Hey there, could you do Sterek + 'After all this time, you gotta know that these threats don't work on me anymore. They barely worked on me in the first place. That was like fear and something else...' TYVM 😉
This is my freaking jam, hope you like it! (also on ao3!)
To say Derek was upset would be an understatement. Hell, to say Derek was anything would be an understatement.
Words alone would never be able to fully explain just how raging, red-hot, scream at the moon pissed off he was as he followed after Stiles into the loft, the teen just as infuriatingly nonchalant as always as he strode inside, setting his car keys down on the coffee table. Meanwhile, Derek was seconds away from literally ripping out fistfuls of his own hair, feeling his eyes flare up in frustration and blaze a steady, angry red, his fingertips itching with the urge to let his claws out.
The full moon hanging in the gloomy sky outside, visible through the wall of windows, sparked a burst of adrenaline and fresh anger to course through his veins, the mere sight reminding him of the reason why he was so viciously upset. Reminded him of what he almost lost barely an hour ago, reminded him of the scene that had unfolded in the preserve a couple miles away, reminded him of everything.
A week or so ago, Peter had graced the pack with his presence at a pack meeting, arriving half an hour late, to point out that he had caught the scent of a rugaru in the preserve while visiting the old Hale House. They were all immediately concerned, especially due to the large influx of tourists pouring into town now that spring had finally come, all of them worried about the very real possibility that hikers or campers might be targeted by the bloodthirsty creature.
Derek had decided to set up a trap for the rugaru using a dead pig he had gotten from a local butcher, generously dousing the dead swine in a shower of cow’s blood that Peter had somehow procured, hoping that the scent of blood and flesh would draw in the carnivorous monster. Everything had been in place, all the betas safely hidden away in the branches of surrounding trees to stay on lookout for the rugaru, ready to give the signal that it was moving closer to the target area where Derek would toss some gasoline onto the creature and light a match to send the creature up in flames.
Everything had been perfect. So, of course, Stiles had to go and ruin it.
Having been told to stay home while the rest of the pack dealt with things, Stiles had promptly done the exact opposite and ventured into the preserve with a pocket knife, a bottle of lighter fluid, and a lighter. Trekking through the deep, dark woods with only the light of the moon to guide him, Stiles had used to pocket knife to slice his palm, wincing at the pain even as he dribbled blood over the forest floor and the sides of trees, creating a mouthwatering trail for the rugaru to follow.
His plan worked. A little too well. Barely more than fifteen minutes later, he was running for his life through the woods, the rugaru hot on his heels, crashing through the underbrush in his to get away from the famished creature.
When the rugaru had first appeared, bursting out of a grove of trees and making a belligerent beeline to the bleeding human, it had smacked the bottle of lighter fluid right out of Stiles’ hand, making the lighter as useless as a screen door on a submarine. With no other recourse, Stiles had turned and ran, hoping that he would somehow stumble upon the pack before the rugaru caught up with him, the creature distracted for a few moments my a spot of blood on a nearby tree.
He hadn’t gotten far before the rugaru caught up with him, tackling him down to the hard forest floor, licking its lips in preparation of biting into Stiles’ flesh, baring its rows of razor-sharp teeth with a guttural snarl. Desperate and terrified that he was about to meet his fate at the hands, or rather the jaws, of the rugaru, Stiles had tipped his head back and let out the loudest scream he could possibly produce.
He shouted out Derek’s name and Scott’s name and even Isaac’s name, calling out all the names of all the pack members as though he were conducting a morbid, pre-mortem roll call, but more than anything he just kept repeating the word help over and over and over again until his voice was hoarse and he could scream no more. Fortunately, the pack found him before the rugaru could take a chunk out of him, Derek ripping the creature off of him as Peter carried the container of gasoline over, Boyd and Erica tugging Stiles farther away.
Now they were back at the loft and Derek was letting himself experience his anger, having held it all back in the forest to focus on finishing off the rugaru and then patching up Stiles’ hand with the first aid kit he kept in the Camaro. But now, now he was going to let Stiles know just what exactly he thought about the whole situation, growling out, “What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you have a fucking death wish?!”
“Oh, lay off it, dude,” Stiles scoffed casually, making his way to the kitchen where he opened the door to the refrigerator and rifled around inside, returning to the main room with a bottle of water. In his anger, mindless with rage, Derek lashed out, smacking the water bottle right out of Stiles’ hand, water splashing all over the concrete floor. Stiles gasped in shock, screeching, “Dude! What the hell is your problem?!”
“My problem?!” Derek snarled indignantly, unable to grasp that Stiles was more worried about some spilled water when he had almost died not even an hour before. Spilled water could easily be cleaned up. A bottle of water could easily be replaced. But Stiles’ life couldn’t. That was why Derek was so upset. He had almost lost Stiles dozens of times, and while each time made his blood boil, it was the fact that this time Stiles didn’t even seem to care that set him off. Shoving a rough hand through his hair, Derek pointed out, “You almost died out there, Stiles!”
“Yeah, I kinda noticed,” Stiles answered, rather cavalier about the whole situation, infuriating Derek even more. If such a thing was even possible. Either way, it was all just too much for Derek.
“God damn it, Stiles!” Derek growled, feeling his fangs descend against his wishes, slightly slurring his speech as he rounded on Stiles, stalking a few steps closer to fist a hand in the front of Stiles’ red hoodie. He spun on his heel, carefully pinning Stiles against the nearest wall, beyond furious as he snarled, “You can’t keep risking your life like that! You’re gonna wind up dead some day and then what?!―” again Stiles just shrugged “―I swear, Stiles, if you don’t knock off the self-sacrificing bullshit, I’ll… I’ll―”
“Oh, c’mon, Derek,” Stiles drawled, his voice loaded with exasperation and exhaustion as he made a show of rolling his eyes, obstinately folding his arms over his chest. Meeting Derek’s red tinged glare with a stubborn, stony glower of his own, Stiles continued on, “After all this time, you gotta know that these threats don’t work on me anymore. They barely worked on me in the first place. That was like fear and something else…”
Derek fixated on the way Stiles trailed off, the way the hard edge of his voice softened if only for a split second, the way his eyes glanced away from Derek’s for a few moments. He caught a telling whiff of embarrassment and shame wafting off of Stiles, along with a hint of something, something that made Derek pause.
“‘Something else’?” He asked once he composed himself, narrowing his eyes and taking a step forward, suddenly feeling confident and almost predatory, his anger melting away into something completely different. Stiles didn’t look up, staring at something over Derek’s shoulder, resolutely not meeting the werewolf’s piercing gaze, refusing to answer. So Derek asked again, taking another step closer as he prompted, “What’s ‘something else’, Stiles?”
“Dude, just forget about it. It doesn’t mean anything,” Stiles insisted, a note of urgent desperation bleeding into his voice as he tried inching over to the side in a poor attempt to get away from him. But it was useless.
Derek took a step to the side, cutting Stiles off by curling a hand around his upper arm and guiding him back to the wall. Again, he repeated himself, “What’s ‘something else’?”
Stiles looked down at his feet, heaving a deep sigh as he finally confessed, “Like feelings and junk.”
With the words finally, finally uttered, Derek could no longer hold back, leaning in a bit closer to press his lips against Stiles', sliding his hand up from his arm to cup his cheek, reverently running the pad of his thumb over a constellation of moles. He half expected Stiles to pull back or shove him away, but he didn't. Instead, he slid his arms around Derek's neck and returned the kiss just as fervently, letting out a soft, breathy sigh against Derek's lips.
Derek bent down awkwardly to grab Stiles under the knee, urging Stiles to wrap his legs around his waist, lifting him up as though he weighed nothing and carrying him over to the bed by the wall of windows. Crawling on top of Stiles after laying him down on the mattress, laying kisses up and down the long column of his throat, nipping gently at the pale skin, Derek murmured, "No more self-sacrificing bullshit."
"You too," Stiles returned, slipping his hands up the back of Derek's shirt to run his palms over the rippling muscles of his shoulders, lightly dragging his nails over the werewolf's tattoo.
Derek huffed a laugh against Stiles' collarbone, pressing a kiss over Stiles' heart as he agreed, "Deal."
