Derek hears the sea. No matter how far from home he is or how noisy the hellhole he is forced to reside in, he hears it. His home. Calling and roaring, honeyed and shrieking. Waiting patiently for him to come back and dive in the waters of dark blue. Derek was meant for the ocean. He was meant for the murky darkness of that vast deep. To see the haunting glow of those that wandered in the watery abyss.
He leans back and exhales black smoke from his lips. Teeth dull and thick when he touches it with his tongue. The world on the surface is so different from his home. Yet its people and its places remind him of it, making the longing ache in his chest grow worse. He sighs and drags his fingers against his bare neck. Finger nails sharp and pale green etch themselves in his skin. They draw thin lines of blood that heal as quick as they come.
He puts out the cigarette and walks out of the booth and sits at the counter. The human behind it is a lanky thing with a buzz cut and the type of grin Derek has seen mostly in potential prey.
Nervous and unsure.
Derek taps the pale green counter. “What can I get you?” the human asks, his voice is soft and Derek leans forward. There is a scent of dog. Or wolves. Whatever it is, it covers the youth but underneath that is something else. Something that makes his breath hitch and his teeth sharpen.
The scent thickens and the other’s pupils begin to dilate. Derek smiles, gentle and sweet like Laura taught him. His nail taps slowly matching his own heartbeat. “Hi,” he says, words flick off his tongue with more ease than he actual feels, “I’m Derek.” He waits for the other to answer but the male blinks instead. Derek can hear his heart,
Fast and faster, rapid and uncountable.
The common sound of dinner before Derek’s teeth pierces its throat (depending on the creature). Derek wants to pull him over the counter and mark him if he is willing. “St-stiles,” he answers finally.
“Stiles” Derek repeats, his voice fluctuate at different parts of that name, deepening in pitches earning a bright flush in the cheeks. “Can I have another cup?” he orders, he likes the way Stiles trembles and the stutter in his voice when he tells him the price. Stiles looks like lesser prey, soft and weak. Meant for sharp teeth. But Derek knows he is not.
He can’t be.
Derek is not attracted to those below the food chain.
So he deems Stiles as Strong.
“Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking,” Stiles asks, the chirp of the machine placing the order. Stiles is quick to adapt, he notes. It makes him smile, Derek shrugs,
“A little town you probably never heard of,” he answers out of habit. Stiles gasps,
“Really? You look like a city slicker to me,” he states, “Like straight out of GQ or something.”
Derek takes time to process the statement. GQ is a term he often hear Cora use to describe someone she found attractive. He looks at himself. He is dressed in a simple slim straight jeans, a white shirt and a leather jacket. “Oh,” he smirks, “Are you saying that I’m gorgeous?”
“Ridiculously” Stiles places the cup of tea in front of him, “So what brings you here?”
Derek laughs, “Just looking for a relative,” he replies, he takes up the container, “But I’ll make sure to come see you before I leave.”
Derek wanders about. Waiting for some sign or evidence of his uncle. He sips his luke warm tea and studies the darkness of the sky. His stomach rumbles. The moon is high. His tongue is wet with tea but he knows it won’t be satisfied with just that. His teeth feel sharper and he can feel his body tingle. The desire to shed this false skin is strong.
He sniffs the air. The air of small towns is different than that of the city. Cleaner and smoother. So much easier for the scent of blood to travel. Tangy and sweet, flavouring the air. “Ah?” he should not smile. But the corners of his lips go up and his tongue swipes at his lips, trying to taste the air. “Are you hungry, Uncle?” he whispers, “Take your fill.”
Prey tasted best when full and content.
He follows the scent under the moon’s light. It leads him behind an abandoned warehouse, just outside the town. And his sweet dear uncle. On his knees, in a puddle of blood, crunching on the severed arm of his slain victim with a greedy fever. He calls his uncle’s name. Peter looks up and smiles wide. His teeth are sharp and fine, stained with blood and particles.
“Nephew” Peter speaks, voice soft and sweet, “How are you?” he gestures with his hands. Splatters of blood hit the wall. He continues to eat, teeth piercing through fat and muscles, snapping bones.
“You change your scent, uncle.” Derek notes, his tone is polite. Peter is an elder after all. His uncle shrugs,
“It might be the air here.” he swallows, “Filthy air” he spits in disgust, “always hated humans.” he smirks at the mutilated corpse, “But they taste so good.” he swallows the remaining piece of the man’s arm. He pats his stomach. “At least they have that going for them.”
“Humans are dangerous, uncle.” Derek reminds him.
Humans were like them after all.
Peter plunges his hand in the gaping hole of the chest. Hand moving and shifting as if searching in a toy box. He pulls out the stomach, “Prey upon the ‘Weak’-” he mutters,
“Devour the ‘Strong’” Derek finishes
Peter dangles the organ over his open mouth and drops it. Derek watches the lump move down his uncle’s throat with patient ease. “Braeden lives.” the lump disappears and Peter exhales. “She wants retribution and demands your heart.”
He laughs, “I swore I plunged the knife in her throat.” Peter points at his own, “right in the middle”
Derek does not mention the fear that clawed at his chest when he saw her after. The ferocity in her form, clutching her still healing neck with one hand while the other flexed aching to destroy. Braeden was old. Some say older than the sea they dwelled in. He had to commend his father for not even flinching when she screamed his name. Her voice echoing throughout the caverns. Deep yet sharper than any blade Laura has ever made.
“Your brother tried to take my life,” she stated when his father met her at the village’s edge. Derek and Laura behind him and guards by his side. Derek tried to breathe but it was so hard. Her presence towering and suffocating. She flung the dagger, the point imbedded in the rock. Her voice was calm, “I demand repayment for this.”
His father stared at the blade, studying the black and red emblem on the deep grey hilt. “Who will be your weapon?” he asked.
Peter swallows a kidney, “She chose you as her weapon?”
Derek shrugs, “One does not argue with an enraged witch.”
He chews on other one, “Or try to kill her.” he licks his elbow, “She’s beautiful when she’s furious, isn’t she?” Peter says this in a dreamy tone. “I wanted to marry her. There’s nothing more beautiful than someone who can kill you with ease.”
The nervous grin of Stiles flashes through Derek’s mind. “Yes,” he replies, “But to try and kill them because of rejection is rather impudent of you, isn’t it?”
Peter sits on the ground, leg folded under the other. “Doesn’t matter,” he waves his hand, “I’ve been sentenced to death and exiled by my brother.”
“The moment I step into that ocean, Braeden will kill me.” Peter laughs, “It’s cute you think any different.”
Derek doesn’t but he says nothing. He watches Peter eat with a chilling calm. “Do you really think you can kill me, nephew?” Peter questions, his posture is slouched but Derek can see the tension in his facade. “You are not like your sister, Derek.” he comments, snapping a limb off, “she was always the better hunter so why send you?”
“I asked that too.”
His uncle laugh, but the laughter is forced and strained. The mere fact that Braeden chose him hangs in the air, heavy and sharp. Derek goes into one of the jacket’s pocket, taking out a large dagger with a black and red emblem on the grey hilt. Peter laughs at the sight of it, “I didn’t know Braeden had a sense of humour”
But Peter did know she was merciless. “Bring me his heart, Derek,” Braeden whispered, her long curved nails on his cheeks. Sharp yet it inflicted no pain or discomfort, “If he desired mine so covetously, I will feast upon his own in turn.” Oh yes, Braeden was most merciless. Derek grips the blade tighter.
“Good bye, uncle.”
You are slower after you have fed. Your body full and content, pouring its energy into digesting your prey. To eat in front of an enemy is to mock them. To eat in front of your potential killer is to jeer at them. That is how the Strong taunts the Weak.
But it is not the Strong that rules the ocean.
He dodges Peter’s claws, Peter’s human face slipping, white skin torn and ripped, and revealing tinge of green underneath. Peter’s teeth are sharper and his eyes lose their human colour and glow a bright blue in the moonlight. Derek keeps his mask, ignoring the high shriek of laughter from his uncle’s lips. Sharp claws aiming for his vitals, his throat, his eyes but always missing by an inch. Just an inch.
Derek swipes at his left radial artery, Peter laughs even harder. He stops though when he realises the deep red blood still leaking from that thin red line. Derek smiles, meeting his uncle’s confused gaze, “Braeden blessed it.” he answers. Peter makes a movement but Derek is faster. Derek is hungry and his instinct is in overdrive underneath his calm facade.
He thrusts the blade in Peter’s throat. It goes in smooth and deep, blood gushing out. “You should have taken me serious uncle.” Derek states, Peter’s blood dripping from his arm, watching his uncle’s mouth moving, trying to speak, maybe laugh? He doubts it.
He tears the dagger out.
Peter falls on his back. Body convulsing as blood spill from his lips. “You’re healing so slowly,” Derek lectures, “You’ll bleed out before you’re well.” Peter is looking at him; at least Derek thinks he is. But Derek can smell the agony so he is content nonetheless. His stomach growls, he agrees with it.
Prey is always most appetizing when it suffers in death.
Derek comes back in the morning, yawning as he walks through the door, its bell chiming above his head. Stiles greets him with a smile, “What can I get you stranger?” he teases, “Coffee or a shot of pure cocaine? You look exhausted.”
Derek smiles, “Just a little” he replies. He enjoys the rapid beats of Stiles heart. He wonders how fast it would beat if Stiles was underneath him, slick and wet. Skin shining with sweat and head tossed back in utter pleasure. He would be slow with Stiles, take his time and taste every bit of him. Derek would have him sobbing and aching for more unti - His thoughts must have shown on his face because Stiles’ cheeks flushed. Stiles coughs and his heart beats even faster.
Derek licks his lips, the lovely sound of the strong before it is devoured.
“So what’s with the gist-, I mean gift.” Stiles asks, gesturing at the wrapped package in his hands. It was neither small nor large and skilfully wrapped with paper of silver and gold with a shimmering bow on top. It took Derek most of the night to find the ingredients necessary for the no-rot spell and he had to wait until the nearest store was opened before he could get it wrapped. But it was worth it. To the sales clerk it was just an odd shaped medium-sized white stone, soft but cool to the touch. Derek supposes that was one way of looking at it. Derek leans against the counter,
“A gift for my godmother,” he answers. He pauses then grins, “An apology from my uncle.”