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Summary
With all the supernatural crap ruining his life, Stiles has, for a while, sort of figured that mundane, non-hunter humans aren’t really going to cause him that many problems anymore. He’s got an Alpha werewolf on speed dial, after all, and he’s living with two Betas – what’s scary about a pair of guys with knives, compared to that? It's an unfortunate logic.
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Bookmark Notes:
He glances around, finds Derek at the alley mouth, posture too broken to be considered looming. “You shoulda hung up.”
“No,” Derek says back. “Never.”
“Well, you just gave your pack nightmares for the rest of their lives for no reason, then, not to mention yourself – what are you doing?”
Derek doesn’t reply immediately, just finishes peeling off his jacket. He opens his mouth to say something, stops, swallows, then tries again: “May I have your shirt?”
It’s all dirt and blood and semen now – nothing he’ll miss. Isaac helps him ease it off, is kind enough not to embarrass him by wincing at the damage underneath when he hands it over to Derek and takes the jacket in its place. “I’m going to ruin this,” Stiles tells them, but Isaac guides his hands through the sleeves anyway, while Derek stares at them and balls Stiles’ shirt in his hands like he’s an inch from ripping it to shreds. Stiles watches him do it. “You won’t get much of their scent off that.”
“We’ll get plenty.” Derek’s eyes flash red as he turns his head away, and he raps out Scott’s name like an order. Scott is fully wolfed out when he appears around the corner to take the shirt from Derek, and Jackson is next to him, sprouting fur even as they pass the fabric between them and bolt off into the darkness. When Derek looks back at the pair crouched in the alley, he is fully human. “Any requests, Stiles?”
“If you kill them, Chris Argent will be on your Sourwolf ass before sunrise.”
Something bestial rolls out of Derek’s chest. “If Chris Argent would like to go to war over a pair of rapists, he is not the human I thought he was.” He steps towards them, then, crouches down, and looks Stiles in the eye. “The pack takes care of its own.”
He can feel Isaac nodding next to him.
“You’re an idiot,” he croaks.
“I’m a Sourwolf,” Derek corrects him. “And an Alpha.” He touches one knuckle to Stiles’ cheek, which is torn open and raw and on fire, just like so many parts of him. “And you are pack.” His mouth twitches. “The first thing I’ll do is castrate them.”
Stiles makes a sound like he’s choking, and he doesn’t even know what he actually means it to be. He licks his lips, tastes salt that could be from any of four different substances, and makes himself breathe around the rising lump in his throat. “Don’t make me get weepy over torture and eventual murder – I’ll kill you, I swear.”
It’s Derek’s turn to make unidentifiable sounds, but it lasts for only a smattering of seconds before a howl rings out in the near distance. They really didn’t go far, did they? “Take him back to the apartment,” he tells Isaac, and then he leans in and kisses Stiles forehead, just the barest brush of lips to abused skin, and smooths his thumb over the swollen joint of Stiles’ jaw. “We’ll be back before sunrise,” he promises.
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