Author: haleofStilesheart
Ao3
Additional Tags: Tropescaught masturbatingAccidental VoyeurismAccidental ExhibitionismMasturbationEvil HuntersKidnappingFeral DerekLove ConfessionsPining DerekPiningPossessive Derek
Words: 6327
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Summary;
It's just sexual, it's just sexual. It doesn't mean anything.
Derek repeated it over and over in his head like a masochistic mantra, gritting his teeth and clenching the steering wheel dangerously tight. Just sexual. Doesn't mean anything.
But his self-flagellating thoughts couldn't drown out the memory of Stiles' husky moans; his breathy sighs; the soft, almost inaudible gasp he had made as he'd come, calling out Derek's name.
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It's just sexual, it's just sexual. It doesn't mean anything.
Derek repeated it over and over in his head like a masochistic mantra, gritting his teeth and clenching the steering wheel dangerously tight. Just sexual. Doesn't mean anything.
But his self-flagellating thoughts couldn't drown out the memory of Stiles' husky moans; his breathy sighs; the soft, almost inaudible gasp he had made as he'd come, calling out Derek's name.
He tightened his already vice-like grip on the steering wheel, hearing the vinyl creak and groan beneath his white-knuckled hold. He was on the verge of grinding his teeth, instead resorting to breathing deeply through his nose in an attempt to calm himself down a fraction.
But it was counterproductive. With every breath meant to steel himself against the tantalizing memory, he inhaled the heady scent of cum still clinging to Stiles' skin, the scent so pungent he could practically taste it.
Before that thought could lead him down another rabbit hole of debauchery, he moved a hand to roll down his window, generously giving the steering wheel some reprieve from his crushing grip. He desperately hoped the fresh, cold air would help wick away the thoroughly distracting scent.
"Could you roll that up? I'm freezing over here," Stiles asked from the passenger seat, teeth chattering the slightest bit. "Not all of us have wolfy thermoregulation, y'know."
Derek spared a quick glance at him. He was bundled up in all of his usual layers: graphic tee, flannel, red hoodie. His arms were folded over his chest, his hoodie zipped up to his chin, the hood flipped up over his head as he shivered a bit.
Derek silently, and almost a little reluctantly, rolled his window back up before reaching over to the center console to turn on the seat warmers and crank up the heat. He was doing anything he could think of to both alleviate Stiles' chills, feeling inordinately guilty about having momentarily let it slip his mind that Stiles was human, and distract him from the fact that Stiles' cheeks were still flushed pink, but not from the cold.
"Dude, are you okay?" Stiles asked, looking Derek up and down suspiciously. He shifted in his seat, adjusting to the warmth of the heated seats. "You're grumpier than usual. What's up?"
Derek just shrugged and grunted something unintelligible under his breath, not helping his case in the slightest. His lack of an actual response only prompted Stiles to probe, "Is it the hunters?"
Right. The hunters. The ones that had rolled into town about a week or so ago and were demanding a meeting with Derek.
He had finally agreed after exhausting every other option imaginable besides confronting the hunters head-on with the rest of the pack, not wanting to risk his betas' lives in addition to his own. Which was why he had been so reluctant to get Stiles involved.
Wary of any traps the hunters were extremely likely to set, Derek had called Chris Argent in for backup, testing the bounds of their tentative alliance. He'd decided to bring Stiles along as a lookout as an afterthought after being assured that the hunters wouldn't raise a hand against any humans.
Derek had gone to Stiles' to explain the plan and pick him up for the arranged meeting when it had happened.
Derek had parked the Camaro across the street and jogged up the walk to knock on the front door, as Stiles had insisted he do a thousand times, not getting any response whatsoever. He'd tried again, knocking more urgently as he peered into the glass inlay of the door, hoping to catch of glimpse of Stiles in the living room.
After five more minutes of no response, Derek had circled around to the back of the house. Bypassing the back door completely, he'd effortlessly scaled the side of the house, heading straight to Stiles' bedroom window.
Stiles had been preoccupied to say the least: sprawled out on his bed completely naked with a hand wrapped around his dick.
Derek knew he should have looked away. Knew he should have left. Knew he should have done something.
But he hadn't. He'd frozen, helpless to do anything but watch.
Watch the smooth, wet glide of Stiles' hand over his cock, twisting his wrist and swiping his thumb over the head. Watch the flutter of his eyelashes as he bucked up into his fist, thrusting up desperate for attention. Watch the way he viciously bit his lip in a futile attempt to keep in his pants and moans and soft whimpers.
Watch as he breathed out Derek's name like a benediction as he came.
It was only then that he had sprung into action. By nearly falling off the roof.
After regaining his balance, terrified that his slip up might have alerted Stiles to his presence, Derek had leapt off the roof, this time of his own volition. He had paced under Stiles' window with his hands buried in his hair, waiting for Stiles to poke his head out of his window and scream at him to go away as he internally berated himself for being so stupid.
He knew he should have called first. He knew.
After somehow managing to compose, having to simultaneously think about both Peter naked and the Sheriff hunting him down with his shotgun to curb his libido, Derek had tugged his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed Stiles' number, strolling back out to the Camaro. He'd nonchalantly leaned against the Camaro as he waited for Stiles to pick up the damn phone which he did on the third ring, sounding slightly out of breath.
Derek had gruffly and succinctly relayed the plan: Derek would meet with the hunters and politely tell them to get the hell out of Beacon Hills, out of his territory; Chris Argent would be watching the meeting from a nearby rooftop, doing surveillance in case the hunters tried something and things got dicey; and Stiles would wait by the car, ready to call in the rest of the pack only if absolutely necessary.
Stiles had complained about it being a spectacularly stupid plan but had walked out the front door a few minutes later nonetheless, fortunately wearing clothes. Derek had greeted him with a stiff nod and slid into the Camaro without a word.
So began his repetitive maxim as they began the drive to the meeting place. It's just sexual. It doesn't. Mean. Anything.
And he was sure it was true.
Stiles was a young, healthy red-blooded bisexual with a rather overactive imagination and the house to himself. And, while Derek wasn't one to brag, he knew he was objectively good looking. It wasn't that difficult to put the pieces together―teenage libido, empty house, random sexual thoughts about people he knew―Derek remembered what it was like to be a teenager, after all.
It was only a half-baked, one-time sexual fantasy. Nothing more. There was no possible way it could be anything more. Not at all.
There was no possible way Stiles could actually reciprocate Derek's feelings. No way he could want the lazy Sunday mornings lounging in bed together and the cozy evenings curled up by the fireplace reading in comfortable silence or soft, innocent kisses and casual, tender touches that Derek longed for with every bone in his body. No way he could want the same forever Derek did.
It just wasn't possible.
Shaking himself from his dead end thoughts, Derek focused on pulling up a block away from the agreed upon meeting place, a public fountain flanked by an office building and an old bookstore. It served a dual purpose: private enough for such an important meeting, safely tucked away from any prying eyes, yet public enough to discourage any rash behavior from the hunters.
He climbed out of the Camaro, gesturing for Stiles to do the same. Stiles clambered out of the car, immediately plopping down on the hood, soaking up as much heat as he could from the still warm engine. He buried his hands in his pockets, curling his fingers around his cell phone.
"There they are," Derek informed him, nodding his head to the side to indicate the group of men waiting across the street. Most of them were sitting on the rim of the fountain, a few pacing around impatiently, Stiles bobbed his head in acknowledgement, reeking of anxiety as he chewed his lip.
He blanched when Derek handed him the keys to the Camaro, eyes widening almost comically as his heart began pounding out a frantic staccato against his ribcage. His hands shook as he reluctantly accepted the keys, looking up at Derek with worry etched across his face.
"Just in case," Derek assured him with a forced smile, not feeling a fraction as confident as his tone of voice suggested. He glanced over his shoulder out of the corner of his eye, discreetly checking the office building roof for Chris Argent.
Once he'd found him, his profile silhouetted against the light gray sky, his eyes slid back to Stiles as he firmly instructed, "Just follow the plan. And don't do anything stupid."
"Just be careful, okay?" Stiles requested softly, glancing up to meet Derek's eyes. Derek nodded, raising a hand to squeeze Stiles' shoulder reassuringly. To his surprise, Stiles threw his arms around his shoulders, tugging him into a tight hug as he quietly advised, "Stay safe, sourwolf."
Derek snorted as he wrapped an arm around Stiles, not even surprised that he could startle laughter out of him so easily in the middle of such a stressful situation. It was part of the reason why Derek loved him so much.
Stiles offered a small, tentative smile after dropping his arms, ending the impromptu hug. Derek returned the uncertain grin as he turned to walk across the street before he did something rash and stupid like kiss Stiles, willing his heart to cease its little two-step that Stiles' touch had inspired.
Doesn't mean anything , he reminded himself, smirking despite himself when he heard Stiles mumble, "Go get ‘em, big guy."
The hunters stood when they saw him approaching, narrowing their eyes at him in blatant disgust. He returned the glares with a curl of his lip.
"Hale," the apparent leader of the hunters, the one who'd first approached Derek earlier to demand the meeting, greeted with a sneer as Derek gradually walked closer, careful to maintain a relatively safe distance.
He was middle-aged, his dark brown hair graying at the temples. There were wrinkles etched into his forehead and the corners of his eyes but his pale green eyes were still sharp and alert, piercing as they regarded Derek. He didn't look to be armed, dressed almost casually in dark gray jeans, but Derek knew better, the scent of smoke and gunpowder clinging to him.
"Cut the shit. This isn't a pissing contest," Derek snapped gruffly. "Now what the hell do you want?"
"Straightforward," the hunter observed, with a raise of an eyebrow, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. He looked back up, meeting Derek's eyes. "Wouldn't expect anything less than the alpha of the great Hale pack."
Derek grit his teeth at the subtle jab, discreetly curling his hands into fists in his pockets.
"Oh, sorry. That probably wasn't in the best taste, huh?" The hunter gibed insincerely, a smirk even smarmier than Peter's quirking the corners of his lips up. He plucked a pack of Newports out of his jacket pocket, sticking a cigarette between his lips and lighting it with a match, making a show of blowing it out afterward. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"
Derek cocked a brow, thoroughly unimpressed. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the poor attempt at intimidation, Derek barked, "What are you doing in my territory?"
"Oh, yeah..." the hunter drawled, exhaling a deep puff of smoke as he shifted his weight to his other foot. He lazily scratched at the faint stubble on his chin. "You wanna know what we're doing here. What we want. Don't cha?"
Derek blinked, not dignifying the hunter's goading with a response. The hunter fixed his cold eyes on Derek as he flicked his cigarette away. "What we want is to wipe your filthy kind off the face of the earth. And I think we'll start with you and your pathetic little pack."
Derek was already snarling when the hunters drew their weapons. His eyes, blazing red, quickly scanned over the hunters, analyzing the situation as fast as he possibly could, focusing for a second too long on the hunter pointing a Glock at his head.
Which is why he didn't notice the leader of the hunters pulling something else out of his jacket pocket until it was too late. With a triumphant smirk, he tossed whatever it was into Derek's face.
Wolfsbane.
It was yellow and foreign, ground down into a powder so fine it permeated the air around him like anthrax spores. It clogged his nose and burned his eyes, shooting fire down his throat when he inadvertently swallowed it. It left him dizzy, disoriented, his vision going blurry. He swayed on his feet as his body went limp, collapsing.
The last thing he heard was the crack of his head slamming against the pavement and a flurry of gunfire. And...Stiles' voice calling his name.
But that couldn't be. It didn't mean anything.
* * * * * * *
Derek had absolutely no idea how long he'd been out for when he begrudgingly awoke to find himself in a dark, dimly lit...room? Cave? Basement? He couldn't quite tell.
His eyes still prickled faintly, his nose insufferably itchy, throat sore. He groaned as he rolled over, pushing himself to his hands and knees to take better stock of his surroundings: dark concrete room, probably a basement from the dank, musty smell; single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, giving off a faint white light in the corner; Stiles.
Wait, Stiles?
"Stiles?" He slurred groggily, lifting a hand to his forehead when his head began to throb painfully, a burst of pain blooming behind his eyes.
"Oh, thank god you're up," Stiles sighed from where he was sitting huddled up in the corner. He shuffled over on his knees to Derek's side, laying a steadying hand on his shoulder, tightening his grip on Derek's leather jacket as he inquired, "You okay?"
"Aside from the pounding headache, wolfsbane, and the fact that we're locked in some basement god knows where?" Derek grumbled snappishly, closing his eyes to block out the oddly harsh artificial light. Was this what having a hangover felt like?
“Yeah, you’re okay,” Stiles announced with a weak, almost forced laugh, running his hand over Derek’s shoulder in what was clearly meant to be a comforting caress. But it didn’t help much given their situation.
“What happened?” Derek demanded hazily, wincing at the volume of his own voice, another stab of pain in his head. He scrubbed his hand over his face, brushing lingering traces of wolfsbane powder off his cheeks, out of his stubble, hefting himself up onto his knees with a groan, his joints aching.
“Okay so, don’t get mad, but I…I maybe didn’t follow the plan exactly,” Stiles began uncertainly, nervously scratching the back of his head as he waited for Derek to somehow acknowledge his confession. The werewolf didn’t leave him in suspense for long.
“Define ‘exactly’ ,” Derek grit out irritably, well aware that he wasn’t going to like the answer one whit.
“At all,” Stiles admitted in quick, rushed breath, wincing as he anticipated Derek’s less than thrilled reaction.
“So the pack has no idea where we are? Or what happened? Or that anything even happened at all?!” Derek growled, voice growing deep and guttural as he balled up his hands into frustrated fists. He ignored the sharp pain when he accidentally scratched his palm with the sharp talon of his claw in favor of thundering, “Is that what you’re telling me, Stiles?!”
“Hey!” Stiles yelped indignantly, familiar fiery light flaring up deep in the depths of his brown eyes as he wagged a finger in Derek’s face. “I was just trying to help your furry ass! Make sure you weren’t fucking dead!”
“Damn it, Stiles!” Derek snarled, eternally frustrated at Stiles’ severe lack of self-preservation, always running headlong into the fray without any consideration whatsoever for his own well-being. Derek whipped his head around to glare icily at Stiles. “What the hell were you think―” he cut himself off, narrowing his eyes when he noticed a dark bruise blooming around Stiles’ right temple “―What the hell is that?”
Stiles furrowed his brow, seemingly completely unaware of his own injury until he followed Derek’s gaze, touching the tip of his index finger to the mark. He ducked his head to hide the contusion, flippantly waving off Derek’s concern, dismissing, “Oh. It’s nothing.”
But Derek wasn’t one to be deterred. He darted forward a few inches to gingerly cup Stiles’ cheek, tilting Stiles’ head to the side so that he could better examine the livid bruise, lightly running the pad of his thumb along the edge of the mark.
Stiles rolled his eyes and stubbornly put up with the coddling examination of his face until he noticed the black veins crawling up Derek’s forearm. Squawking, Stiles smacked Derek’s hands away, screeching, “Hey! Knock it off! Don’t worry about me dude, it’s just a bump! You’re the one who got roofied!”
“How,” Derek said, his question sounding more like a statement than anything else, not giving Stiles the chance to make any dog jokes. Heh, ruff-ied, he pictured Stiles chuckling with a wide, carefree grin, shaking his head and turning his attention back to scanning his eyes over Stiles in search of any other injuries.
“Guy who roofied you hit me with his gun when I ran over to make sure you were alright,” Stiles explained succinctly, raising his other hand to curiously probe at his bruise, wincing when he applied a little too much pressure to the tender, slightly swollen flesh. Through his teeth, he quietly grit, “Fucking asshole.”
Well, at least now Derek knew who to kill first. Just like he’d killed the omega who had split Stiles’ lip a few weeks ago and nearly skinned the skinwalker who had left Stiles with a gash across his chest a few months prior to that, slaughtering anyone and anything that threatened to raise a hand to the human.
He just needed to figure out a way to get them the fuck out of there. No pressure.
"How long have we been here?" Derek wondered aloud, the incessant throbbing in his head subsiding for a few blessed moments, enough for him to wonder how long he had been unconscious for. But the relief didn't last very long, pangs of vicious radiating through his skull a few mere seconds after the words left his mouth.
"I don't know," Stiles admitted with a small shrug, shuffling back to sit against the nearest concrete wall, wrapping his arms around himself as he stretched his legs out. "They cleaned me out, dude. Took my phone, my wallet, your keys. Everything."
Of course they had. These hunters had been prepared. The weapons, the wolfsbane, hell even their leader's menacing little speech about eradicating werewolves; it had all been ready for the meeting.
Derek didn't like that. Not one bit.
These hunters were clearly professionals, not the easily scared off amateurs Derek had been hoping for. These hunters would sooner revel in the concept of torture than blanch at the thought of violence. They had clearly killed before. And it sent a shiver down his spine.
Despite the fact that their options were severely limited, Derek refused to be a sitting duck, heaving himself to his feet―ignoring the intense vertigo being upright gave him―to walk around the perimeter of the basement in search of any conceivable exit whether it be a window or an air duct. He found none, only concrete walls and the musky scent of wet earth, shifting gears to debate the merits of breaking out by force.
At full strength he could without a doubt punch his way through the concrete walls, burst through the ceiling and claw out of the basement that way but in a house teeming with hunters all he would be doing would be climbing out of the frying pan into the fire. Any hare-brained escape plans would have to be put on anyhow: he was still weak from the wolfsbane and besides, him doing something dangerous and reckless would do Stiles absolutely no good.
He had no idea if these hunters would harm a human or not but given the fact that they were locked in a basement and Stiles was sporting a large bruise on his temple, Derek certainly wouldn't put it passed them.
So in the meantime he scanned his eyes over the room in search of anything they could possibly use to escape, wondering how the hell they had even gotten into the basement, no door in sight. He got a clue on where to start when a part of the far wall seemed to fall away with a deep groan, a heavy metal door suddenly shoved away, blinding white light pouring into the abyssal basement as a handful of hunters stomped down a small flight of stairs to enter the room.
Stiles' heart began thundering in his chest as he scrambled to his feet beside Derek, shifting his weight around awkwardly, clearly torn between stepping in front of Derek or hiding behind him. Eventually, Derek made the decision for him, moving in front of him to block him with his shoulder, claws reflexively lengthening in preparation for tearing the hunters apart if they so much as looked at Stiles the wrong way, curling his lip to bare his elongated fangs.
"Uh-uh, Snoopy. Wouldn't want to startle my trigger finger, now would we?" The same hunter from earlier snarled, jamming the muzzle of his gun under Derek's chin, the throng of hunters behind him training their own weapons on his chest, a few aiming at Stiles too. With the smoke from his cigarette billowing up into Derek's eyes, filling the basement with the revolting stench of ash and nicotine, the hunter sneered, "So I see you two haven't killed each other yet."
"This the part where you explain your nefarious evil plan?" Stiles ventured, lifting his chin and cocking an unamused brow as he crossed his arms, defiant until the bitter end, not even flinching when there was a gun to his head. Derek loved him a little more for it.
"Figure now's a good a time as any," the hunter conceded, breathing out a thick puff of smoke directly into Derek's eyes just to see them water. Directing his attention to Stiles, he broke out into a twisted grin and claimed, "It's always so much better when they know what's happening."
"Alright, dude, enough with the cryptic shtick. It gets old real fast," Stiles prompted, somehow finding enough levity, or maybe it was just nervousness, to roll his eyes and start tapping his foot. "Just get on with it already."
"Alright, kid. If you're so eager to find out how you're gonna die," the lead hunter replied with a lazy, one-shouldered shrug. He tapped the end of his cigarette, ash drifting down to land on the concrete floor. "That wolfsbane we tossed in the mutt's face? A little something called aconitum monstrum . Ya wanna take a wild guess what that means?"
"Monster aconite," Stiles answered immediately, furrowing his brow. "What's your point?"
"My point is that monster aconite has an interesting effect on weres here," the hunter relayed, twisting his gun to watch the way Derek winced as the metal pinched at his skin. "Wanna know what they are, kid?"
"Oh, definitely. Please enlighten me," Stiles snorted though Derek could clearly hear the uncertainty in his voice, the way it wavered the slightest bit. "It's a regular after school special in here."
The hunter licked his lips, Derek severely tempted to recoil at the horrendous stench of the man's breath, his stomach turning at the mere smell. Of course, the hunter didn't notice Derek's disgust, too focused on informing Stiles of the wolfsbane's effects. "Drives ‘em crazy. Literally. Makes ‘em go feral, bloodthirsty."
Stiles stopped tapping his foot. He swallowed thickly, his heart rate skyrocketing again, the sound of it echoing in Derek's head, the scent of his fear clinging to every surface in the room. Derek tensed, trying to discern a lie in the man's words, hoping against hope that there was one to be found.
"Y'see, first he'll have trouble with his shift. Start flashing his terrible eyes and gnashing his terrible teeth," the hunter taunted, pressing his gun harder against Derek's chin, forcing him to bare his throat, every instinct inside him screaming. "And then the hunger sets in and he really gets feral. Just wants to kill. Anything in his sight. Which in this case―" he turned to meet Stiles' eyes again "―will be you."
Derek's stomach dropped.
"And once he's gone feral and ripped you to itty bitty shreds, we'll have a reason to kill him," the hunter smirked. "And I get a new fur coat."
It seemed for once Stiles didn't have any smart comments, no snappy comebacks or sarcastic quips, just silence as the leader of the hunters cackled, delighting in the dread his words inspired in Stiles. Derek wanted to crush his windpipe.
"So, have fun, boys," the hunter bid as he lowered his gun, turning on his heel to stroll out of the basement, tossing his cigarette over his shoulder. The rest of the hunters kept their weapons on Derek and Stiles as they backed out of the basement, slamming the heavy door shut behind them, plunging the room back into stygian darkness.
"You fucking bastards!" Derek roared, striding over the door to slam his fist against the unrelenting metal, leaving deep dents even in his weakened state. "What about the code you fucking cowards?!"
"Derek, stop," Stiles sighed, voice soft and subdued. Derek turned to see he had retreated to his spot on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. "It's no use. There's no reasoning with these people. They're just gonna torture us until the pack gets here―" Derek opened his mouth to argue but Stiles rushed on "―which they will because of your ace in the hole, remem―"
"What?" Derek asked, tilting his head to the side, glancing around to see what had made Stiles trail off.
"Your eyes," Stiles said simply. "Are you doing that on purpose?"
"Doing what on purpose?"
"Guess that answers that," Stiles announced, scrubbing a hand over his face. At Derek's look of continued confusion, he clarified, "Your eyes. They're red."
The just like he said went unspoken. Derek raised a hand to shield his eyes, hiding them from Stiles' view as he walked closer. "Stiles, I―I won't hurt you."
"I know, big guy," Stiles replied easily, leaning back against the wall as he spread out his legs, patting his thigh. "We just gotta wait for the cavalry. Now c'mon, you should probably get some more rest. Save your strength for when you go all feral on me."
Derek managed to roll his eyes at Stiles' flippancy but moved over to Stiles' side nonetheless, stretching out behind him on the cold concrete floor. He kept his back to the door and rested his head on Stiles' thigh, sighing when Stiles sank his fingers into Derek's hair, massaging his scalp.
It was a sweet, calming gesture. But it probably didn't mean anything.
* * * * * * *
A few hours later, at least he thought it was a few hours later, his concept of time admittedly pretty fuzzy, the burning in his eyes was back. His throat felt like sandpaper and his chest ached with every breath, claws elongating without his permission, scratching deep furrows into the concrete floor.
He knew his eyes must be bright red, both the flashing irises and irritated sclera, yet he couldn't do anything about it except keep his head down to hide them. Just like he couldn't do anything about the incessant ringing in his ears and the fact that he was picking up more scents than usual, identifying three distinct types of mold in the basement.
He could feel a buzzing beneath his skin, jolting through him like a strike of lightning, alighting a single instinct within him. Hunt.
The thought echoed in his head, bouncing off the sides and curves of his skull as he restlessly paced back and forth around the small room. He couldn't contain the intermittent growls that involuntarily bubbled up out of his throat, primordial animalistic instinct boiling to the surface no matter how much he tried to tamp it down.
The wolfsbane was working. And it terrified him.
If the hunters hadn't lied about the initial symptoms, what was to say they were lying about the subsequent ones?
He could only imagine the carnage that would unfold. Not himself, trapped in the mind of a vicious beast that embodied all that he truly was, he would turn on Stiles. Would become the beast that haunted nightmares that most thought him to be. Would hurt the one that meant the most to him.
Visions of sharp, glistening fangs digging into soft pale untouched skin, ripping flesh from bone and tearing limbs apart, filled his head. The gut-wrenching sound of bones snapping beneath the strain of preternaturally strong jaws reverberated in his ears. The metallic taste of blood inundated his mouth.
It took him a moment to realize it was his own blood that he was tasting. His fangs had dropped without his volition, slicing open his bottom lip.
"Fuck," he growled, blood and spit flying everywhere, his words slurred by the sudden appearance of his fangs. He buried his hands, claws unsheathed, in his hair, tugging at the strands of his hair in an attempt to focus on something other than the disconcerting jitters coursing through his body, the urge to hunt and kill racing through his veins.
He was going to hurt Stiles. He knew it.
And then the hunters would do him a favor and kill him before the guilt and misery inevitably drove him to kill himself.
They were just waiting on the unavoidable. Hoping the pack would find them before it actually happened.
Derek glanced at Stiles from the corner of his eye.
He was calm.
Stiles, who had freaked out five days ago when he saw a spider in the loft. Stiles, who nearly had a heart attack whenever Erica jokingly flashed her eyes at him. Stiles, who jumped at shadows and freaked out if anyone forgot to lock the door.
Stiles, who when faced with real imminent danger cracked jokes and made puns. Stiles, who when locked in a basement with a gun to his head antagonized the hunters. Stiles, who when faced with the looming threat of what could quite possibly be his own impending death, remained unerringly calm and level-headed. Like he was simply accepting his own fate for once.
And that terrified Derek even more.
A whine involuntarily falling from his throat, Derek cautiously shuffled over to Stiles' side. He crawled closer on his knees to promise through his fangs, "Stiles... Don't want to hurt you. Want to―"
"I know, big guy," Stiles cut him off, sitting up to wrap his arms around Derek's shoulders and pull him into a tight, warm hug. It was the last thing Derek could remember before it all went black.
He never even got to tell Stiles he loved him.
* * * * * * *
Blood filled his mouth. Bones crunched between his teeth. Red blinded his eyes.
The man, the hunter, had tried to touch Stiles. Tried to touch his Stiles.
He didn't like that. Not at all.
He ripped the man's arm off. Wrenched it right out of its socket.
He relished the otherwise sickening pop, the warm spray of blood over his face, the scream of the man and the gurgle when he ripped his throat out afterward. He relished the ebb of Stiles' fear, the scent dissipating as the man died, his weapon across the room in bits and pieces of metal.
He turned to Stiles after lapping the blood off his own face, loping over to curl up by his side, nudging at Stiles' hand with his nose. Stiles said something but the words were mostly unintelligible, the only thing clear the approval in his dulcet voice.
He let Stiles comb his fingers through the hair on the sides on his face, cooing to him softly as he practically purred under the attention, a deep rumble in his chest. Stiles ran a soothing hand through his hair, softly whispering, "It's okay, Derek. It's okay."
Derek. That's right. That was his name.
It sounded so sweet on Stiles' lips. He liked it.
* * * * * * *
He startled awake by a hail of loud, mechanical pops overhead. The scent of gunpowder filled the stale air.
He moved in front of Stiles, shielding him with his own body, as the sound of thundering footsteps quickly approached the door the other man had entered from. The man whose dead body was stinking up the basement.
When the door began to open he charged at it without a second thought, roughly slamming his shoulder into the heavy steel, effectively forcing the door shut. He growled loudly when he caught the scent of Argent , the memory of fire blazing in his mind, the phantom scent of smoke filling his nostrils.
"Stiles!" A deep, masculine voice called from the other side of the door, Derek's hackles raising at the thought of another calling to his Stiles. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Stiles yelled back, rushing over to the door, laying a hand on Derek's shoulder. He tried shoving the door open but Derek growled at his efforts. There were others out there. Threats to Stiles. They were safe inside. "We need to get Derek out of here!"
The voice hesitated a moment before responding, "I'm sorry, Stiles. We can't help him."
"What the hell do you mean you can't help him?!" Stiles demanded, violently banging his fist against the door in the same spot Derek had dented earlier. Derek whined. He didn't like Stiles yelling.
"Stiles, he's feral," the voice answered. Derek distantly recognized it as Chris Argent's. But that did nothing to calm him. It reminded him of smoke and gunpowder and bullets piercing flesh. He didn't like him. "There's nothing we can do."
"We already talked to Deaton," another voice piped up. Scott , something deep in Derek's mind supplied. He didn't like him either. He brought reminders of claws in the back of his neck, the taste of old man and cancer filling his mouth. And he didn't like the name he mentioned. Deaton . It made him think of needles and a sterile white room, insults about his right as alpha. "There's no cure."
"There has to be!" Stiles howled, pounding his fist against the wall half a dozen more times. "There has to!"
"Stiles, the most humane thing we can do for him is put him down," Argent said with a weary sigh. His voice was somber and resigned, almost cold. More tired than anything else.
"No!" Stiles shrieked, falling to his head, letting his forehead rest against the cool metal of the door, shoulders wracked with sobs as he cried. He turned to Derek who looked at him blankly, not understanding the gravity of the situation. He raised his hands to cup Derek's cheeks and sobbed again, "No!"
"No, we'll figure something out!" Stiles declared, tears streaming down his cheeks as he sniffled. "We'll get him out of here and we'll keep him somewhere safe! Keep him from hurting anyone!"
"You'd have to watch him 24/7, Stiles," Argent informed him. "You'd have to give up your whole life."
"I don't care!" Stiles hollered back, running his thumbs over Derek's cheeks. "I won't let you hurt him!"
Derek whined and stretched forward to bump his nose against Stiles' cheek, nosing away his tears. He just wanted Stiles to be happy.
"Derek, please," Stiles whimpered, meeting his brilliant red eyes as he tightened his grip on Derek's face. "Please, you gotta come back to me. C'mon, Derek."
Derek just whined again. Stiles groaned in frustration, shaking him, growing even more distraught.
"Please, Derek!" Stiles desperately beseeched him, a fresh flood of tears tracking down his cheeks. "I can't lose you! Please! Not again! Please! I love you!"
Stiles curled his arms around Derek's neck, pulling him close to bury his face in his shoulder, sobbing heavily. Words failed him. All he could do was hold Derek and hope against all odds Derek came back to him.
But those words seemed to strike a chord deep within him, somehow pulling him back to the surface of himself. He blinked the red out of his eyes, shook off the fangs and the excess hair on his sideburns, flexed his claws back into fingernails, and wrapped his arms around Stiles.
"Stiles..." Derek grumbled, voice rough and gravelly, throat sore. He looked up at Stiles, pulling back a few inches to meet his eyes, tentatively raising his hands to cup his cheeks.
"Derek...?" Stiles asked hesitantly, hope soaking into every syllable. "Are you really...?"
"Yeah, I'm-I'm back. I'm okay," Derek promised, nodding as he cradled Stiles' face, feeling tears welling up in his own eyes. Voice choked, he ventured, "Did you mean it? Do you really―?"
Stiles just nodded and surged to press his lips against Derek's, slipping his arms around him tighter as he desperately kissed him. Derek eagerly kissed him back, pouring every ounce of his love and adoration into the embrace because now he knew.
It wasn't just sexual. And it meant everything.
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