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kid full of history

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Kate sees it in him first, the darkness that lurks within.

“Let me help you,” she whispers in his ear. “Let me teach you.”

In the end, she’s the one that douses his home but he’s the one that lights the match.


Derek’s in a bar in Memphis, packed with college kids. The air smells like cheap perfume and cheaper beer. It’s the perfect hunting ground: he blends in well enough and no one’s looking too closely at who their friends are leaving with.

There's a kid at the bar, messy hair and huge brown eyes. He looks too young to be there but there's a beer in his hand and he's slumped over the bar a little, eyes unfocused and mouth curled in a drunken grin. He's perfect, just perfect, and the way he's leaning into the guy next to him at the bar makes him even more so. Derek's hand aches to slide around the pale column of his throat and choke him.

So he goes to him, shoulders in between the kid and his friend, smiles apologetically as his beer sloshes all over bar.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and ducks his head shyly, “can I get you another?”

The kid turns that grin on him and yes, yes, this is the one, Derek can feel it in his bones. Tonight’s going to be good.

He buys the kid a drink or two before he makes a move, fingers sliding over his hip, tongue touching his ear lobe as he leans in to speak to him. The flush rising up the kid’s neck is beautiful, and Derek tells him at much. The kid blushes more.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks, and the kid nods enthusiastically, brushing along the hem of Derek’s shirt with fumbling fingers.

“Do you need to tell anyone you’re leaving?” he asks and this time the kid shakes his head, and that’s even better.

Outside, Derek leads the kid to his car and presses him against it, bites at his lips until the guy is trembling against him, hips rocking into his over and over. He even tilts his head back so Derek can bite up his neck, teeth sinking in to bring the blood to the surface. Boy, was he was wrong about tonight: it’s not going to be good, it’s going to be amazing.


The kid gives him a sloppy blowjob up against the motel door, mouth hot and wet over Derek’s cock. His lips look fantastic stretched around his dick and he moans whenever Derek tugs his hair. It’s not enough to make him come, so he pulls him up and licks the taste of himself from the kid’s mouth before pulling his clothes off.

Derek’s surprised by what he finds: the baggy shirt gave the impression of skin and bones but the kid is all toned muscle and tanned skin. Maybe he’ll put up a fight, Derek thinks, and his dick twitches in anticipation. He likes it when they fight back.

He trips the kid onto the bed and he goes down easily, clambering up to the pillows while Derek strips. When he’s naked he climbs on top of the kid, pins him down with strong hands and bites along his chest. No need to worry about marks; there won’t be much skin left when he’s done.

The kid doesn’t seem to care that Derek’s drawing blood, just moans at every nip of his teeth on pale skin. Doesn’t like it gentle then. Derek grabs the lube on the table, and starts with two fingers, jamming them in hard and unrelenting until the kid’s writhing underneath him, twitching and groaning.

While the kid’s distracted, Derek gets his other hand around his throat, fits it up under his jaw and presses down. The body beneath him tenses, pushing up into it for a moment as a moan stutters from the kid’s lips.

Then he realises what Derek’s doing and his body bucks and twists, fighting. Derek holds him down – this is hardly his first time – but the kid is stronger than he looks. An elbow catches him across the temple and his grip loosens for a split second, but that’s all the kid needs, throwing his weight up until he flips Derek off the bed and onto the floor.

Derek tries to get up but the kid’s on top of him fast, faster than he should at that level of drunk. The kid presses his hands into the carpet, thumbs in the pressure points to keep him still, trapping Derek securely beneath him with his weight pinning him in place. He’s stark naked and grinning, elated and deadly, staring down at Derek with sharp eyes.

“Well, well, well,” the kid says in a saccharine voice, “what do we have here?”

Derek can only lie there and watch this boy watching him, something like panic shifting in his chest at how quickly he’s gone from predator to prey. The kid just tilts his head calmly, examining him from all angles.

“You’re the guy,” he says eventually. “I’ve been following you in the news. You’re that killer.”

Derek bucks violently because shit, shit, who the hell is this kid and what happened to the slutty drunk guy in his bed?

“Hey now,” the kid says, fingers digging in, “don’t worry. I’m not gonna call the cops.”

Derek finds his second wind at that, and he manages to jerk up hard enough that his forehead smashes into the kid’s nose. Blood explodes, and the kid falls back, rolling across the carpet. Derek chases after him, going for a tackle, but the kid’s quick.

He’s on the other side of the bed before Derek can blink and there’s a knife in his hand, pulled from god knows where, held out like a warning. He’s not waving it around, all bravado; his hand is steady and his grip is sure. He knows his way around a blade: Derek would bet money that he’s used it on someone before.

“I’m Stiles,” the kid says.

There’s red smeared across his mouth and jaw, a stark contrast to the bright white of his grin. And he is grinning, wide and ecstatic, like this is the best day of his life.

Derek can’t help wondering who the hell he picked up in that bar.