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“Sometimes you just need to cling to the person you can claw your way out of the dark with" - Being Human (US)
He doesn’t know why he always lets him in.
Derek throws open the heavy loft door like it weighs nothing, wheels on the track squeaking loudly enough to drown out Stiles’ heartbeat for a second. Not long enough though because that strong, just slightly elevated pulse comes right back, roaring in Derek's ears, in his veins.
Some days he thinks he hears it when Stiles is miles and miles away, well beyond range for even his werewolf hearing. He thinks it might mean he’s finally going crazy after so many years of solitude, but that doesn’t stop him from liking it, even though he’d never admit it to anyone, if he had anyone to admit things to. It doesn’t stop his wolf from nearly howling, clawing to get out, to run, to hunt the hunter.
Part of him, the tiny part left of him that still has a scrap of self-preservation, wishes Stiles was miles away right now, instead of just on the other side of his threshold, rain-damp t-shirt clinging to the lean lines of his torso, disheveled hair dripping. His eyes are dark and his pink mouth is parted, slightly panting, body thrumming with adrenaline. He looks angry, a look Derek knows well. There’s also lust falling off him in waves that make Derek’s mouth water; the asshole knows it too, that mouth reshaping into a smirk that Derek knows almost as well as his cool, angry stare.
Derek steps back from the door, leaving it open, as much of an invitation as he’s willing to give the hunter who killed his uncle, his last remaining family member. Just over a year ago, with one precise swing of his wolfsbane-charmed machete, Stiles had finished the job Kate Argent started a decade before and turned Derek into an omega once and for all. Derek had pounced on him before the sundered halves of Peter’s body had hit the ground, snarling and teeth snapping, pinning him to the forest floor. He was about to rip Stiles’ throat out with his teeth and the crazy kid had just laughed, no trace of fear in his scent. He looked into Derek’s enraged eyes and smiled, welcoming his death.
That’s why he lets him in.
“I don’t want you here,” Derek lies, walking across the loft to lean against the big windows that overlook the balcony, making Stiles come to him. Their familiar dance.
“I don’t want to be here,” Stiles lies right back as he pulls the door closed, huffing slightly at its weight. It sends a little thrill through Derek, the small reminder that for all his training and knowledge, his ruthless efficiency with nearly every conceivable weapon, for all his reputation as a feared hunter, he's still just that: a hunter.
Human. Weak. Fragile. Tender flesh so easily opened with the gentle tease of a curved claw. Knees that bruise when Derek shoves him down hard, keeps him down too long, those big doe-eyes watering. Soft, pale skin that blossoms with red hickeys under his mouth. A body that takes so long to heal itself that Derek can carve a pattern of shallow red lines across the pale skin of his beautiful back and then, a week later when Stiles inevitably comes back for more, they’re still there, faded as pink as his lips, warm underneath Derek’s hand as he holds him still, adding streaks of thick come to his masterpiece.
Stiles peels off his wet shirt as he turns back from the door, eyes finding Derek’s at once, throwing the garment onto the hardwood floor with a soggy smack, eyebrows raised in a challenge, waiting for Derek to say something about it, which he doesn’t.
Derek was taught from a young age to always be wary of hunters, to kill them before they can kill him or his pack. To never let his guard down around them, to even have a healthy dose of fear of the capable ones. And Stiles is more than capable. Taken in and trained by John Winchester himself when his parents were killed by an alpha pack when he was a kid, hardened to even further brutality when Sam and Dean took up his education after John’s death. Stiles has killed dozens, if not hundreds, of supernatural creatures, and yet Derek lets him into his home – into his den, and the little fucker has the balls to be disrespectful and petulant.
But Stiles’ treatment of his floors are low on the list of things about their relationship – if it can even be called that – that get under his skin. Just being anywhere near Stiles destroys him, makes him feel like he’s burning alive in a sweet, twisted knot of agony and ecstasy that makes him want to hurt and be hurt, a mess of contradictory feelings that he can’t even begin to understand, but still, he lives in constant fear that each time Stiles leaves will be the last time he sees him and that he’ll never feel that way again.
That’s why he lets him in.
“What was it,” Derek asks, eyes falling to the pentagram tattoo under Stiles’ collarbone, a ward against demon possession that he's tasted time and time again. He knows what Stiles was just hunting, can smell the lingering traces of the sickly-sweet stench. But they’ve been doing this long enough that Derek knows that he always feels slightly worse afterwards when Stiles leaves without either of them having spoken anything other than his own growled commands and Stiles’ plaintive moans. So Derek asks.
“Fucking vampire,” Stiles says, running his long, strong fingers through his wet hair. “Nasty bitch too, nearly got me. Twice. Made me fight in her a rainy alley like we were in a fucking TV show. But I did my very best Buffy impersonation and here I am to live another day.” His voice sounds joking, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. Derek has come to learn that the more cavalier about his exploits Stiles is, the more shaken he is.
That’s why he lets him in.
Stiles walks toward him, eyes dropping from where they’ve been carefully studying Derek’s face to his groin, where his threadbare flannel pajama pants are doing a piss-poor job of hiding his erection. He started getting hard the second he picked up Stiles’ scent coming up the stairs and has been growing harder as he stares at him, at the surprisingly broad spread of his shoulders, his biceps and abs well-toned from years of killing Derek’s kind. At the scatter of moles across his cheek and the scar that runs vertically through his right eyebrow, one of a dozen physical mementos from a lifetime of violence. Derek is fascinated by Stiles' scars, by his body's ability to bear witness to his trauma, by all of the little pieces of Stiles that keep him awake at night.
He’s right in front of Derek now, just a breath away, spicy sweat and vampire blood and dirty rainwater and his goddamn searing lust curling all around him, fingers teasing at the button of his jeans, body practically vibrating with the anxious energy that always fills him after a fight, energy that he’s been relying on Derek to exorcise for him since that first night in the woods.
Stiles smirks again, eyes still on Derek’s obvious hard-on. His hand, so cold on his skin it makes him shiver, ducks under Derek's tank top, jerking it up, demanding. Derek humors him, pulls it off, watching Stiles’ face as he looks him up and down, hungry for the hunger he knows he’ll see there. “I need to suck your cock,” Stiles says, a hot whisper in the hollow of Derek’s throat.
Stiles drops to his knees before he can push him there, making Derek growl and pull his hair even harder than normal, forcing his head back, making him meet his eyes. There’s barely any light in the room, just the lamp on the table casting a small halo that doesn’t even come close to reaching them. Derek doesn’t need the light though, can easily see the glowing bronze of his eyes under those pretty lashes. He wants to be grateful that Stiles can’t see his eyes in the dark, but he can’t help but wonder how his expression might change if he could.
His mind goes blessedly blank when Stiles frees his dick from his pants, still looking up at Derek as he teases the foreskin with his pierced tongue. His growl is softer this time, almost completely drowned out by the loud thud of his head falling back against the window. Derek steps out of his pants where they’ve puddled around his ankles, spreading his legs wider and sliding down a bit against the glass, pushing his cock roughly against Stiles’ mouth. “Take it,” he orders, human nails digging into Stiles’ nape, soft hair twisting in his fingers.
Stiles ignores him, continues to tease him, working thick precome from his slit by ghosting the hot steel over it, moaning softly. “I said,” Derek snarls, unsheathing his claws, letting them poke into his neck, “fucking take it, pup.” He shoves his hips hard, forcing Stiles’ lips further apart, plunging his leaking cock into that devious wet mouth. Derek’s knees nearly buckle with the flood of sensation, the heady scent of Stiles arousal growing stronger, practically suffocating him.
He’s sucking him greedily, hands digging into Derek’s hips, pressing the barbell in his tongue hard against the underside of his cock. He thrusts into his mouth, grunting when Stiles chokes a little bit, letting himself get lost in the obscene pleasure of it.
Of all the things Stiles has shown him about himself, this is the one that still makes Derek tremble with its power, turns him inside out and twists him up: just how much he likes being in control, likes being rough and letting his wolf out on someone who wants it, who craves the danger and the pain the way Stiles does.
He’d like to think it’s about trust, but he knows it’s not. He knows Stiles doesn’t trust him – knows that Stiles keeps coming back precisely because he can’t trust him, because Derek could lose control at any second, or maybe even just decide that tonight’s the night he’ll get his revenge on the hunter, on all hunters, let the wolf out for real. Greedy as he is for Derek’s cock, he comes to him for the wolf, not for the man.
That’s why he lets him in.
A small rivulet of blood pours from a puncture on the back of Stiles’ neck where the tip of his claws are still digging into the skin. Derek watches it, tiny and dark, fall slowly across his shoulder before it disappears down the slope of his back. He sheaths his claws and pulls Stiles roughly off his dick, leaving his hands in his hair, pulling. “You like that? You like getting choked on my cock, pup?”
“I fucking hate it when you call me that,” Stiles lies again. Derek’s got him on his feet in an instant, bruises a kiss on that mouth, licking in to taste himself, catching that fucking barbell between his teeth for a second before releasing him. Stiles is whining by the time he’s done, pushing his muscled forearms against Derek’s chest like he’s trying to shove him away even as he's grinding his hips in pathetic little thrusts against him, straining denim scratching against Derek’s dick.
Derek practically rips Stiles’ jeans off, holding him hard by the bicep as he bends down to yank them from his feet along with his boots and socks. When he’s finally naked he spins him, pushes him up against the cold window webbed with heavy rain. Stiles plants his hands and forehead against the glass, hot breath steaming it up. “You fucking love it,” Derek pants into his ear, shoving his dick just under his perfectly round and taut ass, drinking in the indescribable sound he makes when he hits his balls. “You’re my little pup bitch, desperate for my cock.”
Stiles juts his ass back, squeezes his strong, slender thighs tighter around his cock. “Fuck you,” he gasps against the window.
Derek laughs and begins sucking a bruise into his shoulder, reaching down to gather his precome to slick two fingers before sharply shoving them in, biting down on his neck with his blunt human teeth to hold him still. “Tell me,” he commands, working his fingers deeper, snapping his hips. “Tell me how much you want it. Let me hear that mouth, Stiles.”
He obeys, like he always eventually does. “You’re a fucking animal,” he growls, sounding almost like a wolf himself. Derek preens. “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” he adds, voice hoarse. Derek snaps his hips roughly, pulls even tighter on his hair, adds a third finger. “Come on, omega,” Stiles pants, still somehow smug even though his eyes are starting to water. “I know you can fuck me better than that.”
Derek’s snarl echoes through loft, but he still hears Stiles’ whispered, endeared, “that’s it, big guy.” He keeps talking, urgent moans punctuating his words as Derek slicks his fingers again, this time with precome from Stiles’ dick, making him hiss, works him open until Derek can’t take it anymore, until Stiles is begging for more.
“You wanna come riding my dick,” Derek asks, surprised at how in control he sounds, because he feels like he’s cracking, in danger of shattering to pieces at any moment. He groans at the scorching heat of Stiles’ barely slick, just open-enough hole as he pushes in. He smells a small spike of anxious pain coming from him, keeps pushing. The first time that had happened, months ago, Derek had stopped, tried to pull out, even reached to take Stiles’ hand in his. He had pushed it away, shoved back hard. “I fucking want it,” he had said through gritted teeth, pleasure and pain mixing in his intoxicating scent. So Derek doesn’t pull back now, pushes even harder, has done this enough times to know just exactly how much pain Stiles wants, needs.
“Maybe I shouldn’t let you come at all,” Derek says, an empty threat. “Do you think you deserve it, Stiles? Do you think a greedy little hunter pup like you, so fucking slutty for a werewolf, deserves to come on my dick?” Derek pulls his head to the side, exposing his neck.
“Fuck you and your wolf dick,” Stiles spits, and god help him, Derek laughs again, dizzy from the sweet, tight friction of Stiles’ ass, clenching around him with each punishing thrust. The smell of Stiles’ precome is almost unbearable, so rich and warm but still nothing compared the delicious load that Derek knows is coming. His own orgasm is close, coiling deep within him, pawing at him like his wolf.
He reaches around to take Stiles’ cock into his hand, hardening his thrusts as he strokes him, Stiles’ nails scratching on the damp glass. He returns his teeth his neck, clamping down on the strong tendon that connects his neck to his shoulder. He’s getting closer and closer, starting to lose control a bit, turning his hands in a practiced motion to keep his claws away from Stiles’ cock. His eyes are glowing blue in the pale reflection of the window, fangs starting to slide free and poke against his tender skin.
That’s one of the few lines they haven’t crossed yet, so he pulls his mouth back. “Do it,” Stiles orders, squeezing him tight, hand reaching back to clasp on to Derek’s neck, pulling him closer. “Bite me. Drink me. Fucking do it, Derek.”
The command shakes through him as if it had come from an alpha, and Derek doesn’t even think, just obeys. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying how easily his fangs, all four of them, pierce his skin, soft little wet pops. He pauses for a moment, gauging Stiles’ reaction, which is another half-pained, half-ecstatic moan coupled with an even more violent rocking back of his hips.
Derek remembers the vampire that Stiles killed tonight, the one he had said nearly killed him, and even though he has no taste for blood, he does as he’s told, sucking lightly, the rich, coppery taste filling his mouth. Stiles comes in shuddering heaves as he does, spraying over his clawed hand and the window in front of him, Derek's name a broken moan on his lips.
Derek comes soon after, mouthful of blood spilling down his chin and Stiles’ neck and back as he pulls his fangs out, burying his face against Stiles' back to muffle his own broken moan as he empties himself in powerful bursts inside of him, arms wrapping tight around Stiles’ chest, holding them both up.
~*~
Stiles disappears to the bathroom as soon as he pulls out, Derek grunting with satisfaction to see him walking gingerly, slowly. He’s got his jeans back on when he comes out a few minutes later, chest and neck stained with hastily wiped up blood, the bite wound just four dark spots in an oval on his neck. From a distance, they blend right in with his moles.
Derek’s dressed again too, rinsing his mouth at the kitchen sink while he watches Stiles drop heavily to the couch to pull on his boots. Derek lets himself imagine for a moment that Stiles has fallen to his couch to settle in, to get comfortable and stay awhile, that there’s something more to them than whatever this is.
“My shirt’s still wet,” Stiles says, picking it up from the floor.
There’s a pile of dirty laundry that he’s been putting off right there on couch, so Derek just walks over and rummages through it, finally pulling out a clean-ish black Henley. “Here,” he says tossing it at Stiles. He almost says “you can bring it back next time,” but he doesn't want to jinx anything.
“Cool,” Stiles responds, tossing his wet shirt into Derek’s laundry pile. He pulls on the Henley, Derek’s heart racing at the sight of him in his clothes. Stiles steps towards him then, like he's reaching for the laundry pile, changing his mind about leaving the shirt. Derek's chest cracks with disappointment.
But Stiles is reaching for Derek, not the shirt. He places his hand against Derek’s chest and leans into him, silent and still for a few moments, stubbled face pressed against Derek’s beard. Then, with a gentleness and grace he didn’t even know the hunter possessed, he places a soft, tender kiss on his neck. “Thanks,” Stiles says quietly, and that’s new too.
And then he’s gone, out the door before Derek can get his bearings on the shifting ground beneath his feet.
~*~
Derek collapses to the couch, wrung out and confused and lonely. He reaches for the t-shirt, still damp but not all that wet. He balls it up and shoves it under his head, falling asleep there with the scent of Stiles’ skin in his nose, the taste of his blood in his mouth.