Hi! Love your writing style ♡! If it works for you, maybe Steter and "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"
Thank you!!!
--
“Stiles," Peter calls as he catches up to Stiles, "What's wrong?"
Stiles sighs and tries to reign in his emotions before he turns to face Peter.
Okay, so maybe he shouldn't have just stormed out of the meeting the way he did. But it's been hours of talking around the same points of the treaty over and over again and while that wasn't anything new, normally he didn't have to watch an Alpha of a very old and powerful pack shamelessly flirt with Peter.
Normally, he didn't have to watch Peter flirt back.
And fine, yes, he's young, not even out of college yet, he's just human and not a badass one like Allison or Chris. He could never compete with someone as handsome, witty and effortlessly charming as Alpha Matthew, but that didn't stop his heart from hurting.
"I just needed some air," he tells Peter and it's not even a lie, "Why are you doing here though?"
"Checking up on you," Peter replies with an eye-roll, the duh, idiot implied.
"As you can see I'm perfectly fine, you can go back to your date," he tries to make it a joke, but his smile must be too brittle, or his heart beating too hard.
Or maybe Peter knows him all too well because Stiles can pinpoint exactly the moment Peter realizes exactly what’s going on.
"Wait, are you jealous, darling?” Peter smiles in a way that Stiles doesn’t recognize, but that doesn’t matter.
“Why would I be jealous?" Stiles scoffs, but he's avoiding looking directly at Peter, opting to stare somewhere over Peter's shoulder, "We’re not together.”
“No,” Peter agrees, and that easy admittance shouldn’t hurt because it’s true, but it does. It hurts so much that it takes a moment for Stiles to register what Peter says next, “But that’s not for a lack of trying on my part.”
“What?” He looks at Peter then because if any of this is a joke-- if Peter’s just playing with him--
Peter’s right there though, somehow within arm’s reach even though neither of them closes the gap. He looks fond and exasperated, his smile soft. He looks happy and Stiles can’t seem to wrap his head around as to why.
“I’ve spent the last months trying to court you, sweetheart,” Peter tells him, “but for all of your knowledge of werewolf customs you remained oblivious to it. Almost to a point where I thought you were actually ignoring all my attempts to let me down easy.”
“I’d never do that!” Stiles protests.
Peter hums in agreement, says “I know.” Simple as that. Simple as Peter cradling Stiles’ face like he’s something precious and coveted.
Stiles wraps his fingers around Peter’s wrists to hold him there.
“Well, why didn’t you say anything?”
Peter shrugs, fires back. “Why didn’t you?”
Stiles almost laughs because it’s all so surreal, both of them pining and Peter actually worrying about Stilles wanting him back. There’s one more thing though.
“What about Matthew?”
“Good old Matt?” Peter asks, leans in to press their foreheads together, “He’s an old friend that might have figured us both out. He offered to give us a little push.”
Stiles groans because ain’t that just embarrassing.
“Does that mean we’ll actually have to agree to do the wolf exchange program to thank him for his involvement?”
“I could just buy him some expensive scotch. First though,” Peter murmurs, brings their lips an inch apart, “first I’d like proof that it actually worked.”
“You’re so dumb,” Stiles tells him, but he’s grinning. The smile doesn’t last though, because a second later he’s being kissed and it’s as soft and full of yearning and perfect as Stiles never could have imagined it to be.
Way, way back on October 6th, @auripigmentum challenged “voyage, voyage” for a drabble or double drabble in the @sterekdrabbles discord...
~
Away from Beacon Hills, they’re free. Stiles doesn’t have to worry about what anyone will think or what they’ll know even if he’s never told them.
He can crawl all over Derek, kiss him, fuck him, and maybe the people on the street will know, but they won’t really care. (He’s got bites and stubble burn all over his neck and jawline, wears Derek’s marks proudly when he’s just another stranger, an anonymous tourist having too much fun on his vacation.)
Back home, they’d had to hide and hiding from creatures who could see and and hear and smell everything had meant limiting themselves. It had meant clandestine meetings, no evidence left behind.
It had meant pretending that they weren’t meant to be when every part of Stiles sung at Derek’s touch, when Derek told him that there was such a thing as mates, as soulmates, for wolves and that Stiles was it for him. It had meant scoffing at the suggestion to spare everyone else’s feelings.
They won’t hide anymore.
Now that Stiles knows what it’s like to give himself fully, to have Derek do the same… There’s no going back. There can’t be.
Stiles leans back in his chair, stretches his arms above his head, and lets out a happy sigh when his back cracks, dispelling some of the tension he’s been carrying around for most of the afternoon. He yawns, and wiggles around a little, shaking his legs and flexing his toes in his shoes. His ass is mostly numb, and his eyes are starting to burn, but he’s finally, blessedly done for the day; TA office hours are over, he’s made actual progress on his thesis, and all the essays are read, graded, and ready to be handed back on Monday.
He doesn’t have any study or work sessions scheduled for the weekend, his next shift at the library isn’t until Wednesday, and he’s almost giddy at the prospect of getting a solid seven to eight hours of sleep for two collective nights in a row. Ah, the glamorous life of a grad student.
Standing, Stiles shuffles the essays into a neat-ish pile, grabs his messenger bag, and starts cleaning up the desk. Professor Omaar is nice enough to let Stiles use his office to grade and write, and Stiles, in return and completely against his nature, tries not to make a complete mess of it.
The halls are still bustling with students, even at nearly six on a Friday, and Stiles promptly gets mobbed by a group from Professor Omaar’s mythology class, trying to weasel information about the upcoming midterm out of him. Stiles mimes zipping his lips, earning himself a collective groan of teenage frustration. He waves when they step outside and the group makes its way across the quad towards the cafeteria, but can’t resist calling, “Maybe reread chapter seven, if you want to make sure!” after them before booking it towards the parking lot, cackling madly to himself.
He’s still laughing softly when he notices a gaggle of students pointing and whispering to each other over by the fountain, and only hesitates for a moment before curiosity gets the better of him.
“Would it be weird if I filmed this? It would be weird, wouldn’t it?” a girl is asking her friend as Stiles walks closer. The other girl nods absently, clearly not listening, heart eyes going full force.
And Stiles can’t blame her, because he knows he’s no better. He stops at the front of the group, watching quietly with a fond, helpless smile on his face, his heart full to bursting.
Derek, wearing Stiles’ favourite dark red sweater with the thumbholes under his customary leather jacket, is bent over slightly, holding Felix’s hands while Felix makes wobbly attempts to stomp on the dry leaves littering the grass, giggling excitedly when they crunch under his feet. Felix’s chubby little cheeks are flushed red from the cold, and he scrunches up his nose when Derek frees one hand to fix his slipping hat, pouting up at Derek, eyes wide and pleading. Derek rolls his eyes in return, and Stiles is pretty sure he can hear the people around him swoon when Derek leans down further to pepper kisses over Felix’s upturned face to make him shriek and laugh.
“I want to have more of his babies,” the guy standing next to Stiles says dreamily.
“Tell me about it,” Stiles agrees.
Felix’s head snaps around at the sound of Stiles’ voice, werewolf hearing picking him out instantly, and he starts tugging insistently at Derek’s hands, chanting, “Dada, Dada, Dada!”
Derek looks up, and blinks in surprise when he sees their audience, before his expression melts into something soft when he looks at Stiles. Felix lets out an impatient noise, and Derek chuckles, saying, “Okay, buddy. Careful, here we go.”
He helps Felix toddle closer to Stiles, and then, when they’re within arm’s reach and Stiles has crouched down, he lets go of Felix’s hands, letting him stumble-walk into Stiles’ outstretched arms. Stiles scoops him up, and swings him up high, grinning at the look of delighted joy on his face before bringing him in close to kiss his forehead.
“Hi, pumpkin,” Stiles says, settling a babbling Felix on his hip. “What are you doing here?”
“We’ve decided to come pick you up,” Derek answers, and steps in close, too, looping his arms around Stiles and Felix both. “But we got distracted.”
“Leaves are important business, I get it,” Stiles says seriously, nodding. He cracks up when Derek quirks an eyebrow at him, and pushes up on his tiptoes to rub his nose against Derek’s. “Hi, gorgeous.”
Derek is smiling when he presses his mouth against Stiles’ lips, light but lingering. “Hi.”
“I literally just died, this literally killed me, oh my god,” someone moans dramatically behind them.
Derek pulls back just enough to scowl over Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles hides his smile in Felix’s hat, and leans more firmly against Derek’s chest, warm and content.
art by @auripigmentum (click here for more in better quality)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
@auripigmentum wrote the fluffiest, cutest little patater ficlet for me. It has brownies! You should all go check it out, and leave her some love in the comments. ♥♥♥
It crosses his mind that this question as well as his presence might have come as a surprise to Kenny as said man flinches and promptly drops a huge metal bowl.
“Sorry. Did not mean to startle you.” Alexei admits with a wince. On the bright side: he's now awake enough to guess what the metal bowl is for. And the electric mixer. And that ominous carton of eggs that has been lurking in the back of the fridge ever since Alexei arrived about two weeks ago. “Are you... baking?”
TFW you force your tumblr BFF to go on a 12 hour bus journey to come visit you, and then the weekend’s over before it’s even really started. 😝🙁 @auripigmentum
(Next step: intercontinental meet-up with @everyworldneedslove and @dezinformatsia!)
BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out 💕
Hi! If you don't mind I'd love to request Sterek + 18 :>
18. waking up with amnesia au | meme | ask (yes, I will still do these)
This took forever! I apologize! (Even though you knew/know.) Again, this got out of hand and comes in at about 4500 words. But this one is mature/explicit! And there’s some violence. You’ve been warned.
On a side note, the fic that comes to mind for this trope, and haunts me still years later, is By Any Other Name by entanglednow. Which, if you haven’t read, go hurt yourself with it now.
{{ ao3 }}
Stiles wakes up to a hand around his throat. He flails instinctually before grabbing the wrist, trying to focus on who’s in the middle of killing him.
If the situation weren’t so horribly murderous, finding an unbelievably attractive shirtless man straddling him would be yielding a much different response from his body.
“Who are you?” the guy says. “What did you do to me?”
He doesn’t give Stiles room to move, but when Stiles starts making choking sounds, he lets up the grip on his neck enough that Stiles can speak.
“Me?” Stiles says, sputtering. Then, he frowns. “Stiles?”
“Stiles?” the guy repeats, confused.
Stiles blinks, considers it. “Yeah, I think that’s me. Sounds familiar.”
Something passes through the other man’s eyes and his hold loosens just a little in surprise. “What kind of name is Stiles?”
And Stiles stares at him, mouth open, for a good ten seconds before he says, “I have no idea.”
The guy releases him then, backs up and off and Stiles is just a tiny bit sad at the loss of contact, although he has no idea why as he rubs at his throat.
Stiles pushes himself to sit up and finds a concrete wall to press his back to. “Sheesh,” he murmurs, “no expense spared on this homicidal vacation, huh?”
They sit there in silence before the guy clears his throat. “Derek.”
Stiles’s eyebrows shoot up, lips pursing. “You— You’re Derek? Okay.” He pats down his body, searching for a phone, a wallet, anything. Unsurprisingly, he finds nothing. He’s guessing Derek doesn’t have anything either. After all, the guy doesn’t even have a shirt.
“Where the hell are we?” Derek asks, and he’s pacing around their…cell? Yeah, that seems a good descriptor, Stiles thinks. Derek is lifting his head like he’s going to be able to hear something. Or maybe smell something? It reminds Stiles a bit of watching a dog.
“Think I know?” Stiles scoffs. “I woke up to you strangling me. If anything, I know less than you do.”
Derek looks at him, unimpressed. He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows like he’s waiting for Stiles to do something more useful.
Stiles has no idea why this Derek guy thinks he’ll be able to do anything, but he says, “Let’s start with what we know.” And Stiles sounds strangely professional, like he does things like this all the time. “Maybe about ourselves, see if we can find a connection.”
“You first,” Derek says, his eyebrows far too demanding as he sits on the ground across from Stiles.
“Alright,” Stiles says. “Um. My name is Stiles.” He looks down at himself. “I’m…wearing more clothes than you. I’m…” What else can he say? What else does he know? “Human? I don’t know.”
“I’m not—” Derek starts. He stops himself, looking supremely uncomfortable. Like he’d nearly just given away his last, most precious secret to a total stranger.
“You’re not what?” Stiles asks and huffs as Derek glares at him instead of answering. “I think we’ve gotta be up front here, pal. Because whatever happened, it happened to both of us.” He gestures around to the slate grey that meets them in all directions.
Derek’s nostrils flare, his jaw tenses. For a moment, Stiles thinks he still isn’t going to be helpful until finally, like it pains him, he says, “I’m a werewolf.”
Stiles stares at him for a second, processing the information, then nods. “Alright. So a human and a werewolf trapped in an eight by eight prison with one blocked out window and a door that I don’t even have to try to know that it’s definitely not about to open with our captors shouting ‘surprise!’ and throwing us a party.”
“How are you sure you’re human?” Derek asks, and he’s got this weird uncertainty vibe going on that Stiles doesn’t quite get.
He shrugs. “Feels right. How do you know you’re a werewolf?” he returns.
“Born one,” he says, he swallows like there’s something itching at him. Several somethings.
“Huh.” Stiles watches Derek think for a moment before he starts, “If you’re a werewolf, shouldn’t you be able to, like, sense things with your wolfy senses?”
An abortive nod, another flare of nostrils. “Something’s blocking them. Everything is…dull. When I woke up, I thought it was shock, but I still don’t—” He huffs, clenches his fists.
Derek is all bottled anger and frustration and Stiles feels like he’s watching a wild animal that’s been trapped, the tight reactions almost inhuman. “I’m guessing you like being in a cage about as much as I do.”
Derek ignores the comment, fingertips grazing the walls, the door. “We’re surrounded by mountain ash.”
“I’m guessing that means something?”
“It means even if I could break that door down, I couldn’t go anywhere.”
“Like a supernatural barrier,” Stiles translates.
Derek looks a bit surprised at how fast he’s gotten it before he nods.
“Okay.” Stiles assesses the room again. “Then we’ll find another way.”
Derek looks at him long and hard, confusion brewing behind eyes a color that Stiles can’t quite name. “You’re trapped in a cell with a werewolf and no memories. Shouldn’t you be freaking out?”
“Yes,” Stiles agrees. “I definitely should be. But it feels kinda pointless when freaking out isn’t going to get me out of this.” What Derek said before hits him. “Wait. You remember mountain ash? What else do you remember?”
After a moment of hesitation, Derek shakes his head. “It’s like something triggered my brain to remember that but I still don’t remember my family or pack or—” He stops. “There’s a weight on my chest, guilt, but I don’t know what I did.”
It’s the most open he’s been with Stiles, and Stiles regrets the words that come out of his mouth next. “Maybe we deserve this. Maybe we’re being punished.”
“Oh, yeah?” Derek asks wryly. “What did you do?”
Stiles shrugs. “No idea.”
“A better explanation is that hunters brought me here to torture or kill me because of what I am.” Stiles scowls, but Derek continues. “And for some reason they grabbed you, too.”
It’s a good an explanation as any, although it doesn’t get them any closer to finding a way out. “Hunters,” Stiles repeats. “Hunters. Mountain ash. Werewolf.” He nods his head, like he gets it. Or, at least, he’s starting to formulate something about their situation.
Derek stops pacing, sliding down to sit across from Stiles. There’s not a ton of space, especially since they’re both leaning on the tall side. Only a couple of feet separate them.
Stiles doesn’t even know Derek and yet the thought of some assholes capturing and killing him just because he’s a werewolf enrages him in a way he can’t describe. “Hey,” he says. “We’ll get you out. And me. We’ll get me out, too. We’ll get out of this.” He scrubs a hand over his head.
It looks like Derek doesn’t know what to make of Stiles’s perhaps unbackable assurance, but he doesn’t seem as angry.
There’s a chill, not that there’s any indication of the time, but Stiles realizes it’s been a while since they woke up here. Wherever here is. He pulls off his jacket and offers it to Derek with a simple, “Here.” Derek is built, which is hard to ignore with his muscles on full display this whole time, but Stiles has broad shoulders and it’s not like he’s small, so he thinks it’ll fit and he’s right.
Derek may look ridiculous in his red hoodie, but at least he’ll get to be covered. And warmer, although that doesn’t seem to concern him. The sweatshirt makes him look soft in a way that makes Stiles’s breath stutter, like Derek is younger and more vulnerable than he had seemed.
Stiles stands and stretches, his limbs locking up in a way that makes him want to shake himself out. He turns away from Derek to stare at the window—what must be a window—to busy his mind until he’s over his weird feelings again. Every once in a while, this intrusive weed of a thought tells him he likes Derek even though he barely knows the guy. It’s confusing, to say the least, but Stiles isn’t too shocked to find himself attracted to a hot guy he’s been trapped with. He reaches up, just to see how close he can get to the window, then drops his hand and pulls his shirt back down.
“Hold on,” Derek says, because Stiles doesn’t see what’s peeking out from under his shirt, something the sweatshirt had hidden. He can see Derek approaching in his periphery, then there’s a light touch the nape of his neck that makes him shiver. “Can I?” Stiles gives a minute nod and Derek tugs down the collar of Stiles’s t-shirt in the back. And then Derek makes a strange sound until he traps it, holding his breath. He clears his throat. “You’re marked.”
“What the—” Stiles turns in a circle like he’ll better be able to see his own back. “What? What does that mean? That sounds unnecessarily ominous. I’m what? Marked for death or something?”
Derek shakes his head ever-so-slightly. “It means your mate marked you. Congratulations, you’re basically married,” and the word stutters past his lips, “to an alpha.”
“An alpha?” Stiles repeats uncomprehendingly. “An alpha— An alpha werewolf?”
“No wonder you weren’t shocked when you found out about me.” He swallows, takes a step away. Another.
Stiles narrows his eyes. Derek is acting shifty now, quiet and uncertain in a way he wasn’t before. “What are you doing?”
“You’re an alpha’s mate,” Derek says, his voice tight. “I have to be respectful.” There’s something beneath the surface, something about the way he sounds unhappy about what he’s saying that Stiles wants to understand.
“But— But what it…” And the gears are turning. “What if you.”
Derek’s eyebrows furrow and Stiles flails trying to piece together a real sentence in the now jumbled mess that is his brain.
“What if it’s you?”
Before the possible revelation can go any further, there’s a metallic click and the one window in the room, high up on wall falls open, as if someone on the outside lowered a shutter. Light streams into their dark cell and it takes Stiles a moment to process what it means.
It doesn’t take Derek that long. “The full moon.” He crouches down, presses his forehead to the cool concrete of the wall.
“Whoa.” And Stiles starts towards him, then freezes in place, his hands up like he wants to touch but doesn’t know if he should. “Are you okay? What— What does that mean for you?”
Derek is breathing hard and Stiles can see his hands shake, his fingers turning to claws. “I just need to find my anchor,” he manages.
“Anchor?” Stiles says. He crouches in close, even if it’s inadvisable. He knows Derek is in pain, can feel the tension rolling off of him. “What’s your anchor?” No response. “Come on, Derek. Let’s find that anchor.” He has no idea what it means, but it sounds important. Hesitantly, his hand finds Derek’s hoodie-clad shoulder. He keeps his touch light, ready to pull back if he needs to. “It’s okay,” he says, because it seems the thing to say. “Just think. Or feel. Or sense. Or whatever it is you do. Um.” He swallows. “What’s your anchor?”
“It was anger, not that I remember why.” Derek isn’t pulling away, but his whole body is straining not to move or react. Talking is a struggle. “But it’s not working. It doesn’t feel right. It’s like— like there’s a hole there, in my mind. My wolf keeps telling me there’s someone, but I can’t… I can’t see who it is. If I could at least use my senses—” He stops talking, his shoulders are quaking and Stiles is suddenly aware that Derek is losing control and Stiles is the only one there with him.
“Derek?”
“Get back!” And it comes out a command, a growl. Something inhuman reverberates through it that makes Stiles want to instinctually do as it says, to go into the other corner and cower since there’s nowhere to run.
But Stiles somehow knows it’s not in him to run now, not with this. He thinks it should be, but instead, after falling off-balance onto his haunches, his hand leaving Derek’s shoulder to catch himself, he doesn’t move away. He shifts himself upright, ready to skitter off if he needs to because he’s still not stupid. “Derek, you don’t want to hurt me. You don’t even—” He breaks off, exhaling sharply through his nose. “This is what they want, isn’t it?” he starts again, quieter. “They want you to lose control so they can call you a monster. I don’t really— I know we’ve only known each other a little while, but I don’t think you’re a monster.”
When Derek speaks, it’s through too many teeth. “My anchor.”
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, fists shaking, before he turns a hard gaze on Derek. “Can you pretend it’s me? Just for a right now. I’m your anchor. And I’m telling you that you don’t want to do this.”
Derek shakes his head. “My anchor is my…” His hands claw at the walls, leaving long scratches in the concrete.
“Your what?” Stiles urges. “Work with me here. You can do this. Your anchor is your…?”
Face turned enough that Stiles can see his expression, his furrowed brow. His red eyes. “My mate. But I don’t have—” He grunts, sharp claws closing in, causing his palm to bleed for his efforts.
And Stiles really is the king of horrible ideas. He knows it down to his core, but it doesn’t stop him. “If you can’t use your other senses, how can you recognize your mate? Touch or— or… You said I had a bite, right?” Derek lets out a low growl and Stiles hopes against hope it’s for the reason that he thinks it is. “Could you, like, put your teeth on it or something? See if they fit?” He gestures wildly, another ill-advised action next to a barely-restrained werewolf.
Stiles then does the dumbest thing he’s ever done in his life, that he can remember: He takes off his shirt and turns his back on a feral werewolf. Showing a completely lack of survival instinct, he’s pretty sure.
If he dies now, he probably deserves it.
“Is this yours?” he asks, and his voice is shaking. He tries to even it out. Sounding like prey is an even worse idea than he’s already come up with. He thinks about instincts, about protection. “Am— Am I yours?” The thought doesn’t unnerve him as much as it should and he thinks he can see movement behind him. His breathing stutters as he feels the warmth of Derek’s body close in and a cold sweat breaks out across his body, goosebumps springing up his neck and shoulders as he Derek’s breath ghosts over him.
But Derek just stays there. Breathing. Something about this is helping, so Stiles gives himself that, at least. “I don’t know,” Derek murmurs. “I’d have to bite because I can’t— Everything is too unfocused. I can’t sense anything.”
Stiles turns his head to look back. If this doesn’t work… “Then bite.”
Derek’s claws scratch lightly over the mark. “If this is someone else’s claim.”
“But what if it’s not?” He sucks in a gasp, panic prickling at him. “Even if you don’t kill me, I doubt I’ll be allowed to live. So it’s worth a shot.” Derek is still touching him, sending electric currents rippling through his body, his brain. “The longer we’ve been here, the more I think that I know you. I don’t have extra senses to go by, just— just a gut feeling. That you won’t hurt me.”
“You’re an idiot,” Derek says, but it makes Stiles laugh.
Until Derek puts his teeth to the mark, breathes, then bites.
And Stiles knows it’s right. He knows it’s right because he feels the bond clearly, because he can remember. Not everything, not now, but enough. “Derek,” but his voice is thick and Derek is still biting him and then, “Derek.” Clearer. Familiar. Like he’s said it a million times because he has, that much has returned to him.
Derek lets him go, but he reels back and Stiles is on him, touching his face, cupping his jaw.
“Derek, it’s me. It’s gonna be okay. You and me, we get through things like this all the time.” He’s babbling, but it doesn’t matter. He crawls into Derek’s lap to hold onto him better, straddling him. “Is it what they did to you?” He glances up at the moon, face twitching in anger, but not with Derek or the moon. With the hunters who had to have done this. He’s going to kill them himself when they get out. “Der.” Derek’s eyes are bright and wild and he’s scared and Stiles knows a few tricks for changing triggered bloodlust to something else. He kisses Derek, uncaring of the fangs, that he tastes his own blood and doesn’t know if it’s just from the bite or if he’s cut his lip or what.
Derek responds, pawing at Stiles sides, his waist and hips as he surges up against him.
“Come on,” Stiles murmurs. “We can’t do much, but—” He grinds down, making Derek whine. “See? We can fix this, Derek. Me and you. Me and you.” He says variants of it like a mantra. He’s achingly hard and he’s aware that his libido shouldn’t react to danger like this, but he can’t help it. Danger and Derek all wrapped up in a neat little package. Or, rather, a not-so-little package he can feel rutting against the inside of his thigh, even through his jeans and Derek’s.
“Stiles,” Derek says, and he’s gripping Stiles’s hips too hard but that’s okay.
“Fuck.” Stiles shifts. “Fuck it, okay? Fuck it.” And he’s talking to himself. He bites at Derek’s stubble, fingers scraping down from Derek’s neck, pushing his sweatshirt out of the way so he can travel smoothly over chest and stomach. He wriggles around as he paws at the button of Derek’s jeans until he pops it, yanking open the zipper. He pulls his hand back only to spit into his palm before he’s grasping Derek’s length and letting out a groan of his own as Derek bucks up into it.
Derek’s claws have probably left marks but Derek is arching into his grasp, flattening his hand big and warm over the small of Stiles’s back. “Fuck,” Derek echoes.
Stiles curves over him to kiss him again, certain this time that the blood is fresh as his lip stings and starts to swell. “That’s it, big guy,” he mutters into Derek’s lips. Stiles’s hips are moving of their own accord, seeking friction from the too-rough denim of his jeans. “We’re gonna ride this out.” He bites his lip and tastes the blood, feels the pain, but the sharpness of it recedes as he watches a half-shifted Derek struggle and writhe as Stiles’s hand jerks him.
Derek does something then, rolls his hips just so and Stiles’s hand stutters as the rest of his body overloads and his orgasm hits him, leaving him oversensitive, but Derek must approve.
Derek comes only a few seconds later, despite the drop in vigor, spilling between them.
Draping himself over Derek completely despite the sticky mess, Stiles huffs into Derek’s neck. “Feeling better?” Derek nods, stubble catching on his hair. “Good.”
“I still don’t remember everything,” he murmurs. “And my senses…”
“I’m guessing it’ll wear off,” Stiles says with a tired sigh. “I think they’d want you to know what you’d done when it was all over.”
“I’m lucky my mate has no self-preservation instincts,” Derek chides.
Stiles snorts. “Are you complaining about how my deep, unfaltering love saved us?”
Derek’s hand travels up Stiles’s, fingers the mating bite. “You know we’re still locked up with no way out, right?”
“They’ll have to come eventually. No cameras.” Stiles pushes himself up enough to look at Derek’s face. He traces a cheekbone, the curve of Derek’s jaw. “You’re just gonna have to kill me.”
“What?” Derek jerks away from the touch, his eyes taking on that worried look that he has far too often.
Stiles shakes his head, grinning. “Not for real. We just have to make it look that way.”
“And how are going to do that?” Derek asks with a raised eyebrow, but he knows Stiles has already figured it out.
Stiles goes through the plan slowly, keeping his voice down. He and Derek argue over some of the finer points, but eventually everything is set.
It’s a while before anyone comes, but Stiles expected they’d have to wait until morning. The sun shines into their cell now, making it clear they’re not the first people to have been held here.
The door opens outward so the two hunters don’t have to pass the line of ash that will keep Derek in.
Stiles can’t see them, but he hears their scuffing of their boots. He keeps his face turned away, but he knows they can see his shredded hoodie flung across the cell, claw marks through the back of his shirt where dried and drying blood stains through and sticks it to his body. The mark on the back of his neck, the only thing that can be considered a major wound that’s actually real, is covered. It’s private.
A woman’s laughter breaks through and Stiles knows it isn’t Kate, but his skin still crawls. “You killed him,” and she’s trying to sound like she’s not pleased as punch.
Derek snarls from where Stiles knows he’s hunched in the corner. “He trusted me. Why would you do this? He was human.” And he makes a wounded sound that makes Stiles hate even pretending to be dead, pretending that Derek had been the one to hurt him after all that Derek’s been through, hazy as some of his memories still are despite the alpha bite.
The woman steps closer and so does her partner. “He was a sympathizer,” she spits. “He whored himself out to a werewolf and he got what was coming. You gave it to him.” She’s edging towards Derek and Stiles is certain she has a weapon, although he’s not sure what. “You not only killed a human, you killed your mate. How fucked up is that? From what I’ve heard, death will be a mercy for you now, not that I’m particularly fond of mercy.”
Her partner moves around the cell and Stiles catches a glimpse of booted ankles before he makes sure that he’s not being obviously not dead.
“He trusted me,” Derek says again, and it’s too much for Stiles.
The opportunity comes and he trips the partner and launches himself in her direction. He might’ve missed were the space any bigger, but his intuition holds true.
“Stiles.” And Derek sounds hurt but Stiles quickly realizes it’s because he’s hurt. He had managed to tackle the hunter, sure, but not without sustaining collateral damage.
Luckily, she’s only holding a knife and it’s a slice, not a stab. He’s had worse. He wrestles with her as Derek goes to her partner as he hops up.
Derek knocks the gun from the guy’s hand and Stiles sees it from his peripheral vision. He’s pushing the woman against the wall, but she’s strong and hunters aren’t afraid to fight dirty. He has about three inches of height on her and he uses it to his advantage, even as she manages to flip the knife and he can feel the sharp tip against his abdomen.
“I thought you had a code,” he grits out.
“No code should protect someone who goes against their own kind.” The knife is pressing in farther.
Stiles actually laughs. “You’re one to talk.”
She roars as she drives forward and Stiles stumbles back, brain processing dimly, I’m about to get stabbed.
But then Derek drags her off of him. For some reason, she looks shocked as Derek’s alpha reds glow and he drives her hand holding the knife into her gut. “You hurt him. I hurt you.” He lets her slide to the ground, clutching the place where the knife juts out of her.
It’s probably not a fatal stab wound, Stiles notes with a hint of disappointment. He glances down to see the other hunter knocked out flat.
“We should probably kill them,” he says.
Derek shoots him a glare. “I thought we were trying not to kill people.”
Stiles squints at Derek. “I can’t believe the words coming out of your beautiful mouth.” He breaks the line of ash with a wave of his hand and nods toward the exit.
He still thinks they shouldn’t be leaving the hunters alive, but he lets it be and places a call to the authorities after they find their stuff in an SUV parked in front of the building. There are a few other creepy little prison cells, but they’re thankfully empty.
“How’s your head?” Stiles asks, gesturing. Derek has just bandaged his side with the meager supplies they found in the building.
“Still foggy, but I think things are getting better. When she cut you in there, I could smell your blood, still can.” He shifts uncomfortably.
“There are probably a lot of things you can smell now, huh?” Stiles asks, thinking of Derek under him with a little smirk.
Derek huffs a long-suffering sigh. “I could’ve torn you apart,” he growls, but Stiles doesn’t cow. “But to show me the claim, to offer it.” He shakes his head. “That was the smartest and stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
“No,” and Stiles is grinning wide in that way that tells Derek he’s about to make him mad, “You’re the smartest and stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“I want to punch you,” Derek says.
“But you won’t.” Stiles slides his arms around Derek’s waist, again shirtless since they destroyed his hoodie. “Because you love me.”
Derek returns the gesture, wrapping himself around Stiles. “And you love me, too.” He kisses Stiles then, slow and content. “Idiot.”
About an hour later, after they’ve found the Jeep and have headed home, they remember the fight they were having before the hunters kidnapped them and nearly crash. They blame the leftover adrenaline and Derek demands that they stop to sort everything out.
“I missed fighting with you,” Stiles murmurs as they make up in the backseat on the side of the road. They’re on the edge of town and the sense of safety has started to slip around them.
Derek’s smile is soft. “I missed knowing you.”
Stiles makes a disgusted noise and whacks him on the chest. “You’re such a sap.”
But he loves it, and he shows Derek just how much.
…Until a police cruiser drives past them and Stiles has to pretend they weren’t breaking any laws of common decency.
