Chapter Text
Stiles isn't supposed to leave the trail.
This fact has been pounded into his head since he was a child. People who step off the carefully maintained path through the woods go missing. No exceptions. His mother, Scott's dad, a young boy named Isaac: all of them strayed, and none of them were ever seen again.
It's the one rule that Stiles follows. It doesn't mean that it's easy to obey. The woods surrounding Beacon Hills are cool and enticingly dark. Elk move through the under-brush delicately, completely unafraid of humans. At night, will-o-wisps dance, beckoning any wanderers to come and play.
Everyone is tempted. All that matters is that they don't step off the winding road. Most people avoid the woods entirely, sticking to man-made asphalt and cement, but the shortest route from Stiles' house to the school is through the woods. What choice does he have? And really, it's not that scary. Not to Stiles.
He knows all the tricks. In the mornings, sometimes a woman's voice will call out to him, urging him to come and help her. After school, there's growling, like some great beast is bearing down on him. Sometimes, he can feel a creature's hot breath on the back of his neck, but he doesn't break. It's an illusion.
Scott thinks he's an idiot for risking it, but there's a sort of peacefulness to be found in the woods. He's been walking through them for years. After lacrosse practice leaves him sore and bruised, the birdsong always makes him feel lighter. Catching glimpses of the elk herds moving through the trees energises him, makes him want to chase after them.
He doesn't. In his darker moments, when Dad is several shots into the evening, Stiles imagines what it'd be like. A never-ending chase? A cosy cabin where he doesn't need to worry about losing his house or cleaning up Dad?
They're idle daydreams, but Stiles keeps them secret.
Stiles wakes up with the sun, well-before his alarm starts blaring at him. He toys with the idea of staying in bed where he's comfy and warm. It's not like the school will call Dad to report him. He can take one day off. Maybe he can finally finish reading the book on his nightstand.
From downstairs comes the sound of breaking glass. The clatter of furniture. Loud swearing.
Stiles scrubs his face with his hands. The longer he waits, the worse it'll be.
Everyday starts off this way. Stiles wakes up at some ungodly hour and shuffles downstairs to check on Dad. Usually, Stiles finds him laid out on the couch, but occasionally Dad switches things up and passes out in the kitchen. Then, Stiles will clean up any vomit or other bodily fluids, and then gently coax Dad into getting up and clean.
Sometimes Dad fights back, insisting that he doesn't need to shower or change out of urine-soaked pants. But Stiles is used to ducking blows. It only took a few concerned looks from teachers to motivate him to dodge better.
Today, Dad has knocked over his half-empty bottle of whiskey. Shards of glass glisten in a puddle of amber booze. Stiles stands there, hands on his hips, assessing the situation. Dad squints at him, still slumped over the kitchen table, surrounded by empty beer bottles.
"It's - I had an accident," Dad says, voice raspy and miserable. "I'm sorry, Mischief."
Stiles swallows. "It's okay, Dad. It's okay. Come on, let's get you cleaned up."
By the time Stiles heads out for school, he's exhausted. Weary, right down to his marrow. It's dangerous, walking through the woods in such a state, but Stiles is used to it. He walks forward on autopilot, barely seeing the path ahead. In this state, half-asleep, that he doesn't realise that he's focused on something until it's only a few yards away.
At first, Stiles doesn't know what he's seeing. A dead animal, maybe. It's not an uncommon sight, but this is big, almost the size of an elk. The fur - is it fur? - is midnight black. It's sprawled across the trail, blocking his path.
He stops, nervously wrapping his hands around the straps of his bookbag. It's not an animal. It's a man wearing the pelt of a great black wolf and a pair of ragged blue jeans. Now that he's looking, he can see the triangle-shaped ears. It's a full pelt and seems to be - well. Stiles isn't an animal fur expert, but the tail is thick and bushy. It looks like the wolf had been healthy before it lost its skin.
"Uh," he says intelligently. "Can you, like, sleep off your hangover somewhere else? You're in the way."
The man doesn't move.
Fucking great.
What if the dude is dead? Stiles looks around for a stick or something he can poke the guy with, but no luck. He edges closer, shoes crunching over rocks. The man doesn't move.
Stiles nudges the man with his foot. "Hey, man, seriously. Are you okay?"
That gets a response: the man groans and shifts a little. Stiles jumps back, ready to run if need be. But the man doesn't attack. No, he just rolls over onto his back, revealing three long, horizontal gashes in his stomach.
"Oh my god," Stiles says, gagging. He turns away, stomach roiling, and squeezes his eyes shut. He can't throw up, he's not going to throw up, he's not, he's not -
"I need help," the man rasps out.
"There's no way any EMTs are coming all the way out here," Stiles says, not turning around. "Um. Can you make it to Beacon Hills High? I can call the police and have an ambulance meet us."
There's a crunching noise. Against his better judgement, Stiles turns to look. The man is trying to stand up. He has one hand pressed against his stomach, as if he's trying to hold his guts in. Jesus.
"No police," the man growls out. The wolf pelt slips down over his head, shadowing his face. "Just take me home."
No fucking way. "I have school, dude," Stiles protests. "Come on, I can drag your body over to the school." He takes a step forward, and the man's head jerks up. With the wolf head covering his face, the man looks bestial. Inhuman. Stiles freezes.
"My home is closer."
"You're delusional," Stiles tells him. "There's nothing out here but woods and the monsters that - Oh. Fuck. I should, uh, I'm gonna go -"
"If you leave me, I'll die," the man says, and Stiles knows it's the truth. The man is pale, clammy. Blood is leaking from the wounds in his stomach and it's beginning to pool on the ground.
But this isn't - this man, with his strange wolf pelt, isn't normal. He's not human. Stiles doesn't owe him anything. It'd be safer to run and leave this strange creature to his fate.
"Please," the man says, his face softening along with Stiles' resolve. "I won't hurt you, I promise."
"Well, if you promise," Stiles snarks, but it's all for show. He could run off, but why take the risk of this wolf-man surviving and remembering the smart-mouthed teenager who left him to die? No, better to take the risk now and hope to escape the consequences before the wolf-man recovers.
Stiles hauls the man up to his feet, grunting from the effort. The man slings an arm around Stiles' shoulders, and Stiles almost topples over. This dude is heavy, densely muscled. Fear skitters up his spine; if this guy wanted to hurt him, Stiles would be practically defenceless.
"It's this way," the man says, pointing off into the woods. Of fucking course. "Just follow the red flowers."
"Great. Follow flowers into the haunted woods. What could go wrong?"
Surprisingly, the man laughs. Stiles shivers at the rush of hot breath on his neck. "What's your name, kid?"
Stiles drags them forward, off the path and into the woods. Follow the flowers. He catches sight of them quickly enough; bright red poppies, shockingly cheery against the gloom. They stumble through the under-brush like a couple of drunks. Stiles almost collapses under the wolf-man's weight, but he manages to keep his eyes fixed on the poppies.
"I asked you a question."
"Yeah, I heard," Stiles says, adjusting his grip on the wolf-man. "I didn't answer for a reason, buddy."
The man grins, teeth startling white next to the pelt. "Smart boy. I'll tell you my name first, how about that?"
"Knock yourself out." He's not about to give his name to something that lives in these woods. That's a good way to get spirited away.
"My name is Derek."
"Good for you," Stiles drawls. Focus on the flowers. Stay the course. For this man - Derek - to offer up his own name so easily doesn't bode well. He must be powerful, whatever he is.
Derek laughs again. He's enjoying this too much. Is he...? Stiles glances down. Derek's hand is still pressed against his stomach. Stiles' head spins at the sight of blood gushing through fingers. He stumbles, feet clumsy, head feeling like it's going to float away.
"Easy," Derek complains. His fingers curl in the collar of Stiles' shirt. "We're almost there."
Right. Just keep walking. Stiles shakes his dizziness off and presses forward. This deep in the woods, there's noises all around them. Birds sing, an elk bugles in the distance. From farther off, there's the scream of a fox.
Derek growls in response to that, a deep, rumbling thing that reverberates through Stiles. It causes him to trip over his own feet, and he hurtles forward a couple of steps before Derek yanks him back. He's expecting more complaining, but Derek points at something in the distance and says, "There."
He catches glimpses of it through the trees. It's a cottage. A cute one, too, made of stone. Moss clings to the roof, smoke curls up from the chimney. Flowering plants and bushes dot the area around it. There's even a cute well made of brick. Under the dappled sunlight, it looks like the perfect forest getaway.
It's frighteningly close to the cabin Stiles has pictured in his own daydreams.
"Is this...?"
"My den," Derek confirms.
A wolf den. Stiles takes a shaky breath and says, "What, no decorative bones? No rotting animal corpses? That can't be very homey for you."
Derek's body shakes with laughter. "Smart and brave," he muses, tightening his grip on Stiles.
"Right, well." Stiles pulls away and, when Derek manages to stay upright, starts to edge back towards the trail. "You're home, so I'm just gonna -"
"I could use more help," Derek says casually, much too relaxed for someone who should be bleeding out. This whole thing was a trap. This thing wanted him here, it was all a ploy, to -
Stiles bolts.
He crashes through nettles, thin tree branches slice at his bare arms. His bookbag is weighing him down - he tosses it and darts off in the other direction.
A wolf howls behind him.
Tree roots cover the ground, tangling together, tripping him up, as if the forest itself is trying to keep him from leaving. His foot gets caught between two, and his ankle rolls, sending him sprawling to the forest floor. He staggers to his feet, lungs burning, hamstrings screaming, and forces himself to run, run, run.
There's the growl of a wolf. Every instinct in his body screams for him to freeze, to let the predator pass him by, but Stiles keeps running. He's close, he has to be, he just has to -
Something tackles him, sending him flying forward. Stiles lands on his wrist, feels it snap. He shouts, forehead pressed to the ground. There's a weight on his back. Hands framing his head. He's caught.
"That was fun," Derek says breathlessly. He leans down, rubs his nose against the nape of Stiles neck. "You're fast, for a human. But very fragile."
"My arm..." Stiles exhales, choking back sobs. His wrist is throbbing, numbness spreading up his fingers. Even if he makes it out of this, he's going to be in a cast for weeks. Dad is going to be so mad.
Derek hums. "If I get up, are you going to run?"
"Maybe," he admits, pain making him honest.
"Be smart, kid. Don't run," Derek says, his breath hot in Stiles' ear. "Don't make me chase you again. I might not be able to stop next time."
Stiles bites the inside of his mouth. A scream builds up in his throat, and he swallows it down. "I - I won't run," he promises.
The weight on his back disappears. Stiles trembles, lying there in the dirt, waiting for Derek to maul him. But the mauling never comes. Instead, he's flipped over onto his back. Before he can scoot away, Derek straddles him, sitting on his stomach.
Despite it all, Stiles flushes. Derek is - Well, he's not bleeding anymore. His stomach is smeared with dried blood, but there's no gashes, no glistening intestines on display. The paws from the wolf's pelt hang over his muscular chest.
He's beautiful, sharp looking. High cheekbones, straight nose. If not for the abject horror of the situation, Stiles would want to roll his hips and grind up into the wolf-man. And Derek knows it; he grins widely and shifts his weight, just enough to be a tease.
Stiles flushes tomato-red. "W-what are you...?"
"Give me your arm," Derek says, still grinning like a psycho.
"What are you going to do?" He cradles his arm to his chest. "I need a doctor, I need -"
"Shut up."
Raising his arm doesn't hurt, but the way the bone curves beneath his skin is enough to make him sick. He turns away, unable to watch as Derek examines his swollen wrist. If nothing else, Derek's touch is gentle and warm. Comforting.
"Poor human boy," Derek sighs, as if he's not the source of Stiles' pain. "I can fix this for you. For a price."
"There's a surprise," he mutters. He is so completely fucked. "Please, let me go. I don't taste very good, I'm all bone and gristle. There's gotta be tastier prey out there."
Derek laughs. "You are skinny," he agrees. "But I caught you" - he grabs Stiles' chin and turns his face skywards - "and that makes you mine to do with as I wish."
Stiles glares up at the wolf-man. Derek is still smirking, as if he likes any sign of defiance. Maybe it makes for a more interesting hunt. "You baited me," he accuses.
"Humans are easy to bait." His grip on Stiles' face turns sharp. "All it takes is compassion, greed. A pretty face." He pauses, then adds, "But I didn't fake my injuries. I was healing when you found me. I just -"
"Took advantage," Stiles finishes bitterly. It makes sense. Plenty of predators, even wolves, are opportunistic. "If you fix me... does that mean you'll let me go?"
Derek's eyes gleam. They're an odd colour, almost like pond-water. "Until I catch you again."
It's a trap, Stiles knows it, but it's one he has the chance to escape. The sick part is that Derek wants him to try to wriggle out of it. It's plain to see. He lured Stiles into the heart of the woods, because he could, because he wanted something to chase around. Something that could fight back. Something smarter than an elk.
"What's your price?" he asks, even though he already knows.
Sure enough, Derek says, "Your name."
If Derek is one of the Fair Folk, then name sharing would be tantamount to suicide. Derek could compel him, steal him away to Under-The-Hill. Stiles bites his lip. Did Derek say his name? Or did he invoke the you can call me loophole? Stiles can't remember, not with a monster seated in his lap and pain throbbing through him.
Stiles swallows. "You can call -"
Derek shakes his head, and the wolf's head slips sideways, making him look almost rakish. "Be smart, human. Don't lie to me. If you do..." He raises his hand and flexes his fingers. Slowly, the tips turn black and sharp. Claws.
Fuck. There's no choice. Stiles is just going to have to roll the dice. He licks his dry lips and says, "My name is Mieczysław, but my friends call me Stiles."
The grin on Derek's face can only be described as wolfish. "Hello, Stiles."
⋆⋆⋆
The inside of the cabin looks exactly like Stiles expected it to: dried herbs hang over the window, a fire crackles in the hearth, the sumptuous bed pushed against the wall is piled high with furs. There's a small table, a bookshelf filled with ancient looking tomes, and a bright orange fridge. No TV, but there is a vintage looking radio. The wolf-man enjoys music, then. It's an odd detail, one Stiles latches onto in his exhausted, pain state.
Derek snaps his fingers and points at the bed. Stiles obeys the silent order and sits on the edge of the bed. Immediately, his eyes droop. If not for who he was with, he would curl up in a ball and pass out. But sleeping around Derek is sure to be a death sentence. So Stiles sits as still as he can, not wanting to insult or offend his captor.
He can't help but tremble when Derek approaches, and he flinches when Derek brushes against him. Braced for more pain, he squeezes his eyes shut.
"You're nervous," Derek murmurs. "Relax. I won't hurt you."
Stiles swallows. "I don't know that," he says, voice shaky and weak. "How can I know what you'll do? You're a -" He stops. He doesn't know what Derek is, not exactly.
"Because I promised not to," is the response Stiles gets. It's irritating enough for him to open his eyes. Derek is bare-chested, the wolf pelt laid out on the bed next to Stiles. Without it, he seems almost boyish. Young.
"Well, if you promise," Stiles snarks, clinging to sarcasm like it'll keep him safe the way it does at school.
But Derek isn't a high school bully. In response to more of Stiles' attitude, he merely grins. "I never go back on my word," Derek says, before turning away. In between his shoulder blades is a spiral tattoo, inked in black. It ripples as Derek rolls his shoulders, and Stiles is transfixed by the motion.
"Does it mean anything?" he asks, unable to stop himself.
"Yes."
Stiles doesn't push his luck. He keeps his mouth shut as Derek wraps a cloth strip soaked in some kind of herbal remedy around his arm. It smells astringent, unpleasant. He doesn't point out that a wrap and some smelly plants won't fix his arm, not on their own.
But maybe his doubt appears on his face, because Derek says, "This is to keep your bone in place while it heals. If it's not wrapped, I'll have to re-break your arm."
"We wouldn't want that," he says. Derek grins at him, and really, that is getting old. It's like he's merely a plaything for Derek. Amusing for now, but what happens when Derek gets bored? He has the feeling that broken bones would be the least of it.
Knowing what Derek is would make it easier to predict. Some kind of forest spirit, maybe. He's clearly fast, capable of healing himself and perhaps even minor illusions. There's dusty old tomes at the library filled with information about the denizens of the forest. As soon as he gets out of this mess, that's his first stop.
For now, Stiles settles on observing the predator currently puttering around the kitchen area. The jeans Derek's wearing are tight, but not worn. He's wearing sneakers. It's bizarre. Does he get the clothes from his victims? The question is perched on the edge of Stiles' tongue, but asking questions seems like it'll just lead to more problems.
"Here," Derek says, brandishing a mug of steaming liquid. "Drink this, it'll help."
Stiles takes the mug with his good hand. It smells sweet, kind of tart. "What is this? Some kind of tea?"
"Yes."
He frowns. It smells good, but that makes his feeling of dread increase. This could be poison or something that makes him weak or sick. His broken wrist throbs, pain radiating up to his elbow. His fingers are swollen, numb.
"Stiles," Derek says, and Stiles feels the authority in his voice. "It will help with the pain and the swelling. It'll make you fall asleep."
"No, no, I don't -"
Derek's hands come down on Stiles' shoulders. Holding him in place. "You'll sleep next to my pelt," he says, ignoring Stiles' pleas, "and my magic will flow into you."
His hands shake. "I just wanna go home," he says, voice cracking, sounding pitifully young even to himself. "Derek, please."
Slowly, lightly, Derek traces a path up his neck, along his jawline, to his chin. A thumb presses against his bottom lip, pulling it down, and he trembles like a trapped hare.
"Humans are so fragile," Derek says slowly. He slides his thumb inside Stiles' mouth, pushing down against his tongue, before pulling his hand away entirely. Stiles gapes up at him, shocked. "If I hurt you too much then you'll break, and I don't want that."
Stiles doesn't want to be hurt. He doesn't want to be chased, he doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to know what Derek's skin tastes like. What he wants, what he really wants, is to get up and run right out of the cursed cabin, all the way home, to his mom. She would make it better, she made everything better.
But there is no safety at home. There is only this moment: a handsome monster who wants to fix Stiles just to smash him into pieces again. And again and again, until there's nothing left to fix.
In the end, he drinks the tea. He allows himself to be manhandled into position, arranged just so. Derek rolls him onto his side, right next to the black wolf pelt. Stiles presses his face against its soft fur, breathing it in. It smells woodsy, not bad at all. Clean.
Derek isn't done. He touches Stiles, gently. Insistently. Ankles, behind his knee, the curve of his hip; he examines all of these places, almost curiously. Stiles gets the impression that Derek has never had anyone here before, in his bed. He doesn't know where that thought comes from and it drifts away, as quickly as it surfaced.
"Hands off the merchandise," Stiles grumbles, ineffectively batting at those wandering hands. Unsurprisingly, Derek laughs, low and dark, but he stops feeling up Stiles' ass.
"How do you feel?"
What a question. His limbs are heavy, slow. He's warm all over - Derek's questing fingers are now soothingly cool where once they had burned through him.
"Tired," he decides as Derek's hand slides up his shorts. "Definitely tired."
"Go to sleep," Derek orders, and again, Stiles feels the authority in his tone. The ring of command. Whatever Derek is, he's not to be disobeyed. "Sleep, and when you wake up, you'll be home."
"Promise?" his voice is a whisper, his eyes already falling shut.
"I promise."
The last thing he feels before he falls asleep is Derek kissing his cheek.
⋆⋆⋆
Stiles is running through the forest. Ahead of him is a clever red fox with more tails than he can count. This fox has come to him before with whispered promises of treasure and secrets, and tonight Stiles means to collect. It's a game of sorts. To win, Stiles needs to catch the fox. Only then will he be worthy.
The fox darts under a fallen log, and Stiles follows, jumping over the log. He lands in a muddy creek, the water ice-cold against his bare feet. He can't see where his quarry went; there's no footprints, no bright orange fur dashing through the brush.
The forest blurs together. The trees melt down into the earth as their leaves fly off into the sky. Colour seeps away from everything, even himself. Frantically, Stiles rubs at his greying hands, but it creeps further up his arms, down his bare legs, until he's covered in it.
Stiles falls to his knees. He no longer feels the cold from the water, just a growing numbness that burrows its way inside him. Splitting him apart.
"I can save you from this," Derek says. As he kneels down in front of Stiles, colour returns to the faded water. It spreads, slowly, up the creek bed and towards the forest. Life returning.
"I don't -"
Derek cups his cheek, and warmth blooms from that simple contact, chasing away the icy cold within him. "All you have to do is say yes."
He opens his mouth to refuse, but Derek leans in suddenly. Their noses brush and Stiles' eyes flutter closed. He can't help but tip his chin up, begging for something he's never had before. "Derek," he whispers, longing burning within him as their lips touch.
"Humans are like moths," Derek murmurs. "Always chasing after the lights in the forest. You want to be hunted, deep down. You want this."
Derek presses his mouth against Stiles', and for a moment, Stiles can't move, he's so shocked. He gasps, lips parting, and Derek takes advantage. He forces his tongue into Stiles' mouth, more a violation than the tender first kiss Stiles had always imagined. It feels like he's being devoured. Derek's tongue flicks against his, runs along the roof of his mouth. Stiles tries to mimic the movement of his lips and tongue, but abruptly, Derek pulls away.
"Say yes," he urges, eyes gleaming. "Say yes, and I'll keep you safe. Nothing will hurt you, I promise."
No one but Derek.
That thought is like cold water, rushing over him. "This is a dream," Stiles gasps out. "You're not real."
Derek grins, and his canines are long, sharp. Vicious. "Smart boy." He snaps his teeth at Stiles, as if he's going to take a bite. Stiles jerks himself backwards, moving on instinct. Derek's claws tear at his arm, and Stiles cries out and -
He hits the ground, screaming. He's - he's fallen out of bed. He's back in his room.
"Oh my god." Stiles crawls back up the bed, still shaking, looking around frantically for any sign of Derek. But there's nothing; his room is pleasantly lit up by his bedside lamp, and there's no shadows for the wolf-man to lurk in.
The curtains move as a gentle breeze wafts in. Stiles leaps for his window and slams it shut, making sure to turn the latch. He presses his forehead against the cool glass, his eyes squeezed shut, as what happened and what he just did washes over him.
His arm is still wrapped in bandages, but it feels normal. No radiating pain, no tingling numbness. His fingers curl and un-curl normally. When he pulls the bandages off, there's no bruising or swelling, no sign at all that it had even been broken. Aside from some lingering pain in his ass, he feels perfectly fine.
Derek healed him. For real. It hadn't been a trick; he didn't lie. He even put Stiles back in bed instead of leaving him outside.
Stiles runs his hands through his hand and turns away from the window. Derek knows where he lives . Derek knows his fucking name. This is how kids and people go missing. He knows this, he knows better than this. Not two months ago, a girl in his class had climbed out of her bedroom window and wandered off into the dark forest. Only her bones had been found. Pink marrow poking out between the cracks.
If given the chance, Derek will attack him again. It's not even a question in Stiles' mind. Then it'll be his bones found scattered beneath the trees.
⋆⋆⋆
Without being able to use the shortcut through the forest, Stiles' mornings quickly become unbearable.
Catching the bus is an impossibility; cleaning up Dad takes too much time. While Scott is more than happy to give Stiles rides, it can only happen when he has his mom's car. Stiles refuses to ride bitch on the back of Scott's dirt bike out of principle.
Repeatedly showing up late for school will only lead to questions that Stiles doesn't want to answer. Dad is the only family he has left. If anyone found out how bad things have gotten, well. It's not something he likes to think about. So, the only thing Stiles can really do is to wake up even earlier to get Dad cleaned up.
Sometimes, Stiles imagines just walking out of the house. Leaving Dad to marinate in his own filth. But it's not something he can bring himself to do. There's days where he stands there, hand on the doorknob, while Dad drunkenly stumbles around the kitchen, crying out for Mom. It'd be so easy to leave. To say fuck it. Maybe even tell a teacher or Melissa McCall. Foster care has to be better than this, it has to be.
But he never leaves. He stays. He cleans up Dad's messes, he makes sure the bills are paid on time.
The early mornings and late nights begin to eat away at him. He's always been pale, but now he's corpse-white, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. His jeans become baggier, slipping down his waist unless he wears a belt. But it can't be helped: the loss of his backpack meant the loss of his notes and homework, and now he needs to catch up.
Dozing off in class is a common occurrence now. Lacrosse practice is practically impossible - he can't focus on the plays he's supposed to be running through. Most of the time, the coach gets frustrated and makes him do burpees and suicides as punishment for "slacking off". All it does it sap him of whatever energy he has left.
Most days, Stiles feels like he's going to shatter into pieces. He's always one bad event away from dissolving into tears.
College is his way out. A tiny pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel. If he can get a scholarship, then great, but otherwise, Stiles is ready to take out a shit ton of student loans if it means escaping for good. Maybe it's cowardly to wait until he's legally allowed to vanish, but Scott assures him that it's for the best. Lots of kids leave this town and never come back. No one will judge him for doing the same.
Stiles isn't awake. Not really. No, he's still lingering in that liminal space between reality and dreams. He feels heavy, as if he's sinking into the earth. Warm, but not unpleasantly so; a cool night breeze sweeps in from the open window.
Someone's in bed with him. That should be a frightening realisation, but it's just a dream. A good dream, in fact. Warm hands move up his calves, to his thighs. Squeezing, feeling him up with big, calloused hands. A man. An adult man, that's who Stiles is dreaming about.
Derek. He wants it to be Derek.
Slowly, his boxers are pulled down, presumably tossed aside. Stiles wiggles his toes and sighs. He's so warm. Exposed to the air, his cock twitches. It should be horrifying, humiliating, getting hard in front of - for Derek, but everything is muted by sleep.
Derek pushes his legs apart and settles between them. Warm breath ghosts over his balls, his hardening cock. Then, delicately, something wet and hot laps at his cockhead, teasing the slit. A tongue.
Stiles whines. No one's ever touched him before, not like this. The urge to buck his hips up sizzles through him, but he can barely move his fingers, let alone the rest of his body. He can only lie there as Derek mouths along his shaft, before ducking down to nuzzle at his balls. While the rest of his body is numb, almost immobile, he has no issue with feeling sensation in his dick. It's the only thing that feels real: Derek's lips and tongue on him. Teasing him.
He doesn't last long. All it takes is for Derek to suck him down and swallow a few times, and then Stiles is coming uncontrollably. Pleasure floods his mind, shaking his thoughts apart. He sucks in great heaving breaths, eyes fluttering open.
Derek laughs, like he always does, and god, Stiles hates that the bastard has wormed his way this deep into his psyche. Stiles shouldn't be having sex dreams about some forest demon, let alone ones where he comes in two seconds.
"You taste good." Derek gives his cockhead one last lick before crawling up the bed, straddling him. "I expected you to be afraid, like last time." Derek rubs his mouth, almost thoughtfully. "I like it better this way."
Last time? Stiles frowns, trying to think, but his thoughts are slippery things, and he cannot hold onto them. Exhaustion weighs him down. His eyes close.
The bed dips as Derek rolls off him. "You should come back, Stiles," Derek murmurs. "We can have so much fun together."
Stiles hums. They would have fun. He wouldn't need to worry about school or Dad if he were with Derek. He could just sleep in the sun, forage for food, maybe even read for fun, like he used to. Stiles lets himself get caught up in that fantasy, barely even noticing when Derek climbs back out of the window.
When he wakes in the morning, Stiles is refreshed and well-rested. And he's naked from the waist down.
"It was a dream," Stiles says insistently, in the dark of his room. His boxers are beside the bed, and there's no claw marks or tearing on them. So it couldn't have been Derek. "It was a dream. Just a super vivid, wet dream."
⋆⋆⋆
The dreams don't stop.
Stiles knows they're dreams; he fucking knows it because his bedroom is impregnable. A homemade gris-gris bag hangs above his window. Mountain ash circles his bed. He's even nailed sprigs of holly and mistletoe above his door.
So, when he dreams about Derek, he knows that they're dreams. No matter how vivid they are, they cannot be reality. They just can't be.
But they feel real.
Most of the time, Stiles is practically insensate. He falls asleep and then wakes with come drying on his stomach or thighs. Every now and then, sensation breaks through his slumber. A mouth on his cock. Teeth on his neck. The scent of warm fur and pine needles. Something warm and wet splattering against his chest.
Sometimes, he feels his mouth stretched wide around something. A weight on his tongue, something pushing in and out - fucking - of his mouth. Hot fluid sliding down his throat, coating the inside of his mouth. He wakes up from those dreams with a sore throat, but feeling oddly giddy.
Other times are more detailed. Almost like lucid dreaming. Awareness will creep in, and Stiles will cling to Derek, kissing him back urgently, rubbing up against him like a cat in heat. During these dreams, Derek will croon his version of sweet nothings. He makes offers of protection, of a peaceful life in the forest, safe from all harm.
As if he wants Stiles to be his forest bride or some shit. It's nonsense, utterly batshit, but Stiles wakes from these dreams feeling warm and soft.
One night, Stiles falls asleep at his computer desk, sprawled out over his Economics home. He wakes with Derek's mouth around his cock, sucking him down greedily. Stiles pulls at Derek's hair, fingers spasming in pleasure, until he spills right down his throat. When the morning comes, Stiles is back in bed, hastily dressed, his hand still clenched around strands of black hair.
It's not proof of anything. Stiles' hair is dark. The length is about the same. It's not - the only thing it's proof of is that Stiles needs to wash his sheets more.
Besides, it makes sense that Derek is showing up in his dreams. It's his mind's way of processing fear and anxiety over being hunted down and killed by some kind of forest spirit. Ravishment - rape - fantasies aren't uncommon; Stiles has done enough internet research to know that. All of this is entirely normal.
The fact that he craves them, well. Maybe that's less normal, but it's basically just porn that his brain has concocted for him. And, hey, he's finally getting good sleep. The bags under his eyes have all but faded away, and getting through lacrosse practice is easier now that he's not exhausted all the time.
Life goes on.
Stiles' dad throws a bottle at his head, and he has to duck the well-meaning but nosy guidance counsellor until the butterfly sutures come off. He and Scott spend a long weekend playing Battlefront, shit-talking, and taking swigs of cheap, foamy beer. On the horizon are finals and the last game of the lacrosse season.
It's hard to focus on any of it. It's important, sure, but more often than not, instead of focusing on classes, Stiles finds himself daydreaming about Derek. The margins of his worksheets are filled with doodles of the triple spiral inked between Derek's shoulder blades. His internet search history is filled with queries about wolves and the various supernatural entities associated with them.
None of them seem to fit Derek. Hexenwulf is the closest, but they were all hunted down centuries ago. Stiles is tempted to take a bus out to the National History Museum to see the artefacts in person, just to know, but in the end, he decides against it. Does it matter what Derek is? It's not like they're involved or anything.
Not that Derek seems to know that.
"Your place is at my side," Derek whispers, his breath hot and humid against Stiles' neck. "I'll lay my kills at your feet, let you take the first bite out of all of them. Come back to me."
Stiles shakes his head. This isn't real. None of it is. The real Derek would never be so gentle. He would never kiss Stiles' eyelids, his brow, or promise to gift him a diadem made of bone and anemones.
They're just pleasant dreams, and Stiles is not going to die because of them.
⋆⋆⋆
Normally, Stiles doesn't nap after school; all it does is fuck with his sleep schedule. Besides, he has homework and chores, and god knows that having dinner ready for Dad is mandatory. But when he trudges into his room, sore and exhausted after a hellacious lacrosse practice, he can't help but flop face down onto his bed.
He groans in appreciation for his mattress. Sure, it's not as soft as Derek's - Nope. He shakes his head, sending that thought packing. No Derek thoughts. His bed is soft, the house is nice and warm. Stiles wriggles out of his shirt, tossing it to the side.
Just a few minutes of rest. He closes his eyes, jaw cracking on a yawn. A few minutes is all he needs.
When he wakes, it's to the bed dipping as Derek crawls over him. Not unusual. Stiles hums in greeting and smacks his lips. A small puddle of drool is pressed against his face. He wants to squirm away from it, but Derek has him boxed in.
Stiles lifts his hips, just a little, and grinds back against Derek's crotch. Above him, Derek gasps before dropping his weight, pressing Stiles against the mattress. He rolls his hips, nuzzles behind Stiles' ear. His bare cock twitches, leaving a trail of watery precome along Stiles' back. Smug satisfaction curls within Stiles; having this effect on Derek is a heady thing.
"You're eager tonight," Derek whispers, right in his ear, and Stiles shudders. "Did you miss me?"
"No." Stiles blushes when Derek laughs at him. He doesn't know why he tries; lying to Derek never works. He tries to roll over, but Derek stops him with one big hand on his shoulder.
A jolt of fear races down his spine. He has a sense memory of being pinned down, with his face in the dirt, his ass bared, and -
Derek yanks his shorts down. Stiles gasps, and he doesn't know if it's from terror or desire. The sense of deja vu becomes stronger as Derek nudges his legs apart. A whimper gets caught in his throat. He doesn't know what Derek is going to do, but it's going to hurt. He knows it, he remembers -
"Relax," Derek says. He grabs Stiles' asscheeks, claws digging into the muscle, and then spreads them. Putting him on display. "This won't be like the first time."
The first time what? The question is choked down by shame as Derek rubs his thumb over Stiles' hole. He's never felt so seen, so exposed. Squirming away is out of the question. All he can do is just lie there while Derek looks at him.
The first press of Derek's finger is dry, but not painful. It doesn't feel right, and Stiles is - well, he knew he wasn't entirely straight, but that doesn't mean that he welcomes things being shoved up his ass. But he knows better to fight the intrusion, so he buries his head in his pillow and hopes that Derek will be gentle and kind.
Derek twists his finger inside, thrusting it in and out. On an outstroke, he tugs at the rim, laughing when Stiles shifts his hips in discomfort. When he takes the finger out, a brief spark of hope blooms, then quickly dies when two fingers press against his entrance.
"Derek," Stiles pleads, twisting around. "No, it'll hurt."
"It won't," Derek says and then pushes his fingers inside. He's right, it doesn't hurt, but it burns . Stiles hisses through his teeth. Each pump of Derek's fingers makes him feel hot and weird, and while he doesn't know if he hates it, he knows he doesn't like it.
The dry-drag makes Derek's fingers feel larger than they are. A half-broken sob erupts from his throat as Derek twists and spreads his fingers. Again, he tugs at the rim, spreading Stiles open from the inside.
Is he going to shove his cock in dry? That thought makes Stiles crawl up the bed, but Derek grabs him by the leg and drags him back into place.
"This should feel good," Derek says, as if his will alone will make it so. There's an edge of frustration in his voice, like he isn't sure why Stiles is trembling from fear. "Why aren't you...?"
Oh. Stiles wants to curl up in a ball and cry, but he forces himself to say, "I'm not a girl, dude. You have to get me wet."
Derek's fingers jab inside him, pointedly.
"Not like that!" Stiles protests. "I need - you need to use spit or lube, I'm not -" he breaks off with a squawk as Derek leans in and spits on his asshole. "Oh god, that's so gross."
Gross or not, it works. Derek fingerfucks the saliva inside him, and the burn eases. It doesn't - it's not good, but it doesn't feel as bad. The feeling gets better when Derek adds more spit, rubbing it around the rim almost soothingly, before plunging his fingers back in.
Stiles shifts his hips, arching his back. His cock is starting to get hard, and he can help but thrust into the mattress. Derek growls out yes and flexes his fingers inside. They press against his prostate, making Stiles moan loudly into his pillow. Mindlessly, he rocks his hips back, fucking himself on Derek's fingers.
"That's better," Derek says, probably with a smirk. Stiles doesn't care. Derek can feel smug if he wants; it finally feels good, and Stiles wants more. But, of course, Derek pulls his fingers out. Stiles whips his head around, annoyed, and finds that Derek is sucking on his fingers. Maybe that should be gross, but it sends a jolt of lust through him.
At Derek's urging, he gets up on all fours. His cock hangs down, balls heavy and full. Derek spreads him open again. It's humiliating. His asshole is wet and open, and Derek is just looking. Stiles whines, high in his throat, dizzy with lust.
When Derek laps at him, it shouldn't be shocking, but it is. Stiles flinches, unable to hold back his whimpers. Derek doesn't stop, of course he doesn't, but he squeezes Stiles' leg in apparent reassurance.
It's weird and intimate, but every time Derek's tongue darts inside, sparks of pleasure shoot up and down his spine. His arms shake, he whimpers. Saliva drips down his taint, his balls. Derek's beard is wet and scratchy. Stiles is sure that his ass is going to be raw and pink after this.
Derek places a sloppy kiss on his hole before slowly pushing two fingers inside. Stiles bows his head, breathing through it. Derek laps around his fingers, spreading them wide. A third finger squeezes inside his hole. It's too much; his arms give out and he drops down to his elbows. Derek growls in excitement as he curls his fingers.
Precome splatters against the mattress as Stiles' cock jerks. He's going to come, he's going to -
The door downstairs slams.
Stiles jerks away, shoving at Derek. "Did you hear that?"
Derek frowns and tilts his head. "It's the other human who lives here. Why did we stop?"
Fuck, fuck.
"You can't be here," Stiles says frantically as he pulls his shorts back up. He runs his hands through his hair, already running through his mental checklist. It's late, but he can heat up some leftovers. Anything to soak up the alcohol in the sheriff's system.
"We're not done here," Derek says, like the giant creep that he is. His cock is still fat and flushed, the tip shiny-wet and red. Stiles' own dick aches in sympathy; Derek clearly hasn't gotten the message that this isn't happening.
"My dad is downstairs," Stiles hisses, jabbing his finger at the floor. "It's beyond time for you to leave, fur-face." Derek snaps his teeth, clearly irritated. He doesn't move, though, and it's pissing Stiles right the fuck off. He has no right to - Wait. "How... how are you...?"
Downstairs, something shatters. A plate maybe.
Derek tilts his head again, like he's a damn dog. "There's something wrong with him," he says thoughtfully. "He's stumbling around like a fresh foal."
Stiles' mind is strangely empty. Icy cold dread flows through his veins, numbing him to reality. To what he knew, deep down, but could never admit, not even to himself.
The glint in Derek's eye is cold. Inhuman.
"You need to go," Stiles says, his voice steady but hollow. "I have to take care of my dad."
Derek says, "No. I'm not done with you." He fists his cock, pushing the foreskin up to cover his glans, then pulling it back down. Precome dribbles out, sliding down his shaft. "I like the noises you were making. I want to hear more."
He can't do this. Not now. He doesn't know how to explain consent to this thing in his bed. "Can I... I need to check on my dad. He's - he's sick, and I need to take care of him."
Shockingly, his plea works. Derek heaves out a put upon sigh before laying back on the bed. "Fine," he grumbles, waving a hand. "Come back when you're done."
Stiles nods frantically. He'll agree to anything right now, anything. He steps out of the unbroken and utterly useless ring of mountain ash and freezes in place. Fear prickles the back of his neck, twists in his guts. Derek's predatory gaze, his very presence, pins Stiles in place as effectively as a lead around his neck. Body straining to move, but not able to as the chain tightens around his neck.
Derek growls. "Hurry up, Stiles, or I'll take you right now."
The spell breaks. He flees, ears straining for any sound of movement, any indication that Derek is stalking after him. Stiles thunders down the steps, sure that Derek is right behind him, but when he turns, he only sees the empty staircase.
Derek is a creature of his word. Above all else. As soon as Stiles returns upstairs, Derek will fuck him into the mattress. Until then, Stiles has other things to worry about. Most importantly, the swearing and complaints emanating from the kitchen. He can go back to worrying about Derek after he deals with this.
The scene before him is bleak. Dad sits on the floor, surrounded by shards of glass, taking swigs from a bottle of beer. Food is splattered across the floor. Gołąbki and mashed potatoes. His mom's go-to recipe for when she had a bad day. Comfort food.
"Dad," he says weakly.
"Dinner isn't ready," Dad says, accusatory. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. "I work all damn day and night, now I gotta make my own dinner?"
It's midnight, Stiles wants to scream. He has school and homework to deal with, and a monster has been crawling into his bed. It's too much, this is too much for any sixteen-year old kid to handle. If he could, Stiles would fall to the ground and cry himself hoarse, like he used to when he was a child. Then Mom would sweep into the room and gather him up, whispering sweet words in Polish to get him to calm down.
Stiles says, "I'll heat you up something."
Dad nods absently. His uniform is mussed and stained with god knows what. Probably some disgusting bar food. Getting him up off the floor takes all of Stiles' strength. As he half-drags Dad to the kitchen table, beer sloshes out of the bottle and spills all over the floor. The muscles in his back spasm,
Another mess for Stiles to clean.
"You're a good boy, Mischief," the sheriff slurs when Stiles sets a warm plate of cabbage rolls in front of him. "Better than I deserve, god knows." His face twists up. "You know... You remind me of her, so much like her. Smart and kind and, and -"
Stiles turns away. Numb. He picks up the mess on the floor - cabbage rolls and shards of glass - before mopping up the remainder with paper towels. Dad doesn't stop talking - words slurring together, he rambles on and on about Mom, how perfect she was, and how beautiful. They had to bury an empty casket, does Stiles remember?
"I'll be right back," Stiles says, as he carefully double bags the broken glass and ruined food. "Just a few minutes, and then I'll be back in."
Dad frowns, and the look in his eyes sharpens. For a moment, it's like he's back in control of himself. "What's the matter with you? You haven't said more than five words all night."
Stiles forces a smile. "I'm just tired," he says. "Eat up, okay?"
The night air is cool and soothing. Despite the smell, Stiles lingers by the trash cans. He stares at the dark line of the forest, the crash and swell of the trees as the wind blows. A deep longing fills him. What would it be like to just give in? To let the forest have him?
The lit house behind him is filled with horrors. Oh, he could talk to Melissa. He's done that before; had gotten Dad sent up the river to rehab. Dad would come back all renewed, those sharp edges filed down nicely. He'd be like a dad on TV: present and kind. Stable.
But it never lasts. A month or two, tops. Something will inevitably set the sheriff off: a tough case at work, or maybe Stiles will fail a test or forget to do the dishes. Then it'll happen again. It starts with a shot and a beer after work. Then two shots and a beer. Then the excuses will reappear: it's been a tough day, I need this, I'm functional, lots of men drink six beers a night without getting drunk.
How many times has Dad poured his whiskey down the sink? And how many times has he shoved his face against the drain, desperate for one last taste?
Stiles takes a halting couple of steps towards the forest, swaying back onto his heels when he stops. Is he doing this? It seems yes; he takes another step and then another, walking slowly at first and then faster and faster until he's running full pelt. He's barefoot and clad only in a pair of lacrosse shorts, and it doesn't matter, none of this fucking matters.
Passing into the forest is like jumping into a pool of ice-cold water. His breath rips its way out of his lungs. Branches and leaves bat at his face. Mud splatters against his feet, all the way up the back of his legs. He can't stop running, he can't. As soon as he does, he knows he will need to turn back, and he just can't.
A tree root ensnares his ankle, ending his flight through the trees. Stiles cries out, arms windmilling out, as he narrowly avoids falling flat on his face. He tests his weight on his ankle; it's sore, but supports his weight just fine. Still, he won't be running anymore.
But where to go?
Red poppies sway gently in the moonlight. They're stark red against the deeper colours of the forest, refreshingly familiar. They lead to Derek and his little cottage and the promise of future violations, violations that Stiles has begun to enjoy. Stiles is caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Did he come to this crossroad consciously? It doesn't matter. All he can do is keep his eyes up.
He follows the flowers. This deep in the forest, the trees are more spread out, and pine needles litter the ground. It'd be pleasing to walk over them if he had shoes on. As it is, they're soft, but every few steps, one sinks into the soles of his feet. It could be worse; near the outskirts of the forest, the ground is littered with rocks and shards of bone and glass.
Before long, the pine needles give way to moss-covered stones. They don't look natural. They're cracked in places, yes, but the size of each stone is uniform. Someone placed these here, long ago.
It doesn't take long for Stiles to find out why. A few feet away is a shrine of some sort. The paint is peeling off; red flecks cling to the bare wood. The forest around him is still, the air heavy. He finds himself holding his breath so as not to disturb this place. Moonlight filters down through the trees, painting everything silver.
Distantly, the threat of a panic attack looms. He's barefoot and alone in the haunted forest. What the hell was he thinking? He should have just gone back inside. Now he's going to get eaten, or -
A branch cracks. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck.
"People used to leave offerings for me here," Derek says, appearing from the dense foliage like a haint. The black wolf pelt covers him like a cloak, and now he's wearing a pair of leather riding boots and breeches, of all fucking things. It makes him look like a monstrous romantic lead from the cover of some old harlequin novel.
"I-is that -" Stiles swallows, gathering himself. With Derek's dark intent focused on him, he wants to curl up in a ball and hide. "Are you some kind of god?"
Derek shrugs. His gaze slips sideways, to the little shrine. "It's been a long time since anyone has been here." His mouth twists into a smirk. "Are you my offering, Stiles?"
Stiles can't help but whimper, and Derek's attention snaps back to him. The urge to run and hide builds up, prey instincts screaming at him, as Derek approaches him, casually, almost lazily. "I don't know what I want," he confesses, ducking his head.
"Something else has its mark on you." Derek's fingers are warm against his face. He shivers as Derek traces a line down his cheekbone. "It's been there for quite some time."
He shakes his head, confused. Dual desires rise within him. Running would be beneficial, yes, but now, with Derek's hand on him, he wants to lay down, spread his legs, and -
Derek twists his fingers in Stiles' hair and yanks his head back. Stiles cries out in fear and desire as his throat is bared before him. Little gasps of air punch their way out of him as Derek leans in and licks his neck, wet-hot tongue sweeping up behind his ear.
"You made me like this," Stiles accuses, hips jerking forward, desperate for any kind of friction. He gropes Derek's chest, the muscle firm, digging his fingers in. His thumbnail scrapes over a nipple, and he gasps as Derek bites at his throat. Already, his cock is hard and leaking inside his shorts.
"I like you better this way. Needy." Derek squeezes his ass and pulls him in. Their hips flush together, Stiles groans, keeping his head tipped back. "So pretty and soft."
Mindlessly, Stiles nods. He wouldn't normally describe himself as either of those things, but who is he to argue with Derek and his clever tongue? "Please," he says, barely recognising his voice through all the desperation.
Derek grins, his long, sharp canines slick with saliva. "This started out as a game, you know. The fox wanted you, but I told her I could catch you first."
Stiles presses his face against Derek's neck. "Is that why you..." The words choke him up. He squeezes his eyes shut, sniffing back tears.
Silence. The sweet-wild scent of fur coming from Derek is soothing. Stiles breathes it in, lets it steady him. They've spent too many nights twisted up in bed for Derek to be entirely horrifying. Now, this scent, this dark creature, reminds him of euphoria and contentment.
"No," Derek says, pulling Stiles' head back by his hair. He meets Stiles' eyes calmly and says, "Once I saw you, all helpless and scared, I couldn't help myself."
The admission is vile and ugly. Stiles wrenches himself free. "I didn't want it," he spits out. "I didn't want any of this! You had no right -"
"You didn't want it at first," Derek agrees, taking a step towards Stiles. Immediately, Stiles backs away, but Derek continues his advance. "But you want it now. I can smell it on you," he growls out, claws flexing, reflecting moonlight.
Stiles presses his back to the shrine door. He's trapped. Again. Tears prick his eyes. He's stupid, so stupid. Derek boxes him in, his arms on either side of Stiles' head. There's a scratching noise as he digs his claws into the old wood.
"Please," Stiles says again, still not sure what he's pleading for. Absolution, maybe.
"The fox wanted you," Derek says, mouth stretching into an almost manic grin, "but I caught you and covered you in my scent. I kept you safe, Stiles. If not for me, the fox would be gnawing on your bones by now."
Stiles shakes his head, confused. "What are you talking about? What fox?"
Derek ignores him and says, "Out of all the kine, I chose you. Stay with me." His eyes are pale, eager. "Be my companion. Take your place at my side, where you belong."
It's insane. Utterly insane. He can't help it - he laughs, right in Derek's face. If this offends the god, it doesn't show; Derek maintains his wide grin.
"Is this, like, a marriage thing? Pretty sure that's illegal, dude."
This gets a reaction. Derek's grin falls away. "Marriage is a human thing," he says. "Temporary. We'll be together forever."
"Wow," Stiles says weakly. "Um. That's a nice offer. But, um, my dad really needs me. Actually, he's probably wondering where I'm at, so I should probably go."
Derek laughs, low and dark. "If you really cared about your dad, then why did you leave him alone?"
Oh god. Dread fills him, like ice-water in his veins.
"Don't worry," Derek says. "I didn't hurt him. But maybe you wanted me to. Is that why you left him, Stiles?"
He shakes his head. "T-that's not it," he insists. "I - I just needed to -"
"You needed to escape," Derek finishes for him. He leans in close, their noses brushing, his eyes dark. "I'm offering you a permanent reprieve," he says quietly. "Come with me. Stay with me."
"And if I say no?" Stiles' voice shakes, but he needs to know. No more forced choices, no more dark crossroads. "Are you going to kill me?"
Derek rubs his nose against Stiles' before taking a big step back. Stiles tenses up, prey instincts screaming at him to run, run. "I would never kill you, Stiles," Derek says, face open and boyish. "If you say no, then you're free to go."
A baited trap.
"Just like that?" Stiles asks hesitantly. "You'll just... let me go?"
"I'll let you go," Derek says easily. The wolf's head is tilted, giving him a mischievous air. "If you can find the way, you can go home."
It's too good to be true. Stiles searches Derek's face and doesn't see any hint of anger or dissembling. Derek is calm. Seemingly relaxed. But the pieces are not lining up. Derek has never been one to back down, and he has no grasp on the meaning of consent. Why would he respect Stiles saying no now?
"You've messed with my head before. Made me forget..." Stiles shudders. The memories are vague and fragmented, more impressions than anything else. Derek had shoved him to the ground and mounted him. There had been no spit or lube to ease the way, just blood and force.
"I hurt you," Derek agrees, mouth quirking up. "But I learned, didn't I?"
He did. Even now, there's a part of Stiles that wants to say agree, if only so Derek will touch him again. It had been good, it really had. Not just the way Derek sucked him off or ate him out, but the comfort. Peaceful sleep, free of nightmares both surreal and mundane.
But Derek hurt him. Used him.
"I want to go home," Stiles whispers. "I don't want this, please let me go."
Derek's eyes flare red, and for the first time, he looks angry, baring his teeth. "Run home then," he snarls. "Before the fox sinks her teeth into you."
Stiles doesn't move, sure that this is a trick. But Derek doesn't attack or even approach; he rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck. The air shimmers as he falls forward, allowing the wolf pelt to slip over his head.
A shaggy, black wolf stands in front of Stiles. It's - he's - massive, some primal creature from a bygone age. In this form, Derek's head comes up to Stiles' shoulders. Fear curls with Stiles; if Derek wanted to, he could easily kill him. Stiles would be defenceless against a normal sized wolf, let alone one this big.
Derek regards him silently before turning away. He saunters off into the darkness, leaving Stiles alone and cowering against the shrine.
Noise returns to the forest. Bats chitter overhead, an owl hoots, small animals rustle through the foliage. In the distance, a lonely fox calls out.
Stiles is finally free. It's over.