
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/583355.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale, Gerard_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Temporary_Character_Death, Vampires, Vampire_Sex, Bottom_Derek_Hale, Hurt
      Stiles, Top_Stiles_Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Angst_with_a_Happy
      Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-05 Words: 2918
****** Hunger ******
by bigboobedcanuck
Summary
     There are no vampires in Beacon Hills. Until now. “Let him go.” Derek
     manages to keep his voice steady, although he’s aiming for cold and
     detached. “I’m the one you want. He’s just a human. What can he do
     for you?”
Notes
     These scenes just unfolded in my head one night when I couldn’t
     sleep. This is a departure for me, and it was really fun to write.
     Thanks to Rhiannonhero for the beta!
Derek’s really starting to get bored.
He’s shirtless and shackled — the metal woven through with wolfsbane like the
daisy chains his little cousins used to make — with his arms over his head,
metal around his chest and his feet bound to the rings soldered into the
concrete wall. Because apparently this dungeon was actually a dungeon at some
point and comes properly appointed. There’s a bare light bulb overhead, and the
concrete is stained and dank.
He has no idea where he is, or who’s holding him. The tranq dart had worked
swiftly and caught him unaware, which makes him grind his teeth to think about.
He thought he caught a whiff of the older Argent, which isn’t much of a
surprise because they all knew that son of a bitch would be back sooner or
later. But the scents are all wrong in this place, and he can’t figure out why.
It’s been hours, so he decides to go to sleep, because fuck this.
But just as he closes his eyes, he catches a scent that shoots adrenaline
through him like a snakebite. He can hear Stiles’s pulse before the door clangs
open and Stiles is hurled inside. He sprawls near Derek’s feet and lifts his
head, blinking up at him, heart pounding like a jackhammer.
Through a split and swollen lip, he rasps out, “Derek? Oh God.”
Fury storms Derek and his fangs come out as he literally sees red. Stiles is
trembling and breathing in wetly, and Derek can practically hear Stiles’s
cracked bones pressing into his damaged lungs. His hair is longer lately, and
it’s matted with blood.
Gerard Argent saunters in, all sickening smiles. Derek tries to focus through
his rage, because Argent is all wrong, his body unnaturally powerful, eyes
gleaming with something Derek can’t name. He’d hoped Argent had slithered off
and died, but it seems he’s found his lifeline somewhere else.
“Derek Hale. It was rather easy to catch you. I’m a little disappointed, to
tell the truth.”
Derek wants to come up with a witty response, but all he can do is growl and
listen to Stiles’s ragged heartbeat.
“This one threw the first punch this time.” Argent comes closer and kicks
Stiles, spinning him over onto his back in a blur of movement. Stiles is only
inches from Derek’s boots, coughing.
“And you bit me, you old freak.” He takes a wheezing breath. “What, my hair
isn’t long enough to pull yet?”
Argent smiles. “So tenacious. It’s good to see a young person with drive.”
“Let him go.” Derek manages to keep his voice steady, although he’s aiming for
cold and detached. “I’m the one you want. He’s just a human. What can he do for
you?”
Argent gazes down at Stiles with something that could be fondness. “He can
die.”
He slashes Stiles’s throat with a movement so quick it’s just a flash of
movement as the blade slices the artery, blood spurting as Stiles’s heart
palpitates desperately. Thrashing his legs, sneakers kicking out, Stiles grabs
his throat, too much blood seeping through his fingers.
“No!” It’s all Derek can say as he tugs uselessly on the chains, the wolfsbane
burning, willing his bones to break so he can get free. Even though he knows
it’s already too late.
Argent is gone, his laughter echoing along with the clank of the cell door.
Stiles stares at Derek, eyes wide as he chokes on his own blood. He lifts one
of his hands, trying to say something, his lips moving soundlessly.
“Stiles. It’s all right. You’re going to be all right.” Derek lies, because
it’s all he can do.
He listens as Stiles’s heart winds down, the beats becoming slower and slower.
Stiles drops his hand in his last moments, his fingertips grazing the toe of
Derek’s boot. The thrashing has stopped, and Stiles’s body is still, his chest
barely moving under his ruined t-shirt. But his glistening eyes are still open,
gaze locked with Derek’s as his heart constricts for the last time.
As Stiles’s eyes glaze over, the howl claws free from Derek’s chest.
*
The chains cut into Derek’s wrists now that all the fight has drained out of
him and he can only hang limply. He tells himself to close his eyes or look
away, but he can’t. He couldn’t look away from Laura either after he’d put her
in the ground, her eyes still open. It had seemed wrong to close them somehow.
Had felt like defeat.
The urge to lose himself in the mindless comfort of fur and instinct is
overwhelming, but he can’t shift properly, not with the wolfsbane burning into
his flesh. He wants to cry — his eyes burn with it — but he doesn’t have the
right. So he watches Stiles, realizing he’s never seen him so still and quiet.
Stiles was always jittery energy and words tumbling one after the other,
innocence and bravery and loyalty and goodness.
The person Derek had come to when he was infected by the bullet because he knew
Stiles would help, no matter how much he complained. The person he’d pushed
away with both hands, but who held Derek up when he was helpless. The person
he’d never allowed himself to think too closely about because it made him want
things he didn’t deserve.
Derek can’t stop the tears from slipping down his cheeks now as he understands
what he’s lost with a pang of longing that would bring him to his knees. He’s
too late as always, realization only ever coming amid blood and ashes.
When Stiles blinks, Derek knows he’s gone out of his mind. Maybe it’s the
wolfsbane leeching into him. Maybe it’s the unexpected grief. Maybe he’s just
overdue for a bout of crazy.
But then Derek realizes there’s a strange thrum coming from Stiles. Not a
heartbeat, but a deep and steady throb of growing energy. Stiles blinks again,
his fingers twitching faintly against the leather of Derek’s worn boot.
As Derek watches, the skin of Stiles’s throat begins to mend back together.
Stiles becomes whole again, his heart still silent, his lungs frozen. But his
lips are moving, and Derek realizes there’s sound coming out that he can’t hear
over the rushing of blood in his ears as his heart thumps painfully.
“Derek?” Stiles blinks, and his eyes are dark now.
With a scrape of metal, the door opens and Argent is there again, three minions
in tow. When he smiles this time, Argent shows his fangs, and Derek tries to
wrap his mind around the existence of — what, vampires? — and Stiles moving at
his feet, limbs slowly coming back to life.
“I’m glad, you know. That your bite didn’t take. All these years I’ve focused
on werewolves when there’s a whole other world out there. You animals might not
get sick, but vampires live forever.”
“Vampires can still die,” Derek grits out. He’s not sure how because Hollywood
undoubtedly has it wrong, but every creature has its weakness. If there’s one
think Derek knows about nature, it’s that nothing is truly immortal.
“Well, we’re going to test that theory.” His sharp teeth gleam as he smiles
down at Stiles and steps toward him. “Hello, son. You must be starving. I know
I was. Being reborn is hungry work.”
Splattered with drying blood, Stiles pushes himself up on his hands, arms
trembling. He pants even though he doesn’t need to breathe, working his jaw as
fresh tears form in his eyes. He looks to Derek, voice little more than a rasp
of sound. “Derek?”
Looming over Stiles now, Argent is only a few inches from Derek. If he leaned
just a bit closer…
Derek blinks, gasping as Argent’s blade cuts into his chest. Laughing, Argent
steps back with a strange grace. “They say a werewolf’s blood is fatal to us,
but I want to know for sure. He won’t be able to resist long. No one can.”
Blood drips down Derek’s chest, and Stiles stares up at him in horror. Yet as
he does, his fangs extend and he shudders, dark eyes gleaming. He jerks his
head. “No.”
The vampires all chuckle indulgently as if Stiles is a stubborn child. “It’s
only a matter of time, my boy,” Argent says. “You have to feed. In fact—”
The clean arc of a sword sends Argent’s head sailing across the dungeon,
setting the light bulb swaying. In the undulating light and shadow, blood
spurts and bodies fall, and when it’s over, Peter is smiling.
“It’s a myth, for the record. But it keeps the vampires out of our hair most of
the time.” His gaze falls on Stiles, and his mouth turns down, a furrow
appearing on his brow. “Such a shame.”
As Peter raises the sword, the concrete crumbles and Derek tears his right arm
free with strength he shouldn’t possess, reaching for Stiles to block the blow.
Peter’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh.” He sighs, lowering the sword. “I see.”
Derek’s nostrils flare and he grips Stiles’s t-shirt, hauling him closer.
Peter shakes his head. “He’s your responsibility then. I recognize the
perceived hypocrisy in a werewolf advising that vampires are extremely
dangerous, but there you have it. We really have enough on our plates right now
with the alpha pack moving in. But if you insist — and I see that you do — he
might prove useful. All right, get him housebroken.”
With that, Peter’s gone. Legs unsteady, Stiles pulls himself up and begins
unwinding the wolfsbane, his eyes focused on his task, flicking down to the
blood on Derek’s healing chest, steadfastly avoiding Derek’s face. It’s
painstaking, and before long Stiles grunts in frustration and tugs on the
chains. They explode free from the wall, and Stiles jumps back as if he’s been
burned.
Finally meeting Derek’s gaze, Stiles shivers, swallowing thickly. “I’m...God.
What am I?”
“You’re all right.” Derek frees himself from the chains, already feeling
stronger the moment the wolfsbane is no longer in contact. He takes hold of
Stiles’s shoulders and propels him out of the dungeon and up through an
abandoned building he doesn’t recognize. They’re somewhere near the wildlife
preserve, and he drags Stiles along in the faint moonlight, his brain racing to
catch up with the new world order.
Stiles shakes and makes little sounds that aren’t quite whimpers, but soon turn
into moans. “I need. I…” His voice scrapes out of his throat and he stumbles to
his knees, fangs out, the gleam back in his eyes. “Need it.”
Derek catches him a rabbit, and Stiles sobs, just once, before tearing into it
and sucking it dry. It gives him the strength to go a little further until he
grips Derek’s arm.
“Not. Enough.” He’s heaving now, wracked with tremors as he cries out.
His nails break the skin on Derek’s arm, eyes widening at the droplets of
blood. Then he throws himself forward, crashing into Derek, hands grasping.
“Please. Derek.”
Derek knows all the rabbits in the preserve won’t be enough, and he owes Stiles
this, so he tips his head to the side, baring his throat. Stiles’s eyes widen
and then he’s biting down, sucking fiercely.
Breath stuttering, Derek closes his eyes as he gives himself over. He can feel
his blood flowing into Stiles’s mouth, his body already healing itself,
regenerating the blood he’s losing with that familiar gentle hum. Stiles could
drink forever and Derek would let him, swaying into his arms as Stiles grips
him.
Stiles grunts, drinking noisily and pulling Derek closer. Derek’s never felt
more vulnerable as Stiles drinks him in, rubbing against him, closer and
closer. Since he’s returned to Beacon Hills, Derek’s been desperate for
control, and he shudders as he finally lets go.
They’re both hard by the time Stiles lifts his head, his fangs retracting, eyes
losing their supernatural glint but still darker than they ever were. His pale
skin is flushed, and he smiles, and somehow he’s alive, alive, alive. Then
they’re kissing, Derek tasting his own blood and liking it.
They tear off their clothes and stumble to the ground, summer’s warmth still
clinging to the earth even as October nears. Stiles moans into Derek’s mouth as
they roll around, rutting against each other in the leaves. Derek feels like
he’s been drowning forever and can finally breathe.
He’s on his belly, and he pushes onto his knees and elbows, spreading his legs
and opening himself up, desperate. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to mount him and
push inside, practically growling as he fucks Derek raw.
Derek’s only ever had his own fingers inside, and Stiles tears into him, the
pain surging with the pleasure. Stiles’s hand grips Derek’s hip, the other
threading into his hair to pull Derek’s head back as he rams inside.
They’re both groaning and grunting, and Derek has never felt like this. Has
never been claimed. Stiles fills him, stretching him to the limit with his
newfound strength, and Derek’s own dick is leaking, aching. As Stiles sinks his
teeth into Derek’s neck again, Derek lets go, howling as his own fangs extend
and the world is red with pleasure.
Stiles comes deep inside him as he drinks, and Derek is utterly consumed. He
clamps down, wanting to keep Stiles there forever as they ride out the tremors.
When they flop to the ground, Stiles draped over Derek’s back, Stiles licks the
healing wounds on Derek’s neck, his breath strangely warm. Strange that he’s
still breathing at all, but he does. Derek can hear his lungs expanding the way
they always have, only out of habit now.
Derek knows they should get up and go to his house, that they can’t just stay
here tangled together. When he shifts, he can’t hide a wince, and Stiles
freezes.
“I hurt you.” His voice is little more than a rasp.
“I’ll heal. I am already.” Derek glances over his shoulder, and Stiles stares
at him with a stricken expression.
Before Derek can tell him not to worry about it, Stiles dips his fingers into
Derek’s ass, caressing him. Then he drops his head and kisses Derek’s hole, his
tongue smoothing over the stretched skin and bruised flesh, and Derek’s cock
twitches.
He groans. “We need to go. The sun will be up.”
Stiles raises his head and licks his lips. “Oh. Right.”
They carry what’s left of their clothes, moving faster now that Stiles has fed.
Stiles doesn’t speak, just gazes around at the forest as if the world is new,
which Derek supposes it is. Fat drops of rain start to fall, washing them clean
by the time they reach Derek’s shell of a house, the eastern sky just beginning
to lighten beyond the treetops.
He leads Stiles inside to the windowless room he uses. Once upon a time it was
the dining room, where the Hales gathered to laugh and eat and be a family, the
room they’d used more than any other. The ceiling is sturdy, and Derek feels
most at home here, despite the charred walls.
It should be strange or awkward or something to curl up with Stiles on the old
mattress. But it isn’t. They’re both damp from the rain, and Derek presses up
behind Stiles, wrapping him in his arms and pulling the blankets over them.
Stiles melts back into him closes his eyes like it’s the thousandth time and
not the first.
*
The hinges on the sliding door squeak, and Derek opens his eyes as Stiles steps
out into the foyer. For a moment, Derek blinks, wondering what strange and
lovely dream this is, before he remembers and leaps up. “Wait!”
But of course Stiles is already extending his hand into the shaft of sunlight
that beams through the ruined ceiling. His pale skin is smooth, all wounds
healed. Dust motes dance in the sunlight, and Stiles wiggles his fingers.
He glances back at Derek, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Guess that one’s a
myth too.”
Derek exhales. “Guess so.”
Stiles steps into the sunlight, closing his eyes. He stretches his naked body
without any self-consciousness, with a grace Derek has never seen in him
before, powerful and undeniably different. Derek’s heart skips a beat as he
wonders how much of the old Stiles will really be left behind now that the
changes have settled in.
Then Stiles turns, brow furrowed. “Think I can still eat garlic? Because I
really like Italian food. Can I still hold a crucifix? Or touch holy water? Am
I going to be immortal? Jesus. I need to do some serious research. Ugh, and
study for my midterm on Tuesday.” He glances around. “You didn’t invite me
inside, but does it count when there’s barely a roof and only, like, three
walls?”
Derek shakes his head, a smile tugging on his lips, his body unclenching as
Stiles rambles. “I don’t know.”
Stiles runs a hand through his hair. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“I guess we will.”
Before he can lose his nerve, Derek joins Stiles in the sunlight, pressing
their lips together softly. He holds Stiles’s face in his hands, leaning their
foreheads together as the word rattles around in his mind and finds itself a
home.
We.
“Derek,” Stiles whispers.
Derek extends his fangs and runs his tongue beneath them, slicing neatly into
the flesh. The sweet tang fills his mouth as Stiles takes a ragged breath, eyes
flashing, and they’re lost again, tumbling into the darkness.
fin
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t he could feel his heart steady
in his chest, a thick thud-thud-thud that drowned out the sounds around him.
Billy bit sharply on the curve of his ass. Steve whined, a broken noise in his
throat, like all the sounds that Billy wrung from him. He kissed the spot, soft
and tender, and pushed himself up. The zip of the teeth of his fly being pulled
down drew Steve half from his stupor, and he looked back over his shoulder when
Billy manhandled him onto his knees, hands strong and tight, propping him up.
Through heavy lidded eyes, Steve watched him. His dick was out, wet at the tip,
thick and flushed an angry red. He had foreskin, Steve noted dumbly, and then
wondered what it would feel like in his mouth.
His cock was hot against the skin of Steve's thighs, sliding through the slick
mess of spit, bumping below his balls. Brain catching up, he squeezed his
thighs together, giving Billy something to fuck into. It was good, slick and
hot, Billy's hands branding marks on his hips as he pulled and pushed him into
his thrusts, nails biting in with each rough shove. Steve arched his back,
biting his lip, rocking into Billy.
Billy was loud when he came, all harsh panting and rough growls. His cock
slipped up, over Steve's perineum, between his cheeks and catching on his hole.
Billy jerked his hips forward, the head pushing against and in until Steve let
out a sharp, startled noise. Billy came inside him, a hot rush, cock twitching
against his hole. It leaked from him when Billy pulled back, fingers dipping
back inside Steve, like he was trying to push his come inside him, keep it
there, keep him full of Billy.
His hands dropped from Steve's hips and he slumped forward again, cheek pressed
against the window. His breath fogged the glass. 
Somewhere, deep in Steve's sex-addled mind, he knew he was supposed to be
freaking out. He wasn't gay, there was Nancy, Billy wasn't even someone he
liked. His dad was going to kill him for the car seats. His mom wouldn't be
able to look at him if she knew what he'd just done, when she liked Nancy so
much, called her a miracle for Steve. Billy's come was leaking from him,
dripping down to his balls, making a bigger mess of his thighs. He should call
Nancy, make sure she got home okay. He should pound down Byers' door and then
his face.
"Do you wanna come home with me?" Steve asked instead, husky and low, still
buzzed on the afterglow. He wet his lips. "My parents aren't home."
Billy leaned over him, covering his back with the heat of his skin. He kissed
his neck, nuzzling against his throat despite the angle. "Yeah. I do."
He could think about everything tomorrow.
End Notes
     You can find me on Tumblr @ celoica.
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