge to slam his fists into Scott’s face.
“He’s not going to die!” Scott’s voice rose slightly hysterically.
“Overdosing on GHB can kill you. It’s safe to say that Stiles consumed a dose meant for a werewolf. A werewolf, Scott. Stiles is human.”
“I know! Alright? I know.” Scott’s eyes stung and he quickly rubbed any trace of tears away.
“Well, I guess you should have thought of that a couple hours ago.” Derek knew he should back off, that fighting with Scott wouldn’t help anything, but he had to do something with the hot ball of rage in his chest. And Scott had left Stiles.
“I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t. You just left him.” The disgust in Derek’s voice was obvious, and Scott flinched, his own hands clenching into fists.
“Right, because you’re such a shining example of concern for Stiles.” Scott could feel his own anger rising up through the guilt and he welcomed it. “You’ve only ever got his best interests at heart, right?”
“What exactly do you mean by that?” Derek’s voice was low and dangerous.
“You keep talking about what happened when I left him—well what do you think is going to happen when you leave?”
“I’m not going to leave.” Derek’s jaw clenched.
“Do you really believe that? We both know it’ll happen. You’re not the guy that sticks around. And what do you think that’s going to do to him?” Scott stepped into Derek’s space, his eyes sharp and accusing.
“Hey!” Melissa came back into the room and hurried to step between them. “Stop it right now.” She pushed them apart and they both took grudging steps back. “Stiles is awake. He’s fine.” She held up her hand as they both made to rush towards the door. “If you both agree to start behaving like adults you can see him, but only one at a time—he’s still feeling pretty groggy and I won’t have you two overwhelming him.”
Scott and Derek shared a mutinous look before following Melissa out of the room and down the hallway, Scott lugging the giant lion with them.
They could see Stiles through the window of the room, lying still on the hospital bed. His hair was a mess and his skin still looked too pale, but Derek could hear his heartbeat strong and steady, and his breathing was even. He looked like he was still asleep, and Derek looked at Melissa inquiringly.
“He’ll probably be in and out of it for a couple more hours, but he’s lucid.” She smiled fondly at Stiles. No one had been more worried for the boy than her, despite what either of the two young men standing beside her might think. Stiles was as good as hers as much as Scott was, and seeing him seemingly lifeless in Derek’s arms had been one of the worst moments of her life—right up there with having Scott shot in front of her eyes.
“Can we go in?” Scott asked, not taking his eyes off of Stiles.
“One at a time. I’ll be at the desk if you need anything.” She gave Scott’s shoulder a squeeze and left them to figure it out on their own.
“I’m going in first.” Scott reached for the doorknob.
“Like hell you are.” Derek pushed him back from the door, red licking at the green of his irises. “You want to know what’s going on with us? What I am to him? Well, I’m the guy who says that you don’t get to see him after what you did. How’s that for a fucking answer? And give me that.” He snatched the lion out of Scott’s hands before opening the door to Stiles’s room.
“Please, Derek?” The pleading note in Scott’s voice had Derek hesitating, and Stiles didn’t let it go to waste. “I need to make this right. Please.”
Derek stepped back from the door with a sigh, and gestured for Scott to step inside.
Stiles opened his eyes to see Scott’s face inches from his. He blinked and brought it into focus. “Hi,” he said, his voice croaky.
“Hi.” Scott couldn’t help grinning. “I’m glad you’re alive.”
“Me too.” Stiles shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said to you. You’re nothing like your dad, you know that, right?”
“No, I’m sorry. I was a dick. And you had every right to be mad. And I’m really sorry I left you to get roofied.” Scott looked down at the bed. “It’s my fault.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. Of course Scott would take it upon himself to feel guilty about Stiles being drugged. “Think about it—if you had stayed you’d have wolfed out. I drank both of our beers and they both tasted sort of weird. It was actually a good thing you got all pissy.” He smirked to show Scott he was joking, but Scott continued to look troubled. “Hey, I’m serious. You could have hurt somebody. I just fell over and puked. And maybe saw Peter?” He could only remember bits and pieces of what had happened after he’d left the beer gardens.
“Yeah,” Scott looked back up. “He got me and Derek. You should have seen how mad Derek was that he left you. I thought he was going to kill Peter, like, actually.” At the time he’d just been glad that Derek hadn’t tried to kill him. The cold fury in Derek’s eyes would be giving Scott nightmares for weeks.
“Did you get the guy?” Stiles asked hopefully.
“No. After Derek brought you here he called Peter and had him take Isaac back to his place, just in case he was still lurking around.” Scott shrugged. “And my mom gave your dad a call, so he’s on his way. Other than that, we’ve just been waiting to make sure you were okay.”
“Aw, did you weep over my prostrate form?”
“Dude, I don’t even know what that means.” Scott shook his head. “Are we good?”
“Yeah, we’re good.” Stiles gave Scott’s shoulder a brotherly punch. “Now tell me why Derek is standing outside the window scowling and holding… is that a pink koala bear?”
“It’s a lion, actually. And I think he won it for you?”
Stiles felt a goofy grin spread over his face.
After spending yet another weekend cooped up at home, Stiles was so full of pent up energy that he didn’t even mind the extra suicide runs Coach had given him and Isaac and Danny because they’d been too wrapped up in their discussion of Sunday’s The Walking Dead to pay attention during practice. Stiles’s dad had spent the whole weekend anxiously hovering over him and, in a bid to distract them both, Stiles had made them re-watch the third season, so now he was full of interesting theories about what might happen in season four.
“I just think,” he said between pants as they ran towards the goal posts, “that Carl is a little shit.”
“He’s a kid.” Isaac was breathing easily and Stiles tried not to feel too jealous. “He did what he thought he had to do.”
“He’s a cold blooded,” Stiles could feel a stitch growing in his side and he redoubled his efforts, “murderer.”
Danny shook his head as he touched the ground and kept running. “I think he made a bad call but I don’t think they’ll turn him into the next Governor.”
“Hah, just you wait.” Stiles was on the last leg of the suicide runs and he was gasping for breath. “He’s evil.” Touching the ground for the last time he bent over with his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath.
“Are you okay?” Isaac crouched down, a hand on Stiles’s back and his voice low so Danny wouldn’t overhear. Stiles hadn’t wanted anyone at school to know he’d been roofied because, god, how embarrassing was that? So he’d sent the ‘pack’ several threatening text messages until they’d all agreed to keep it to themselves.
“I’m fine.” Stiles straightened and tried to even out his breathing, although he had no doubt that Isaac could hear the rapid pounding of his heart. There wasn’t much he could do about that. If he was honest, he was still feeling a bit shaken up, but that had less to do with the effects of the drug and more to do with the fact that the Big Bad was here in Beacon Hills and Friday night had almost resulted in at least one death: his. Stiles still couldn’t remember anything about what had happened. He was just trying to be grateful that things had worked out the way that they did, and that there’d been no rampaging werewolf in a carnival full of little kids. If he had to spend the night in the hospital and the weekend stuck at home with his hovering dad, well, that was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make.
Stiles picked up his gym bag from where he’d left it at the bleachers—after Friday he wanted to keep his syringe full of ketamine close at hand—and Danny joined him and Isaac as they headed back to the locker rooms. It was an hour after practice had ended and the autumn night was growing cold as the sun set in the distance. With sweat cooling on his skin, Stiles was looking forward to a long hot shower, glad he wouldn’t have to fight for a showerhead with the entire lacrosse team.
They continued their argument about where Carl-The-Heartless-Killer fell on the good/evil spectrum as they stripped in the locker room. Isaac ducked into the shower before Stiles had even managed to pull off half of his equipment and was heading back to his locker by the time Stiles was wrapping a towel around his waist to head in.
“Why are you in such a rush?” Stiles paused in the doorway as Isaac opened his locker and pulled out a bottle of water.
Danny rolled his eyes as he walked past Stiles. “He’s got a hot date.”
“Allison?” Stiles raised his eyebrows and Isaac flushed.
“Yeah,” he dropped his gaze and twisted off the top of the bottle. “I know it’s weird for you, with Scott—”
“Nah, it’s fine.” Despite what Scott might think about Isaac, Stiles actually liked him. And he thought Scott would as well, once he got over the fact that Isaac and Allison were obviously dating.
“Thanks.” Isaac shot Stiles a grateful grin and took a swig of the water while Stiles headed in to get that hot shower he’d been looking forward to.
Unfortunately, the team seemed to have used up all of the hot water, so after about five minutes Danny and Stiles hurried back to their lockers. Stiles dropped his towel and yanked his boxers on, pawing through his locker to find his pants. He was freezing. He hated cold showers. Where the hell did he put his jeans?
There was a sudden grating noise and Stiles grimaced, the sound harsh on his ears. He looked back over his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin. Isaac was standing on the other side of the row of lockers and his eyes were bright wolf yellow as he sunk his claws into the metal of a nearby locker. Stiles’s eyes darted to the now empty water bottle at Isaac’s feet and his fingers went numb as he realized what must have happened.
“Okay, Isaac, I need you to be calm.” Stiles took a hesitant step forward, his voice low so that Danny couldn’t overhear him. Oh, fuck. Danny. He had to get Danny out of here before Isaac completely lost control. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He turned his attention back to Isaac, hands held out in the universal I’m-harmless gesture. “Just take a couple deep breaths and think happy thoughts and try not to murder me, deal?” His EpiPen of ketamine was in the bag in his locker and he inched back towards it, keeping his eyes on Isaac. Maybe he could grab it and shoot Isaac up before Danny even noticed something was wrong?
No, there was no way.
Isaac gave a low growl and Stiles could see his teeth lengthening into fangs. Stiles made a split second decision and backed away past his locker, moving slowly so that Isaac wouldn’t think he was fleeing and give chase. As he reached the end of the row of lockers he gave Isaac one last desperate look. “Come on man, hold it together for two more minutes. Just give me two minutes.” He couldn’t see any kind of understanding in Isaac’s face and he hoped to god he’d be able to get Danny out before his time ran out. Somehow, Stiles didn’t think trying to explain that their friend was a drugged-up werewolf was going to help. They didn’t have time for that.
He turned the corner and moved into the row of lockers where Danny had just finished pulling on his shirt and was grabbing his own gym bag from his locker. He turned to look at Stiles, eyes lingering appreciatively on Stiles’s bare chest before he met Stiles’s gaze, eyebrows raised questioningly. Stiles clenched his trembling hands into fists and kept his voice hard and steady as he spoke, “Keep your eyes to yourself, you fucking fag.”
Danny’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in shock. “What?”
“You heard me. It’s disgusting. I’m tired of having to act like I’m fine with it when seeing you look at me makes my skin crawl.” Stiles curled his lips in a sneer, his eyes as cold as he could make them. “Jackson’s not here anymore to make us pretend that it’s cool, that we don’t mind putting on a show for his pet faggot.” He could see the colour drain from Danny’s face and felt a sickening wave of self-loathing. Danny was going to hate him for this. “So get the fuck out.”
“Fuck you.” Danny’s voice shook and he picked up his bag. Stiles gave a calculated shrug, for all appearances unperturbed, and Danny gave him one last, hate-filled glance before shoving through the door and out into the hallway.
Stiles rubbed a hand over his face, disgusted with himself, before pushing the image of Danny’s stricken face out of his mind and focusing on the next problem. Which was Isaac. Stiles needed to get back to his locker and grab the ketamine before Isaac figured out how to get out of the locker room. This time of night there probably weren’t too many people still in the school, but Stiles did not want to take that chance.
Isaac had been suspiciously silent during Stiles’s confrontation with Danny and though Stiles had been grateful for it at the time, now it worried him. Isaac could be anywhere. Stiles let out a breath and began to walk slowly back around to his bank of lockers. If his luck could just hold out for a minute longer….
He rounded the corner and then froze, his eyes shooting up to the top of the bank of lockers where Isaac crouched. A thick, meaty snarl sounded from Isaac’s throat and Stiles felt his mouth go dry with fear. Every instinct in his body screamed for him to run, but he knew nothing would set Isaac on him faster.
Wetting his lips, Stiles took a step forward and did his very best to keep his breathing even and his heartbeat steady. “Okay, Isaac, I’m going to walk real slow,” he kept his eyes on the werewolf and his voice even, “and get to my locker. Be a good little werewolf and stay right where you are and I’ll give you a treat.” A treat full of horse tranquilizer. Stiles made it to the open door of his locker and began to sink to his knees, his eyes locked on Isaac, crouched on top of the bank of lockers above him. A drop of water slid from Stiles’s hair down his back like a cold finger and Stiles had to bite into his cheek hard enough to draw blood to stop a full-body shiver as he reached blindly into his locker for his bag.
He realized his mistake as Isaac tensed, his nostrils flaring at the scent of Stiles’s blood. Stiles grabbed his bag and threw it up between himself and the werewolf as Isaac attacked.
Stiles gave a stifled cry as he was slammed into the locker room floor, the rough tile skinning his elbows. Isaac’s snarling face was only inches away from his own and Stiles fought to keep the gym bag between them. It wasn’t much of a shield, but Isaac had caught one of his hands—well, claws—in the straps and Stiles was pretty sure that was the only reason he wasn’t dead yet. Isaac reared back and sliced at the straps of the bag with his free hand and Stiles wriggled out from beneath him before scrambling to his feet and darting around another bank of lockers that was further into the locker room. He wanted to keep Isaac as far away from the door as possible. The only problem with that, of course, was that it also kept Stiles away from the door.
He could hear Isaac throw the gym bag against a locker and knew that the werewolf was free. Stiles grabbed a lacrosse stick from an equipment locker and gripped it tightly in both hands. He wished he hadn’t left his phone in his locker. He wished he hadn’t left the ketamine in his locker. He wished that someone hadn’t left GHB-laced water in Isaac’s locker. He really wished wishes worked.
He knew his thoughts were bordering on hysteria and made himself take a couple deep breaths. He was stuck in a room with a rampaging werewolf—he did not have the luxury of panicking. Isaac came around the corner towards him, his fangs bared. Stiles swallowed and tightened his grip on the lacrosse stick, inching backwards until his heel hit a wall. Isaac lunged and Stiles flipped the stick so that the bottom end pointed straight at Isaac’s midsection, the top braced against the wall at his back. Isaac flung himself at Stiles full force, heedless of Stiles’s makeshift weapon, and the lacrosse stick was suddenly buried several inches deep in Isaac’s stomach.
Stiles paled as Isaac came to an abrupt halt. He could feel Isaac’s blood slick on his hands and bile rose in his throat. Part of him hadn’t actually expected that to work. Isaac growled and swiped at Stiles with his claws outstretched. Stiles jerked back, his head slamming against the concrete of the wall hard enough that black spots danced in front of his eyes. Isaac swung again and his claws dug bloody furrows into the bare skin of Stiles’s collarbone, only just missing the vulnerable flesh of Stiles’s neck. The sharp, agonizing pain as one of Isaac’s claws grated over his collarbone cleared Stiles’s head, and with it came a blinding rage. With his own blood running hot and wet down his skin something dark and primal erupted in his chest and Stiles used all of his strength to drive the stick deeper into the soft flesh of Isaac’s stomach. He knew he’d hit something important because Isaac buckled and Stiles grinned with a fierce sense of triumph. He wasn’t helpless this time. Wasn’t weak and sluggish with veins full of a drug someone had slipped to him. He could fight back.
He yanked the stick out of Isaac’s body, gritting his teeth as the movement pulled at his torn skin. Isaac curled in on himself and Stiles drove the stick down again, feeling it skid off one of Isaac’s ribs and slip from Stiles’s bloody hands to clatter against the tile. Isaac roared in pain and fury and lashed out at Stiles’s knees, claws extended. Stiles darted to the side and Isaac rose to all fours, blood pouring out of his side and stomach. Stiles realized he was now weaponless and swore violently under his breath, his eyes darting frantically around the room as he tried to find something he could use to hurt the werewolf. Isaac gave a low, menacing growl as Stiles’s gaze landed on the maintenance door beside the showers and he ran for it.
His bare feet skidded over a patch of water on the tile in front of the showers and Stiles went down. His lip split against the tile and the right side of his face was engulfed in a bright, burning pain. His left wrist had twisted underneath him as he tried to break his fall and he cried out in frustration as he tried to push himself back onto his feet. His breath came ragged as he struggled to pull himself the last few feet to the door but Isaac’s hands came down on either side of his ribcage. Teeth snapped a hairsbreadth away from the bare skin of his shoulder and then suddenly Isaac was flying through the air.
“Hurry,” Scott wrenched open the door to the maintenance room. He reached down and pulled Stiles to his feet as Isaac snarled and charged at them. Scott shoved Stiles into the tiny room and Stiles got the quickest glimpse of Scott’s eyes, blazing red, before Scott slammed the door shut behind him and Stiles was left in the dark as the two werewolves hurtled at each other.
Stiles reached blindly for a light switch but his hands encountered nothing but rough concrete wall on either side of the door. The sounds of Isaac and Scott tearing into each other seemed to fill the room and he stumbled back from the steel door as a body crashed into it. He took a couple steps deeper into the room, hands that were tacky with Isaac’s blood outstretched as he groped for something to use to fight so that he could get back out and help Scott.
The room smelled strongly of cleaning products and, with the only light coming from under the door, Stiles couldn’t see anything other than the vague suggestion of shelves to either side of him. He turned to his right and ran his hand carefully over one of the shelves. His fingers encountered several plastic bottles, a handful of damp rags, something that felt like a scrub brush, and finally a smooth wooden handle. He trailed his fingers up the length of it to find the cool metal of a hammerhead. He grinned and gripped the hammer in his good hand as outside either Scott or Isaac gave a high pitched yelp of pain and crashed again into the door of the maintenance room. Stiles whirled back around and went to open the door, hammer raised claws-out and more than willing to drive them into Isaac’s skull. But whoever had been thrown into the door had been tossed against it with enough force that the metal was buckled and no matter how hard Stiles wrenched on the door handle it wouldn’t open. He was panting with exertion and had dropped the hammer to use both hands, heedless of the pain in his left wrist, to pull at the door when suddenly he became aware of the dead silence on the other side. His own rapid breathing and the pounding of his own blood in his ears was all he could hear.
“Scott?” He called, crouching down to grope with his good hand for the handle of the hammer. “Scott?”
Nothing. His fingers found the handle and dragged it towards him as he rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Isaac?” He tried. Silence was all that answered him.
Stiles’s fingers flexed around the wooden handle and he wondered if he could use the hammer to pry the door open. He moved forward to try and do just that when he heard a quiet growl from just outside the door and froze.
“Stiles, are you okay?” Scott’s voice was gravelly and Stiles knew it meant his best friend was still in werewolf form.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. What’s going on?” Stiles pressed closer to the door and tried to see through the crack.
“I have to get Isaac out of here before I lose control of him again. Will you be alright?”
“I can help you. Get me out of here and I’ll help you.” He tugged again at the doorknob.
“Are you crazy? Do you want to get yourself killed?” He could hear the disbelief in Scott’s voice and it made Stiles’s hackles rise.
“I don’t need you to protect me, I’m more than capable of—”
There was the sound of a quick struggle from outside the door and he heard Scott’s low growl of warning again and an answering one from Isaac. “Don’t be stupid, Stiles. I’ll let someone know where you are and they’ll come and get you,” Scott gritted out, his hands obviously full with Isaac.
“Scott, don’t—” But it was too late, he could hear the sound of their footsteps retreating and Stiles gave a wordless cry of frustration as he swung the hammer at the door. Metal on metal screeched and there was the quick flash of sparks in the dark room. He jumped back in surprise and his eyes went down to where his hand was clenched around the hammer. His hand that was still covered in Isaac’s blood.
Stiles swallowed, his eyes growing larger as he realized what he’d done, and what he’d been prepared to do. The hammer dropped from his nerveless fingers and he kicked it frantically away. His breath was beginning to come in rapid, shallow heaves and he held his hands out from his body in horror. He’d been ready to kill Isaac. He’d wanted to kill Isaac.
He hadn’t just been ready to defend himself; he’d been prepared to attack. He remembered the feeling of shoving the lacrosse stick into Isaac and the rush of pleasure he’d felt as Isaac had fallen to the floor. Stiles began to shake, fine tremors running over his body as he backed away from the door and the image of himself driving the stick into Isaac’s body. He’d liked it, he’d felt strong and frightening and he’d wanted to take the hammer and slam it over and over again into Isaac until the werewolf stopped moving. Isaac. Who had been drugged like Stiles had been drugged, just as helpless to control his body as Stiles had been. And Stiles had been more than ready to kill him for it.
Stiles was gulping frantically at the air now, his lungs burning as he tried to breathe through the panic that was a vice grip on his throat. He hit the back wall of the room and slid down it, leaning forward on his hands and knees as violent shudders wracked his body.
Between being completely unable to remember the events of Friday night, knowing someone had deliberately targeted him and Scott with the hope that they would wolf out at the carnival and kill innocent people, the fact that whoever had done that had managed to get into the locker rooms at some point today and drug Isaac’s water, and, on top of that, Isaac trying to kill him—Stiles felt like his world was spinning out of control. He always had a plan. He always had some idea of what was going on and some idea of how to stop it, but right now Stiles couldn’t even control his own breathing. He knew what was happening. He knew he was having a panic attack. The iron band around his chest was a feeling he was all too familiar with and he knew he needed to slow down, needed to take deep, calm breaths and try to ground himself. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even do that. Because he’d been ready to kill Isaac. He’d been ready to kill his friend and he’d been ready to enjoy it and he couldn’t hear anything but the frantic pounding of his heart and his hands were pressed flat against the concrete floor but he couldn’t stop the trembling and he couldn’t catch his breath and he needed something to hold on to. Something real. And there was nothing.
The erratic thundering of Stiles’s heart reached Derek the second he set foot in the school and he raced towards the locker room with superhuman speed. As he pushed open the doors, the scent of Stiles’s blood had his jaw hardening and his hands fisting at his sides. This was the second time in a handful of days that Stiles had nearly been killed because of his association with werewolves. If—no, when—Derek caught the person behind this he would tear them limb from limb.
He moved quickly through the destruction of the locker room towards the buckled maintenance door that Stiles was trapped behind. Stiles’s heart was racing out of control and it sounded like he was gasping for breath. Derek felt his own heart skip a beat, picturing opening the door to find Stiles’s broken and bloodied body. But the scent of blood wasn’t strong enough for Stiles to have been mortally wounded, which meant that something else was very wrong, because the smell of Stiles’s fear was rank in the air.
“Stiles?” He pressed a hand against the door and heard Stiles move in the room behind it. “Stiles I’m going to come in.” Derek yanked the door off its hinges and sent it crashing to the floor behind him. He stepped into the room and saw Stiles cringing back against the far wall, his hands wrapped around his knees and his skin, where it wasn’t covered in blood, pale. Derek had to stop himself from racing to Stiles’s side. Everything about him screamed panic and Derek didn’t want to do anything to make that worse.
He reached up to a string that hung down from a light bulb in the centre of the room and pulled it to turn on the light. He hoped being able to see might calm Stiles down, but, if anything, the boy seemed to curl closer into himself, his wide eyes darting frantically around the room.
“Stiles,” Derek raised his voice, trying to get Stiles to focus on him. He took a couple cautious steps forward, his hands spread out at his side to try and convince Stiles that he wasn’t a threat. “It’s me, it’s Derek. Isaac’s gone. Scott took him into the woods and he’s not going to hurt anyone. He’s not going to hurt you.”
“Don’t come any closer.” Stiles met Derek’s gaze for the briefest second before looking away and pressing himself back into the wall. He’d already been close enough to begin with that Derek was sure the rough concrete had to be digging into his skin, and he winced in sympathy. Now that he was closer to Stiles he could see the ragged claw marks running down the left side of Stiles’s collarbone. They looked deep enough that they might need stitches.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Derek crouched down so that he was eye level with Stiles, his chest constricting at the thought that Stiles was scared of him. “See?” He bared his teeth. “No fangs. I’m in control.”
“I’m not,” Stiles’s fingers shook and he clenched them tighter around his legs, his breath hitching in his chest in something that was almost a sob. “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not, I’m not—”
“Hey,” Derek reached out but abruptly withdrew his hand as Stiles jerked away from it. “Slow down. It’s okay, you’re okay.”
“I’m not okay, Derek.” Stiles’s voice rose hysterically. “I was gonna kill Isaac. Kill him. Dead.”
Derek’s eyebrows creased in a frown. “I don’t think—”
“I was. I would have. He was coming after me and I stabbed him and then I found the hammer and I-I-I would have—I wanted to—I—” Stiles was shaking even harder and he pressed his forehead to his knees as he began to rock back and forth.
Derek was beginning to worry that Stiles would hyperventilate. Despite the sharp noise of protest Stiles made, he moved closer and wrapped his arms around Stiles, gathering him close. Stiles’s skin was cold and clammy and Derek wondered how long he’d been sitting in the dark room, pressed up against the cool cement wall wearing nothing but his underwear. His hand moved in soothing circles over Stiles’s back, trying to get Stiles’s blood circulating again.
Stiles struggled to break free of Derek’s hold but Derek’s arms were tight around him, and since moving only made everything in his body hurt, eventually he began to relax into the touch. His heart still raced and his breath shook, but both had slowed from their initial near-hysteric speeds.
After several minutes Derek spoke. “Are you okay to get up now? We should get you dressed and then I want Melissa to take a look at those—”
“No!” Stiles stiffened. “No, I’m not going back to the hospital.”
“Okay,” Derek’s hand kept rubbing gently over Stiles’s back. “We’ll meet her at Scott’s house then.”
“Stiles, you might need stitches.”
“Then you do it.”
Jesus. Derek shook his head. “I’m not a doctor.” Not to mention that if either of the McCalls or, god forbid, Stiles’s dad found out that Derek had patched Stiles together with a needle and thread without taking him to a medical professional, well, he’d probably be better off if he’d just let Gerard kill him. Still, Derek thought that having to physically force Stiles to go somewhere right now might be detrimental to the kid’s mental health, so he sighed. “Will you come back to my place?”
Stiles nodded against Derek’s chest. Derek stood slowly, one arm around Stiles’s waist as he helped him to his feet. Stiles’s right cheek was a dark purple bruise and he could see how Stiles was favouring his left wrist. Derek banked the swift tide of fury that rose in him. Getting angry would do him no good when he didn’t know who to vent that anger at. Until they figured out who was doing this, he needed to focus on getting Stiles somewhere safe and trying to put him back together.
Derek got Stiles into his pants and shoes before taking the first aid kit out of the coach’s office and carefully placing a bandage over the claw marks. Stiles let out a sharp hiss of pain as the gauze touched the torn flesh, but otherwise was silent and malleable. He took his button up flannel from Derek when it was handed to him, ignoring the t-shirt that would be too difficult to pull over his head, and allowed Derek to button it up when it was obvious that Stiles’s wrist wouldn’t cooperate. He made no comment when Derek picked up the battered remnants of Stiles’s gym bag in one hand and took Stiles’s hand in the other before leading him out to the car that was parked haphazardly in front of the school steps.
Now he sat and stared blankly out the window of Derek’s car as they drove. Derek couldn’t help glancing over every couple of seconds to check on him. Stiles’s heart rate was still well above normal and his breath was shallow.
“Are you sure you don’t want to see Melissa?” Derek asked as they stopped at a red light. Stiles didn’t even look over, just nodded. Derek drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and wondered how much shit he’d be in later if he called Scott’s mom anyway.
“I’m fine, Derek.” Stiles seemed to know what he was thinking because for the first time since they got into the car he turned his face to Derek. “I just… I’ll be fine, okay?” He looked back out the window and swallowed, his fingers flexing on the smooth leather seat beneath him. “I called Danny a fag.”
“What?” Derek’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and confusion.
“I had to. He was in the locker room with us, and I had to get him out before Isaac completely lost it. It was the first thing I could think of.” Stiles could feel tears stinging at the corners of his eyes and he couldn’t summon the energy to do anything about them as they began to fall steadily down his cheeks. “He’s gonna hate me,” Stiles’s voice broke and his chest began to heave again.
Derek reached across and splayed his palm flat against Stiles’s chest, pushing him back into the chair and keeping a steady pressure as he made the turn onto his street. He could feel Stiles’s heart beating against his palm but after a moment or two it began to slow and Stiles’s breathing came easier. Tears were still sliding down his face, but Stiles looked calmer.
Derek pulled to a stop at the curb and came quickly around to Stiles’s side of the car to help him out. Stiles huffed out an embarrassed breath and waved Derek away, wiping at his eyes as he used his good hand to pull his gym bag out from the foot well.
“I’m not an invalid, I can walk by myself,” Stiles muttered when Derek reached out a hand to help Stiles up to the curb. Derek ducked his head to hide a relieved grin. If Stiles was back to being snarky it meant he was feeling better.
They made their way into the warehouse and up to Derek’s floor in silence—but this was a lighter silence than the earlier one in the car. When they reached the iron stairs up to Derek’s loft Stiles handed his tattered gym bag to Derek with a sardonic look, knowing he couldn’t make it up the stairs without a hand on the railing and well aware that he couldn’t carry the bag with his sprained left wrist. Derek was careful to keep his face blank as he took the bag and followed Stiles closely up the stairs.
Stiles waited on the landing for Derek to walk past him and unlock the door. Once inside Stiles dumped the gym bag beside the couch and stood, looking uncertain and slightly helpless in front of the coffee table.
Derek stepped into the kitchen and poured Stiles a glass of water from the sink. He placed the glass on the counter and opened a drawer on the island, pulling out a bottle of Tylenol and spilling the three remaining pills into his palm. “Sorry I don’t have anything stronger.” Stiles was lucky he even had Tylenol, to be honest. Werewolf metabolism worked too quickly for painkillers to be of any use. Derek picked up the glass and walked back to Stiles. He handed the Tylenol over and Stiles dry-swallowed mechanically.
“Do you want a shower?”
Stiles nodded mutely, eyes dropping to his blood covered hands as he took the glass from Derek. He tilted the glass and with one long swallow drank the entire contents. Derek took the glass and set it on the island before looking back to Stiles.
“First,” Derek pulled out his phone and held it up. “Let me send a picture of that,” he gestured to the gauze peeking over the collar of Stiles’s shirt “To Scott. If his mom says you need stitches, we’re going.” Derek fixed Stiles with a firm look that brooked no arguments.
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Okay, mom,” and brought his hands up to his shirt, undoing the buttons.
“I’m not your mother, so stop calling me that.” Derek growled as he set his phone down on the coffee table and used both hands to carefully peel the bandage off of Stiles’s skin. Stiles winced and avoided looking at the deep gouges or the bloody pad of gauze that Derek tossed carelessly beside his phone.
Derek ran a soothing hand down Stiles’s arm before reaching down to pick up his phone and taking a quick picture.
“Can I have a shower now?”
“No.” Derek sent the text to Scott.
Stiles gave an exasperated sigh.
“We have to clean that out first.”
Five minutes later Stiles was shaky and sweating, lines of pain etched into his face as Derek helped him up from the couch.
“Are you okay?” Derek had to flex his hands to fight the tremble in his fingers. The sounds that had ripped their way out of Stiles’s mouth as Derek had held him down and poured peroxide over his wound would haunt him.
Stiles nodded weakly, wiping sweat from his upper lip with his good wrist.
“Okay.” Derek gathered up the old bandage and the peroxide and carried them into the kitchen. “You can shower now if you’d like—but keep your shoulder out of the water. And no soap,” he added as he dumped the gauze in the garbage.
“Alright.” But Stiles didn’t move from where he stood in the middle of the living room. Derek looked up, brow creased with worry.
“Is something wrong?”
Stiles shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet Derek’s eyes. “I don’t… I don’t want to be alone. Can you come with me?”
Derek nodded, an odd lump in his throat at the way Stiles hunched his shoulders defensively, like he expected Derek to refuse.
“Thanks,” Stiles relaxed slightly and followed Derek into the bathroom.
Derek had Stiles strip in the bedroom, handing him a large, fluffy towel and turning his back as Stiles clumsily worked his pants and boxers down over his hips. Once Stiles had the towel clutched around his waist, Derek scooped up the pile of clothes and placed them in his laundry basket. At Stiles’s quizzical look Derek shrugged. “I’ll wash them.
It was on the tip of Stiles’s tongue to call Derek ‘mom’ again, but he held back and let Derek lead him into the bathroom. Derek opened the glass door to the shower—which was huge, like everything in Derek’s loft—and turned the water on, adjusting the taps until he was satisfied with the temperature. Stepping back he took the towel Stiles handed to him, keeping his eyes steady on Stiles’s face, and moved aside so Stiles could ease into the spray.
Knowing he was getting water all over the floor but needing to ask before he closed the door, Stiles hesitated in the doorway. “You won’t leave?”
“I won’t leave,” Derek reassured him, leaning back against the sink and folding the towel to set it on the counter beside him. Stiles nodded and closed the door before moving fully under the spray—though careful to keep his left side out of the water as much as possible.
He winced as the water ran over his various scrapes and bruises, washing clean the blood that had dried on his skin. His fingernails were the worst, with Isaac’s blood dried under them. He tried not to think about how that blood had got there.
“Isaac’s okay, right? I didn’t hurt him too badly?” Stiles called over the spray.
Derek looked up from where he’d been checking his phone—Scott had replied to his picture text—and frowned. “He’s fine. Peter met up with him and Scott in the woods, and they rode herd on Isaac until the drug wore off. He’s completely healed,” Derek tried to keep the irritability he felt out of his voice. Stiles shouldn’t be worrying about how Isaac was doing; he should be worried about himself. But Scott’s mom had said that the claw marks wouldn’t need stitches, so that was something.
The glass panes of the shower had completely fogged up with heat and Stiles was a vague suggestion of pale skin behind them. It reminded Derek all too clearly of the first time Stiles had been in the loft and Derek had pictured what Stiles might look like in his shower. The thought had heat pooling sudden in Derek’s stomach and he quickly looked away, gritting his teeth. Stiles was recovering from a panic attack and had nearly been killed. What was wrong with him?
“Do you know how Isaac ingested the drug?” Derek’s voice was hoarser than he’d intended and he was glad that Stiles probably couldn’t tell through the sound of running water. He needed to focus on the fact that someone had been able to drug Isaac when the whole pack was on high alert. Not on how naked Stiles was.
“Yeah,” Stiles ducked his head under the spray and if Derek hadn’t had superhuman hearing he wouldn’t have caught a single word that followed. “It was in his water bottle. But I heard the seal break when he opened it, so I don’t know how. Unless,” he added thoughtfully “He used a syringe or something to inject it through the top.” Which would have been pretty smart, and meant that the pack would have to be even more careful about what they drank. Or ate. Could GHB be in food? “Any idea how to figure out who this guy is?” Stiles couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice.
“Peter’s looking into it.”
“Of course he is,” Stiles muttered under his breath. He didn’t trust Peter, but that was nothing new. Though strangely enough, this was the first time that the thought of Peter made his stomach clench with unease. The stress of the last couple days must be getting to him, because he couldn’t understand his odd reaction. He needed this whole thing with Mr. I-Like-Using-Werewolves-To-Murder-Innocent-People-Cause-I’m-A-Huge-Dick to be over. Like, now. And they were nowhere close to catching him. Stiles could feel the quick flutterings of panic start again in his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the pounding of the water against his skin. He needed something to distract him. Something to turn his brain firmly off so that he didn’t keep thinking about the huge looming threat that had nearly already killed him. Twice. And nearly turned him into a killer.
The next breath he took in was ragged and he reached forward to shut off the water with a trembling hand.
“Stiles?” Derek pushed up off the counter.
Stiles opened the shower door and stepped out. Derek averted his eyes and picked up the towel, handing it to Stiles. Stiles ignored it and pressed in so that he was standing only inches away from Derek.
“I need you to make me stop thinking.” Stiles met Derek’s gaze with whiskey gold eyes that were clear and earnest. “I need you to distract me.” He stepped closer and Derek swallowed as he felt the press of Stiles’s growing erection.
“I don’t think—” Derek broke off as Stiles reached between them to cup Derek’s rapidly hardening cock.
“Don’t think, Derek. Let’s just stop thinking, okay? I want you to,” Stiles licked his lips nervously, a flush rising in his cheeks, “I want you to fuck me until the only thought in my head is your name and I can’t even remember my own.”
Oh, Christ. Derek’s head fell back as Stiles’s fingers stroked over him through his jeans. The room was clouded with steam from the shower and the humidity amplified the scent of Stiles’s arousal until Derek felt like he was drowning in it. Stiles’s words echoed in his ears, I want you to fuck me until the only thought in my head is your name, and Derek groaned hopelessly as Stiles’s body pressed flush against his. Having ignored the offered towel, Stiles was dripping wet, and water soaked through Derek’s clothes in damp patches. Derek sucked in a shuddering breath and dropped the towel that he’d been holding, bringing up both hands to rest on Stiles’s naked hips.
“Are you sure?” His eyes were intent on Stiles’s face, searching.
Stiles nodded. “Please,” he murmured, gaze dropping to Derek’s lips.
Derek’s hands slid down Stiles’s back to cup his ass as his head dipped and his lips brushed lightly over Stiles’s. Stiles whimpered in the back of his throat and surged closer to Derek, his fingers digging into Derek’s hips as he tried to deepen the kiss. Derek licked teasingly at the corner of Stiles’s mouth, his tongue lingering over the broken skin where Stiles’s lip had split against the locker room floor.
Stiles’s eyes fell closed and he could feel a rush of shame heat his cheeks. He wasn’t like Scott or Isaac. He couldn’t just heal minutes after an injury and maybe Derek didn’t find the idea of having sex very appealing when Stiles was this battered and broken. Stiles started to pull back but Derek’s grip on his ass tightened, sending a shudder of pleasure through Stiles’s body. As though he’d read Stiles’s mind, Derek’s lips lifted to press a light kiss over the dark purple bruise on Stiles’s cheek.
“Come on.” Derek gave Stiles’s ass another squeeze before his hands came up and he linked their fingers.
Stiles could feel his breath hitch with anticipation as he let Derek lead him out of the bathroom and towards the bed.
Derek left Stiles sitting on the edge of the mattress and moved across the room to shove open the heavy blinds over the bank of windows on the far wall, flooding the room with the light of the nearly full moon. The moon was huge this time of the year, and Stiles felt the breath slide out of him in a soft rush as Derek pulled off his shirt, his muscles rippling easily under skin that glowed pale against the shadowy room. Stiles shifted backwards on the bed as Derek came towards him, letting his eyes trail down the thick line of hair on Derek’s belly that disappeared into his pants.
Derek gave a knowing smirk and brought his knees up to straddle Stiles where he sat, making Stiles shiver as Derek’s thighs caged him in. Stiles ran his hands up over Derek’s jeans to the button of his fly, but Derek caught Stiles’s wrists in a gentle grip, fingers so delicate on Stiles’s sprained left wrist that Stiles could barely feel them. Then Derek’s thumb slid lightly over the sensitive skin on the inside of Stiles’s wrist and somehow the touch went straight to Stiles’s groin. He squirmed under Derek, looking up to catch green eyes with his, a question unspoken in his gaze.
“You don’t get to touch.” Derek lowered Stiles’s hands back down to the bed sheets. Stiles frowned and opened his mouth to protest at this seriously unfair turn of events, but Derek shook his head. “If you move too much you’ll reopen the cuts, and a sprained wrist needs to be immobilized.” Stiles’s lips thinned and he looked away, hating the reminder of his stupidly fragile human body. “Hey,” Derek’s voice was stern as he cupped Stiles’s chin in his hand, forcing him to make eye contact. “You agree to this or we’re bandaging you up right now and you can get the sleep your body needs to heal.”
Stiles scowled mulishly, resentment hot in his gaze. But Derek lowered his head and pressed his open lips to Stiles’s in a slow, heated kiss. The wet slide of his tongue against Stiles’s entwined with the dull pain of his split lip when Derek became more insistent and Stiles couldn’t tell where one sensation stopped and the other began. Derek pulled back with one last gentle press of lips and met Stiles’s glazed eyes, his eyebrows raised as he waited for Stiles’s answer.
Stiles licked his lips, tasting Derek, and gave a nod of assent. “Alright. No touching.” His voice came out a little breathier than he’d intended, but that was Derek’s fault for kissing him senseless and then expecting a coherent reply.
Derek bent down and kissed him again, his hands running up over Stiles’s arms to cup Stiles’s face, tilting it back and holding Stiles still. Derek used lips and tongue and the slightest edge of teeth until Stiles had melted pliant beneath him, desire a slow rolling burn in his stomach. Stiles was making soft, incoherent noises of pleasure by the time Derek broke the kiss and his skin was flushed pink and hot. Derek pulled his hands from Stiles’s face to grip his hips and moved him further up the bed, pressing gently on his uninjured shoulder to get Stiles to lie back against the mattress.
Stiles watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Derek stood and removed his jeans, catching his tongue in his teeth at the sight of Derek completely naked. Derek’s cock was thick and full and Stiles let out a shuddering breath, anticipation tightening his skin. Derek moved back to the bed and Stiles parted his legs as Derek crawled up between them, skimming a hand up Stiles’s leg and over his ribs.
The heat of Derek’s skin pressed against his was a sensation Stiles never wanted to let go of and he arched up into it as Derek settled his weight carefully between Stiles’s legs. He could feel the hard length of Derek’s cock pressing into the curve of his hip and he thrust his own against the panes of Derek’s stomach. Derek splayed a hand over Stiles’s good shoulder and held him down against the mattress before dipping his head to swirl his tongue over Stiles’s nipple.
Stiles moaned and fought not to writhe, choosing instead to wrap his hands in Derek’s sheets to stop himself from reaching out to touch. Derek glanced up and grinned against Stiles’s skin.
“Good boy,” he scraped his teeth over Stiles’s nipple and watched as Stiles’s eyes rolled back into his head. “I know you want to move,” he dragged his tongue across Stiles’s chest to his other nipple, running his chin over the pebbled skin to see Stiles’s mouth part at the rasp of stubble on his sensitive flesh, “But you’re going to lie back,” he flattened his tongue and stroked it over the nipple to soothe the burn from his stubble, “and let me take care of you.”
He slid further down Stiles’s body, hands running possessively over Stiles’s pale flesh. “I promise,” he murmured with his lips in the hollow of Stiles’s hip, “I will take very good care of you.” Stiles went limp and boneless as Derek trailed his lips up the length of his cock and then slid his mouth down over it. Derek worked his mouth over Stiles until he could taste the sharpness of precome and then, with one last slow drag of his tongue, he pulled off.
“Derek,” Stiles protested weakly, his own tongue feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth as Derek rolled off the bed and walked over to the bedside table. Derek glanced down and bent over, pressing a bruising kiss to Stiles’s lips before he could form another protest. Stiles licked into Derek’s mouth and tried to bring a hand up to cup the back of Derek’s head and pull him closer, but Derek caught his wrist and lowered it back to the bed.
“I said, no touching.” Derek’s voice was stern and he pulled back.
Stiles flushed and bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”
Derek’s mouth softened and he pressed a chaste kiss to Stiles’s forehead. “Promise you’ll stay still. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”
Stiles nodded and Derek turned his attention back to the bedside table, where he opened the top drawer and pulled out the lube and a condom before returning to rest between Stiles’s legs, tossing the lube and condom to the bed beside them. Stiles could feel apprehension rise in his chest and his breathing came shallow. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Derek to fuck him, because he very, very much did. But he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, and he couldn’t help the jittery dance of nerves under his skin.
Derek was well aware of Stiles’s unease and he brought his lips down to brush light kisses along the inside of Stiles’s thigh, tongue slipping out to slide wetly over the few water droplets that remained on Stiles’s skin. Stiles hitched in a breath as Derek’s stubble scraped against him and his eyes slid closed as Derek’s hand stroked over his cock.
With his other hand, Derek pressed Stiles’s legs open wider, and Stiles tilted his hips up in unconscious invitation. Derek mouthed at the crease of Stiles’s thigh and his hand came down to spread Stiles open, his thumb stroking over Stiles’s exposed entrance. Stiles let out a needy breath and Derek tightened his grip over Stiles’s cock before running his tongue over the puckered hole. Stiles’s hips jerked and he had to remember to keep breathing as Derek licked over him, nuzzling closer and easing the tip of one finger into Stiles while his tongue moved hot and wet on the ring of muscle. All the while he continued to stroke Stiles’s cock in a tight fist.
“Derek,” Stiles could feel the muscles in his legs trembling as he fought to keep his legs open and spread and the rest of him still as Derek’s tongue delved inside of him. “Oh god, Derek, I’m gonna come if you don’t stop.” He could feel Derek grin against his skin and with a sharp nip at the curve of Stiles’s ass he pulled back. Stiles sagged back limp against the bed as Derek released his cock and reached for the small bottle of lube.
Stiles let out a long breath as Derek slicked his fingers with the lube. Derek’s pupils were blown wide with desire as he met Stiles’s gaze and Stiles felt a heady rush of pride at knowing he was responsible. Derek let his eyes wander down the length of Stiles’s body before they returned to meet Stiles’s. Stiles licked his lips and nodded, chest rising with a sharp intake of breath as Derek pressed a finger inside of him.
Stiles’s head fell back against the mattress as Derek’s finger curled, rubbing over his prostate. Pleasure twined with the burn of a second finger joining the first and he couldn’t help the thrust of his hips against Derek’s hand. His cock was hot and hard and flush against his stomach and he ached to feel Derek pressed on top of him, inside of him.
“Derek,” he broke off with a gasp, as Derek worked a third finger into him. The press and glide over that oh-so-sensitive spot inside of him sent lightning bolts of pleasure sparking over his body and made him writhe against the mattress, heedless of the pull on his torn shoulder. Stiles’s skin was slick with sweat and he arched up as Derek fucked his fingers slowly in and out. “Please, Derek.” Stiles bit at his lip to stop a moan from escaping, the sharpness of his teeth against the earlier split sending a confusing rush of pain that pooled with the pleasure and it felt like every nerve of his body was on fire. “I want to feel you inside of me,” he pleaded, focusing his eyes on Derek’s as those fingers continued to steadily take him apart and every breath was a broken, desperate gasp. “Please, please, please, please.”
Derek withdrew his fingers and reached for the condom, tearing open the package and carefully sliding it over his cock. He kept his gaze steady on Stiles’s as he slicked more lube over himself, his lips parting in a shuddering breath at the glide of his own hand on his cock. Stiles whined in the back of his throat and arched up, shameless and begging. Derek eased Stiles’s legs up and pressed close, a hand stroking soothingly down Stiles’s side as he used the other to line himself up with Stiles’s hole. He leaned down and slanted his lips over Stiles’s in a hot, wet kiss and pushed the head of his cock into Stiles’s body.
Stiles’s breath caught in his throat and he stilled at the sensation of Derek slowly, so slowly, easing himself into Stiles. Derek’s hand came between them and fisted Stiles’s cock in the same, achingly slow rhythm as he began to move his hips. Stiles groaned as Derek’s cock slid over his prostate and his legs tightened around Derek, trying to press him closer, trying to feel more of him. Derek bit off a curse and his forehead dropped to the bed beside Stiles, hips stuttering as he fought not to slam into Stiles over and over again.
When he finally bottomed out they both shuddered. Stiles moved desperately under Derek, making urgent greedy noises as Derek’s strokes over his cock became quicker. Derek’s thrusts sped up and he bit down on the curve of Stiles’s neck, teeth bruising over the wild beat of Stiles’s pulse.
Stiles’s entire body went rigid and Derek’s hand tightened around him, driving himself into Stiles as Stiles came with a sharp cry. The sensation of Stiles’s body clamping around him had Derek groaning against Stiles’s skin and as Stiles’s come spilled hot and wet over Derek’s hand he thrust as deep as he could, body thrumming, taut with his own orgasm as his cock pulsed inside of Stiles. His breath slid out in a rush and he let himself collapse bonelessly on top of Stiles, careful to keep his weight off the boy’s left side.
Derek could feel Stiles’s heart thundering against his chest and he knew his ragged breathing matched Stiles’s. He turned his head to press a light kiss over the bruise he’d bit into Stiles’s neck but before he could get too comfortable he made himself push up and carefully pull out of Stiles, who hissed at the burn as Derek’s softening cock withdrew. Pulling off the condom, Derek padded quickly into the bathroom and dropped it in the garbage before returning with a warm wash cloth to clean up the mess of come and lube he’d made of Stiles.
Stiles’s fought to keep his eyes open as Derek gently wiped him down, but his bones felt like they were made of lead and when Derek crawled up the bed and slid beside him he nuzzled against Derek’s chest. Derek pulled the sheets up over them and his arms wrapped around Stiles, dipping his head to give Stiles a slow, warm kiss that had Stiles purring in his throat, lax and sated with the afterglow of orgasm.
“Was that okay?” Derek asked, lips moving against the top of Stiles’s head as they lay back against the pillows, his hands stroking absently up and down Stiles’s arm.
“Well,” Stiles’s voice was thick with exhaustion, “I still remember my name.” He could feel Derek’s breath warm against his ear as the werewolf huffed out a laugh, and then Stiles slid unresistingly into sleep.
At some point in the night Derek had woken Stiles up and insisted he let Derek wrap his sprained wrist in a tensor bandage, and after that he had carefully taped another gauze pad over the gashes on Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles had mumbled something about how he should go home but Derek had just tucked him back under the covers and dropped a light kiss on his lips. “Stay,” he’d said. And Stiles had.
The next time Stiles woke up, sunlight was streaming through the still open blinds and he was alone in the bed. He stretched, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, before easing himself off the mattress and ducking into the bathroom to wash his face. His entire body ached. Some of the pain was a pleasant reminder of the events of last night, and the thought of that sent a warm curl of lust down Stiles’s spine. With any luck he could get a repeat of the performance once he found Derek. The rest of it, though, the rest of it just hurt. It looked terrible, too, he realized as he dried off his face and got a good look in the mirror.
The bruise on his cheek was vivid against his pale skin, and still quite sore he discovered as he prodded at it with a finger. His split lip looked worse than it felt, but he’d have to be careful not to reopen it. And he didn’t even want to look under the bandage on his shoulder. Seeing the deep gouges in his flesh yesterday had been bad enough—he was rather proud of himself for not fainting at the amount of blood he’d come in contact with yesterday—and he had no intention of pushing that luck any farther. He rolled his shoulder experimentally and winced as it pulled on the torn skin. At least it was his left arm and wrist that were out of commission. His right side was fine and he could function easily enough with only his right hand.
His clothes from yesterday sat neatly folded beside the sink, and if the fresh smell of laundry detergent was any indication, Derek had washed them for him. Stiles felt something inside his chest give at that, and the dorky grin on his face didn’t abate even as he wrestled painfully into his t-shirt, ignoring the flannel for now. Once he’d finished getting dressed he wandered out of the bedroom in search of Derek and hopefully a large, hot mug of coffee, tossing the flannel shirt into his tattered gym bag in the living room.
The kitchen was empty, but there were two steaming mugs on the island. After trying them both, Stiles figured that his was probably the one with the generous helping of sugar. He tried not to read too much into the fact that Derek remembered how he took his coffee, and distracted himself by taking a large bite out of the bagel half sitting on a plate next to Derek’s mug. It was smothered with cream cheese and Stiles moaned with pleasure through his mouthful. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday and hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
As he wolfed down the rest of the bagel he could hear Derek’s voice coming from outside of the door to the loft, and Stiles leaned over trying to hear the conversation. Derek must have been on the phone, because Derek’s voice was the only one Stiles heard. He was speaking too low for Stiles to make out anything that he was saying, so Stiles shrugged and went back to his coffee, wondering if there were more bagels and if it would be terribly rude of him to just help himself. He was about to hop off his stool and do exactly that when he suddenly realized there was an open laptop on the counter top beside him. Man, he must have been way starving not to have noticed that. The screen was black but the soft humming of the fan told him that the computer was asleep, not turned off.
Stiles eyed it. If he wasn’t sure that helping himself to breakfast was rude, he definitely knew snooping on Derek’s computer would be. But, a thought struck him, what if he could find the super secret werewolf website that he’d been dying to get a look at? What if he could figure out Derek’s username? That might just be worth the look of stern disapproval he knew he’d see on Derek’s face when he came back into the kitchen, because Derek would be annoyed and then Stiles could make him more annoyed by making fun of whatever dorky nickname he’d chosen—and Stiles was certain it’d be dorky—and then maybe he could convince Derek that the best way to shut him up would be to have sex. And then Stiles could have sex. Again. Stiles really, really liked sex. Sex with Derek was definitely a reason that he should snoop.
Feeling totally justified in his actions, Stiles dragged the laptop closer and ran his fingers over the touchpad to wake it up. The screen came to life and Stiles had to stifle the whoop of joy he wanted to make because he was definitely looking at the super secret werewolf message board. With one last guilty glance at the half-closed door where Derek was still on the phone, Stiles hunched over the screen and began to read.
Derek had left the page open on his private messages—Stiles noticed the username ‘HaleStorm’ and had to bite his fist to smother a laugh. ‘HaleStorm’, seriously? Oh god he was going to bug Derek about this. It was even lamer than he’d imagine. His eyes dropped farther down the screen to a message from ‘IAmNotWhatIAm’ to ‘HaleStorm’ that had been sent on Sunday.
As per our conversation yesterday, I’ve copied and pasted the text of the post I believe supports my theory about who or what it is we’re facing.
March 8, 2012
l0newulf77: Going 2 B passing through Three Hills NV next wkend, any1 know a good bar for a thirsty wolf?
HowlingHotT: Try Jo’s Roadhouse. The crowd is rough, the beer is cold, and they never ask too many questions.
l0newulf77: Thx HowlingHotT. Hope 2 C U there.
The bar they are discussing is the one where the first incident occurred, and ‘HowlingHotT’ is the wolf that was killed. She replied to this post a week before it happened, and ‘l0newulf77’ has not posted anything since then. Which is strange, because he appears to log on every other day, and before this conversation with ‘HowlingHotT’ he was online an average of once every other week, with a gap of two months just prior to this post.
I think this is conclusive evidence that we’re looking at another werewolf, and that it’s most likely ‘l0newulf77’.
Stiles’s eyes darted up to the date stamp on the message. Derek had had this information since Sunday morning and he hadn’t said anything? Stiles knew that two days might not seem like that long, but maybe if Derek had said something on Sunday they could have prevented what had happened last night with Isaac. Stiles could have bribed Danny to trace the IP address of this ‘l0newulf77’ and they could have already found out where he was.
Stiles was beginning to feel sick to his stomach and he swallowed back a mouthful of bile. If Derek had bothered to share this with the pack, Stiles might not have had to hurt Isaac. He wouldn’t be covered in bruises and claw marks and feeling like a monster for what he’d been ready to do. If Derek had just told them, Stiles would never have had to say what he’d said to Danny.
He pushed the laptop away with hands that had gone cold, a stark contrast to the hot and jagged ball of anger that knotted in his gut.
“Good morning,” Derek’s easy tone belied the steel in his gaze as he noted the changed position of the laptop and the erratic beat of Stiles’s pulse.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Stiles rose from the island, his voice flat. “Why didn’t you tell us you knew who he was, that you knew he was a werewolf?”
Derek’s jaw clenched. “Because that’s exactly it, I didn’t know. I still don’t know.”
“Peter seems pretty convinced.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “So now you trust Peter?”
“I trust that Peter wants to save his own skin.” Stiles’s eyes were dark with anger and he moved around the island to face Derek.
Derek ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s exactly why I didn’t say anything—why would another werewolf be doing this? It doesn’t make any sense. Until we know more—”
“You knew enough.” Stiles cut him off, betrayal written in every line of his body. “Someone could have died yesterday because of you.”
“Stiles,” Derek took a step forward and reached out but Stiles flinched away and he let his hand drop back to his side.
“You had no right to keep this to yourself!” Stiles’s cheeks were flushed and he could feel tears of rage burning at the corners of his eyes.
“I’m the Alpha. I have every right.” There was a dangerous growl in Derek’s voice.
“Not my Alpha,” Stiles spat. “And not Scott’s. And,” he stepped up so that he and Derek were eye to eye. “I’d be willing to bet you’re not Isaac’s either. Not after he finds out you could have stopped this.”
Derek’s hands flexed at his sides and he fought to keep them from turning into sharp, clawed points. Every instinct in his body urged him to tear into Stiles until he forced the boy’s submission, forced him to acknowledge Derek as Alpha. But Stiles wasn’t a wolf and Derek couldn’t punish his insubordination. Stiles was human, and ignorant at that. “Since you’re not pack, then I guess none of this is your problem.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t pack. I said I wasn’t your pack. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go let my pack know exactly what it is we’re up against.” Stiles shoved past Derek to grab his torn gym bag from where he’d dropped it beside the couch, before walking out the door and down the stairs.
Derek’s mouth was full of fangs and he took several rapid breaths trying to bring himself back under control. He heard the elevator start and with a snarl hurled one of the coffee mugs against the wall.
Stiles dropped his gym bag on the curb and sat down beside it, his head in his hands. He regretted saying what he had to Derek. He knew that Derek only ever had the packs’ best interests at heart, and despite what he’d just said, he and Scott and Isaac were Derek’s pack. That didn’t mean that Derek was the authority on all matters, like he seemed to think he was, but it did mean the six of them (counting Allison and Lydia), were all sharing the same crappy boat. Though he couldn’t deny the fact that Derek had the most experience out of all of them, it didn’t mean that Derek could just keep important shit to himself.
Stiles rubbed a hand over his face and turned his attention to the battered scraps of fabric that remained of his gym bag. There was no sense keeping it when it was in this bad a shape. He pulled out the EpiPen of ketamine, his wallet, and his phone, and stuffed them into his pockets. Lastly he grabbed his flannel shirt and shoved the now empty bag into a nearby dumpster. He’d walk back to the school and pick up his car, and then after he got home and dealt with his dad—who hopefully hadn’t noticed Stiles missing last night—he’d text Derek and apologize for being a dick. Hopefully Derek would echo the sentiment and they could focus on catching the douchebag who’d drugged Stiles and Isaac. And maybe Stiles could come up with some sort of plausible explanation for how horrible he’d been to Danny, without having to out any of the werewolves. Oh, and since it was Tuesday hopefully he’d have time to do all of the above and still manage to make it back to school in time for the Chem test he had last period.
He tossed the shirt over his shoulder and headed towards the street. He’d almost made it out of the alleyway when he paused, sure that he’d heard footsteps behind him. Thinking that maybe it was Derek following him out he started to turn, but there was a sudden, blinding pain in the back of his skull and Stiles found himself crumpling to the asphalt as his vision blurred and blacked out.
Stiles’s head felt like it was split in two and he couldn’t summon the energy to lift it from where it lolled against his chest. His mouth was dry, he was freezing, and he couldn’t figure out why his arms weren’t working. He blinked slowly, eyes taking several moments to focus. Without raising his head he couldn’t see much other than his own legs and he debated simply closing his eyes again and letting himself fall back into sleep, or unconsciousness. Okay, he probably shouldn’t do that. If unconsciousness was an option it was a sure bet he was in pretty deep shit and he should pull himself together and figure out what was going on.
Resigned, he gritted his teeth and raised his head, swallowing against the sickening pain the movement caused. The room he was in looked familiar, but his brain was moving too sluggishly to make the connection. The walls were cement; the floor a dusty tile that looked like it had seen better days. He could see a small barred window high on the wall beside him and he felt a sudden chill as he realized the soft rosy glow of the sky outside meant that it was sunset.
The last thing Stiles remembered was sitting on the curb outside of Derek’s. And that had been no later than 10am. Only now it had to be at least 7pm if the sun was setting, which meant he’d been out of it for nine hours. What the fuck had happened?
Stiles tried to get up and had to bite back a yelp of pain at the pull on his injured shoulder. He sagged back into the chair and as the pain eased he realized that his hands were tied behind him to one of the metal rungs of the chair’s back. He moved his feet experimentally and discovered that they too were zip-tied to the chair. Great. He went back to studying the room. He knew it looked familiar. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn’t figure it out. The only light came from a big camping lantern that sat in the middle of the floor several feet in front of him, casting a bright white glow in a large circle. He couldn’t see much past it; only the suggestion of what might be desks or shelves.
Stiles froze and someone stepped out of the darkness on the other side of the room.
“I didn’t want to hurt you. When you didn’t wake up I was worried I’d hit you too hard.” The relief in the man’s voice seemed at odds with the fact that he’d apparently kidnapped Stiles and was keeping him tied to a chair in some sort of abandoned building.
As the man came closer the light reflected against the lenses of his glasses and Stiles had a sudden, lurching sense of déjà vu. Was this ‘l0newulf77’?
“Hello?” The man waved his hand in front of Stiles’s face and crouched down so that they were eye to eye. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Four. Plus a thumb.” Stiles’s voice was scratchy and he coughed, trying to clear his throat.
“Hang on.” The man pushed himself to his feet and disappeared outside the circle of light, returning with a bottle of water that he opened and held to Stiles’s lips. Stiles jerked his head back and pressed his mouth closed. Like hell he was drinking anything this guy tried to give him.
The man gave a wry grin. “It’s not drugged. Look,” he tilted the bottle back and took a long drink before offering it again to Stiles. Stiles hesitated a second before reluctantly nodding and allowing the man to hold it up to his lips so he could take a couple swallows.
The water was cool and sweet on his lips and he didn’t think he’d ever tasted anything so good. He tried not to feel too disappointed when the man set the bottle down on the floor and returned to his crouched position on Stiles’s right. Stiles could see the butt of a gun sticking out from the man’s waistband.
“How are you feeling?” The man’s blue eyes were earnest and full of concern from behind his glasses.
“I’d feel a lot better if you’d untie me.” Stiles didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“I can’t do that,” the man said, patting Stiles’s knee. “We have to talk first.”
Stiles flexed his hands. The man hadn’t taken off the tensor bandage when he’d tied Stiles up, so if Stiles could just work the bandage down over his wrist and off his hand, he’d have enough room that he might be able to pull his hand free. “Talk about what?”
“Well, why you’re here, of course.”
Oookay. This was bizarre. Stiles worked carefully with the fingers of his right hand to undo the bandage, trying to limit the movements of his arm so the man wouldn’t see what he was doing. “Listen, buddy. I don’t know what is going on in your werewolf brain but—” he broke off as the man started to laugh. Oh, boy. Definitely crazy.
“Sorry,” the man wiped at his eyes, still chuckling. “I’m not a monster, I don’t know why you’d think that.”
Stiles kept his gaze sharp on the man’s, mind racing as he tried to connect the dots here, all the while continuing to gather the unraveled bandage in his right hand. He just needed to keep this guy talking for a bit longer…. “But the website; aren’t you ‘lonewolf77’?” Stiles kept his gaze sharp on the man’s as he subtly shifted his leg, checking to see if he could feel the press of his phone in his right hand pocket. He had to force himself to keep up his expression of puzzled interest in the man when he realized it wasn’t there and felt a surge of frustration.
“Yes, and no. The pseudonym isn’t mine, but I’ve been using it.” He sat back on his heels, his tone pleasant and conversational like he and Stiles were chatting over dinner and not in some secret lair with Stiles tied to a chair.
Stiles shifted his left leg this time and felt the press of the EpiPen against his leg. He fought back a swelling of triumph. The tensor bandage was now completely unraveled, and he held it tightly in his right hand so it wouldn’t show.
“It’s quite clever, that website, isn’t it?” The man continued. “You wouldn’t believe how helpful it’s been to me.”
Stiles gritted his teeth at the bite of the zip tie as he pulled against it. He could feel blood running down his skin. There was just enough room that he could yank his hand free, but he’d lose some skin in the process. He could feel sweat beading on his upper lip and he fought to keep his eyes steady and clear so the pain wouldn’t show. “It’s a good website,” he said, tone even as his hand finally came free with one last sharp burst of pain. “And, sorry if this is a stupid question,” Stiles wasn’t sorry at all, “Who are you?”
“Oh!” The man sounded surprised and he held out his hand as if to shake Stiles’s, only realizing at the last second that Stiles’s hands were tied behind his back. He chuckled again. “I’m Ray. Ray Simmons.”
Stiles slid his hand carefully around to his side, angling his body towards where Ray crouched on his right to hide the movement as he reached into his pocket. “Hi, Ray. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but…” His fingers finally pulled the EpiPen into his hand. Stiles didn’t wait for Ray’s response. He just jerked his hand out of his pocket, flicked the safety cap off the EpiPen and swung it towards Ray’s body.
Ray moved more quickly than Stiles had hoped, blocking Stiles’s arm with his own. Stiles swore and swung again but Ray’s fingers clamped down on his wrist. The pressure on his wrist, which was already sprained and was now lacerated from the zip tie, made Stiles cry out in pain and he was forced to drop the EpiPen.
“That,” Ray said calmly as his fingers tightened, digging into Stiles’s skin. “Wasn’t very nice.” He released Stiles’s wrist only to viciously backhand the boy, sending him slumping back into the chair. Ray pulled another zip tie from his pocket and stood, walking around behind Stiles to yank his left arm back and refasten it to the chair, pulling on the tie tight enough that Stiles could feel his fingers begin to go numb.
A bruise was forming on the left side of Stiles’s face to match the one on his right cheek, and Stiles worked his jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken.
Ray bent down to pick up the EpiPen, slipping the safety cap back on. “Why do you have this? And what exactly were you planning to do with it?”
“It’s full of ketamine. I was going to tranq your psycho murdering ass—”
“Ketamine?” Ray interrupted him. “Why on earth do you have an EpiPen full of ketamine?”
“Well, with some brainless, spineless moron going around drugging werewolves you never know when you might need to knock one out,” Stiles seethed, struggling against the ties at his feet.
“Does it really work?” Ray asked curiously.
“Yes,” Stiles gritted out. “And believe me there’s enough in there to take down a bull elephant so when I get out of here I am going to see how long it takes to kill you. ‘cause I’m betting less than three minutes.”
“Stiles,” Ray’s voice was a stern reprimand. “There’s no need for that kind of talk. I’m not going to kill you. I don’t even want to hurt you!”
“Then what do you want?” Stiles couldn’t keep the impatience out of his voice.
“I want to talk to you, and then when I’m done we’re going to invite a friend of yours to join us. Which reminds me,” Ray reached into a pocket and pulled out Stiles’s phone, holding it up to snap a picture of Stiles bound to the chair. “I might need something to convince him of the seriousness of this situation,” he said by way of explanation, sliding the phone back into his pocket.
Derek moved soundlessly through the dark building. For the second time in as many days he could smell the mingled scent of Stiles’s blood and fear, and he didn’t stop the lengthening of his teeth into fangs or the shifting of the bones in his fingers to claws. This was it. This was where he’d meet the person responsible, and this was where that person would die. Derek didn’t care if they were human or were or some other creature that he’d never heard of. They would not leave this building alive.
After Stiles had stormed out of his loft that morning, Derek had spent the next several hours online trying to learn everything he could about ‘l0newulf77’. When he’d come up with nothing new he’d cleaned the entire place, reorganized his music collection, and, when making a chicken pie still hadn’t cleared his head, he’d decided to go for a run. That was when he’d found Stiles’s flannel shirt lying abandoned in the alleyway and when he’d realized something was very wrong. He’d yanked out his phone and called Scott, who’d said he hadn’t seen Stiles all day and had simply assumed Stiles had stayed with Derek. Derek’s blood had run cold with fear and he’d felt lightheaded at the realization that someone had taken Stiles. Someone had taken Stiles from right outside of Derek’s place, by the look of it, and had had Stiles for hours by the time Derek had realized he was missing.
But whoever had done it hadn’t counted on Derek being able to track Stiles’s scent—another reason they couldn’t be a werewolf, a part of Derek’s brain insisted—and so less than an hour after Derek had found Stiles’s shirt, he’d found Stiles.
His throat rippled with a low growl as he neared the room where Stiles’s scent was strongest. Not loud enough to be heard, but a steady vibration that he couldn’t suppress. He could see light pouring out from the open doorway. Stiles’s heartbeat sounded loud and frantic in his ears, accompanied by a steadier, slower pulse. Derek’s nostrils flared and all he smelled was human. Human and gun oil, and he knew it wasn’t Stiles’s father in the room with him.
Derek’s lips curled over his fangs in a snarl and he stepped into the room.
“Sorry,” his voice was thick and gravelly as he spoke around the fangs. “I didn’t realize I’d be getting my own invitation.”
Stiles made a choked noise in his throat but before he could do anything else the stranger—an unremarkable middle-aged man—had shifted to stand behind Stiles. He was holding Stiles’s EpiPen in his hand and he flicked off the cap, holding the needle to Stiles’s neck.
Derek’s vision swam red and he flexed his clawed hands as he moved into the circle of light.
“Ah, ah, ah,” the man chided. “I’ve just been informed that there’s enough ketamine in here to kill a human in three minutes or less, so unless you’d like me to test that theory….”
“He’s not gonna—” Stiles started to shout, but the man’s free hand clamped down over Stiles’s mouth, yanking his head back and exposing more of his throat. Stiles’s eyes were hot and furious when they met Derek’s.
“I’m here.” Derek pulled his gaze off of Stiles and focused on the man. “What do you want?”
“I’d like you to put those away.” The man nodded at Derek’s claws.
Derek closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them they’d returned to their usual green, and his teeth were blunt and human in his mouth. He spread his very human hands. “Anything else?”
The man waggled the EpiPen at Stiles’s neck. “I suppose you thought this was a pretty smart idea,” his tone was mild.
“Not my idea,” Derek returned, voice just as bland. “Stiles’s.”
“Really?” There was a note of surprise in the man’s voice and he looked down at Stiles with something akin to pride. “Well, I’m impressed. He almost got me with it, you know. Bright boy. Much too bright to have his life cut short by your kind.”
“From where I’m standing, you’re the only one who’s trying to do that.”
The man gave a rueful laugh. “I suppose that’s what this looks like, doesn’t it? But don’t worry. I have no intentions of killing the boy. But,” he raised his voice slightly as Derek tensed and looked ready to attack. “That doesn’t mean I won’t hurt him if I have to.” He removed his hand from Stiles’s mouth and pulled the gun out of his waistband, resting it against the back of Stiles’s wounded shoulder. “Don’t make me hurt him.”
Derek swallowed past the ragged edges of his fury and forced himself to stand down. Stiles made an angry noise in his throat and tried to jerk away from the gun. His eyes hadn’t left Derek’s face once, and now they were dark with anger. Derek could tell that Stiles wanted him to rush the guy, but he couldn’t risk getting Stiles any more hurt than he already was. Stiles’s body had taken enough of a beating the last couple days, there was no way Derek was letting anything else happen if he could prevent it. He met Stiles’s gaze with his own, his eyes calm and steady.
“Kill him, Derek.” Stiles’s voice was hard and unforgiving, knowing Derek wouldn’t listen to him and hating him for it.
Derek and the man ignored Stiles. “Tell me what you want.” he couldn’t prevent the edge of impatience to his words.
“I just want you to be yourself.” The man smiled and Derek felt a chill run down his spine. Ray glanced down at his watch and sighed. “Unfortunately, you’ve shown up a little early. Stiles and I here haven’t even had a chance to talk. So I’m going to have to adjust my plans.” He tossed the EpiPen to Derek, who caught it easily. “Inject yourself.”
Stiles went wild, yanking viciously at the ties as the man’s hand came down again over his mouth and his muffled shouts filled the room. He was bleeding through the pad of gauze on his shoulder that Derek had applied earlier that day, and as his struggles continued Ray moved the butt of the gun to the front of Stiles’s body and dug it into the wound. Stiles’s face went white with pain and his shout turned into a strangled scream.
“Stiles,” Derek took an abortive step forward, his own face pale. Stiles sagged back in the chair. “It’ll be okay.” Stiles shook his head, eyes desperate and pleading as they met Derek’s.
Derek made to press the needle against his thigh but the man cut him off.
“No, I want to see it go into your skin. Take off your jacket and inject it in your arm.” Ray was not going to take any risks. He had his safety to think about. And the boy’s.
Derek obeyed, sliding the leather jacket off and placing it on the ground before he stood up again, holding the pen against his left bicep. “Is this alright?”
Ray nodded, and Derek pushed the needle into his skin. Stiles made a choked cry of protest, vision blurring in angry tears.
Derek fell to his knees, his eyes steady on Stiles’s until they slowly lost their focus and he swayed. The EpiPen dropped from his hand and he crumpled to the floor.
“Wonderful.” Ray tucked the gun back into his waistband and patted Stiles’s shoulder. “That was quite painless for all of us. Your ketamine was very helpful.”
“Fuck you,” Stiles said bitterly, and Ray tutted.
“If you’re going to keep using that kind of language, I’m going to have to gag you. And I don’t want to gag you, Stiles, I really don’t. I want us to be friends.”
Stiles swallowed his next remark and forced himself to nod meekly. As long as Stiles could still talk he might be able to convince Ray to untie him, and then if he untied Stiles, Stiles might have a shot at getting the gun away from him. And if Ray happened to get shot in the struggle for it, well, it’d be no skin off Stiles’s back.
Stiles fought not to look at Derek’s limp body on the floor and to keep his attention on Ray instead.
“Stiles, I can call you Stiles, can’t I?”
“I’m sorry, I know that’s presumptuous. It’s just after watching you for the last week I feel like I already know you.”
This dude had been watching him? Creepy. Very creepy. Stiles tried not to let his unease at that statement show, but Ray seemed to guess at his train of thought.
“I know how that sounds,” Ray spread his arms apologetically. “But I couldn’t figure it out after the carnival. You’re human and you know what they are. How can you stand to be around them?”
“Yes,” Ray sounded impatient. “You said they were your friends.”
He had? Stiles could have sworn he’d never had a conversation with this guy in his life.
“But you know what they are. They’re monsters, and you don’t make friends with the monsters.” Ray’s voice was cold and his gaze on Stiles was accusing.
Stiles swallowed, he didn’t want to antagonize Ray with Derek lying helpless on the floor behind him, but he needed to keep Ray talking for long enough that either the ketamine wore off or someone (Scott? Isaac? Allison? Lydia?) found them. “One of them was my best friend before he was turned. He’s still the same guy, now he’s just… hairier.”
“No!” Ray’s fists clenched. “They’re not the same. They’re not people anymore. They’re not human like you or I.” Ray’s voice gentled, like it wasn’t Stiles’s fault he hadn’t figured out that on his own. “I know they look like us, most of the time, but I promise you they’re not.” He rubbed a hand over his face and then turned to look at Derek, giving another heavy sigh. “You know, he really screwed up my plans.”
Fear tightened Stiles’s throat. “He’ll be out for a while, the ketamine is really effective. We can still talk.”
“Yes, well,” Ray turned back to Stiles with an amused smile. “I want to trust you Stiles, but I’m not an idiot.” Ray looked at Derek for a moment, considering, before heading out of the circle of light. Stiles could hear him moving around and he strained his eyes trying to see what Ray was doing. Then Ray flicked on another lantern, lighting up the rest of the room. Seeing it, Stiles realized where he was, and felt like an idiot for not cluing in sooner. Ten years ago they’d built a new Sheriff’s office—the one his dad currently used—but before that they’d used this building. Since the move it had, like so many other places in Beacon Hills, remained vacant. He and Scott used to sneak back inside and play special ops as kids.
He sucked in a quick breath, and his gaze darted back to Derek. This was not good.
“That’s uh, sure a lot of wires,” Stiles commented, focusing back on Ray and the half a dozen generators scattered around the floor.
“Yes, well you should see the effect that electricity has onthem.”
Stiles remembered Boyd and Erica hanging from the Argents’s ceiling and the despair in their eyes. Thanks to the Argents they were all too familiar with what an electric current could do to a werewolf. His chest tightened at the thought of Ray making Derek endure something like that after all he’d been through with Kate, and when he spoke again his voice was unsteady. “Please don’t hurt him.”
Ray turned back to look at Stiles, sighing. “He’s an evil creature. You need to remember that. But,” he continued as Stiles opened his mouth again “I am not going to hurt him any more than I have to.”
Great, what did that mean? What was Ray trying to do here anyway? He was currently attaching the generators to the metal bars of a cell. Stiles wasn’t a moron, he got that Ray was planning on containing Derek, but why? This had obviously been set up before Derek had shown up early, so he’d always been planning on caging Derek. Stiles couldn’t figure it out. Everything Ray had said made it sound like he either wanted werewolves dead, or rabid in the middle of a crowded place. This was not a crowded place. And if he wanted Derek dead—Stiles’s jaw clenched at the thought—he’d have no easier a time to do it than now.
“What are you going to do?”
Ray had finished attaching the wires and was heading back to where Derek lay. Derek’s chest rose slowly as he breathed and Stiles flinched as Ray bent down in front of the werewolf. Ray glanced over at Stiles. “You need to understand what they are. This isn’t about me. This is about you.”
“About me?” Stiles couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
Ray grasped Derek’s wrists and began to haul him back towards the open cell. “Yes.” He grunted with the effort of dragging Derek’s dead weight. “You’re caught up in this and you think it’s exciting. You don’t realize that they aren’t like well-trained dogs. They’re monsters and they’re dangerous.”
For a moment, Stiles forgot his fear, for himself, for Derek, and just felt offended. He wasn’t some sort of naïve kid. He knew werewolves weren’t puppies. He opened his mouth to say exactly that but stopped, thinking better of it. Obviously Ray wanted, maybe needed, Stiles to try and see his monstrous version of the werewolves. Was this whole thing really about saving Stiles?
He chose his next words carefully, keeping his gaze steady and level on Ray and refusing to allow himself to glance down at Derek.
“I understand what you’re saying. They can be dangerous. I know that. Isaac wasn’t the first of them to try and kill me.” He paused, licked his lips. “But they can control themselves. They just need to learn how.”
Ray had pulled Derek all the way into the cell and he stepped over the werewolf’s unconscious body on the way out, closing and latching the door behind him. His eyes were hard when they met Stiles’s. “No, you’re wrong. They’re mindless animals with nothing inside of them but the need to kill.”
Stiles frowned, a thought gnawing at him. “How do you know about them? How did you find out they exist?”
Ray rubbed a hand over his face and looked away. He grabbed a chair from one of the dust-covered desks and dragged it over to set it in front of Stiles before sitting down and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “My wife was a cop. She responded to a call about underage drinking, kids doing drugs. And one of them bit her.” He twisted at the gold wedding band on his finger and Stiles felt a dawning sense of horror. “She said this girl was berserk, just went nuts and Connie—that was her name—Connie had to shoot her when she attacked another of the kids.” Ray shrugged. “They tested her blood, her hair, everything, and the only thing in her system was alcohol and some GHB. They couldn’t explain her reaction. Connie hated herself for shooting that girl. But,” he continued, voice hardening. “It was the right thing. It was a few weeks later when it happened. We were all home, Connie and me and Jeremy. That was our son, Jeremy.”
Oh no. Stiles had a pretty good idea of where this was going and he felt ill, sick to his stomach. When you had a family member in law enforcement you worried about them, always. A constant low-level thrum of fear that they wouldn’t come back after each shift, that every unexpected phone call or knock at the door would be a somber pair of uniforms telling you they would never come back. He couldn’t imagine the terror Ray must have felt when Connie shifted. When she attacked.
“He would have been about your age now. Getting ready to graduate. Maybe a girlfriend, or two.” Ray gave a forced smile. “He would have been a real good-looking kid, you know?”
“I’m sorry.” Stiles couldn’t hide the pity in his voice as he met Ray’s eyes, wondering how different his own life would have been if instead of Ray’s wife answering the call, it had been Stiles’s dad. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“She wasn’t Connie. Not anymore. It wasn’t Connie who—” Ray’s voice broke, “Who tore our little boy to shreds. That was a monster wearing Connie’s face. They’re all monsters wearing peoples’ faces. You see that now, don’t you?”
Stiles’s eyes shifted past Ray to where Derek lay, still unmoving, on the floor of the cell and whatever pity he felt for Ray dissolved. What happened to Ray had been unimaginably awful, but no matter how sad his story was, his actions were inexcusable. Derek’s entire family had been burned alive by a group of humans. A group of humans who were fully conscious of their actions and completely without regret. Derek could have taken all that hate and rage inside of him and lashed out, used his supernatural strength to exact revenge on any human that crossed his past. But he hadn’t. He’d risked his life on more than one occasion to save Stiles, or Lydia, or Allison. Derek had suffered in ways Stiles couldn’t fathom and, despite that, Derek never once acted out of hate.
“No.” Stiles focused back on Ray, his voice cold. “No.”
“I hoped you would after I dosed that young one on your team,” Ray sounded disappointed and Stiles fought to keep the anger he felt off his face. No matter how he felt, he had to keep Ray talking, keep Ray thinking he had a chance to change Stiles’s mind.
“How did you know who Isaac was?”
“That website of theirs. I never would have accomplished so much without it.” Ray rose and walked over to one of the desks, returning with the laptop. He moved his chair so he was sitting beside Stiles and opened the laptop, pulling up the website.
“Do you know it’s got the location of every single one of them in America? Even the lone ones. And even the ones who don’t have their own profiles set up are listed in the database.” Ray scrolled through and Stiles felt a jolt as he saw Derek Hale (A), Peter Hale, Scott McCall, and Isaac Lahey listed in the California section under Beacon Hills.
“How did you find out about it?” He remembered the cajoling it had taken to get Derek to admit the message board existed. There was no way a werewolf had just given Ray the URL.
“After what happened, well, I was a mess.” Ray closed the laptop and turned to Stiles. “But I realized that I had to do something. Killing the thing that Connie turned into wasn’t enough, because this would keep happening until people realized that they existed and the threat they posed. So,” his eyes gleamed. “I found one.”
“You found a werewolf?”
“Yes. What they call an ‘Omega’. It was his profile that I used on the site.”
“There’s no way he just told you about it.” As soon as the words had left his mouth Stiles wished he could take them back. He didn’t want to know what Ray had done.
“No, that took a little… persuading. It’s so fascinating how easily they heal, don’t you think? It took a great deal of time and effort to figure out what worked best.”
Stiles felt himself go pale. “You tortured him.”
“You have to stop thinking of them like they’re human.” Ray shook his head. “I learned a lot from Nicholas. By the end of it he told me everything. Though interestingly he had no idea about the effect GHB had on his kind. I suppose I was lucky, in a sense, that Connie helped discover that.”
“So, you decided to try and reveal them?”
“Yes.” Ray met Stiles’s eyes. “People need to know.”
“You killed humans, innocent humans.”
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” Ray insisted. “But people need to understand the danger! They need to see for themselves that the monster under the bed is real, and just because it looks like their wife or their brother or their best friend,” he paused with a meaningful look at Stiles. “It’s not and it needs to be put down.”
“Like the family dog that’s gone rabid,” Stiles suggested, tonelessly.
“Exactly.” Ray looked pleasantly surprised that Stiles had caught on.
“How many have you drugged? We—I—” he corrected hastily “Knew about three. Were there more?”
Ray smiled and he looked so nice and normal, exactly like the friendly, slightly dorky neighbourhood dad that Stiles was sure he had been, that the whole situation felt surreal.
“Five, in total.” Ray sighed. “It’s been harder than I thought for people to understand exactly what happened though. They keep reporting them as people having violent reactions to illegal drugs.” He looked frustrated.
Stiles snorted. Wasn’t that the truth.
“I thought seeing the young one, Isaac, for what he truly was would be enough to convince you of my cause. But after that you went home with one of them, with the Alpha!” Ray sounded hurt and Stiles’s gaze darted back to Derek for a split second, but the werewolf remained limp and unmoving. He looked back at Ray and pictured slamming his head into the ground over and over again until it split like an overripe melon. “I realized it was going to take more than that to get you to understand.”
Stiles clenched his jaw and twisted his hands desperately behind his back, ignoring how much any movement hurt his lacerated wrists. He’d gotten out once, he could do it again. He had to do it again. “You’re going to get yourself killed, you know that, right? This doesn’t have a happy ending for you.”
“Stiles, please.” Ray shook his head.
“I’m sorry about what happened with your wife, I really am.” Stiles’s voice hardened. “But that was an accident. She was never meant to be turned so she didn’t have an Alpha looking out for her. Their Alphas help them control it, so what happened to you doesn’t happen to anyone else.” He swallowed, eyes returning unbidden to Derek. “Derek knows how to control himself. He was born like this. He’s always been like this.” Please let him go.
“Then he’s always been a monster,” Ray said simply, “And you’re just refusing to see that.”
“I’m not!” Stiles couldn’t help the anger in his voice. “I know what he is, I know who he is. He’s a better person than I am and he’s not going to hurt anyone. None of the werewolves in Beacon Hills are.” Well, okay, Peter probably would, but that was a whole other problem and there was no way he was getting into that with Ray. “Please,” he entreated, “Just leave us alone.”
“Stop saying that!” Ray stood and gripped Stiles’s shoulders with iron fingers. “Stop acting like you’re one of them!”
“I am one of them!” Stiles shouted back, forgetting caution in his fury. “I don’t grow fangs and claws and unfortunate sideburns, but I’m just as much pack as they are.”
Ray shook him, eyes dark with rage before he stepped back, fists clenching at his sides. “I’m going to show you what he really is and after that you’re going to realize that you’re wrong. And you’re going to thank me.”
Stiles snorted with derision. “You’re delusional.”
Ray’s eyes narrowed from behind his glasses and Stiles thought for sure Ray was going to hit him. He jutted his chin out defiantly, bracing himself for the blow. But then Derek stirred behind Ray and both of their attention was instantly focused on the werewolf.
Ray gave Stiles one last, frustrated shake of his head before turning around and hurrying to flip on the generators so that the bars of the cell hummed with electricity.
Derek’s eyes were unfocused and still hazy with the drug as he rolled them up to meet Stiles’s, his body still limp and uncooperative. “You okay?” His voice slurred and Stiles’s chest constricted painfully.
Stiles nodded. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” Trust Derek to be worried about Stiles when he was the one trapped in an electrified cage and too weak to move. Stiles felt the cold weight of hatred settle in his belly as he watched Ray fuss with something on a desk on the other side of the cell.
“This asshole,” Stiles focused back on Derek, his voice raised loud enough for Ray to hear, “has been trying to convince me that you’re no better than a rabid dog.” He could see Ray’s shoulders tense but Ray continued in his task without comment.
Derek’s eyes were gradually sharpening and he fixed Stiles with a warning glare, shaking his head in an obvious Shut-Up-Stiles signal.
Stiles ignored him and continued speaking, “He thinks I don’t understand how dangerous you are.” Now his voice held a dark edge that Derek had never heard before and a chill crawled over Derek’s already clammy skin. “He thinks I don’t see the animal in you. But what he doesn’t realize,” and now Ray paused, his hands stilling. “Is that it’s not the animal in you he needs to be worried about. See,” He spoke directly to Ray now, who had fully turned to face Stiles. “The wolf will kill you quick, but it’s the human that will make you suffer. And between the human in me and the human in Derek,” Stiles smiled then, a slow, terrifying smile. “You are going to suffer.”
“Shut up.” For the first time since Derek arrived he could smell fear on Ray. “You’ll see I’m right. In a couple minutes you’ll see the monster.”
“There’s only one person in this room who’s a monster, Ray. Only one person in this room who’s killed in cold blood.”
Ray’s jaw clenched and he turned back to the desk. Derek heard the seal crack on a bottle of water before Ray dumped half the contents carelessly on the floor.
Stiles was still pulling at the zip ties that held his wrists and Derek could hear the steady drip of blood onto the tile. Derek pushed himself up on all fours, refusing the let the quiet hum of electricity distract him. As long as he didn’t touch the bars he would be fine. The ketamine was wearing off and he’d find a way to get out and when he did he was going to let Stiles watch as he slowly tore Ray to shreds with his claws.
When Ray turned back to them he held the half-full bottle of water in one hand and the gun in the other. He lifted the gun and leveled it at Stiles before speaking to Derek.
“Like I said, I don’t want to hurt the boy. But if you try anything funny, well… a bullet to the knee hurts like a sonofabitch.”
Derek tightened his jaw and stopped trying to get to his feet, settling back onto his knees.
“Could you just get this over with?” Stiles sounded bored.
Ray’s eyes flashed with annoyance and his attention focused back on Stiles, who shrugged as best he could with his arms tied behind his back.
“You’ve obviously got some sort of ‘master plan’.”
Derek flinched. Did Stiles have to sound so flippant with the barrel of a gun pointed at him? If Stiles got himself shot because he couldn’t keep his goddamn mouth shut, Derek was going to kill him.
“So can we cut to the chase? You’re going to make Derek take GHB, he’s going to wolf out,” Derek’s eyes flicked to the bottle of water Ray carried, “And I’m still not going to agree with you. So why don’t you just turn around and walk out the door while you still have functioning legs?”
Ray’s fingers tightened around the gun. Derek tensed, ready to fling himself at the bars of the cell and hope he could break through them before the electricity sapped his strength entirely.
“Fine,” Ray said softly. “Fine.”
Derek’s gaze flew to Stiles. No way it had been that easy. No way Ray was just going to walk away. His hands clenched into fists and he could feel the sharp prick of his claws drawing blood. Stiles had as good as asked Ray to kill him.
“I suppose if you’ve really made your choice I can’t change your mind.”
“You can’t,” Stiles said firmly and Derek swore violently under his breath.
Ray sighed and looked at Stiles with such sorrow in his eyes that Stiles almost felt guilty. Almost. But then Ray moved sideways towards the cell and thrust his hand carrying the water bottle through the bars, careful to keep his skin from touching metal.
“Drink,” he ordered and Derek hesitated.
Ray cocked the gun.
Derek took the bottle and brought it to his lips.
“Don’t,” Stiles’s voice was strained, pleading, but he knew Derek would do it. As Derek tilted the bottle up and drank the contents in one long swallow, Stiles closed his eyes rather than watch.
He snapped them open seconds later when Ray stepped towards him, the blade of a Swiss army knife gleaming in the hand that wasn’t holding the gun.
“When I said ‘cut to the chase’ I didn’t mean it literally,” Stiles’s mouth had gone dry.
Derek began to growl, low and thick as Ray closed in on Stiles.
Ray said nothing but crouched down in front of Stiles and sliced through the zip ties at his feet with the knife. Stiles remained still, unsure, and Ray moved around him to cut open the ties on his wrist. Stiles had to bite back a cry of pain as the blood rushed back into hands that had long since gone numb. He brought his arms around in front and held them gingerly away from his body as the lacerations on his wrists continued to bleed sluggishly.
“Get up.” Ray had the gun aimed steadily at Stiles. Stiles was getting pretty tired of staring down the barrel, but he kept his mouth shut and rose unsteadily to his feet, stiff after sitting for so long. Ray gestured for him to walk towards the cell and Stiles complied.
His eyes met Derek’s grim ones. Stiles could see Derek’s muscles flexing from where he knelt on the floor and knew that Derek was already fighting the effects of the second drug.
“Open the door.”
Stiles jerked back around to Ray in surprise. He couldn’t touch the metal, the strength of the electric current would kill him, he was sure. But Ray wasn’t looking at Stiles, he was looking at Derek.
“No,” Derek’s voice was flat, his eyes hard.
Stiles felt like he was a minute or two behind everyone else in the room and he glanced between Ray and Derek in confusion. Why wouldn’t Derek open the door? Stiles knew the electricity would hurt and knew it would temporarily knock out Derek’s werewolf superpowers, but surely Derek could open the door and make it past Ray in a matter of seconds, even if all he did was fall out the door. Surely Derek could see he’d be more helpful out of the cell rather than in it?
“Do you really think I have any more use for him now?” Ray pressed the barrel of the gun to the back of Stiles’s head and gripped the nape of his neck when Stiles tried to jerk away. “I can shoot him and be done with it. Or, you can open the door and let him take his chances with you.” Ray spoke to Stiles now. “You’ll take the werewolf over the bullet, won’t you? After all, you’re so confident in his control.”
“I am.” Stiles had finally caught up and his mouth was set in a stubborn line even as Derek began to shake his head in denial.
“No,” Derek insisted, finally rising to his feet. “Stiles, no.”
“You won’t hurt me,” Stiles said with a calmness he didn’t feel. Days ago he would have said the same thing about Isaac. Still, if he was going to die tonight, and he had the choice of it, he’d rather die at Derek’s hands than at Ray’s. Of that, at least, he was certain. “Open the door, Derek. Please.”
Derek remained motionless, his chest moving rapidly as the drug worked through his system and he fought against it.
“The longer you wait the less time you’ll have,” Ray commented.
Derek gritted his teeth against the pain he knew would follow and stepped forward flicking the latch and pushing the door open. His hand spasmed as it touched the metal and the claw tips that had begun to form vanished into blunt human nails as he yanked his hand back.
There was a moment when Stiles was sure Derek would shoulder through the open door and his face broke into a grin but Ray’s finger rested purposefully against the trigger of the gun and Derek stepped back, away from the door.
Ray shoved Stiles with a hand at the small of his back and he stumbled into the cell, just missing the bars. Derek caught him and Ray kicked the door shut.
Stiles rested his forehead against the solid warmth of Derek’s chest for a second before he straightened and turned to face Ray.
“So, what? This is it? Your grand finale? Derek, drugged, kills me?” Stiles was smiling that dangerous, cold smile again. “If that happens do you really think he won’t hunt you down the second he regains control?” While he really, really didn’t want to die, he found the thought of Derek avenging his death to be fairly reassuring.
“I’ve never been one to waste an opportunity,” Ray picked up Stiles’s phone. “After all, if I can’t convince you of the monsters, I am sure I can convince your father.”
Stiles blanched, his pulse thundering in his ears. “My father?” He echoed faintly. Derek pressed a hand to Stiles’s back to steady him but the touch felt far away.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” Ray raised an eyebrow.
Stiles shook his head mutely, unable to stop the roaring in his ears.
“He’s not a part of this.” Stiles was having trouble breathing through a throat that had gone tight with fear.
“Sure he is.” Ray’s face was impassive as he slid his thumb over the screen to unlock the phone. “He’s a cop, just like Connie. He’d find out eventually.”
Stiles pulled away from Derek and pressed as close to the bars as he dared. “You can’t. Please, Ray. Please don’t.” His hands clenched into useless fists at his sides. “I swear if you just leave now we won’t come after you, if you leave now and leave my dad out of it I swear to you we’ll let you go.”
“Stiles,” Ray’s voice was gentle and amused. “You had your chance. And,” his eyes flicked past Stiles to Derek who had backed away and pressed himself against the farthest corner of the cell, hands wrapped around the bars on either side of him. Derek’s body was taut with pain and the muscles in his arms spasmed as he fought to hold onto the metal with electricity coursing through his body. Red licking at the edges of his irises.
Ray smirked and focused back on Stiles whose chest heaved with quick shallow breaths. “You’re in no position to bargain. You’ve already proved yourself unreasonable.”
“No!” Stiles’s eyes were wild and desperate and the word tore at his throat.
“I’m sorry things turned out this way, I really am.” Ray’s attention was no longer on Stiles as he scrolled through Stiles’s contact list until he found one named ‘Dad’. Ray typed in the address of the old Sheriff station, attached the picture of Stiles bound to the chair he’d taken earlier, and sent the message.
Tossing Stiles’s phone carelessly onto the nearest desk, Ray picked up his things and without a backwards glance walked out the door.
Stiles stood, frozen, and watched him leave.
A soft, meaty growl sounded behind him and, with a detached sense of horror, Stiles began to turn towards Derek.
I couldn't do this without my betas - Halite cause she researches SUVs for me (PS you should check out her Demon Stiles fic!); and my partner Paradisgatan without whom I've had a very blue christmas (and who will tell me if that was in fact correct grammar).
The playlist I've been using to write LMW can be found at 8tracks.
Graphics are done by Kat!
Podfic for Chapter One is available here.
Comments/Questions/Concerns? Talk to me over on tumblr.
Thanks for reading!
Derek’s teeth had lengthened into vicious fangs and the green of his eyes bled scarlet. His hands, wrapped white-knuckled around the bars of the cell, were still human.
“Alright.” Stiles swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment to pull himself together. “Alright.”
The low, steady growl emanating from Derek’s throat did not abate. Stiles willfully ignored it.
“Derek,” Stiles’s voice was firm and no-nonsense as he looked up at Derek. Derek’s eyes, though red, sharpened and held Stiles’s gaze. Stiles allowed himself a brief flash of relief and continued. “We have to get out of here before you lose your shit, because if you kill me—” The growl intensified. Stiles could only hope it was from anger and not anticipation. He carried on, more loudly, “If you kill me and my dad comes, he will kill you. And he’ll turn into another Ray which is exactly what Ray is counting on.” Stiles was not going to let that happen because it was a future he could envision far too easily. “Can you tell me how much longer we have before…?” He didn’t want to finish that sentence.
“Not long,” Derek gritted out through his fangs and Stiles sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep his pulse as steady as possible. Which, for the record, was damn near impossible when you were trapped in a cage with a werewolf about to go on a rampage.
“Alright.” He was saying ‘alright’ too much. “Alright.” There it was again, Jesus, Stiles, pull yourself together. “Okay.” Oh, much better. The thought oozed with sarcasm. Stiles scowled and started to pace. “You can’t just break open the lock, right?” He asked hopefully.
Derek shook his head. He was barely able to stay on his feet gripping the electrified metal as he was. The only reason he wasn’t writhing on the floor in agony was because he knew the second he let go he wouldn’t be able to stop the change, and if that happened Stiles would be dead within minutes.
“Figures,” Stiles sighed and stopped pacing. “It’ll have to be the ceiling then,” his voice grim. He thought there was probably a 92% chance of failure, give or take, but they didn’t exactly have a lot of other options. Or, you know, any other options.
“The… ceiling?” It was becoming harder for Derek to speak and the words were a choking growl.
“Yeah.” Stiles stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked up at it. “When they closed this place down, Scott and I used to sneak back in. Kid stuff, you know? Hide and seek or whatever.” The best game had been when Stiles had clambered over a bookshelf in one of the old deputies’ offices and had pushed open a loose ceiling tile. Scott had looked for a whole hour for him before giving up—it was the only time Stiles had ever won. He’d been able to crawl deeper into the ceiling, careful to balance his weight, and it wasn’t until Scott had shouted for Stiles to come out because he’d won that Stiles had crawled back out of the ceiling.
He should be able to do the same thing now. Possibly.
He’d been ten the last time he’d tried it, so Stiles wasn’t exactly confident that the tiles would hold his weight. But it was either that or being eaten. With teeth. Stiles did not want to get eaten.
“You’re going to have to hoist me up.” He met Derek’s red eyes and tried to ignore the cold lump of fear growing in his stomach. Derek’s face had shifted and now it was only his hands that remained human.
“Stiles—” Derek was shaking his head. His eyes fell, resting on Stiles’s bloody shoulder and then to the still-bleeding cuts on Stiles’s wrists. The smell of Stiles’s fresh blood was hot and heavy in the air and Derek pushed himself farther back into the corner. He was having enough trouble keeping himself where he was—if Stiles came closer he couldn’t be sure of his control. He was afraid. He was terribly, desperately afraid, and he pressed harder against the bars, welcoming the unrelenting pain as it spiraled through his body and drove the breath from his lungs. Maybe if he was lucky it would kill him before he killed Stiles.
“It’s the only way,” Stiles steeled himself and took a step closer, noting the way Derek’s nostrils flared and his lips pulled back from his teeth in an unconscious snarl, and steadfastly ignoring both observations. “You have to do this.”
“Can’t.” Derek wet his lips and he could almost taste the sweet copper of Stiles’s blood running down his throat.
“Can, and will.” Stiles was firm. He was also now close enough for Derek to reach him. Derek could hear the beat of Stiles’s pulse thundering in his ears, but the boy’s eyes were calm and steady, fixed on Derek.
“I trust you,” Stiles said simply. “I know you’ll do everything you can not to hurt me. Now, you’re going to have to let go of the bars to lift me up.”
Derek gritted his teeth. This could end so, so badly. But Stiles was right when he said they had no other options. If he was quick he could get Stiles up into the ceiling before he lost control. He was lucky to have held on for so long already, and he knew he owed that almost entirely to the electricity shuddering through his veins. As an Alpha, he might have been able to hold out longer than Isaac had, but Derek didn’t think he’d still be as lucid as he was without the pain jackhammering through every single nerve in his body.
He jerked his head down in a nod, and Stiles breathed a soft sigh of relief.
Before he could think better of it, Derek released his iron grip on the bars and stepped forward, gripping Stiles around the hips with hands that had already begun to change the second his skin had lost contact with the metal. Stiles yelped at the suddenness of the movement and barely had a second to adjust before Derek was lifting him into the air.
Stiles could feel the sharp prick of claws through his jeans as he reached over his head, face paling as the movement pulled at the torn skin of his shoulder. He pushed up a ceiling tile, fingers scrabbling at the edges as he shoved it up and to the side.
Below him, Derek’s growl was getting stronger and his arms trembled as he struggled to keep his grip on Stiles light. Stiles refused to look down and finished pushing the tile out of his way. “Okay, you have to get me higher,” he kept his voice neutral and hoped he didn’t smell too much like food.
Derek adjusted his grip and moved his hands—now claws—down to Stiles’s thighs, lifting him up until Stiles could get a firm grasp on both sides of the opening. Stiles was pretty sure that in order to pull himself into the ceiling he was going to do more damage to his shoulder, and winced at the thought of the stitches he would need. Then again, if stitches were the only thing he needed when this whole thing was over he was going to count himself lucky.
“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was tight with warning. He had about ten more seconds before he tore heedlessly into the soft flesh in front of him. Stiles’s outstretched arms had pulled up his t-shirt and exposed the bare skin of his belly, and Derek had to swallow the mouthful of saliva that gathered at the thought of biting into that unresisting flesh.
Stiles glanced down, feeling hot breath moist against his skin. Derek was staring at Stiles’s stomach, his mouth parted and his tongue running over the tips of his fangs, barely an inch away from Stiles flesh. Stiles’s heart stuttered and his palms began to sweat where he gripped the ceiling.
“Just one more push,” Stiles’s voice was a little higher than he wanted, his breath coming quick and shallow as he tried not to think of how easily Derek could eviscerate him.
Derek nodded absently, not taking his eyes off Stiles’s bare skin, and as his hands tightened once more around Stiles’s legs, Stiles thought Derek wasn’t going to let him go. Instead, Derek lifted him higher and Stiles hauled himself up so that his stomach was lying flat on top of the tiles. Derek dropped his hands and stepped back from Stiles’s flailing legs as he wriggled into the ceiling.
“Go.” Derek had dropped to his knees and was digging his claws into the tile of the floor. He could hear Stiles struggling above him and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a vicious snarl. He was only seconds away from hurling himself after the boy, and with his last ounce of control Derek flung himself at the bars of the cage in the hopes that the pain would be enough to make him pass out.
Unfortunately he hit the bars with enough force that he rebounded off of them before he could feel much more than a sharp, snapping bite on the bare skin of his arms and face. And then there was nothing but a wild, roaring hunger coursing underneath his skin and only one thought in his brain: hunt.
He could hear movement above him and he got to his feet in a fluid motion that carried all the grace of a large predator. The noises were loud, the prey clumsy, and he drew in a breath heavy with the scent of fresh blood. Weak prey. Wounded prey.
The thrill of the hunt had him tossing back his head as a delighted howl sprang from his throat.
Stiles’s blood ran cold at the sound of Derek’s howl and he redoubled his efforts. The ceiling was dark and dusty and he could see no more than a foot in any direction. He couldn’t move any faster because he had to keep his weight balanced, and his sprained, bleeding left wrist trembled alarmingly as he crawled.
As he’d suspected, hauling himself up had torn the flesh of his shoulder further and he knew he was leaving a trail of blood in his wake. There was literally nothing he could do to seem like a more tempting morsel to Derek. Well, not really to Derek, because Stiles knew it wasn’t really Derek that was throwing himself up against the ceiling behind Stiles, each thud of his body against the tiles making Stiles’s breath hitch in terror. Still, the knowledge that Derek didn’t really mean it wasn’t helping Stiles deal with the idea that his boyfriend—or, whatever—was trying to kill him.
And then eat him.
Oh, god. Stiles really hoped he would get to be dead before the eating happened.
That thought had Stiles’s stomach lurching into his throat and he swallowed back the bitter taste of bile. A loud crash behind him announced that Derek had probably made a large enough hole in the ceiling that he could follow Stiles. Stiles’s breath was coming in stifled heaves as he pulled himself deeper into the blackness around him, and it occurred to him that this had been a terrible plan. He had no idea what he was supposed to do now that he was in the ceiling.
Derek would catch up to him in a matter of minutes, seconds, maybe. And when he did, Stiles could only hope there was enough Derek left to grant Stiles a quick death.
The tiles shuddered underneath him as Derek’s full weight landed hard and heavy on the ceiling behind him. Stiles refused to look back and continued crawling, picking up speed as he threw caution to the wind. That would be his one advantage over Derek. With Derek’s weight nearly double Stiles’s, Derek would be forced to move much more slowly.
Only Derek didn’t slow down, because this wasn’t rational, thinking Derek who knew his weight might be too much for the ceiling tile. This was… this was Cujo, with no sense of self-preservation, focused on only one thing: killing Stiles.
Stiles could hear the werewolf gaining on him and he winced as a claw swiped down and tore through the fabric of his jeans, just grazing the skin of his calf. His arms were burning with the effort of pulling himself faster through the dusty ceiling and he could feel teeth snap at his ankle. With a desperate grunt he lashed out with his foot and managed to catch Derek squarely in his face. Derek reared back, snarling in fury, and then the tiles gave out underneath him and he crashed to the floor of the room beneath.
It had taken Scott longer than he wanted to find both Isaac and Peter and he was jittery with frustration by the time the three of them closed in on the old Sheriff station. After Derek had called and they’d realized something had happened to Stiles, Scott had to take several deep breaths and punch a very large hole in the wall to stop himself from following Derek in a headlong race to find his best friend. The entire thing felt too much like a trap for Scott’s comfort and he’d tried to convince Derek to just wait until they knew more, but Derek had hung up the phone without another word and hadn’t picked up since.
Scott was sure that if Derek had found Stiles and Saved The Day, one of them would have at least called to let him know they were okay. Since he hadn’t heard anything, he was assuming the worst, and that was why he, Isaac, and Peter were currently creeping up to the abandoned Sheriff’s station after tracking Derek’s scent, layered over the fainter scent of Stiles.
They were just at the edge of the road that led up to the station, moving soundlessly through the trees that lined the road and hidden in the deep blue light of dusk, when Peter held up a hand and they froze.
“What?” Scott’s hushed whisper sounded loud in the silence of the evening and Peter shot him a black look, holding his finger to his lips in a gesture for Scott to shut the fuck up. Scott shut up, exchanging a look of resentment with Isaac. Neither of them liked Peter, and neither of them was pleased at the way Derek’s uncle had assumed control of their rescue mission, but he was the most experienced of the three of them, and so they had relented.
“Listen,” Peter hissed, his attention focused on the road ahead of them. There was the sound of a car door opening, closing, and then a moment later the engine roared to life.
Isaac tensed, his eyes a bright yellow-gold. He dropped into a crouch, ready to leap out onto the road, but Peter grabbed a handful of Isaac’s jacket and yanked him back, rounding on him with a snarl with his eyes flashing blue.
“Do you know who is in that car?” He asked, whisper harsh in the night air.
Isaac looked at Scott and then back at Peter. He shook his head.
“Then don’t go jumping out half-cocked,” Peter instructed, giving Isaac a shake. “Someone is already trying to out us—if you get yourself hit by a car looking like you do right now, and it’s being driven by some perfectly normal human, you’ve just done our enemy’s job for us.” Isaac, never as in-control as Scott, was already baring fangs and claws and sideburns. Scott and Peter still looked relatively human, with the exception of eyes that caught the light strangely and fingertips that looked a little too sharp to be human.
Isaac curled his lips back from his teeth, but Scott caught his eye and shook his head. Let Peter get them into the station, where the scent-trail seemed to end. After that, it wouldn’t matter. For a moment Isaac looked like he was going to protest, but he followed Scott’s lead and remained silent.
The car ahead of them hadn’t moved and Scott could tell from the sound of the engine that it was simply idling in the parking lot of the station. Peter had them wait for another minute, Scott unable to stop fidgeting anxiously, before he cautiously continued forward, gesturing for them to follow.
As they moved closer to the station Scott could see that the car was a red mini-van. It was dark enough that he wasn’t able to make out who was sitting in the front seat, only the silhouette of a human head. Scott’s nostrils flared as he scented the air—and a growl rippled from his throat as he caught the scent of blood. Stiles’s blood.
“There are only three heartbeats,” Isaac said tersely, looking at Peter. “Whoever is in there,” he nodded to the van, “smells like blood.”
“Yes, thank you, Isaac,” Peter’s sarcasm had Scott’s hackles rising.
“It’s Stiles’s blood.” Scott’s teeth had become fangs and he knew his eyes now matched Isaac’s. “I’m going after him.”
Peter opened his mouth—whether to agree or argue Scott wasn’t sure, because a sudden, baleful howl split the silence of the night. The man flicked on the van’s lights and pulled out of the gravel parking lot, speeding down the road past them before the final notes of the howl faded from the air.
Peter snarled a curse. They all recognized the howl as Derek’s and could tell that he was out of control. The second heartbeat in the building was an erratic stutter of fear. “Get the boy out and for fuck’s sake, don’t let Derek leave until the drug wears off. I’ll take care of our friend in the car.” He was moving, racing down the road on all fours, before Isaac or Scott could reply.
Scott didn’t spare a glance for Isaac, just ran for the doors of the building. He could hear the sound of something breaking inside, and Stiles’s panicked yelp, and he crashed through the front doors.
Isaac hesitated a moment, looking down the road to where the van’s lights had disappeared and then back to the station. He’d been with Allison when Scott had called. The only reason she hadn’t joined them was that Peter had been adamant she couldn’t keep up, and she’d been forced to concede the point.
But she’d been the one who Isaac had gone to after Monday night, when he’d regained control. She’d held him until he stopped shaking and then, when he’d finally been able to tell her what had happened, what he’d done to Stiles, barely able to look at his hands with Stiles’s blood dried under his finger nails, she’d pressed a kiss to the center of each palm. He’d pulled away, unable to bear the touch of forgiveness, but she’d only shaken her head and drawn him closer to her until he broke and sobbed shamelessly into her neck.
She knew how the loss of control made him feel, knew the thought of what he’d done made him ill, and knew he’d rather kill himself than lash out in uncontrolled violence again. So when Scott had called and asked him to come help, and Isaac had gone sheet-white, fingers trembling where they held the phone, terrified that whoever had drugged him on Monday would do it again, she’d pressed her EpiPen of ketamine into his hand.
“Use it,” she’d said. And he knew she didn’t just mean on Scott or Derek or another werewolf gone mindless with the drug, but on himself if he thought he’d been drugged again.
It had been a comforting weight in his jacket pocket as he’d raced through the woods with Peter and Scott. Isaac brushed one clawed hand against the shape of it in his pocket and sucked in a deep breath. He wouldn’t hurt anyone again.
But that didn’t mean he could just wait outside while Scott and Stiles were facing an out-of-control Alpha werewolf, so he steeled himself and ran after Scott into the building.
It was dark inside and Isaac moved blindly through the hallway, following the sound of Scott’s footsteps until his eyesight adjusted. He could hear something smash deeper into the station and he flinched at the loud screech of claws on metal.
“I can’t tell where they are,” Scott’s voice was clipped with frustration and Isaac wasn’t sure Scott knew he was speaking out loud as he caught up with the other werewolf. “This place has always been a fucking warren.” There were doors and hallways branching out on either side of them and the way sound reverberated off the walls of the old building made it nearly impossible to tell where exactly it was coming from. Scott took a sudden turn down a longer hallway, nostrils flaring as he tried to narrow down the scent trail. But now that they were in the station it was less clear, smells layered over each other, and oddly Isaac could swear it smelled like Stiles had been above them, despite the fact that the building only had one floor.
Scott continued down the hallway and Isaac hurried close behind him, eyes darting towards a door on their right that had been ripped from its hinges. There were thick gouges in the concrete of the wall to his left, and they disappeared up into a hole that had been smashed through the ceiling tile. Stiles’s scent wafting down from above suddenly made sense, and Isaac hoped Stiles wasn’t still in the ceiling if Derek had managed to climb up there.
Scott took an abrupt left-hand turn that had them skidding into a room lit by a pair of camping lanterns.
Isaac’s eyes darted to the blood that splattered over the floor of the room. It was all Stiles’s. His eyes flicked to Scott, whose jaw had tightened as he stared at one of the cells, which had a gaping hole in the ceiling. The bars snapped with electricity and Isaac could see the trail of blood ended inside of the cell.
Isaac had seen far too much of Stiles’s blood the last couple days and his fangs shrunk as his claws turned back to fingers. He was no longer running on adrenaline, instead feeling cold and almost sick with fear. He could hear Stiles’s heartbeat, so knew he was still alive. But for how much longer? Isaac knew Scott had been able to control him in the locker room—but Derek was an Alpha. Scott was… well, he wasn’t sure what Scott was, wasn’t sure if Scott knew what Scott was. But for the first time since he’d met the guy Isaac wished wholeheartedly that Peter was still with them.
Another crash sounded.
“Come on,” Scott demanded, looking back over his shoulder at Isaac. His eyes were red and Isaac felt a jolt in his stomach, still unused to seeing the colour in Scott’s eyes. Then Stiles’s voice, tight with panic, echoed through the building.
Stiles didn’t wait to see if Derek would get back up the second time he fell through the ceiling, just continued pulling himself forward on his elbows and hoping to god that the GHB would wear off soon. He wished he’d asked more questions last night at Derek’s, found out how long it had taken for Isaac to get back to normal. Having some kind of timeline would be nice. Great, even. Just some kind of idea how long he would be crawling, hurt and scared shitless, through a ceiling.
He had no idea how long it had been since Derek had first drunk the spiked water bottle, and wished he hadn’t gotten out of the habit of wearing a watch since he’d owned a cell phone. Thinking of his cellphone made him think of Ray texting his dad, and a fresh wave of panic tasted sour in his mouth. He needed to get Derek out of here before his dad showed up.
Stiles was pretty sure he’d crawled at least a room or two away from where Derek had fallen the last time, and he paused, head cocked to the side as he listened. He heard nothing. Of course, all he had was crappy human hearing, so for all he knew Derek could literally be underneath him and just waiting for the right moment to attack. Stiles swallowed, blinking sweat out of his eyes and trying very hard not to think about how much being eaten might hurt. He crawled another foot or so forward and, hearing nothing but silence behind him, carefully eased a ceiling tile up and to the side.
His breath caught in his throat as he looked down at the dark room below him. He’d been in too much of a hurry to get away from Derek and the approximate layout of the Sheriff station in his head had gotten confused, so he wasn’t sure where he was anymore. But now that he knew Derek could and would chase after him in the ceiling he thought he’d rather be on the ground. After all, that way he could at least hope to have a door or a cell or something in between him and the werewolf.
There didn’t seem to be any movement in the room below him, and so with one last, cautious glance behind him, Stiles eased himself over the hole. His arms shaking from holding his weight, he lowered his legs down into the empty space and just praying that he didn’t break any bones on the way down. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and, just as his left shoulder started to give way, he dropped.
He landed with an audible thud and froze, heart pounding frantically in his chest. But again, he could hear nothing. That almost worried him more than anything else. He pushed himself to his feet and began to step forward cautiously. There were no windows in the room, and he held his arms outstretched in front of him.
There was a sound then, from outside the building, and Stiles whirled around to face the wall that he assumed (hoped) was facing outside. An engine revved over gravel and Stiles found himself stumbling desperately towards the wall, heart swelling with the thought that it was someone arriving to help him. Scott or Allison or, fuck, even Peter. But the sound of the engine moved further away from the building and with a realization that had his stomach lurching Stiles understood that it was only the man, Ray, driving away.
He closed his eyes for a second, swallowing past a growing sense of despair. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into a corner of the room and curl into a ball with his face hidden in his arms until either someone came for him or Derek did. But that wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t have the luxury of waiting, of inaction. He had to pull himself together and get out of the building because his father was on his way (unless he forgot his phone at home again, oh please let him have left his phone on the counter beside the coffee pot, please let him not have seen that text, please oh please) and he needed to intercept the sheriff before he entered the building.
Stiles had the feeling that if both his dad and Derek were inside, only one of them would be coming out. And he didn’t know which one it would be.
Letting his breath out in a measured exhale, Stiles shuffled until his outstretched fingertips touched a wall. He followed the cool cement around the exterior of the room, moving with agonizing slowness, not wanting to run into a chair or a desk or god knows what else, nor miss the doorway in his haste to find it. When he felt the cold metal of a door under his hands he had to bite back a whoop. His hand groped for the handle and he twisted it, hands too slick with blood and sweat to do anything but slide off the knob until he wiped them on his jeans and tried again.
The door opened with a hideous creak and Stiles froze, the frantic beat of his pulse in his throat threatening to choke him.
Stiles pulled the door open far enough that he could slip through and he eased it quietly shut behind him. For all the good it would do him, he realized. He could feel the warmth of fresh blood trickling down from his torn open shoulder and his struggles through the ceiling had done nothing to staunch the flow of blood from his wrists. He may as well be wearing a beacon that screamed “FRESH MEAT” in giant, neon letters. He was leaving a trail a blind and deaf werewolf could follow in their sleep—it was a wonder Derek hadn’t found him already.
Stiles suppressed a shudder and began to walk rapidly down the hallway, his right hand trailing against the wall to orient himself. There was more light here in the hallway than there had been in the room, the light of the full moon outside shining in through the occasional window, enough that he was able to figure out where exactly he was inside the building.
He was on the side farthest away from the parking lot and the main entrance, and he’d have to make it to the end of this hallway and down another long corridor before reaching the doors. He glanced behind him, gnawing on his lip as he considered his options. He could go back and find the rear exit, but then he’d have to run through the woods that surrounded the building to get to the front and that might take him longer than going through the building. Plus, he might miss his dad if his dad came through the front doors while Stiles was leaving through the back. But if he went out the back at least he’d be outside and he wouldn’t be trapped and he could probably hear his dad’s car pull up and then he’d be able to yell at the sheriff to leave, to drive away as fast as he could.
Decided, Stiles turned around.
And that’s when he saw the glowing, red eyes behind him.
I couldn't do this without my betas - Halite who had better be going to bed early tonight (PS you should check out her Demon Stiles fic!); and my partner Paradisgatan cause she puts soap in my stocking.
The playlist I've been using to write LMW can be found at 8tracks.
Graphics are done by Kat!
Podfic for Chapter One is available here.
Comments/Questions/Concerns? Talk to me over on tumblr.
Thanks for reading!
Stiles’s breath left him in an unsteady rush and he balled his hands into fists at his sides to stop the trembling of his fingers. The end of the hallway was so dark that he couldn’t make out the shape of Derek’s body, just two red orbs that stared, unblinking and hungry. Stiles’s stomach tightened in fear and he took a slow step backwards.
He wasn’t sure, he heard nothing to back up his assumption, but he blinked away the sweat that had fallen into his eyes and when he opened them again he could have sworn that those eyes were closer than they had been. He flinched, took another step back.
Derek didn’t move.
Stiles glanced over his shoulder to check and see if the hallway behind him was clear. He wanted to turn and run full-tilt and didn’t want to have to worry about tripping over an unfortunately placed chair or god knows what else. It looked empty enough and he looked back once more at Derek—who had moved. And was closer. And that was when Stiles realized he was being toyed with.
A soft whimper of fear rose in his throat and he clamped down on it ruthlessly. He couldn’t afford to panic. He had to think. Had to figure out how to get himself and Derek out of this night alive.
And he had to figure it out fast, because Derek had taken another step forward and now Stiles could see the dull glint of bared fangs. He swallowed.
Nothing for it. He’d have to run. If any thought about how ludicrous it was for a seventeen-year-old boy to try to outrun a full-grown, bloodthirsty werewolf crossed his mind, he ignored it. Without wasting any more time, Stiles spun around on his heel and sprinted pell-mell down the hallway.
The sound of his sneakers slapping on the tile was loud in his ears and between that and the sound of his ragged breathing he wasn’t able to hear if Derek was chasing after him or not. His shoulder blades itched with the need to turn around and look, but he couldn’t risk the split second of inattention glancing back would take. He rounded the corner with a skid, nearly toppling over as he dodged around a fallen display case.
He could see the front door at the end of the hallway and heard his own desperate sob of relief. He was almost there. A few more feet and he’d be—
Derek slammed into him, shoulders driving into Stiles’s back and sending him sprawling, breathless, to the floor. His head hit the tile with a crack that had black spots dancing in front of his vision. He lay there, stunned and gasping for breath, every inch of his body bright with pain. God, he so didn’t want to die like this.
Derek reared up over him, nothing human left in his twisted features. Stiles was completely out of options and as Derek raised a clawed hand, Stiles, knowing it was hopeless but unable to stop himself, met Derek’s eyes with his.
Isaac and Scott pelted around the corner to see Stiles flat on his back with Derek above him, poised to strike. Scott snarled, loud and vicious, and Derek stilled mid-swipe. Slowly, his head turned towards them and the fury in his eyes had Isaac shrinking back, trying to make himself small and unthreatening, barely resisting the urge to turn belly up on the ground and bear his throat.
Scott lowered and for a second Isaac thought that he, too, was submitting to Derek’s unquestionable authority. Which would mean they were fucked. Stiles doubly so. But Scott wasn’t cringing, Scott was crouching, and Derek seemed to realize this at the same time Isaac did, because he pivoted off of Stiles and moved with lightning speed to meet Scott’s attack.
The two werewolves crashed into each other and Isaac leaped hastily out of the way, back pressing flat against the wall as they rolled past him. Claws flew through the air and teeth snapped, the scent of blood, hot and fresh, sudden in the air. Isaac slid sideways down the hallway, keeping a wary eye on Scott and Derek as he inched closer to Stiles, who seemed too stunned to move.
Scott roared and flung Derek up and through a doorway, the wood on the door splintering with a crack as the older werewolf’s weight slammed into it. Growling, Derek shot to his feet, but Scott flung himself at the Alpha, his claws outstretched and eyes blazing a scarlet to match Derek’s.
As they both disappeared into the room, Isaac tore his attention away and rushed to Stiles’s side.
“Are you okay?” He could smell the waves of hurt coming off the boy and winced, knowing that at least some of it was his fault, from the day before. Stiles wasn’t like them. He couldn’t take this kind of damage and just bounce back twenty-four hours later. Isaac could only hope to god that Stiles wasn’t hurt in any permanent fashion. His hands moved quickly over Stiles’s body, gentle and human as they traced the various cuts and bruises that littered the boy, checking to see if anything was broken or required immediate attention.
“Fucking peachy,” Stiles jerked away from Isaac’s touch, unable to help a wince as the movement pulled at brand new bruises. “Stop fussing,” he snapped when Isaac’s hands fluttered concernedly towards his shoulder.
“You’re hurt.” Isaac wished Stiles would just stay still, but he was already pushing himself up onto his elbows, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.
“Gee, really?” Stiles rolled over so that he could push himself up on all fours. His head hung between his hands and he tried not to pant at the effort it took not to collapse face-first onto the floor.
The wall beside them shuddered as either Derek or Scott was thrown against it from the other side. Isaac swallowed and reached down to grasp Stiles’s elbow and help him to his feet. He half expected Stiles to flinch away from him again, but Stiles met his gaze evenly and allowed Isaac to help him up.
“We have to get out of here,” Stiles’s gaze darted past Isaac to the front door that was still only feet away from them. “Ray texted my dad, he’ll be here any second.”
“Ray?” Isaac looked back into the recesses of the building. Was there someone else still here?
“The bad guy,” Stiles shot Isaac a disgusted look that clearly said keep up. “I heard him drive away—”
“Right, yeah. We saw him.”
Stiles opened his mouth to berate Isaac for letting Ray get away but thought better of it and just shook his head in disgust as he began limping towards the front entrance, Isaac clutching at his arm.
They’d just about reached the door when Scott’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent. “Isaac, help me!”
Isaac reached into his pocket and grabbed the EpiPen. Pulling it out he shoved it into Stiles’s good hand before he pushed Stiles towards the door and turned, claws sprouting from the ends of his fingers. There was a loud yelp of pain and Scott was flung out of the room and into the hallway, landing with a sickening crunch against the fallen display case.
He didn’t get up.
Derek stepped into the hallway, lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. There was blood on his chin, smeared over his face, and dripping from his claws.
“Go,” Isaac said to Stiles without looking back, eyes fixed on Derek as the older werewolf began to prowl towards them. “I’ll hold him off as long as I can.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Stiles said tersely as he flicked the cap off the EpiPen. He knew their best chance at keeping Derek from killing innocent people was to keep him in the building. If—well, when, really—Derek got past Isaac, he’d go after Stiles and Stiles wouldn’t be responsible for leading a drugged up and berserking werewolf towards more people.
“What about your dad?” Isaac stepped forwards so that he crouched between Derek and Stiles, his own fangs bared as Derek continued his slow approach. Isaac knew the Sheriff was Stiles’s only family and probably the only thing that could convince Stiles to leave while he still could. “You said he was on his way.”
Stiles swallowed, glancing helplessly behind him out the window on the door. The parking lot was dark and still and there was no sign of his father’s patrol car. His fingers moved towards the door handle, hovering in indecision above it. He looked back at Isaac and despite Isaac’s fighting stance he could see the tremble in Isaac’s fingers. Fuck. Stiles dropped his hand and moved to stand beside Isaac.
“Let’s just get this over with.” Stiles sounded calmer than he felt, but that was fine by him. Isaac looked sideways at him, unwilling gratitude flashing in his yellow eyes despite the growl of annoyance that slipped from his throat.
Derek was only a few meters away from them now, his eyes hot and fixed on Stiles. While Stiles was, at this point, used to seeing Derek look at him like the werewolf wanted to devour him, it had never felt quite so literal before. He swallowed, trying very hard to ignore the part of himself that couldn’t help thinking Derek’s hunger (actual wants-to-eat-you-hunger, his rational side insisted) was just the tiniest bit hot. He could do without the sideburns, but the fangs and the glowing eyes and great big muscular arms that tapered into wicked points, which would feel so sharp against Stiles’s skin—
“Stiles!” Isaac snapped, and Stiles blinked, flushing a bright red. Okay. Soooo not the time for kinky werewolf fantasies. Stiles was going to blame his poor judgment on blood loss. He looked guiltily at Isaac, who just glared, before he turned his attention back to Derek, who’d begun to sink into a crouch.
Derek was growling, thick and vicious, and his gaze had moved from Stiles to Isaac, who had stepped up in front of Stiles.
Stiles’s heart was a solid lump in his throat and he tried to swallow around it. His hand was damp with sweat and blood where it gripped the EpiPen. They only had one chance to make this work—and if it didn’t work, well… Stiles didn’t really want to think about that.
Isaac pulled his lips back from his teeth and answered Derek with a challenging growl. Derek’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and he and Isaac lunged at each other. Stiles clenched his hand tight around the EpiPen and, for the second time that evening, prepared to plunge it into unsuspecting flesh.
Derek tried to throw Isaac to the floor, but Isaac slipped through Derek’s defenses and clung determinedly to the bigger werewolf, his claws sunk deep into Derek’s back as his legs wrapped around Derek’s waist and his teeth snatched at the flesh of Derek’s shoulder. Derek let out a howl of pain and slashed at Isaac’s back, claws tearing the flesh to mangled ribbons. Isaac whined, high and pained, his hands spasming where they dug into Derek but he refused to let go even as Derek tore his back into a bloody ruin.
Stiles had leapt back as Derek and Isaac flew at each other. Now, he inched cautiously closer towards the pair, his back pressed flat against the wall and praying that Isaac would keep Derek distracted enough that he wouldn’t notice Stiles moving. He met Isaac’s agonized gaze over Derek’s shoulder and the younger werewolf gave the smallest nod. Stiles didn’t give himself a chance to hesitate, pushing off the wall and leaping at Derek with the syringe bared.
He never made contact with Derek’s back though, because something flew through the air at him and sent Stiles smashing to the ground.
“Scott, don’t—” Stiles’s fingers scrabbled for the EpiPen that had been flung from his hand when Scott had barreled into him.
“Stay back!” Scott snarled, shoving Stiles against the wall. Derek had finally disentangled himself from Isaac and rounded on Scott with his fangs bared. Stiles gave a sharp cry of warning and Scott whirled around to face Derek as Isaac picked himself up off the floor and leapt at Derek’s back. Derek roared and Scott jumped into the fray.
“Fucking werewolves!” Stiles grunted as he picked himself up off the ground and stumbled to where the syringe lay. It wasn’t broken, thank god. He picked it up and turned back to where the three werewolves were rolling around on the floor, snarling and snapping and clawing at each other so that blood flew through the air like viscous rain. Stiles had the sudden, overwhelming urge to laugh and he bit his lip, unaware that his hands were trembling violently with shock and a not insignificant amount of blood loss as he once again inched his way towards the fighting werewolves.
Isaac looked up for long enough to see Stiles heading towards them, the EpiPen in his hand, and he threw all of his weight onto Derek’s right arm, pinning it to the tile. Scott glanced at Isaac and then at Stiles, finally catching on to what Stiles and Isaac had been trying to do before he burst in. Scott ducked a swipe from Derek’s claws before mimicking Isaac and pinning Derek’s arm to the ground.
“Hurry up,” Scott panted, struggling to keep Derek still as the older werewolf thrashed and snapped under him. Isaac growled and pressed Derek harder into the tile, the skin of his torn back already beginning to knit back together.
Stiles glared at Scott, a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue, but Derek arched up off the floor and nearly threw the two younger werewolves off of him. Stiles swallowed. Moving as fast as his battered body would allow, he stepped overtop of Scott and bent down to jab the EpiPen into the muscle of Derek’s thigh.
Derek roared and lunged towards Stiles, who stumbled backwards, tripping over Scott and landing jarringly on his ass with a loud yelp of pain. Isaac sunk his claws into Derek’s arm, distracting him for long enough that Stiles managed to crawl away and Scott could press more of his weigh onto Derek’s chest and keep him flat against the floor.
After a minute or two, Derek’s struggles weakened, his claws flexing uselessly against the tile as the ketamine worked its way through his system. He made one last attempt to throw Scott and Isaac off, but this time they held him down with relative ease. Derek growled softly, the sound still deadly enough that Stiles began to shiver and couldn’t stop, even as Derek’s eyes slipped closed and his body went limp and unconscious under Scott and Isaac.
Isaac groaned and rolled off of Derek. Scott was more cautious, easing his way up with his eyes still wary on Derek’s face. There was a noise from behind them, a sudden intake of air, and Stiles could see Isaac’s wolf-yellow eyes go wide with horror as he looked at something behind Stiles.
“Fuck me, what now?” Stiles’s voice was thick and slurring with exhaustion. His arms trembled as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and turned to face the door.
“Stiles?” Alarm was written across the Sheriff’s face. His hands were white-knuckled, but steady, where they gripped the gun he was pointing at the three werewolves on the floor.
“Dad,” Stiles’s voice broke, tears stinging the corners of his eyes as he took a stumbling step towards his father. “Dad.”
Ray kept his eyes peeled on the road in front of him, hoping to catch a glimpse of the flashing red and blue lights that would mean Sheriff Stilinski had received the picture message and was on his way to the abandoned station. He felt bad about the scene the Sheriff would discover when he arrived, but there was nothing for it. Ray had been so hopeful that he could save the boy, but he had intervened too late. It was a pity and the waste of a human life upset him.
He was contemplating whether or not he should attempt to contact Sheriff Stilinski—once the shock had worn off, once the grief hardened into determination—when a shape suddenly appeared in the road in front of him. Ray yanked desperately on the wheel and the minivan swerved off the road. He saw the thick trunk of a tree looming in front of him, illuminated starkly by the van’s headlights. He jerked once more at the wheel, wrenching it to the left an the car careened wildly on two wheels for a brief second before landing back on all four with a jarring thud. He slammed on the breaks and the van skidded abruptly to a halt, throwing Ray forwards with enough force that the vinyl of his seatbelt cut into the skin at his throat before flinging him back against his seat.
He sat, frozen, gasping for air with his hands clenched so tightly around the steering wheel his fingers hurt. The whole thing had happened so fast he didn’t even know what had been on the road. Lifting a shaking hand from the steering wheel, he reached down and unbuckled his seat belt. It took him three tries to open the door of the van, the shock and adrenaline pumping through his veins making him jittery. Once Ray had finally pushed open the door he staggered out, searching the road for an indication of what the dark shape had been.
The road was empty. There was nothing but the glare of his headlights and the dark, shadowy forest that surrounded the road. Ray felt a cool trickle of fear wrap itself around his throat and he began to step back towards the van. It was probably nothing, he told himself as he pulled open the front door. Probably a deer. He bypassed the gun that sat on the passenger seat and leaned around the driver’s chair, reaching for a duffle bag in the backseat that held a Taser.
There was a soft chuckle from behind him and Ray’s gasp of surprise turned into a sharp cry as ten points of pain blossomed hot and wet in his back. His fingers scrabbled desperately, catching on the edge of the bag’s strap, but the claws dug in deeper and yanked him back out of the van.
“Hello,” Peter said, bending down over the man whose glasses now hung askew on his pale face, as he lay sprawled. “You’ve been quite the nuisance, haven’t you?”
Peter didn’t wait for him to finish. With one quick, efficient swipe of his clawed hand, he tore out Ray’s throat. Ray made a noise, a choking gurgle from the ruins of his throat. Peter watched until the man stopped moving and then briskly started on the business of disposing of the body.
“Hey, Danny, can I talk to you?” Stiles hurried after the taller boy, Scott trailing behind him. It was just before lacrosse practice on Monday. After his dad and Melissa insisted Stiles spend the remainder of the last week at home to recover, it was Stiles’s first day back at school since he’d said what he had to Danny.
Danny paused outside of the door to the locker room, looking at Stiles with a guarded expression on his face. Stiles swallowed but gamely continued. “Please? I know you probably don’t want to, but I’d like a chance to explain...” he trailed off helplessly, eyes pleading. He knew he had no right to ask Danny to hear him out, but he needed to try.
Stiles tried not to feel too relieved, the hard part was far from over. He glanced over his shoulder, shooting Scott a look. Scott gave a small nod and then gestured for Danny to step into the empty classroom across the hallway. Danny looked between Stiles and Scott for a moment, and Stiles held his breath. He was sure Danny would change his mind, but, although his lips thinned, Danny said nothing. He just crossed the hallway and stepped into the classroom.
Stiles hurried after. Once all three of them were inside, Scott shut the door and leaned back against it with his arms folded over his chest, looking expectantly at Stiles.
Stiles swallowed, looked at Danny, looked at the floor. He fidgeted with the straps of his backpack and then dropped it to the top of a desk. He rubbed a hand over his head and paced to the window, eyeing Danny who stood still and silent beside the teacher’s desk. Danny raised an eyebrow.
“What I said to you. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.” Stiles forced the words through the tightness in his throat. “I’m really, really, really sorry I said it.” He was sort of hoping he could leave it at that. That Danny would just accept his apology and not ask why and they could just continue on to lacrosse practice and that would be—
“Why’d you say it then?”
Fuck. “Uh,” Stiles looked past Danny to Scott and sucked in a deep breath before meeting Danny’s gaze straight on. “So, here’s the thing…”
Danny’s eyes were wide and glassy and Stiles was kind of afraid he might pass out. Scott’s features were slowly melting back into his regular, sideburn-less face and he looked a bit embarrassed as Danny continued to stare.
“Yep,” Stiles clapped his hands together awkwardly. “So, I’m really sorry about what I said. I just wanted to get you out of the locker room before Isaac, um, ate you.”
“Right,” Danny’s voice was still faint, “Because Isaac is a werewolf.”
“You know, I wondered why you were being such a jackass all of a sudden,” Danny continued, still not taking his eyes off of Scott who was now fully human and looking fairly uncomfortable at the scrutiny. “I mean everyone knows you and Derek Hale are a thing.”
“Wait, what?” Stiles’s voice rose sharply in alarm. “Everyone knows we’re what?”
“He got you like, a giant stuffed elephant or something.”
“It was a lion,” Stiles responded with all the dignity he could muster.
“Yeah, so I figured you might be going through some stuff.”
“I want to know who spilled the beans about the lion.” Stiles eyed Scott suspiciously. “I want to know who’s responsible.”
“But I didn’t think, you know, werewolves,” Danny gave a weak laugh. “‘Cause that’s, well, that’s crazy.”
“Yeah. Sorry, man.” Scott shrugged self-consciously. “I thought maybe you’d know already, ‘cause Jackson—”
Stiles’s face broke into a grin as he pushed out of the school’s front doors and spotted Derek leaning against the side of his jeep. “Hey,” he called as he jogged down the stairs towards the parking lot.
Derek pushed off the car and came to meet Stiles, scowling. “Slow down. There’s a reason Melissa said you can’t play lacrosse until the stitches come out.”
“I’m fine,” Stiles rolled his eyes when Derek made him stop, the werewolf pushing open Stiles’s jacket to inspect his shoulder. “No blood, I promise.”
Derek’s nostrils flared, checking for the scent of it, and Stiles couldn’t decide if that was creepy or kind of hot. Possibly it was both.
Apparently satisfied, Derek pulled Stiles’s jacket back into place and the two of them headed back towards Stiles’s jeep.
“How did it go with Danny?” Derek’s hand rested against the small of Stiles’s back as he helped Stiles up into the jeep. Not that Stiles needed help, exactly, but Derek had been almost painfully careful about how he touched Stiles since he’d been drugged and tried to kill him. Stiles was taking any physical contact he could get.
“Not that bad, considering.” Stiles fished his keys out of his pocket as Derek got into the passenger’s seat. “He took the whole werewolf thing way better than my dad.”
Derek’s mouth hardened. “Danny didn’t find you half-dead at the hands of one.”
“I was not half-dead!” Stiles protested as he pulled out of the parking lot. “And you didn’t hurt me,” he added as Derek’s clenched jaw clenched even tighter, “Not once.” He was fudging a bit since Derek was probably responsible for the bruising on Stiles’s ribs, from when he tackled Stiles to the ground, but Derek didn’t remember anything after Stiles made it up to the ceiling and Stiles was not planning to enlighten him. Derek was, of course, blaming himself for the entire fiasco, and there was no way Stiles was going to let him think he was responsible for any of Stiles’s injuries on top of that.
“Ray is the one who did the most damage—to both of us. And he’s not going to hurt anyone else again.” Stiles was fiercely glad of that and only wished he’d been there to see Ray’s face when Peter caught up with him. Peter refused to specify how exactly he ensured Ray would no longer be a threat, but Stiles had a pretty good idea. He reached over and tucked his hand into Derek’s, unable to help the happy flush in his cheeks when, after a slight hesitation, Derek wrapped his fingers firmly around Stiles’s.
“So,” Stiles slid a sidelong glance at Derek from under his lashes. “My dad’s working late tonight. Do you want to come over?”
Derek’s hand tensed in Stiles’s. “I don’t know if—”
“Come on, he likes you!”
Stiles wasn’t even fudging this time. Once Stiles had been released from the hospital the Sheriff had insisted Derek come over for dinner and fully explain the whole werewolves-are-a-thing-that-exist thing. Derek had been reluctant but the Sheriff made the point that, as Sheriff, he needed to be able to see the whole board, and so Derek had conceded. The evening had started off slightly stilted, awkward for all parties involved, but Derek had brought a bottle of wine and after a glass each of the two men had relaxed slightly. By the time they’d finished the bottle and Stiles’s dad had opened a second, it seemed like they were actually becoming friends. Stiles, of course, hadn’t been offered any wine and so he sat nursing a coke and trying not to interrupt the man-bonding in front of him.
“He likes me because he doesn’t know about you and me.”
There was that. Hopefully the Sheriff’s newfound respect for Derek would make it easier for him to take the news that his son was, uhh… involved with the Alpha werewolf. Stiles was saving that tidbit of information for a later date.
“You’re really going to make me go home to an empty house?” Stiles stopped at a red light and looked pitifully at Derek.
“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was stern, “I don’t think it’s appropriate.”
“What? Seriously?” Stiles gaped. “So it’s fine if I’m over at your house and you’re fucking my brains out—”
“Stiles!” Derek sounded scandalized, glancing around like someone would overhear them. “That’s different.”
The light turned green and Stiles turned his eyes back to the road. “How is it different?”
“It just… is. I don’t know.” Derek crossed his arms over his chest, looking uncomfortable. “It’s not respectful.”
Oh, god. Stiles was dating a grandpa. “I just want to sit on the couch and watch a movie. That’s all.” That was most definitely not all Stiles wanted, but he wasn’t fool enough to clue Derek in to that. “You haven’t been around this week.” He pulled up in his driveway, looking over at Derek. “Are you avoiding me?”
Derek looked stricken and Stiles felt kinda bad. He didn’t really think Derek was avoiding him. Much.
“Of course I’m not avoiding you. I’m sorry. Yes, we can watch a movie.” Derek grabbed Stiles’s backpack and got out of the jeep. Stiles bit his lip to hide a grin and scrambled out after him.
They settled on the couch with a large bowl of buttery popcorn, a couple cokes, and Forgetting Sara Marshall playing on the TV. Stiles lay down with his head propped up on a pillow and his legs sprawled over Derek’s lap, the bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach so they could both reach it. Derek’s fingers traced idle patterns on Stiles’s leg with one hand while the other dug distractedly into the popcorn bowl. Derek had never seen Forgetting Sara Marshall before and, despite Stiles’s initial ulterior motives for suggesting a movie, he found himself unwilling to interrupt it because, for the first time in, well, forever maybe, Derek looked completely and utterly relaxed. His green eyes were bright, crinkled at the corners as he grinned around a mouthful of popcorn while Jason Segal tried both to do more while doing less on a surfboard, and when Russell Brand began to teach Jack McBryer how to make love using giant chess pieces Derek gave an actual, honest-to-god belly laugh.
Stiles felt something in his chest give at the sight of Derek’s unrestrained joy. He wanted to lean up and kiss Derek’s laughing mouth and his flushed cheeks and the crinkles at his eyes. But more than that he wanted to keep watching Derek’s face while it was alight with good humour and feel Derek’s relaxed, easy caress on his leg, and just be there, with Derek, like this. Stiles thought maybe he’d never want anything more than to watch the surly, brooding Alpha werewolf with far too much weight on his shoulders laugh until he cried because of a silly vampire Muppet musical.
The credits began to roll and while Derek was still wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, Stiles put the now-empty popcorn bowl on the table and moved, shifting up to straddle Derek’s lap.
Derek looked up at Stiles, amused smile still loose and easy on his face as Stiles leaned in and kissed him. Derek’s lips parted unhesitatingly under Stiles’s and Stiles wasted no time pressing in closer, licking in to taste salt from the popcorn and sweet from the coke and the underlying flavour that was all Derek. Derek’s hands slid up Stiles’s thighs and gripped his hips. The feel of Derek’s fingers pressing hard against his skin made Stiles shudder and his breath hitched against Derek’s lips, mouth falling open and slack.
Derek chuckled, low and smug. “That’s all it takes, huh?” He slipped his thumbs up under Stiles’s t-shirt and pressed them into the hollow of Stiles’s hipbones, making Stiles jerk towards him, his cock hard against Derek’s chest.
“Don’t get cocky.” Stiles arched into the contact as Derek’s hands slid up over his ribs, touch light over the bruised skin. “You leave a guy alone for days and he gets a little desperate.”
Derek’s hands instantly withdrew at the reminder of why, exactly, he hadn’t touched Stiles like this since the week before. “You’re still hurt,” his eyes sharpened and he glanced towards the front door, “And we’re at your dad’s.” He placed his hands gently on Stiles’s thighs.
“I’m not that hurt, and,” Stiles raised his voice, cutting off the protest Derek was about to make. “We’re not at ‘my dad’s’. This is my home too. And I think,” he teased, leaning forward to nip at the rough stubble at Derek’s jawline, smirking a little at Derek’s sudden intake of breath, “It’d be pretty disrespectful to leave me here, like this.” He pressed himself flush against Derek, letting Derek feel just how badly Stiles wanted him.
“Your shoulder—” Derek broke off with a hiss as Stiles spread his legs wider, his weight dropping more firmly into Derek’s lap.
“Don’t worry about my shoulder,” Stiles breathed against the shell of Derek’s ear, tongue flicking out to lick the lobe before his teeth closed gently over the flesh. “I won’t move my shoulder. I don’t need to move my shoulder. I’ll just move this.” He rolled his hips against Derek, rubbing himself against the erection that strained Derek’s jeans. Derek’s head fell back against the couch, his hands on Stiles’s thighs sliding to grip Stiles’s ass and pull him closer.
Stiles purred—there was no other word for it—and brought his hands down to Derek’s fly, popping open the button and sliding down the zipper so he could reach inside and feel Derek, hot and hard through the thin fabric of his underwear. Derek’s hips thrust into his hand and then it was Derek’s fingers undoing Stiles’s jeans and pulling them down over his hips. Stiles moved back, hopping off the couch to shimmy out of the rest of his jeans. He pulled his boxers off and before Derek could stop him, tugged off his shirt, ignoring the stab of pain from his shoulder.
Naked, he bent down and picked up the condom and small bottle of lube that he’d grabbed during a bathroom break, while Derek had been too distracted laughing helplessly at a shrieking Mila Kunis to notice his absence. He tossed both onto the couch beside Derek, before crawling back up into Derek’s lap.
Derek raised an eyebrow. “Just a movie—that’s all?” He said dryly, even as his hands kneaded the firm globes of Stiles’s ass, making the boy shudder and his eyes fall closed.
“Please?” Stiles forced his eyes open, brought his hands up to cup Derek’s face, unable to stop from stroking the scruff, so soft in one direction and raspy in the other. “I won’t break. I want you.” He pressed his forehead to Derek’s, one hand trailing down Derek’s chest to pull Derek’s cock out, fingers wrapping around the hard flesh, thumb slipping against the precome beaded at the top. “I want to feel you inside of me.”
Derek groaned, resolve slipping away as Stiles’s clever fingers moved over him. He reached for the condom, ripping open the package and nudging Stiles’s hand away to slide the condom over himself. Stiles’s hand transferred easily to his own cock and the sight of Stiles sprawled open on Derek’s lap, fisting his dick, eyelashes fluttering shut with pleasure, had Derek biting back a curse. His hand was clumsy with lust and urgency as he reached for the lube, flipping open the cap and slicking his fingers.
He reached around Stiles, fingers sliding over hot flesh and slipping in. Stiles’s teeth dug into his own lip and he rocked back, cheeks flushed and pupils blown as he tried to push Derek deeper into him. But Derek’s hand retreated, coming back to get more lube and sliding easily over his cock.
“Come here,” Derek ordered and Stiles obeyed without question, rising up and moving forward so that he kneeled, legs spread, over Derek’s cock. Derek’s hands pressed into Stiles’s hips and held him firm even as Stiles tried to lower himself down.
“Derek,” Stiles’s voice held an edge of impatience and he wriggled in Derek’s grasp.
“Just, hang on a second.” Derek’s cock was hard enough that it ached but he kept a tight reign on his control. “Let me look at you.” Derek ran his gaze over Stiles’s body, unflinchingly cataloguing every cut and bruise and scrape that marred the pale skin. None of it, save the claw marks on his shoulder, held together with ugly stitches, was that bad. And Stiles was healing. A few weeks from now, there’d be no trace of the damage he’d suffered except for a few thin lines of scar tissue along his collarbone. Derek felt his stomach unclench for the first time since he’d realized Stiles was missing the week before.
“Okay, enough looking at me. Fuck me.” Stiles demanded.
Derek arched an eyebrow and considered making Stiles wait longer, but he could smell the rising scent of Stiles’s desperation and so loosened his grip on Stiles’s hips. Stiles grinned, triumphant, and eased himself down onto Derek’s dick, sucking in a breath as he felt Derek push into him.
Stiles arched back against the burn, body thrumming with that delicious pain/pleasure cocktail that made him pant and fight not to writhe as he took Derek in to the hilt. He could feel Derek’s own uneven breathing as he rose up, the head of Derek’s cock sliding over his prostate and sending sparks up his spine. Stiles let out a whimper, easing back down and then again rising. Derek’s hips jerked under him, fingers digging hard enough into Stiles’s hips that he felt the bite of nails as the werewolf growled with irritation.
Stiles smirked, hips rolling slowly. “Fuck me,” he repeated, goading. “I want you hard and fast and—” He wasn’t able to finish because Derek slammed him down onto his cock and Stiles’s head fell back, a sharp cry of pleasure parting his lips as Derek thrust into him hard and fast and ruthless and exactly how Stiles wanted it. Needed it.
Derek’s hand wrapped around Stiles’s cock and it took no more than a few rough, uneven strokes before Stiles was coming, spilling wet and messy over Derek’s fist. Derek swore viciously under his breath as Stiles’s body clamped around him, tight, Stiles bowed back in orgasm. Derek drove into the boy again and again and felt himself crash into the edge and then over, Stiles’s name on his lips as he came in hot, slick bursts.
The Sheriff had texted that he would be home even later than he’d anticipated and so Stiles and Derek had ordered take out, and Stiles had introduced Derek to Community. They’d watched a couple episodes, devoured several cartons of Chinese food, and then Stiles had cajoled Derek into coming upstairs and spent a good hour devouring him. Now they lay naked and boneless in Stiles’s bed, flushed and panting in the afterglow of really, really great sex.
Stiles rubbed his thumb over the skin of Derek’s chest just above his nipple, watching, fascinated, as the dark purple bruise he’d left with his teeth faded and smoothed out until the skin was once again flawless. He’d never get over how cool that was. Derek flinched when the pad of Stiles’s thumb drifted lower, rubbing tantalizingly over his nipple, and grabbed Stiles’s wrist to pull his hand away.
“Are you trying to kill me?” He asked, gathering Stiles closer and wrapping his arms around the boy, not so subtly trapping Stiles’s own arms in the process.
“Aren’t you supposed to have superhuman stamina or something?” Stiles accused, snuggling in with a contented sigh, more than happy enough to be pressed against Derek’s warm and naked flesh. Truth be told, he didn’t think he would be up for another round—his body ached pleasantly but in a way that told him he’d be sore for days, and he could feel drowsiness settling heavily in his bones.
Derek just grunted in response, Stiles’s arm flung across his belly a satisfying weight as Stiles’s legs tangled with his. Derek was happy to stay that way, possibly forever, with Stiles’s head resting against his shoulder and his other arm tucked between them. Derek’s eyelids felt heavy and he let them fall closed as he breathed in the scent of Stiles’s warm skin.
“This is it, right?” Stiles’s voice was muffled against Derek’s skin and he shifted, angling his face upwards. He now had a truly magnificent view of the curve of Derek’s jaw line, strong and dark with stubble, and Stiles had to force himself not to arch up and lick. He was too tired. But it was so temptingly within reach….
“Hmm?” Derek’s response was slow and languid, thumb rubbing lazy circles at Stiles’s elbow.
“No more nasty surprises. No more undead uncles, Kanimas, creepy old grandpas, or psychotic humans, right?” Stiles persisted. “This is it?”
“Oh,” Derek cracked open an eyelid. “Yes. I imagine this is it.”
“Good.” Stiles pressed his face back into the curve of Derek’s shoulder, his voice once again muffled and now thick and sleepy. “Good.”
Derek could feel the tension slide out of Stiles and within seconds the boy was fast asleep. Derek dropped a soft kiss to the top of Stiles’s head, his lips curved upwards in a smile as he closed is own eyes. This was it.
Ra_venous says: Has your problem cleared up?
IAmNotWhatIAm says: Yes.
Ra_venous says: Good.
IAmNotWhatIAm says: Any trouble on your end?
Ra_venous says: No. We stick to the timeline.
IAmNotWhatIAm says: Agreed.
IAmNotWhatIAm says: I’ll be in touch.
IAmNotWhatIam is offline.
Thank you so much to everyone for reading and kudos-ing and commenting on Lead Me Wild! I've had such an amazing few months writing it, and it's so great that you guys will take the time to give me feedback. This has been a wonderful experience and I can't thank you all enough :)
Huge thank you to my betas. This has been one of the coolest things I've ever done and you two have been there with me every step of the way. It's really your confidence in me that made this whole thing possible. Halite - you've been so supportive, and patient, and never once complained about how infuriating I can be. Thank you for answering emails and texts at all hours of the night (okay until like 11 cause that's my bedtime) and sending me the soundtrack to the next one. You've had my back from before Chapter One and I love you. My partner Paradisgatan - the only reason this exists is because of you, a pool table, and chrome lighting in a bar. You're home and heart and hearth. Hardships numbered or unnumbered, we've got this.
The playlist I've been using to write LMW can be found at 8tracks.
Graphics are done by Kat!
Podfic for Chapter One and Two are available here.
You can come visit me over on my fan tumblr.
Thanks for reading!