Chapter Text

Moodboard by TriskHellion!

Fic Playlist Link!!

It was supposed to be a straightforward mission. Stiles would go undercover as a prisoner in the supernatural levels of Eichen House, wait for the monthly 'mingling' day in which most prisoners left their cells for a period of chatting, doing activities, or just getting a breath of fresh air, and approach the sluagh prisoner in subtle attempt to gain a clue of where the rest of its flock could be.

If anything, most of his time would be spent twiddling his thumbs since new prisoners weren't allowed to mingle for the first two months, no exceptions.

A somewhat tedious mission, but straightforward.

At the end of the day, this was the only way they could do it. After a flock of sluaghs had gotten carried away in taking innocent souls in addition to evil ones, the unit assigned the case had managed to capture one of them. However, when they'd tried to interrogate the sluagh, they'd been met with zero response, so they'd concluded that sluaghs couldn't talk to humans to begin with, which matched the general consensus in the supernatural community. 

Until they received intel that the sluagh did talk, albeit sparingly, during Eichen's 'mingling' days.

Stiles didn't mind going undercover for this. Not too risky, not that Stiles cared much about that, and pretty chill for the most part. It would've been chiller if he got his solitary cell like originally planned, but they apparently all filled up—Stiles hadn't been surprised considering the types of supernatural creatures that ended up in Eichen House.

But he didn't mind. Most Eichen House supernatural criminals weren't the most talkative anyway, if they could even talk, and the deadliest ones were locked away in solitary cells that never opened, not even for 'mingling'.

He didn't mind until the staff member led him to his cell only to find that they'd assigned him to stay with possibly the most dangerous, life-threatening criminal in this entire prison—he'd gaped at the staff as they pushed him in the cell and blurted, "Are you fucking kidding me?!"

The slam and lock of the cell door was all he got in response.

And a rustle behind him.

Stiles grimaced, then turned around to see the man in question rising to a sitting position on the bottom bunk with a crack of his neck in nothing but a wife-beater tank and sweats that hung low on his hips.

His grimace deepened. 

It didn't bode well for him that Derek Hale quite possibly looked even more in shape than the day the FBI had arrested him for massacring werewolf hunters across the country to the point of near extinction.

Well, it could be worse.

He'd rather stay with a ruthless, massacring werewolf than the crazy doctor who'd dwelled in this cell before Derek. Who Derek had killed, so his logic probably made zero sense, but it did to him, and that was what mattered.

Derek didn't say anything, just stared at him with shrewd, silver-green eyes, so Stiles didn't say anything either—except he could never keep his mouth shut, so what happened instead was him waving and saying "Hi," all with a grimace.

No response.

"I'm gonna take the top bunk, then," said Stiles as he looked around the sparse room. Besides the two small beds, only a lamp and a bare desk hardly larger than a nightstand stood next to the beds. "And I'm gonna be using the desk a lot, just so you know. I mean, what else is there to do in here?" He paused. "Wait, where's the toilet? Are you even allowed to go into communal showers?"

Derek's blank, stony expression didn't change once, but he finally spoke, voice deep and rough, almost like velvet. "Are you allowed?"

Which...was a good question.

"Uh." Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. "I dunno. I was originally supposed to go in a solitary cell, but they said they ran out."

Derek gave him a long, indecipherable look, and Stiles didn't know what Derek concluded about him, but he nodded in the direction of the wall behind Stiles before lying back down and going back to reading. "Bathroom's there. This is a solitary cell."

Stiles turned, and sure enough, a small handle in the wall allowed a door to be opened to a toilet, sink, and a small shower, all in a very cramped space. "Well. Technically, it isn't very solitary anymore. It's solitary for two. So— Oh, I know. Duotary," he said with quite a bit of pride.

Derek didn't respond to him again for the rest of the week.

~🐺・・❤️‍🔥・・🐺~

Stiles had never particularly liked reading.

Concentrating on books and novels gave him trouble, so he couldn't pass time the way Derek did, who spent half his days lying in bed reading. 

He could, however, exercise, like Derek spent the other half of his days doing. Obviously, he neither had the energy nor stamina to exercise for even a quarter of the time Derek exercised, not to mention he would never physically be able to do one arm handstands on only one thumb like Derek did, but he invited himself into a few of Derek's more feasible workouts, like pull-ups or push-ups, while decidedly not looking at the way Derek's godly body flexed and shimmered with sweat. Derek never replied him, always ignoring him despite his tendency to ramble and mutter to himself, so Stiles figured it was fine—it surprised him more that Derek hadn’t lost his temper yet. For someone who went around massacring hunters, Stiles had expected a heated, quick-to-attack type of werewolf rather than…whatever this was. Werewolves in general already tended to be hot-headed due to their animalistic side, so he really hadn’t expected Derek Hale to be so silent, unassuming, and controlled.

For fuck’s sake, even his coworkers in the FBI told him to please shut up sometimes.

But not a peep from Derek.

It made him both less intimidating and more terrifying at the same time in Stiles' eyes.

In the meantime, Stiles carried on. He talked at Derek sometimes, particularly when mealtimes rolled around and Stiles almost chipped a tooth on the stale bread, and he stared aimlessly out the fake window while doodling as Derek read until Derek started working out—Stiles joined in for half the 'warm up' only, because no human being and very few werewolves could do most of the shit Derek did.

No wonder the crime scenes of his massacres had always looked so clean and one-sided. 

Well, clean in terms of causes of death and zero traces of Derek left behind. Rumors had spread through the supernatural world that those locations were haunted by the souls of the hunters with how bloody their deaths had been, so most supernaturals steered far away from them.

Stiles had gone to look, though. Both when they first discovered the bodies and years after. 

Blood soaked each scene to the point that no one could walk—no, wade—through without donning heavy duty rubber boots, and guts hung from furniture and rafters like banner decorations. 

Years later though, wildflowers and grass weeds had bloomed across the drenched soil. 

He would never forget the sight. A sea of blood-red and black wildflowers, small buds thriving in striking clusters among the weeds—each scene blossomed like that, haunted but not in the way people assumed, and Stiles would eat his lunches in quiet there whenever work took him to a nearby location, which occurred quite often since most supernatural cases happened in the same areas.

Something about them...comforted him.

He couldn't quite explain it, nor did he want to, so he kept his visits there secret from his coworkers because he knew they'd just find it disturbing. It somehow felt refreshing to see the life flourishing in those same places so grim and coated in death that some seasoned agents almost sicked up at the sight of the tongues carved into slivers so thin they looked like apple peels at first glance.

Of course, now he couldn't see anything besides the beach painting plastered in the fake window, and with each passing day, he felt like he'd lose his everloving mind more and more.

Forget two months just to meet his target—he'd be lucky if he retained his sanity by the end of one month.

He was trying, though. He was trying really, really, really hard—

"Do you mind?"

Stiles thought he was hallucinating for a solid few seconds until he realized that Derek had actually spoken to him for the first time since he'd gotten thrown in here—the only reason he realized was because Derek stared at him through the dark from his bottom bunk that Stiles sat next to.

It took him another handful of seconds to figure out what the fuck Derek was referring to.

"Oh, sorry," said Stiles. "Was I talking out loud? But you don't usually give a shit, plus I don't think I was, anyway.... Oh, is it the light? Is it too bright?"

Derek let out a heavy sigh. "You're writing like you're trying to cut into the desk. It's loud and distracting."

"Huh, really?" Stiles turned to look at the wall clock in the hallway and cringed—a ripe three a.m. "Sorry. I didn't realize. But I'm not writing," he said as he showed Derek his piece of paper that he'd been working on for the past few hours. "See? I'm gonna ask for colored pencils. They'll allow that, right?"

Derek's eyes narrowed, and Stiles belatedly realized that he probably shouldn't have shown him the drawing, so he yanked it away before Derek could get a good look at it. He doubted Derek would notice anyway, but—

Derek snatched the drawing off the desk before Stiles could react and Stiles tried to lunge for it without making any bodily contact, but Derek lying in bed in the dark turned everything that much more difficult and Stiles ended up whacking his head on the edge of the top bunk with a yelp of pain instead.

"This…. This is the Frye base," said Derek.

Stiles sat back in his chair—his stomach churned under Derek's piercing eyes glowing scarlet at him. "Uh. Yeah," he said lamely.

"Why?"

One word, calm and steady yet laced with unspoken threats.

"I like eating lunch there," said Stiles.

Derek blinked, and the red in his irises vanished like they'd never shone as he handed the drawing of wildflowers amidst a ruined building back to Stiles and rose a little to prop his head up on his arm, now fully facing Stiles. "You eat lunch at a murder scene," he deadpanned.

"Well, it's a field of wildflowers now," grumbled Stiles. "Not everything revolves around you alright, Mr. Big Bad Werewolf?"

Derek cracked a smile, but it was more a feral bare of his teeth. "Is that right?"

"I just happen to like the flowers there," retorted Stiles—he ignored the dangerous shiver that ran down his spine from Derek's smile. "You could be a gardener."

"What, plant seeds after I kill people?"

Stiles snorted. "And use their blood as fertilizer. Everyone will wonder what your secrets are for inventing new flower species."

"So I'm a flower inventor now," said Derek.

"Yeah." Stiles stared at the flowers he'd drawn, waiting to be colored. "These are special, y'know. An unknown variation of the blood flowers species."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "I've never seen them."

"I'll paste this on the window then after I color it," said Stiles. He paused. "Or maybe next to it. I kinda like beaches."

"Beaches and blood flowers in murder scenes."

Stiles made a noncommittal noise, then glanced at Derek. He couldn't see his expression well with only the light from the dim desk lamp, but he suspected it was the usual blank, stony poker face. "You're kinda different from what I assumed," he said.

He blamed it on his insomnia at three a.m. in this isolated cell that drove him crazy.

"It's only been a week," said Derek—Stiles then realized that he'd voiced his thoughts aloud.

"A week too long," muttered Stiles. "Thank god they ran out of solitary cells, because I think I'd be losing my mind even more without someone to talk at. I'm surprised you haven't ripped my head off, to be honest."

"Is there a reason to?"

"But you ripped that doctor's head off."

"He tried to show me his third eye."

"Wow, you must really hate third eyes, huh," said Stiles, voice dry. "Them cyclops must really get your blood boiling."

"It was a hole that he drilled into his forehead."

Stiles paused at that and scrunched his nose—he hadn't read Dr. Valack's file, so this was news to him. "That's...something."

"People also tend to go comatose after he shows them his third eye," Derek told him.

"Oh." Stiles sniffed. "Well, thank god you ripped his head off then. I thought you just like ripping people's heads off, but I guess I had nothing to worry about."

"I do," said Derek with another flash of one of his unhinged grins that wasn't really a grin. "But where's the fun in ripping your head off?" 

"Oh, so now you're picky about what kinda heads you rip off?" Stiles rolled his eyes as sarcasm dripped off his words. "Excuse me for not knowing you only rip off creepy doctor heads and who knows what else." 

Derek considered him for a moment—Stiles didn't know if he liked how Derek scrutinized him as if staring into his soul. "If I ripped your head off now, would you care?" asked Derek.

A seemingly stupid question that probably had some underlying meaning to it, except it was three a.m. and Stiles was drawing blood flowers in a prison cell so he was feeling slightly stupid and thinking that Derek was stupid for asking seemingly stupid questions. 

"Uh. Until I'm dead, I guess," Stiles told him like he was stupid. "So, like, a split second of caring. But if you did it fast enough, then I guess I wouldn't care since I wouldn't even register that you ripped my head off before I died."

He didn't understand why Derek looked at him like he was the idiot, but Derek apparently thought his response so idiotic that he lay back down and closed his eyes without another word.

"You're the one who asked a dumbass question," grumbled Stiles to himself.

Chapter Text

Derek did not reply to any of his talking at him that night or the days that followed, the annoyingly silent bastard.

To be fair, he didn't try that hard to talk to Derek, or talk in general really. Between the gross, cold soup, the rock hard bread, and the fact that he was lucky if he got four hours of sleep per night without his favorite pillow, his life force had begun to drain away into lifeless dust—he could tolerate most things if he did say so himself, but food this disgusting everyday crossed a line. He'd thought he'd managed to revamp Eichen House conditions to a certain extent after sending anonymous, compromising photos of the shitty staff and treatments to a journalist, but clearly not enough.

Of course, it wasn't like he didn't get the logic. Many supernatural creatures didn't even eat human food or eat at all, and the ones who did like werewolves would stay 'healthy' as long as they ate something.

But Stiles wasn't a werewolf. He was a human, vaguely, and he was a human that liked food, so he'd get himself food that didn't taste like leftovers diluted with water and tossed in a dumpster no matter the consequences, goddammit.

Well, he said that, but he greatly preferred avoiding said consequences. He reached the end of his rope one late night after dinner had consisted of stale crackers and a mushy meat substance that neither he nor Derek touched—his stomach was going to cave in and shrivel up along with the rest of his body and 'do you really want to deal with a shriveled up body that'd most likely smell up the entire cell or the wrath of my hangriness?' Stiles griped at him at three a.m. while poking the shit out of Derek's shoulder.

Derek ignored him for a solid five minutes, but Stiles' incessant complaining in his ear while draped over the side of Derek's bed onto the floor while jabbing his shoulder like he was about to set a new record for whack-a-mole with one finger won out in the end. 

"What," snapped Derek—a growl rumbled in his throat. "I don't have food."

"Finally!" Stiles whisper-shouted as he stood up with some difficulty. "Lemme borrow your claw."

"You want me to rip my claw out for you," said Derek in disbelief. 

Stiles cringed. "Ew, gross, no, I just need you to stand over there"—he pointed at the locked cell door—"and pick the door open."

"I can't touch the door." Derek let out a heavy sigh. "That was your brilliant idea that you woke me up for? To get me to pick the lock?"

"No, I'm picking the lock, genius. I just need to use your claw."

Derek raised his eyebrows. "I thought you seemed...human."

"You say that like you don't think I am," muttered Stiles as he flashed back to him collapsing during their daily push-ups earlier. "It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

"What's 'pretty obvious' to me"—Derek sat up at last, shrewd gaze ever indecipherable—"is that you never yap about anything important."

Stiles resisted the urge to avert his eyes. "So you do listen."

"It's impossible not to," muttered Derek as he walked over to the door and held a pointer finger out, claw extended.

"Do the middle finger." Stiles squatted down in front of the door after checking through the thick panes of glass that the hallway was empty. "Claw's longer."

Derek did as he said, and Stiles tried to touch Derek's finger as little as possible as he fiddled with the keyhole. "And you know this for a fact," said Derek.

"I didn't do experiments on werewolves or some shit if that's what you're getting at," said Stiles, brows furrowed and tongue peeking past his lips. "Just noticed the second scratch in werewolf claw marks is usually deeper."

"Or it's deeper because the middle finger is the longest finger."

Stiles paused. "Oh. Right."

The deep sigh Derek let out—Stiles did not appreciate it.

However, the click of the lock opening blew away any irritation Stiles held and he peeked out the door for a few seconds to make sure no one had noticed with an excited grin. Energy rose within him in a surge of anticipation for food, actual food and cold drinks and sweets, and—

Derek yanked him back by the collar before he could even take five steps out the door.

"What now?" snapped Stiles. "Go back to sleep. I'll get you something too, alright, yeesh."

"A can of trouble, probably," hissed Derek. "Your amazing plan was to waltz down the hall in full view of all the cameras?"

Stiles stared up at all the cameras peppering the hallway that he honestly hadn't taken into account amidst his hunger, but, well, it wouldn't have mattered even if he'd taken them into account.

"Whatever," he said with a shrug. "I can walk in their blind spots." 

"You were just about to walk straight down the hall."

Stiles pursed his lips. "I forgot, okay? Will you let me go already?"

"You forgot and you expect me to believe that you know the blind spots," snapped Derek. "You're not the only one who'll get fucked over when you get caught."

"If I get caught," Stiles corrected him. "If. Now all of a sudden you care about punishments? Didn't stop you from ripping doctor dude's head off."

"What punishment's worse than a coma?" 

Stiles...didn't have a response to that, so he pretended he didn't say anything. "Those are ancient Axis cameras. They might as well be decoration. Eichen pretty much relies completely on mountain ash, so it'll be a walk in the park. And before you say anything, yes, I know where the kitchen is."

Derek finally released his collar with a cross of his arms, but then he stepped out of the cell as well.

"Uh." Stiles stared at him. "You're coming?"

"Making sure you don't get caught."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine, I don't need a friggin' babysitter."

"You can't even do a hundred push-ups without getting distracted," said Derek, like the very thought was ridiculous.

"Dude, in case, you've forgotten, I'm human!" hissed Stiles. "You crank out push-ups like butter!"

"That doesn't even make sense."

Stiles let out a frustrated groan and didn't bother replying—maybe it was a good thing Derek usually ignored him, because he wanted to smack the man after a mere few minutes of them talking.

He led the way down the hall with ease, tiptoeing through blind spots while Derek walked behind him with silent ease. The kitchen, if he remembered correctly from the blueprints of Eichen's supernatural floors, waited for them just two rights and a left away without any need to go through a locked gate, though it seemed that Eichen had changed a bit since then—a locked gate in the hallway just before the kitchen barred entry that Stiles had to pick using Derek's claw.

Stiles could feel the 'And you thought you could do this by yourself' waves radiating off Derek. He decidedly did not look at him.

They'd just about reached the kitchen, door in sight, when Stiles caught sight of a shocking face through the bars of the cell he passed.

He'd recognize that dark hair and spiteful expression anywhere.

Donovan.

The first person he'd killed and the last one he'd killed by accident.

He'd nearly thrown up afterwards and he didn't know how long it'd taken his hands to stop shaking—too short of a time, probably. The guilt had stemmed from unintentionally killing someone, not from killing Donovan, and he never could wash the blood off his hands.

Red had stained his hands for good that night—

No, red had already stained his hands long before then.

He could never forget. A brush of the lips, hands side by side, then screams. Shrill screams of agony, of terror, of horror that turned silent from the sheer damage yet echoed and rattled in Stiles' mind, neverending and crescendoing, always r—

"Hey, snap out of it." Stiles realized with a start that Derek had carted him off like a sack of potatoes to the locked kitchen door. "That's a sluagh. It's not whoever you saw."

A delayed second, and then Stiles shoved Derek away, falling against the wall with trembling limbs and shakes that wracked his clammy body. "Don't touch me," he breathed past numb lips as he tried to get himself under control, to lock the screams deep, deep inside. "Stay away."

"Unlock the door first," said Derek. "We can't be standing out here like this."

Stiles’ vision swam and his breaths came out in short pants as he tried to pick the lock with Derek’s claw, and he didn’t know how he managed to with how his hands shook but when the door opened at last, he stumbled in. He must’ve spaced out for at least a minute or so, because the next thing he knew, he blinked back to reality to a sweet, divine taste melting over his tongue. 

It lingered on his taste buds for too little, quickly fading, but then another small morsel replaced it like saccharine manna from the heavens—Stiles nearly moaned, he missed this taste so much. 

He didn't remember getting chocolate, though.

In fact, he didn't remember anything besides the screams paralyzing his body as he unlocked the kitchen door, and then, and then....

He opened his eyes—since when had he squeezed them closed?—to the soft snap of Derek breaking off another square of chocolate and popping it in Stiles' mouth.

Stiles chewed. He didn't know what to say, but he opened his mouth to say something, only for Derek to pop another piece in, all with that blank, stony poker face of his.

Something stirred in Stiles' chest. He sort of just stood there with Derek shoving a square of chocolate in his face every time he opened his mouth to speak until the chocolate bar ran out. Stiles thought he could finally say 'thanks' or 'sorry' or both now, but when Derek tossed the wrapper to the side and unwrapped another large chocolate bar in one graceful movement with zero hesitation and a hundred percent ease, Stiles' eyes widened.

And then he burst out laughing, trying not to spew chocolate everywhere.

"I'm fine, I'm fine now," he laughed, hands waving in front of him for Derek to stop. "You don't need to keep feeding me chocolate."

Derek handed the chocolate bar to him without a single change in expression. "Not hangry anymore?"

Stiles blinked, and a strange warmth spread through his chest as a grin broke out across his face—he appreciated Derek not asking any questions.

In fact, now that he thought about it, Derek never particularly asked him anything important. He'd never even asked what Stiles got thrown in Eichen for, though to be fair, Derek never particularly talked to him to begin with.

"Now you don't have to deal with me shriveling up," said Stiles with a laugh and a pat on Derek's shoulder that he only realized he'd moved to do halfway through. 

His hand froze in midair just a few inches away from Derek's shoulder.

He swallowed, unsure how to explain away this weird behavior without saying that he hated physical contact, which posed numerous questions on its own, especially when he was the one almost accidentally initiating said contact that almost looked like he'd reached out to smack Derek in the face.

Derek stared at his frozen hand, then at him. "I'm not giving you a high-five," he said, saving Stiles once again, because Stiles didn't believe for one second that Derek actually thought that's what he'd reached his hand out for.

Stiles breathed a sigh of tired relief as he finally lowered his hand. "Right. Of course you're a party pooper."

"Just hurry up." Derek leaned against the steel kitchen table, arms crossed. "Don't take too much."

Stiles looked around the room. "What, so I don't get fat? I have a high metabolism, just so you know. Plus, how's anyone gonna get fat from your insane workouts?"

"So no one notices, dumbass," said Derek. "And you barely do the warm-ups."

"Dude, no one can do your friggin' workouts," muttered Stiles as he rummaged through shelves and drawers. "Seriously, don't act like I'm the weird one here. Not everyone's a massacring augmented alpha werewolf like you, alright?"

"Didn't realize only mass murderers could stay in shape."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "All the more claws to tear people's guts out with," he said, then lit up upon finding a pantry of goodies clearly meant for the staff. He took off his shirt to tie off the sleeves and fill with snacks and sweets—

"What the fuck do you think this is, Halloween?" hissed Derek. "Exactly how much are you taking?"

Stiles paused. He looked down at his shirt, then at Derek. "Oh my god, you're a genius. Gimme your shirt."

"Wha—"

"You're bigger," said Stiles, delight dancing through his veins—he felt very smart and sneaky. "Your shirt will definitely hold more than mine!" He waved a hand for Derek to take off his shirt already. "C'mon, you're the one who said to hurry up."

Derek stared at him like he'd grown a second head, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and for a second, Stiles thought he'd refuse.

A shirt that smelled of the eucalyptus bar soap and Derek's musky scent, tinged with a hint of cream and flashes of crisp ice that reminded him of the silent glide of a predator stalking its prey through a pitch-black forest, landed on his head.

Stiles didn't waste any time tying the sleeves and filling it with candies, chocolates, chips, and jerky.

"It'll be fine, no one will suspect a thing," he assured Derek, who just looked at him, arms crossed, looking not assured at all. "Look you can just throw me under the bus if by some tiny chance we get caught, alright? Happy now?"

"What bus? You're driving this bus on your own."

"Oh, really," said Stiles, voice dripping with sarcasm as he closed the kitchen door behind them after making sure the hallway was clear. "Where the fuck are you then?"

"Walking. Outside the bus."

Stiles rolled his eyes—a somewhat frequent occurrence around Derek, he began to discover. "Stupid sourwolf," he muttered under his breath.

"Care to say that louder?"

"Stupid sourwolf," Stiles told him at normal voice level. He paused in front of the sluagh's prison cell to slip a pack of M&Ms through the bars in the door, careful not to look at the creature, before continuing their walk back. 

Derek sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What the fuck was that? A weird peace offering to the dead person that freaked you out? That's a sluagh—they take away dead souls."

"What kind of dumb peace offering is a pack of M&Ms?" Stiles asked him like he was stupid. "I know what a sluagh is. I just wanna talk to them. The M&Ms are a bribe."

He didn't get why Derek kept staring at him like he had a screw loose—how many times had it been now?—when the man had invented new flowers with how gruesome his murders turned out. Who was really the one with a screw loose here?

"You're talking out loud again," muttered Derek, sounding profoundly done.

"Oh." Stiles felt a little bad now. "Well. It's not necessarily a bad thing to have a screw loose."

Derek gave him a look.

"Y'know, like the Mad Hatter," said Stiles. "All the best people are bonkers."

Derek sighed again.

"Plus you invented flowers," added Stiles. "Which are my favorite. So, you accidentally impacted someone in a positive way, and I'm probably not the only one who likes those flowers. Which is great!"

Derek let out an unnecessarily deep exhale. "You're a prisoner. In Eichen House."

Stiles paused. "Right. Okay, yeah, but that has nothing to do with your flowers," he said. "What, just because I'm a prisoner, it doesn't count if something has a positive impact on me?"

Derek looked straight ahead without response in typical asshat behavio—

He slammed Stiles up against a divot in the wall, and Stiles couldn't make a single protest with Derek's hand firm around his throat silencing any possible noise. Even when he tried to shove Derek away in startled instinct, Derek stood there flush against him like an immovable wall—he realized after a moment that Derek's muscles had tensed on full alert, head turned towards some faraway sound that Stiles couldn't hear, so he stilled despite his every nerve shouting at him. His palms grew clammy, his heart beat a million miles a minute, his breaths rang too loud—Derek's musky, feral scent invaded his senses along with that hot skin and chiseled muscles and bare, magnificent chest as he resisted his thoughts to get away, get away, getaway getawaygetawa—

Derek's hand loosened, but it didn't move away from his throat. Instead, sharp points grazed along the sides of Stiles' neck, and Stiles swallowed as a cool shiver slithered down his spine. He breathed out a mix of relief and anxiety, gasping oxygen in once again, until Derek pressed even closer against him.

Stiles opened his eyes—he hadn't realized he'd closed them—to see Derek facing him now, irises a vivid blood-red that pierced through him. He didn't expect Derek to lean in, breath hot against Stiles' lips, then crane over against the side of his face.

"Fear," murmured Derek, nose brushing just under the outer edge of Stiles' jaw, "but not towards me. Because"—his claws shifted little trails of tingles on Stiles' neck as he straightened—"I can smell your arousal."

Stiles breathed in a shaky inhale under Derek's shrewd, scarlet gaze. He clenched and unclenched his free, clammy hand that didn't hold his goodies. "Do you mind?" he whispered. He pretended his voice didn't waver. "I'm about to piss myself."

A beat of silence, and then Derek's lips curved into a near demonic smile that looked as if he'd found one of Stiles' weak points—every hair on the back of Stiles' neck bristled, but Derek backed away, returning much needed personal space to Stiles.

"Sure you are," said Derek. Stiles didn't like the amused, considering look in his eyes, as if he was slowly figuring out what made Stiles tick. "Let's go with that. So terrified of my claws on your throat. Can you even walk?"

Stiles rolled his eyes as he straightened and brushed his shirt off. "You are a mass murderer," he told Derek. "It's a very normal response to be scared."

"Yes"—Derek gave him a look, eyes flashing red one last time before they flickered back into his usual chilly silver green—"it would be."

Goosebumps rose on Stiles' skin. He cleared his throat and walked past Derek. "Are we in the clear?" he asked, hoping to high heavens that Derek didn't comment on his change of topic.

Derek didn't. "Mm, just a change of night guards."

Stiles breathed a sigh of relief, mostly regarding Derek rather than the night guard, because god, he couldn't remember the last time that he'd let someone get that close to him, not to mention the fact that, well, he was pretty sure this dangerous, half-naked borderline insane mass murderer cellmate of his had figured out something about him, which spelled a recipe for disaster.

Thankfully, Derek's behavior didn't particularly change. He hadn't expected it to, honestly, since Derek never asked him anything to begin with. 

Derek went back to reading his novels—Stiles had never even heard of any of them—and doing his daily workouts in silence, though he did actually reply Stiles now once in a full moon, oddly enough. Stiles had always assumed that he just tuned him out, but considering that he had to be listening to actually reply.... 

Stiles didn't know how he felt about that, but even more odd was the fact that Derek initiated a conversation with him one day while he filled his flowers in with the colored pencils that he'd requested.

"What're you doing in here?"

"Coloring," said Stiles before pausing in shocked realization and whipping his head towards him with wide eyes. "Holy shit, you're talking."

Derek's stony expression looked stonier than usual for some reason, and the two a.m. darkness of the room cast over his face in a grim shadow didn't help. "Don't play dumb. What're you doing in here?"

"Whaddya think?" Stiles let out a dry snort. "I killed people, what else?" 

"Why?" 

Stiles paused—he didn't know why Derek was curious all of a sudden, but he'd long realized during this month together that Derek never did or said anything without reason. "You're in a chatty mood today, huh?" said Stiles. "'Cause they pissed me off, I guess."

He hadn't expected his answer to satisfy Derek, but—

"Did you set my family and me on fire?"

Stiles' eyes widened. His heart skittered in his chest and his stomach tied itself into knots as he met Derek's direct gaze, all-too-sharp as always, and he licked his lips. 

"No."

Derek's expression didn't change. "Your heartbeat's all over the place," he said.

"Yeah, 'cause you're friggin' terrifying," muttered Stiles.

"Don't lie," said Derek, calm and resolute as ever. "You've never once been scared of me."

Stiles let out a deep sigh as he rubbed his face. "I mean, that's not completely true. But no, alright? Where the hell did you even pull that out of your ass from? And why're you asking me that now? It's been a whole friggin' month, dude. Plus, are you trying to tell me that you don't know who the fuck set you and your family on fire?"

Derek's gaze honed in on him, and Stiles swallowed.

"You say that like you know who did it."

Quiet, but roughened around the edges, betraying the ferality within.

Stiles met his gaze head-on. "Doesn't take a genius."

"Is that right?" asked Derek with a grin that was more a baring of his teeth. "And yet it remains an 'accident' to this day."

"The local police don't know anything about the supernatural, so."

Derek crossed his arms from where he sat on his bed, leaned back against the wall. "What's your excuse for everyone else who does know about the supernatural?"

"Did anyone else bother investigating at all?" asked Stiles with a snort. "If they did and still couldn't connect the dots, then they're just dumbasses or blind. Kate and Gerard covered their tracks, sure, but things like proof will come out on their own when someone's scum enough."

"Why did you investigate?"

"I didn't." Stiles smiled just remembering. "They told me. Morons." 

Derek studied him for a moment, then leaned forward closer to him and grinned again—an actual grin tinged with amused interest for the first time. "That evil smile's a good look on you."

"Wha— Hey, I'm not you, alright?” Stiles tripped over his tongue, taken off-guard by Derek’s shockingly charming smile, his out-of-the-blue words, his everything. “It was a normal smile!"

"Even better," said Derek.

Fingers brushed feather-light against the inside of Stiles' wrist, trailing up under his sleeve, and Stiles jolted away. 

"W-What the—" Stiles struggled to voice much of anything as he held his wrist like it'd been burned, face hot. "The crap was that?"

Derek leaned back on his bed, just sitting there watching him with that infuriatingly amused look in his eyes. "Nothing."

'Nothing,' his ass.

From that night on, Derek would sometimes get unnecessarily close to him, shoulders brushing or hands touching when they really didn't need to, or do insane things like eat Stiles' half-bitten chocolate from his fingers—(even though he offered a new wholly packaged chocolate in his other hand)—and lick them.

Stiles' face had gone up in flames, hand trembling as the spots on his fingers where Derek had licked tingled and throbbed. "Okay, seriously, what the fuck?! You've been acting weird as shit!" 

"Your reactions are entertaining," Derek had said as casual as ever as he went back to reading a novel Stiles had recommended him not thinking he'd take it seriously—The Count of Monte Cristo. Not that it wasn't a good book—it was a great book—but he'd recommended it as a joke to himself because both Derek and the Count had sought revenge, albeit in completely opposite ways.

Well.

He wasn't sure that Derek wiping hunters in North America off the face of the Earth counted as revenge. Maybe a little beyond revenge.

And he hadn't even really gotten his revenge in the end. 

Stiles felt a little bad about it, but not that much. Wiping out the continent’s hunters more than made up for any lack of actual revenge, didn’t it?

Chapter Text

Another month flew by with Derek taking great amusement out of Stiles' every flustered and flabbergasted reaction, though he did actually talk to Stiles from time to time now—Stiles didn't know if he preferred Derek's silence over this or not. He would also never admit aloud that Derek responding to his rambles in the wee hours of the night helped him actually catch some shuteye. 

Nevertheless, the day for prisoner intermingling finally arrived and Stiles hoped that it'd go fast and easy, and then he wouldn't have to worry about any of these things, including his absolutely shitty sleep, or lack thereof, that clouded and tugged at his mind more and more with each passing day. Even with Derek's unknowing help in getting more than two hours of sleep per night, he just could not keep functioning on four hours of sleep every night, with an hour or two of them filled with restless nightmares.

"You look like shit," Derek told him as the clicks of keys unlocking doors echoed through the hallway. "If you're not going to try to swipe sleep medication from the clinic instead of swiping snacks from the kitchen, then you should at least request melatonin."

Stiles groaned—he'd splashed water on his face at least five times and his lids still felt just as heavy. "Sleep meds don't work on me. Melatonin doesn't work on me. Let me at least drown my sorrows in chocolate, alright? Besides, don't act like you don't have issues sleeping too."

"It's prison. Who would sleep well here?"

"Now you're just dodging the topic," said Stiles. "You know full well that's not it. God"—he rubbed his face for the umpteenth time—"I have no clue how you're still sane in here."

Derek stood up as a few staff members with modified stun batons approached to unlock their cell door and handcuff Derek using the heaviest metal shackles Stiles had ever seen. "All thanks to the voices in my head."

Stiles scrutinized him, but he couldn't tell if he was joking or not, though he thought he detected a hint of bitter acceptance. 

"Bet you've been dreaming of today," commented one of the staff to Derek, a pompous, arrogant man with an upturned nose that Stiles hated on sight. "How many years has it been now that you haven't breathed even a hint of fresh air?" He prodded Derek in the back with his stun baton to pick up the pace as they shuffled down the hallway—Stiles' eyes widened, but Derek didn't even react, just continuing to walk as if the guard had poked with a little stick. "Now if it were up to me, a monster like you who gained, what, regeneration and lack of pain from killing all those people should be put down like the animal you are, or at the very least locked in your cell until you die." He let out a heavy sigh. "But unfortunately"—he prodded Derek in the back again—"warden's orders. For your 'good behavior.' The government's keeping a strict eye on us now after those blasted articles."

He kept poking Derek with his stun baton as they walked behind the other prisoners, on the backs of his arms, his nape, and while Stiles could see the burn heal so fast it looked like an illusion each time, he reached his last straw when the guard, increasingly angered by the fact that Derek never once reacted much less look his way, drew a fucking Bowie knife and moved to slash at the back Derek's neck—

Stiles caught it in his peripheral vision, and in classic clumsy fashion, stumbled over his feet into Derek, who walked beside him.

Sharp metal cut a shallow but stinging gash across his arm as he fell down in the most dramatic way possible, of course tripping into the wall and bouncing back into the guard to sneak a little something into the guard's pocket before collapsing on him with a groan.

"Davis, what the hell?" asked one of the other staff as two of them checked his wound. "Do you know how much shit we'd get in if this was any deeper?" They moved to haul Stiles to his feet, but Stiles scrambled away first to stand a good few feet away with the guards watching Derek as if disgusted.

"Dude, is that a fucking boner?" shouted Stiles with a grimace and all the revulsion he could muster as he pointed at the bulge in the guard's pants—other guards and prisoners stopped to see what the commotion was. "Gross! You should be in one of these cells, what the hell?"

"Wha— No, it's—" The guard looked down and shoved his hand in his pocket to pull out a handful of pink chocolate bars. "Look! I don't know wh—"

A short, bald staff member came over, the one that usually delivered dinner to Stiles and Derek. "What's going o— Wait." He cut off upon seeing the confused guard on the floor, gaze sharpening on the handful of chocolate. "It was you who took my Kit Kats?" His voice rose in volume as a mottled red suffused his face—the other staff members visibly cringed and stepped away. "You took them and had the gall to try to blame it on prisoners somehow unlocking their doors and scurrying around in the dead of night?!"

"Let's just go ahead," the staff members whispered to each other as they resumed walking the prisoners, leaving the two staff members behind. "Davis is screwed. He should know better than to mess with Allen's chocolates."

"Yeah, he was nice enough to bring them in to share even though his daughter bought them for him knowing he loves them," someone else whispered with a sigh. "Honestly, Davis is getting out of hand."

"Right? Trying to blame it on prisoners was ridiculous to begin with, but for it to turn out to be him...."

The staff all winced when they heard Allen yell in the distance, livid—"These are limited edition peach Kit Kats only available in Japan in the spring that Marisa shipped to me! And you're telling me you've been pigging out on them and you don't even know the flavor?! On top of that, you tried to cut down an inmate, then blamed them for planting these in your pocket?! Oh, when I'm done with you—"

Stiles had to bite back his laughter. Never had he struggled so hard to keep his face straight, and when the guards finally took off Derek's handcuffs and left them out in a small area outside enclosed by a thick tall wall and criss-crossed electrified wire armed with traps acting as the ceiling, Stiles broke out in a fit of giggles.

Derek glanced at him, then his arm. "...I would've been fine," he said after a pause.

"So you can regenerate your head?" asked Stiles, brows raised. "Your regenerating ability is that ripped?"

"No," said Derek. "You thought I would just let him behead me?" 

Stiles rolled his eyes. "How am I supposed to know? I don't know how your 'not feeling pain' thing works—what if you just didn't feel shit? I knew you had at least one special ability since you're augmented, but those two are just...." He sighed and sniffed. "I don't know if they're a good or bad thing."

"I can turn it on and off," Derek told him. "Adjust it how I want."

"Oh." Stiles considered it a moment. "I guess that's pretty juicy, then. Especially since your regeneration seems kind of ridiculous."

Derek studied him, gaze lingering over his face. "I'm not missing my sense of touch. I could feel him prodding me, if that's what you were worried about."

"Who said I was worried?" retorted Stiles. "His attitude sucked. Plus, that was pretty funny, you have to admit." 

"It was funny seeing your face twitch trying not to smile," said Derek, to which Stiles scowled.

Stiles took a deep breath in of the crisp, fresh air, then paused as he looked out at the other prisoners, who all stared and kept a wide berth for some reason. "Damn. What the hell did you do for everyone to hate you so much?"

"They're just cowards," said Derek. "Everyone else that isn't a prisoner hates me, though."

Stiles scrunched his nose and nodded. "Makes sense. That's kinda what happens when you go around massacring hunters."

"Highly recommend," Derek told him, and Stiles let out a surprised laugh.

"I'll pass," said Stiles with a snort. "I don't like messes. Besides, you barely left any for me to try it out, anyway."

"Well, that's just not true, now is it?" said a too-smooth voice from behind them, the kind that masked ulterior motives and many secrets.

Stiles grimaced—he'd completely forgotten that this bastard resided in Eichen as well.

"You left quite the mess behind when you disappeared, Mr. Mysterious Friend," said Peter as he patted Stiles' shoulder—Stiles smacked his hand away.

"Don't fucking touch me," hissed Stiles.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "So serious. I see you're the same as before. Or, no, even worse." He scrutinized Stiles for a moment longer before flicking a much warmer glance at Derek with a smile. "I was wondering if I'd ever get to see you, although I'm surprised to see you with Stilinski. They finally let you out of your cell?"

Derek considered him without response, then glanced at Stiles. "Stilinski? The sheriff's son?"

"Hm?" Stiles half-registered his words as his gaze swept over the prisoners there—shifters, werewolves, a kanima and lamia— Ah-ha, he spotted the sluagh sitting at a table in the corner. "Oh, yeah."

"They've been looking for you."

Stiles met Peter's always smiling eyes, ever disconcerting. "Why?"

"'Why?'" echoed Peter in exaggerated disbelief. "You don't have any clue what a mess you left behind when you disappeared, do you? When have they not been looking for you, is the better question. Cora tells me that they're still trying to track you down—imagine my surprise to see you here of all places. All this time, and you've been right under their noses. Oh, by the way"—Peter turned to Derek—"Laura and Cora have been trying to see you, but apparently you're not allowed visitors? What exactly did you do for them to keep such strict guard on you?"

"He ripped Valack's head off," said Stiles.

"Mm." Peter nodded. "That'll do it. So how do you two know each other?"

"Cellmates," Derek answered this time. "Laura and Cora have been trying to visit me?"

"All three years you've been in here. They try to visit you once a month, apparently."

"When did you get locked up in here?" asked Derek.

Peter's forehead wrinkled as he thought. "Around...two years ago?"

Derek didn't respond—Stiles had thought he only did that to strangers, but it seemed he acted the same towards his relatives as well.

"Not going to ask why I'm in here?" asked Peter.

Derek shrugged. "You've never had any regard for human life."

Stiles burst out laughing at that. "Wow, I don't think you're ever going to heal from that burn," he snickered. "First you get your ass beat and thrown in here by a bitten, barely adult werewolf, and now this from a mass murderer? That's just embarrassing for you."

"Bitten and barely adult?" Derek raised his brows. "You've really deteriorated."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You don't know anything. While you were running around the country killing hunters, some of us were dealing with real problems. Beacon Hills is cursed, I'm telling you."  

"So that's why you got your ass beat by a teenager," said Derek with a nod—his never-changing deadpan expression always made Stiles want to laugh. "Because Beacon Hills is cursed. Got it."

Stiles must not have stifled his laughter well because Peter rounded on him with a predatory gaze. "Don't act like you're not a big part of this," said Peter. "I think it's time to hear why you're in here. Keeping tabs on what the group's doing even after you ran away, hm?"

"I'm not keeping tabs," Stiles told him, still amused. "Malia left me a voicemail about it. Yeah, remember her? Your daughter?"

Derek's brows furrowed. "You have a daughter? Who would sleep with you?"

Another laugh spilled out of Stiles, and Peter let out a deep sigh before continuing like he'd heard absolutely nothing. "Last I heard before I started staying here, you joined the FBI. How bad exactly did you fuck up in two years?"

This time, Stiles found himself at the end of Derek's stare—he pretended not to notice. "'Staying here'," he echoed. "Nice choice of words. Yeah, I only joined 'cause I thought I'd see some interesting supernatural cases," he said, which was the truth. "And to get my dad to stop worrying. But I've never been much of a rule-follower, so. That's more Scott's speed."

"They'd be disappointed to learn you're in here."

Stiles glanced at Peter. "Probably."

His lack of reaction seemed to leave Peter dissatisfied—years had passed since he'd decided to distance himself from everyone, so he'd long known that the path he'd chosen would diverge from theirs. 

At this point, he wouldn't waver, much less from a few barbed words.

Derek didn't comment, as usual. In fact, he seemed more preoccupied looking at the cut on the back of Stiles' arm, and it brought a smile to Stiles' face for some reason that Derek never pushed to learn more about him even though anyone else would. 

"Anything you wanna do?" he asked Derek while he perused the tables set out, boxes filled with what looked like various games or crafts, and the court littered with sports balls. "I'm kinda surprised it's not just an empty field."

Derek nodded towards the sluagh sitting at one of the tables. "Didn't you want to talk to that?"

"You want to talk to a sluagh?" asked Peter.

"Yeah, but we have the whole day, don't we?" Stiles stretched his arms out and yawned as the climbing late morning sun warmed his face. "I'm gonna nap in the grass. You two have fun catching up," he said with a wave over his head as he walked to a small, out-of-the-way patch of grass and flopped down onto his back, limbs spread in snow angel fashion.

It would've been the perfect spot to lounge if it weren't for the fact that the sun shone in his eyes, but then Derek sat beside him, shadow conveniently blocking the sun from Stiles' face, and Stiles grinned, heart a little lighter for some reason.

"Thanks," he said.

Derek reached into the waistband of his sweats to hand Stiles a few small packs of smarties—ironic as it sounded, Stiles didn't remember the last time he'd laughed this much. 

"You're prepared," joked Stiles as easy chuckles bubbled from his chest. "I like that in a man."

Derek leaned back on his hands and glanced at him, silver-green eyes glittering under the sun. "Noted."

Something fluttered in Stiles' stomach, both pleasant and alarming, and his heart skipped a beat—as good of a cue as any to pop a candy in his mouth, stretch in the grass with a content sigh, and rest his eyes.

This would all come to an end soon enough, anyway.

Chapter Text

The sluagh, to no one's surprise, did not say a word.

Stiles had woken up to Derek still sitting there next to him while Peter sat on the other side of Derek talking about who-knew-what at him—he hadn't expected not just Derek, but Peter as well, to follow him in his ventures of talking at the sluagh. He couldn't tell if the creature even understood what the crap he was saying, but he assumed it did since it'd apparently been seen talking before.

Although, he had no idea how to get it to react to him, much less talk. His first mini-triumph came around thirty minutes into his jabbering in the form of its slick, gray skin morphing into the spitting image of Donovan. 

Stiles turned away with a grimace. It was great— Well, it was something that the sluagh had decided to try to drive him away, but he'd be damned if he showcased anything about himself with Peter there. The fact that he turned away already signaled that this appearance was a sore spot for him, though, so he pretended that he needed to cough before steeling himself to face Donovan's likeness with a straight face, only to catch from the corner of his eye while fake-hacking his lungs out to see Derek flash scarlet eyes and bare his fangs with a low warning rumble in his throat.

Donovan faded back into the shiny sluagh and Derek returned to his usual blank expression like nothing had happened.

Stiles sniffed.

He pulled a pack of M&Ms out of his waistband and slid them across the table to the sluagh—Derek let out a heavy sigh.

"Don't you think that the fact it's ignoring you even after giving it so many M&Ms probably means it doesn't give a shit about them?" muttered Derek.

Peter's forehead crinkled. "When else did you give it M&Ms?"

"But we've looked," said Stiles. "Doesn't the fact that we never see wrappers mean that it ate them?"

"It doesn't mean it liked it," Derek pointed out.

Stiles blinked, then mouthed an 'o' of realization. "Oh, oh, I get it." He gave one of the smarties rolls that Derek had given him to the sluagh instead and took the M&Ms back. "There. How 'bout that?"

Derek let out another unnecessary sigh. "Really?" he asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"What?" retorted Stiles. "If it doesn't like M&Ms, then I'm taking it back. It'd just be a waste on it and I like M&Ms."

"How do you even know that it likes sweets?" said Peter.

Stiles paused. "Who doesn't like sweets?"

"I don't," said Peter.

"You don't count," Stiles told him. "You're weird."

Peter glanced at the sluagh sitting there motionless, then back at him. "And that isn't?"

"It's rude to judge it by our standards, y'know."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Then what about Derek? He doesn't like sweets, either."

"What're you talking about?" asked Stiles with a snort—he tried hard not to remember all the times Derek had eaten chocolate straight from his fingers. "White chocolate's his favorite."

No response.

Peter stared at Derek with much interest, an 'oh-ho?' type of expression lighting up his eyes, and Stiles looked between the two of them. "What?" He eyed Derek, but Derek just glanced at him with the same old poker face. "Why's he looking at you like that? You eat white chocolate the most, so I don't ge—"

Derek leaned in to practically murmur in his ear, lips grazing against the side of Stiles' cheek—"It's the messiest."

A beat of silence, a blank blink of the eyes, and then Stiles' cheeks nearly burned. Blood rushed to his face in an instant and he clapped a hand to his ear, skin tingling from where Derek's lips and breath had touched it, as his mouth flapped open and closed.

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "Oh. You two, huh? I didn't expect to meet Derek today, much less his lover. Odd taste."

Stiles stammered and tripped over his tongue. "No, that— I'm not— Derek, you explain!"

"Hm?" Amusement danced in Derek's eyes. "Explain what?"

"That you're an ass who just likes poking fun at me!"

"I was quite serious, though," said Derek, as if anyone would believe him with the way his stupid sparkling eyes crinkled in the corners. 

Stiles rubbed his face with a groan. "Serious, my ass," he muttered. "You agree with me don't you, Slu?"

"Did you just give it an arbitrary nickname?" asked Peter with a grimace. "If you two get pets, you'd best not name them."

"Hey, what's wrong with my naming? 'Slu' is short, simple, to the point."

"It sounds like 'slug'."

"No, it sounds like 'slew'," retorted Stiles. "Which is past tense for 'slay', so it's actually a perfect nickname if you think about it."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Sluaghs don't usually kill people. They take dead souls."

"Yeah, well, this one does!" snapped Stiles.

Peter squinted at him. "And you know this how?"

Stiles wanted to bang his head on the table. Between the aggravating company and the unresponsive sluagh, he found himself at his wit's end, because he wasn't stupid, alright? Peter pointed out more than once that bribes of sweets wouldn't work on any of the prisoners here—"The only people that would work on are children and you," he'd said.

But what else could Stiles offer? The M&Ms were less of a bribe and more of a 'Hi, I'm friendly and can get yummy snacks so let's be friends'.

After all, freedom was most likely the only thing prisoners cared about and he couldn't offer that. He couldn't even lie about offering that, because there was no way in hell he could come up with a plan to break this sluagh out that sounded feasible, and he definitely did not want to bring up the FBI being able to help break them out, (which was also a lie), considering that the sluagh probably held animosity towards them, not to mention the fact that he didn't want to talk about anything to do with the FBI with two sharp werewolves around.

He'd be so fucked if they realized he was undercover.

That was the worst case scenario.

At least, that's what he thought, until he paced around the cell that night trying to brainstorm aloud how else to get the sluagh to warm up and talk to him while griping at Derek to stop saying it was impossible and actually contribute a feasible idea, only to stop in his tracks when Derek muttered, all sarcasm, “Rip out someone’s vocal chords and transplant them then.”

Stiles stared at him, eyes wide. "What?"

A long, pregnant pause, and then Derek said something that sucked the air from Stiles' lungs.

"...You didn't know?" asked Derek. "Sluaghs don't have vocal chords."

Stiles gaped at him. "I— You—" He stooped to his knees and rubbed his face with a groan as his mind and heart raced. "If I knew, why the hell would I be trying to get it to talk to me all this time?!"

Derek shrugged. "You seem well-informed, so I thought this was your way of having fun."  

"'My way of'— Just how loony do you think I am?!"

Derek paused to muse on it—"Don't actually think about it!" snapped Stiles. "I'm not loony at all!"

"Didn't you say all the best people are?"

"Yeah, well, I'm not one of them," muttered Stiles—he buried his face in his arms as he digested the fact that it was quite literally impossible for the sluagh to make a single sound, much less talk.

So he'd gone undercover in Eichen for zero reason, basically.

The next few days passed with him moving around like a zombie, because he didn't understand how this could happen. While Derek obviously didn’t have ‘proof’ regarding sluaghs’ lack of vocal chords, Stiles trusted his expertise on the matter—“It’s in my family’s bestiary,” was how Derek knew—which brought him to the question of how multiple staff members had confirmed that the sluagh could speak.

He couldn’t imagine why they’d lie about something like that in the first place, but at the same time, it seemed highly unlikely that multiple employees had heard a creature that apparently couldn’t utter a single sound speak English words. No matter how hard he thought about it, he couldn’t reach a reasonable conclusion, and he couldn’t confide in Derek either, so he just stewed and stewed and stewed over it, wondering if he should slip a note to the FBI through Allen about this.

As if his unit would believe the casually said words of his mass murderer cellmate. He had zero proof that sluaghs didn’t possess the ability to vocalize.

Of course, imagine his surprise when he came out of the bathroom after brushing that mystery green salad they had for dinner out of his mouth to see Derek hand him a folded piece of paper.

"They did a surprise check while you were in the bathroom," said Derek, voice steady but jaw tight and eyes penetrating. "This fell out from under your pillow."

Stiles blinked. "Really? The bathroom vent's too loud, I didn't hear anythi— Wait, did they find the snacks?" he asked as he unfolded the paper.

A pause. "...No."

"What's with your weird attitude then? Did something happe—" Stiles skimmed the note—it looked like his handwriting, but....

Dread flooded his stomach like tar, coating his insides in heavy, black oil. The more he reread it, the more he avoided Derek's gaze boring through him. He trained his eyes on the note as if focusing hard enough would change the contents, and his hands trembled with all the questions roiling through his mind in a whirl so confusing that his mind went blank—

"It's not true," Stiles blurted without thought—he didn't know why his chest squeezed so painfully at the thought of Derek distrusting him. "I wasn't— I'm not—" His vision on the note wavered. "I've never talked to you with ulterior motives!"

The note creased under his grip and the silence that stretched out between them felt impossibly long even though he knew it only lasted for a few seconds.

"It says you've found out what you needed about my augmented abilities, so your 'mission's complete'."

Stiles scrunched his eyes closed. Derek stood not even a foot away from him, watching him with feral eyes, and yet a chasm seemed to open in between them. "I— That's not true," he gasped as he finally lifted his head and looked at Derek—unreadable expression as always, but that twitching jaw and furrowed brow did not bode well. "I swear. I don't even...." The words died in his throat, because how the hell could he explain that he'd never written this note that'd been found under his pillow in his handwriting? "You can tell if I'm lying, can't you?"

Derek crossed his arms. "If you're undercover FBI in a prison of supernaturals, then you're probably a great liar."

"I mean, that makes sense, but I'm not, though!" Stiles chewed on his lip as he tried to think of a way to get Derek to believe him. "C'mon, you can— you can interrogate me or something. Right? You must have another way to tell if someone's lying or not!" He paused, then added, "Preferably without much pain."

Derek took a step closer, and Stiles didn't move a muscle, unable to tear his eyes away from Derek's razor-sharp gaze. "Without 'much' pain?" His breath blew warm against Stiles' lips. "Meaning you'll allow some?"

Stiles swallowed. "Well, I dunno what other methods you have, but I guess some is okay. Just not, y'know, hardcore torture. Or ripping my guts out. And not that you have any, but I can't do needles."

He thought Derek would take action then and there, but instead, Derek lay down on his bottom bunk bed in a half sitting up position and gestured Stiles over, so Stiles sat on the edge of the b—

"Oh!" said Stiles with a spark of realization and relief. "Are you gonna do that reading memories thing? Where you stick your claws in the back of my neck?"

Derek's brows raised. "You know a lot. You'd let me do that?"

"Huh? I mean, that'd be great, wouldn't it?" asked Stiles. "It's not supposed to hurt that much, right? And you're not a dumbass who'd fuck up and leave me comatose. Plus it'd clear everything up super easy."

Derek gave him a mixture between an amused and a ‘you’re an idiot’ look for some reason as he reached out to lay his hand against Stiles’ palm. “A very you answer,” was all he had to say, as if his fingers weren’t sliding up the inside of Stiles’ arm. 

Stiles froze. He resisted the urge to yank his arm away, because maybe this was part of the process, (although probably not), plus....

He trusted Derek.

To a certain degree, anyway, not that he would ever voice that aloud. He never even voiced it to himself in his mind—he knew how absurd it sounded to trust someone who'd nearly wiped out the hunters in the country, especially when he could never bring himself to trust anyone, not completely. Constant paranoia and suspicion simmered deep within him, sparing no one, and the secrets he harbored, he kept solely to himself.

Derek, he'd come to understand, did exactly as he pleased.

A straightforward, simple conclusion on the surface, nothing groundbreaking, but to Stiles, it blew a refreshing wind through his world. He'd met people who tried to do as they pleased, people who boasted that they did as they pleased, and people who justified meaningless crimes with 'doing as they pleased', but in reality, they all carried around the same shackles as everyone else, most of the time even heavier than the average person. 

But Derek—he'd done what he set out to do, acted according to his own judgment regardless of consequences, and spoke without mincing words.

No mind games, no second-guessing, no needless lying. If Derek had an issue with him, he would say so; if he wanted to kill him, he would do so.

Derek, unlike the widespread rumors, wasn't a revenge-driven, wrathful maniac. No, everything about him rang sharp and firm and controlled—he observed and perceived and appraised, waiting and stalking, always steady. 

So Stiles trusted him even though he didn't know what he was thinking half the time, (which was a lot better than the hundred percent of the time that he'd started out with).

This time was no exception. He had no idea why Derek was sliding his hand up his arm instead of stabbing him in the back of the neck with his claws, but he'd never felt fear towards Derek despite always pretending otherwise—not when Derek had him by throat against the wall, not when Derek had run his claws over his carotid artery.

Derek's fingers traveled up his arm across his shoulder blade to linger over his pulse point on the side of his neck, then down his chest, with a squeeze and rub—

A startled cross between a squeak and a whimper burst from Stiles before he could clap his hands over his mouth, and Derek had the nerve to smirk. "I was wondering when you'd crack," said Derek. The amusement twinkling in his eyes was the only warning Stiles got before Derek abruptly yanked him in, causing him to fall face-forward straight into Derek.

Stiles barely had the chance to digest what was happening—he gasped at the heat of Derek's hands on his skin, under his shirt and around his waist. His fingers clutched at Derek's tank top that he'd always thought showcased Derek's beyond fit body a little too well, and the thin material did little to distract him from the feel of Derek's firm, muscular chest against him.

He struggled to gather his wits about him. "Wha-What're you doing?" he asked, probably a little too breathy despite his best efforts. "I thought you were gonna— I thought— Interrogate?"

"So impatient," said Derek. His fingers dipped just the slightest under the waistband, and Stiles shuddered. "I'm about to."

Stiles' mind screamed at him to get away, get away, get away already, but his body wouldn't move, and no it wasn't because sparks of electricity jolted through his skin wherever Derek touched or because his limbs stiffened like statues or because Derek just looked and felt and smelled so good—

"What are you so afraid of?" asked Derek.

His gaze flicked up from where it'd lingered on Stiles' body to meet Stiles' eyes, sudden and piercing, and Stiles' tongue tied itself into knots.

He leaned closer—his breath ghosted hot against Stiles' lips.

"I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention," he murmured.

Stiles should've moved. He should've pulled away, should've gotten off of Derek, should've redirected the conversation to whatever it was they were supposed to be talking about, should've—

Derek's hand snaked around his nape, lips capturing Stiles' in a feather-light kiss. His tongue slipped in, slow and sensual, as if savoring the taste of Stiles' mouth, and Stiles let out a breathy whine—Derek deepened the kiss, and Stiles kissed him back, hands running over the clean-shaven stubble along Derek's jaw that he'd imagined doing more than once while he mapped the insides of Derek's mouth, tongue relishing the simmering, airy flames of—

Stiles jolted back, hand clapped over his mouth. Terror shocked his veins to ice, but his body still thrummed, and his eyes trained in on Derek's mouth—he wanted to touch Derek's lips to make sure they really were alright, but he didn't dare.

God, he was an idiot.

He should've known better. He should've pushed Derek away from the start.

"I'm fine, St—"

Stiles scrambled off the bed so fast that he nearly fell as he raced to the bathroom and turned the shower on in hopes the water running over him would cool both his mind and body down.

Derek wasn't fine. Just because he could regenerate in the blink of an eye didn't mean it hadn't hurt at all. Stiles had no clue how his lack of pain worked. He didn't know if he had to consciously turn it off or if it automatically turned off by itself, and even then, that didn't make the fact that he'd lit a flame inside Derek's mouth any less horrible.

The silent screams from that day echoed through his mind as he dunked his head under the shower head, soaked clothes dragging him down under even more. The fire had started from their pinkies, overlapped, then spread up the arm to the car seat—he'd never forget the smell of scorching flesh, nor the morbid satisfaction that'd cracked through his guilt and horror not a mere hour later. 

He'd always thought something in him had snapped that day, but as the years went on, he began to realize that nothing had snapped. 

All along, he'd been like this. An outsider in human skin, more than he knew, solitary and invisible, toeing the line on the fringes of madness. All this time, and yet he still hadn't learned his lesson, even though he knew what would happen.

He should've known better. He should've—

"I didn't take you as the type to run away."

The shower curtain drew open.

Stiles didn't move from where he stood leaning forward palms flat against the shower wall, eyes closed and head bowed under the water. "I didn't," he breathed. He could barely hear his own voice. "I'm cooling down."

"Yeah?" The sound of fabric rustling. "That's too bad."

Stiles' brows furrowed—he drew his head out of the spray of water to figure out what the crap Derek was doing, only to see Derek naked, as delicious as ever, sweats and tank top on the floor, stepping toward him—

Derek shoved him against the wall in a relentless kiss, no-holds-barred. He pinned Stiles' wrists above his head and swallowed each of Stiles' weak gasps to stay away with positively obscene kisses until Stiles couldn't take it anymore. He tried to move, to push Derek away, but the flames lit from his tongue once again amidst a particularly lewd sweep of Derek's tongue through his mouth—he thought Derek would finally draw back.

No.

If anything, Derek's kisses only grew filthier and filthier, coaxing the flames to dance in constant flickers between their licks and nips and suckles, and Stiles' body shuddered and arched—

Derek ran a claw down his chest, slicing his shirt in half and hooking his waistband down in one swift move, and Stiles came in abrupt shock all over Derek's hand with one final gasp of flame against Derek’s lips. His knees had long turned to jelly, but Derek's firm grip pinning his wrists above his head and knee between his legs kept him standing.

A few more lazy kisses, a few more licks of flame.

"You can't run away from me," Derek murmured against his lips.

Both a threat and a promise—a shiver ran down Stiles' spine. 

Derek drew his lower lip into a suckle and Stiles moaned. "It— It doesn't hurt?" whispered Stiles.

He didn't know what was so funny about his question, but Derek breathed out a chuckle and kissed him again before responding, all the while feeling up Stiles' twitching cock in languid strokes and rubs. "Feels good," he said, drawling out the second word in a way that had Stiles leaking precum with a gasp.

Stiles barely managed a snarky reply with how the flames simmered in his core. "So basically, you're a masochist."

"I don't like pain," said Derek. "But it keeps you sane, and I can adjust my pain now after the fire."

A pause, and then—"After the fire?" breathed Stiles. "It's not an augmented ability?"

"Guess the fire burning me alive fucked my nerve endings so much they just stopped registering the pain," said Derek with a chuckle of all things, like he was talking about something amusing, and horror cleared Stiles' mind like a bucket of cold water, because wasn't that exactly what he was doing? Burning Derek?

He didn't understand how Derek could be fine with this, with his flames.

He wasn't even fine with his own fire, and he sure as hell hadn't burned alive with his entire family.

"If you're so worried, we can stay here," said Derek, the warm water still running over the both of them, "although I'd prefer to take this to the bed." His movements on Stiles' cock grew more purposeful, now properly stroking and twisting, and he watched with a predatory satisfaction that took hold of Stiles' chest.  

Need heated Stiles up once again, more than before. He couldn't put his finger on the change besides the fact that Derek just kept watching him while getting him off despite his gasps of embarrassed protest, lips hovering just out of reach, but it wasn't just that—something in Derek's gaze, fixated and untamed, drinking in every twitch and moan he made, unnerved him. 

Or maybe it was the fact that he let Derek see him like this, touch him like this, despite it all, that unnerved him most.

The sparks of brilliant scarlet in Derek's silver-green eyes enraptured Stiles' soul. They pierced through him, secrets laid bare, stripping him down into raw emotions as he let go for the first time, opened up and gave himself for the first time. 

Flames flickered in brief flashes across Stiles' torso as he arched in Derek's hold, head thrown back from the almost pained rush of pleasure that ripped through him, and then Derek's teeth sank into his neck with a growl, and his whole body crescendoed into a burst of fire.

The water hissed against his skin. 

Derek licked up the thin trail of blood dripping down onto his collarbone. His tongue ran along the bite mark before filling Stiles' mouth with the taste of iron, not letting him catch his breath or gather himself together.

"If you don't stop me right now," said Derek, whispers of threatening promise curled around his words, "I'll never let you escape my clutches."

Claws grazed along the sides of Stiles' neck and Stiles shivered with a moan.

His eyes met scarlet ones, filled with the primordial power, deadly and feral, and his core shook.

A soft laugh.

"Too late," he breathed.

Chapter Text

Derek struggled to rein himself in.

All these years, he’d mastered his instincts, his senses, his control, to a fine-tuned degree, and yet he couldn’t even keep his claws in as he facefucked Stiles.

Even after coming twice, Stiles had still hesitated, not completely convinced that his flames really didn’t hurt Derek at all.

That idiot.

As if some flames would stop Derek even if he did feel pain.

But Stiles looked vulnerable, raw, that easy façade of smiles nowhere to be seen, so he'd suggested after a brief second of thought, thumb rubbing along Stiles' kiss-swollen lips, "Will you be convinced if you let me fuck this hot mouth of yours?"

Stiles gave him a blank stare, and he saw the second Stiles processed it because blood rushed to his face in a remarkable red almost as scarlet as Derek's eyes. He seemed to muse on it for a moment—Derek eyed the way he bit his lip when in thought, then those damp, flushed cheeks and big chocolate eyes, hesitant but unguarded, as he met Derek's gaze and nodded, almost shy.

"Yeah," he said. "If it really does feel good for you. But are you— are you sure? I mean, it's your—" He scrunched his nose in a grimace. "It would hurt a lot."

Derek flashed his teeth in a grin. "It will if you bite down."

"Oh god." Stiles cringed, nose scrunching even more. "Oh god, I would never. You know what I meant."

Derek didn't respond, just watching Stiles lick his lips, smelling the radiating waves of nervous anticipation and desire, and something in his chest stirred seeing the way Stiles knelt on the tiled shower floor and licked his cock in tentative caresses, all the while glancing up at him as if waiting for him to say that his ministrations felt awful.

Clumsy, much too gentle suckles—he could tell that this was Stiles' first time, just like how he could tell he'd stolen Stiles' first kiss from the awkward, teeth-clashing way Stiles had kissed him back at first. 

But ah, the sight of Stiles' pink, kiss-swollen lips on his cock, tasting him like he was made of sugared glass, had him leaking precum despite the clumsy attempts, and then Stiles blinked in pleased surprise and lapped it up with a hum of happy triumph, and he just grew harder. It was a cycle that he'd be content to let happen for eternity if it weren't for the fact that his restraint slipped by the second to the point that Stiles noticed. He began trying to suck him in deeper, taking him to the back of his throat, and his earnest efforts tipped Derek over the edge—he barked out a barely intelligible demand for Stiles to relax his jaw before thrusting into Stiles' mouth, hand clenched in Stiles' hair.

He tried to start slow. He didn't know well that worked, because when Stiles swallowed around him, his claws came out and dug into Stiles’ scalp as a growl rumbled in his chest and his eyes burned scarlet. If he drew blood, Stiles didn't seem to mind—he couldn't tell if he had under the spray of the shower, not when he could still taste Stiles’ sweet iron on his tongue, in his nostrils. 

Stiles swallowed around him again, and he cursed.

The rougher he fucked Stiles' tight little mouth, the hotter the flames inside licked against his cock like warm tingles of power. The archaic, hidden, and esoteric of the arcane—that was what he sensed from the flames.

They suited Stiles.

His Stiles. A hidden gem just for him to discover.

Derek trailed his claws against Stiles' scalp, dragging them against his skin, while upping his pace as the wolf in him reared its head. Stiles' eyes rolled back. Muffled moans vibrated around Derek’s cock and Stiles’ hips jerked uselessly every now and then, until Derek reached down to dip between his cheeks and rub the rim of his hole—

Flames released in trails of heat from Stiles' hole, his tongue, down his chest and around his cock as his body shuddered and spasmed in back-arching release. His mouth squeezed tight around Derek, and Derek waited until he'd neared the end of his climax to thrust his cock in Stiles' mouth a few more times before pumping his own cum inside with possessive growls of "yeah, that's it" and "drink it all" as he watched Stiles' throat bob. Stiles' unfocused eyes fluttered between half open and half closed as he moaned and shivered with each swallow—when Derek pulled out to finish off his last spurt all over his face and tongue, minute flames sputtered across his body along with an immediate second albeit smaller release of cum dripping down his abdomen.

Derek lifted Stiles up into his arms with ease and swept a tongue in his mouth, tasting his own cum mixed with Stiles' saliva.

"Convinced now?" he murmured against Stiles' lips, earning himself an out-of-breath huff of a laugh.

Stiles, for the first time, initiated a deep kiss, and flames of power licked through Derek's mouth. "God, fuck yeah," he mumbled, biting his lip with a smile.

A sting of jealousy—Derek took the lip into his own mouth to nip and suck on it, drawing out a soft moan from Stiles.

He knew exactly what it said about him that he'd feel jealous over Stiles biting his own lip. 

The only question was how to disguise it, ease into it, to best lure Stiles in until he was too deep to ever escape. He wasn't the best at mind games—he abhorred them, in fact—but he walked a tightrope when it came to Stiles that he absolutely could not fall off of if it was the last thing he did. Even though the burns had long healed and disappeared, the fire had burned away at his soul, his emotions, leaving him with a cold, consuming rage that masked the fact that his emotions had dulled into empty shades of gray. The scent of the hunters' fear and blood, the feel of ripping into their flesh, had sated his rage, little by little—he'd saved the Argents for last, the best dessert.

Only to find Gerard and Kate's burned ashes that smelled of terror like nothing he'd ever come across.

Ah, he'd never forget that fragrance.

Fresh, bitter, rich, like the darkest hot chocolate.

He'd let himself be captured after that. The rage had simmered away and his desire to hunt had settled.

He didn't feel anything.

That posed its own problem as it turned out, since he'd always used his rage as his anchor on full moons—the thick bulletproof glass that stretched along the cell in place of jail bars had been replaced more than he could count at this point. He tried to scrounge up every ounce of anger he could on those nights by remembering all that had happened, the dying screams and skin-flaying heat, but it just didn't cut it any longer.

He was too hollow.

That's what he thought at first, but then why did he have nightmares of that night and dreams of the past? Why could he swear that he heard voices in his head, both from himself and from his dead family? 

He began to realize that it wasn't that his emotions had dulled, but that they'd clashed and overwhelmed and mixed into an ugly gray that numbed him—the rage had honed the blend of colors into a sharp, steel silver before, but without it, they just entangled even more and more, in turn numbing him more and more with the relentless emotions, never ending and always screaming.

He'd accepted it. He didn't have anything else he wanted to do, didn't care about anything else besides his sisters, who remained safe outside, and he'd been content to live the rest of his life like this—

Until Stiles.

A bambi-eyed, noisy, walking contradiction.

Ah, he wanted him. He needed him.

It buzzed through his veins, incessant, for more and more, to take Stiles' everything, and something inside him thrummed in satisfaction every time Stiles let him see more of him, touch more of him, especially when he began teasing Stiles' hole and Stiles just melted amidst breathy moans in his arms.

No protests, no hesitation—Derek was certain Stiles knew what it meant for Derek to finger and stretch his little hole open, and yet he just clutched onto him with encouraging gasps despite knowing that Derek would take him all the way in this tiny, cramped shower tonight.

Derek knew he wasn't worthy of being Stiles’ first, but…if Stiles was okay with his blood-soaked hands, he’d make it so that Stiles grew addicted for more.

He lifted Stiles so his toes barely grazed the floor and bent his head down to lave at Stiles’ stiff nipples as he fingered-fucked Stiles with thorough, exploring strokes. The sounds Stiles made—he crooked his fingers at just the right spots, on and off, coaxing out as many needy noises as he could until Stiles was flaming putty in his hands, desperate for Derek to let him come, begging for it, so how could Derek not oblige?

One swift movement of pressing Stiles against the wall, legs spread and lifted with his knees grazing the tiles on either side of his body, while sliding in his tight, tight hole, slow and smooth, and Stiles came in a burst of flames and shocked noises of delight on his cock before he even bottomed out. 

Derek fucked him through it. He'd planned on starting out gentle, restrained, so Stiles could get accustomed to him, but Stiles looked so turned on that it didn’t seem to matter. His hole shuddered and his body trembled as his fingers dug into Derek's arms—he flared with each touch, each kiss, each thrust, like a fire that couldn't contain itself any longer. His flames blazed and hissed all over his body, so strong that they burned bright even under the shower water, and Derek marveled at the way Stiles came alight in his arms without reservation, as if the brilliant flames of power were his soul on display just for Derek to see. 

He didn't take it lightly. He could taste the salt on Stiles' cheeks, diluted by the water, and hear the rawness in Stiles' moans of his name, close to cracking. His pace turned rough and demanding, and every time Stiles fell apart with the loveliest, lewdest noises, he put him back together with kisses and worshiping laves against his skin that only stoked the fires even more, and he did that over and over again until Stiles could barely keep his eyes open. Not once did Stiles tell him to stop or that he'd had enough. He just clung onto Derek for dear life with the sweetest whimpers and moans through the relentless rounds even after he couldn't come anymore, like he trusted Derek to take care of him, and after a few rounds of coming dry, Derek decided to finish off with a thumb to the tip of Stiles' cock. He rubbed the oversensitive slit over and over again, drinking in Stiles' sobs of all-too-much-pleasure as he sucked at those little nipples, now red from all his ministrations, and only when Stiles squirted all over his hand in a near-squeal of shocked release did he pump his hips a last few times inside Stiles to finally fill him up. 

Stiles stiffened. Derek had expected him to pass out from exhaustion after that last, sharp climax, but instead his muscles tensed in what felt like another mini-release, liquid still dribbling out from his twitching cock as his debauched moans echoed in the small shower amidst Derek's growls—Derek saw red. He couldn't keep from fucking a second abrupt wave of cum into Stiles with feral grunts, claws and fangs out, and it didn't help that Stiles kept whimpering dazed encouragements for him to keep going with wild flames flaring into an inferno.

The fire surrounded Derek in a warm blanket filled with olden magic for a long minute afterwards before sizzling out at last—Stiles slumped in his arms. He cleaned and carried Stiles to his bed, then crawled in beside him to spoon him and hold him in his arms, and with one final lick against his bite at the crook of Stiles' neck, he clicked off the desk lamp and nuzzled Stiles' nape, letting the mild, bittersweet scent of smoky oud, melted chocolate, and ash soothe him into a rare dreamless sleep.

~🐺・・❤️‍🔥・・🐺~

No dying screams. No jolts of agony. 

For once when he squinted his eyes open, he did so gradually with a yawn and a stretch of his limbs rather than a sudden start of adrenaline.

The spot on the bed beside him lay empty, though, so just as he was about to raise his head and squint around for Stiles, he felt a hand cup his cheek, hesitant.

A brush of the lips against his.

He lunged forward to take a proper kiss, swallowing a soft huff of surprise, as he captured himself a startled mess of limbs onto the bed.

Stiles laughed, quiet and gentle. "Is this the first time you've slept in?"

"Mm, I did?" muttered Derek as he nuzzled against Stiles' jaw, inhaling his scent. "Must be because of you."

Stiles' eyes widened, then softened. “Really?”

“Why would I lie about that?”

Lips against his cheek, tiny spots of warmth. “I had the best sleep ever, too,” said Stiles, a goofily wide smile lighting up his face—Derek could get used to it. “I barely managed to get up before Beatrice delivered breakfast, and I think she might’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion. Which is great for me. And also kinda hilarious,” he added with a little mischievous snicker.

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

"Yeah, I was trying to throw some clothes on and I think she saw this." Stiles lifted the hem of his shirt to reveal scratch marks on either side of his torso along with a few speckled bruises here and there. "Her face turned all pale and she hurried off—it was pretty funny, honestly. Probably thinks we got in a fight. I mean, unless scratch marks on sides is typical for sex. They're usually on the back, aren't they?"

"Mm, yeah." Derek rose a little to get a closer look at the scratches—his claws must've dug in at some point. "Sorry about that."

"You don’t look very sorry," said Stiles, eyebrows raised.

Derek gripped Stiles' waist and licked the wounds with the flat of his tongue, slow and sensual, all the while looking up at Stiles—he relished Stiles' trembles and soft hitches of breath. “Looks good on you.”

Stiles' cheeks warmed in splotches of red, fingers fisting in his shirt that he still held lifted up. "Really? You only just woke up and you're ready to go again?"

"Is that surprising?"

"Well...kinda." Stiles scrunched his nose in thought. "Not really, but kinda."

Derek mouthed kisses along a few bruises on Stiles' stomach. "Mm, indecisive. Nice."

Stiles let out a breathy snort. "I mean, you seem like the type who wouldn't care much about having sex, and I kinda have a hard time picturing you traveling around the country sleeping around a bunch between massacring people. But you seem experienced. So."

"Wow, look at the FBI agent in you coming out," said Derek, and Stiles rolled his eyes. "You're right and wrong. I hate-fucked strangers on the full moon sometimes."

Stiles blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, scrunched his nose, then opened it. "That. That makes sense, actually." He paused, brows furrowing. "Wait, but it wasn't the full moon last night. Isn't it in a week or so?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"Wha— It's not completely illogical!" retorted Stiles. "In fact, I'd argue it's way more illogical— You were supposed to interrogate me and you didn't even ask a single thing!"

"I asked you what you were afraid of."

Stiles let out a huff. "You know what I mean. I thought— You should've been more angry or upset or suspicious or something about that note."

"I don't care about the note."

Stiles blinked, and his shoulders deflated just a tad. "Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense, too," he said with a small laugh. "You don't seem like you would."

Derek paused and half-rose to prop himself up on an arm. "You just said I should've been angry or upset about it."

"Yeah, I just meant, y'know, a normal person probably would've been," Stiles floundered to say.

"Mm, I see."

Derek wondered if he should've pretended to be upset about it since Stiles didn't seem to like that he wasn't, but he'd never been good at these mind games. He wondered if he should try harder in general to 'show emotion'. It hadn't been a problem when they talked before now, but maybe Stiles preferred more reactive or receptive people. Someone like Laura, probably. She'd always been good at expressing herself in a way that made her seem more approachable.

He still didn't know what there was to be upset about, though. It'd just thrown a wrench in his loosely formed plans, if anything.

"Um, I didn't mean anything bad by that," said Stiles, hesitant. "I just thought, you'd, I dunno, care about it a bit. But it makes sense that you don't."

"What, that you're undercover to investigate me?" asked Derek. "It made sense, though, whether it was true or not. What good would being upset do?"

Stiles blinked. "'What good'— No one feels upset on purpose, or to get some benefit out of it."

He said it in a way that made Derek wonder if he'd misspoken again.

Derek could feel Stiles closing up as if he hadn't bared his soul to him just last night.

"It's not like anything would change, though. If it were true, would you magically decide to betray the FBI for me?"

"What?"

"Exactly."

Stiles hesitated. "So...you were upset, but just didn't bother saying anything about it? I mean you seemed upset, but then, y'know, the interrogation didn't really happen...." He trailed off with a clear of his throat.

"I was trying to figure out what to do," said Derek. "So panic, I guess."

"Panic about what?" Stiles' brows rose in alarm. "Wait, did you think I would use that information to hurt you?"

Derek looked at him like he was stupid. "To make you mine. Time's running out if your 'mission's complete'."

"H-Huh?" Stiles' face flushed bright red. "What're you— Me?"

"Need to hook my claws in you before you disappear."

"Wha— But why me?" Confusion colored Stiles' features. "Do you want, um, FBI intel or something? Or do something for you?"

Derek considered him for a moment. "If I said yes, would you?"

"Well"—Stiles bit his lip—"I can try. But I'm pretty sure the FBI's trying to investigate me."

"I can't tell if I've hooked you in or if you're just an idiot," muttered Derek with a sigh.

"Hey!"

Derek reached over to the desk, rummaged in the colored pencil box, and pulled out a small device to plop in Stiles' hand.

Stiles' brows furrow. "Wait— Is this a mic?"

"Yeah. I messed with it a bit and broke it, though, don't worry."

"Wha— Since when?"

"Since they gave you colored pencils. I could smell it."

"That means.... From the start...." Stiles paused for a long moment, deep in thought. "God, I knew something was up when you told me sluaghs don't have vocal chords."

Realization dawned on Derek. "Ah, was that your undercover mission?"

"Yeah, apparently some staff heard the sluagh speak and we're still trying to chase down the rest of its flock, so I got sent in here." Stiles rubbed his face and groaned. "Fuck. Okay. So this whole thing was so they could investigate me."

Derek mused on it a bit before saying, "You should be fine."

"Really? How come?"

"Your ability is secret, right?" said Derek. "They suspect, but have no proof, so they tried to put you in controlled situations that would force you to use it. The mic didn't pan out, but they had some staff whisper in a nearby hallway that you were involved with my family's fire—"

"Wait, that's why you asked me about that?" Stiles cut in with wide eyes. "What the fuck! You could've totally killed me over that!"

"What they wanted, I imagine," said Derek, voice dry. "And then the fake note just happened to fall out from under your pillow. But Beatrice is most likely reporting back now that it looks like we fought and obviously nothing is burned."

"So they'll conclude that I really am human and close this case soon enough as long as I don't show my ability," finished Stiles with a deep sigh of relief. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"Mhm," hummed Derek.

Stiles glanced at him. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You said—" Stiles averted his eyes, ears pink. "Y'know. What did you want me to do?"

"Nothing."

Stiles blinked. "But I thought— You said you wanted me to do something for you."

"I said 'if'," said Derek. "I don't have anything I want you to do."

"But then why?" Stiles squinted at him, forehead wrinkled. "I'm confused. Is there another reason why you'd want to, y'know."

"Make you mine?"

Stiles' face warmed. "Yeah, that," he mumbled.

"I just want you," said Derek.

A long pause.

Derek watched with amused interest at the range of emotions that flashed across Stiles' expression from shock to confusion to disbelief to confusion again—he eventually just turned red hot in the face, stammering unintelligible words that Derek wasn't completely sure were supposed to be words.

Derek ghosted his lips over Stiles’ knuckles, tiny kisses, as he continued watching the ever reddening Stiles. “I’ll make you mine and keep you,” he vowed, “or die trying.”

He’d never been one to mince or sugarcoat his words, though he probably should’ve in this situation. The words had come out before he thought out how to say them in a more toned down, palatable way.

Stiles just sort of stared at him with a blank expression, so after a few seconds of shocked silence, Derek added, “I say that, but it’d be difficult for you even if I did escape,” to lighten his previous words into a joke.

Too much, too soon.

He didn’t have much time left. Once Stiles left and returned to the FBI, he wouldn’t come back. Derek had confidence he could find a way to escape if he wanted to, but it’d prove much more difficult trying to win Stiles over out there when there were so many other, less deranged options than him.

The best case scenario, of course, was for Stiles to reciprocate his feelings. A near impossible scenario, but he’d prefer Stiles to at least want to stay in contact and meet up. 

No matter what, though, he’d never let anyone else have Stiles as long as he remained breathing. Even if Stiles wanted nothing to do with him, he’d keep Stiles to himself for as long as he lived. He’d look after him from a distance, protect him, shoo away any flies that buzzed to Stiles like moths to a flame—no one else would have Stiles.

Stiles was his anchor now. Stiles was his heart. 

And he knew he’d probably look insane to anyone else, but he didn’t know any other way to love. It consumed him, devoured him, yet soothed and steadied him, body and soul, and he would watch over Stiles for the rest of his life if he had to. 

He couldn’t read Stiles completely. Stiles, a walking contradiction as ever, both wore his heart on his sleeve and concealed it under numerous locks, so while Derek at least knew Stiles desired him to a physical extent, he couldn’t quite make out Stiles’ feelings towards him beyond the fact that he did like him. To an extent.

It was always to an extent with Stiles. He imagined it’d be to an even shorter extent once Stiles left and actually interacted with people who weren’t mass murderers dreaming of dying screams every night.

“You— You’d find a way to escape to be with me?” 

Stiles’ hesitant question took Derek by surprise—he didn’t quite know how to respond without putting Stiles even more on guard. “Mm, I’ll keep a distance, don’t worry,” he managed, although it still sounded a tad creepy and stalkerish. “It shouldn’t be a problem for you, anyway.”

“What shouldn’t be a problem?”

“If they found out I’m near you. They’ll probably just think I’m after you and try to hunt me down."

A long pause. Stiles' brows furrowed as he chewed his bottom lip, a habit Derek had noticed he did when worried. "Maybe it'd be better if, um, you lived with your sisters?"

Derek's eyes widened as a noose tightened around his heart. He knew a subtle rejection when he heard one. 

"I mean, I could come visit," added Stiles in a rush. "That'd be better, right?"

He wouldn't visit. Derek could smell the slight tinge of panic and fear around Stiles. He sure as hell wasn't scared of him, so it was probably more fear that Derek would fuck things up for him.

A reasonable fear, of course. In an ideal world, he'd be able to keep Stiles to himself just as he wanted, keep him content and happy and loved, but he'd never lived in an ideal world. He'd already predicted that the most realistic best case scenario would be for Stiles to want to keep in contact of his own accord, oblivious to the fact that Derek would follow him around, watching over him.

He really should've kept his obsession under wraps better. He should've just said something more normal and sensible-sounding that Stiles could wave off easier—'I think I like you,' for example.

Too late for that, though. He'd just have to settle for no contact, from a distance.

Derek lay back down and stretched.

"Sure," he said simply. 

For now at least, he'd hook his claws in Stiles as much as he could. It probably wouldn't make much of a difference whenever Stiles left, but he should take advantage of the current situation as much as possible, shouldn't he?

Stiles still chewed on his lip, watching him as if worried he'd hurt his feelings, so Derek leaned over to brush soft kisses up his arm and over his shoulder. "If you keep staring at me, I'll take it as an invitation," he murmured.

That did the trick—a flicker of fire from the skin beneath Derek's lips as Stiles' face flushed.

"No, I was just— It's noon!" stammered Stiles like that meant anything.

"Is that a no, then?" Derek mouthed a kiss mark above Stiles' collarbone.

The flames in the spots Derek kissed grew larger. "I didn't say that," mumbled Stiles. "I'm just— I'm not used to any of this and I don't want to end up burning our beds down, so tone down your... suaveness or whatever, alright?"

Derek huffed out a muffled chuckle. "My 'suaveness'?" He licked a trail of fire up to Stiles' ear and sucked the soft lobe between his teeth—Stiles gasped. "How else am I going to get you to remember me?"

"That should be my— my line," said Stiles on a stuttered whimper when Derek's fingers made their way to his chest. "Fuck. I can't. We need to move to the bathroom."

"It'll be fine," muttered Derek, but Stiles smacked his shoulder to stop, so he picked Stiles up—who let out the cutest surprised squeak—and carted him off to the safety of the shower spray, although he was pretty sure Stiles could burn the shower down with ease if he wanted to.

He didn't tell him that, of course.

Chapter Text

The sex this time was messy, pure desire, unlike the previous night when he could feel Stiles' heart in his hands. He caressed Stiles' skin with worshiping kisses and touches all the same, but they didn't have the same effect as before—he could tell. What ran through Stiles' mind, he had no clue, but it proved difficult to rein his wolf in when he hungered for Stiles' heart, soul, everything so badly his bones ached for it, mourning the absence.

Something about their conversation must've bothered Stiles, though, because even though he never said anything, Derek saw him chewing his lip in deep thought more and more the next few days. If he spoke, Stiles would stop and light up as if he hadn't just been stewing over something, so Derek didn't ask—whatever it was, Stiles didn't want him to notice, and besides, he'd done enough damage already with his blunt words.

Even so, he did prefer that Stiles didn't spend their last days together worrying over who knew what, so he found himself bringing it up one late night at three a.m. upon seeing Stiles, colored pencil in hand, chewing his lip while staring blankly at the fake window.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Stiles startled, then smiled. "Oh, just spacing out."

"Is it about the conversation we had the other day?" Derek forged on.

A pause, and then a hesitant sigh. "Well, kinda, yeah."

Derek had suspected, but sinking lead weighed down his stomach hearing it confirmed. "You don't have to take it so seriously," he said.

Stiles furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you don't need to take my words seriously," clarified Derek. "No matter what I do or what happens to me, it won't impact you."

"Wha—" Stiles' eyes widened. "No, that's not—" He hesitated, thumb fidgeting and picking at the colored pencil in his hand. "I'm just, I'm not used to this. I"—he sighed—"I haven't talked to my friends in years, y'know. I don't talk to coworkers outside of work. I live in a dump of an apartment that I never even bought furniture for. My bedroom's just a mattress and a crime scene board. I come here for what I thought would be a straightforward undercover mission, but they're actually testing me, and then you— you tell me that you want me to be yours, and I can't even give you a straight answer but I take advantage of you anyway, and—" Stiles groaned and rubbed his face with his hands with another deep exhale. "I know," he whispered. "I know I've been leaving you hanging, and I’ve been thinking about it, honest, but...."

Derek reached out to pull over one of Stiles' hands and kiss the knuckles—a soft, amused warmth filled his chest as he let out a fond huff, because he should've known that anything he assumed regarding Stiles' thought process would miss the mark. Stiles never worried about the things that most people worried over, the things that he should worry over.

"I don't need an answer," he told Stiles. "I didn't ask for one, did I?"

"Well, no, but—"

Derek sucked over the pulse point on the inside of Stiles' wrists, teeth dragging over the fragile skin as he met Stiles' fretting gaze. "Do what feels most comfortable for you and I'll do the same. You can run to me anytime," he murmured with a teasing lick.

Stiles shivered. His brows creased further, raising in the center and dragging down at the edges, like he wanted to cry, and his lips pressed together and his face warmed and then he lunged over to hug or kiss him—Derek would never know which of the two because Stiles hit his head on the top edge of the bunk bed instead.

He couldn't help but stifle a smile as he pulled a groaning Stiles onto the bed and kissed his forehead better. 

"Don't laugh," muttered Stiles. "I hate this stupid bunk bed."

"How many times does this make now? Three? Four?"

Stiles kicked his leg. "Shuddup." 

"You'd like my bed," said Derek, amused. "It's spacious. Perfect for someone who whacks people in the face when they sleep."

"Hey, I said I was sorry!" Stiles paused. “You have a place? Where?”

Derek rubbed his thumb in small circles against the soft flesh of Stiles' hip. "A cabin in the mountains along the Lost Coast," he said. "Stayed there sometimes between my hunts. It's pretty sparse, but I could—"

'I could fix it up for you.'

"You could what?" prompted Stiles.

"...Nothing," said Derek—he'd almost blurted his desires again and he didn't want Stiles to feel even more pressured. "You'd like the Lost Coast," he said, choosing his words carefully to not imply that Stiles had to visit him, per se. "There are fields of wildflowers there."

Stiles hesitated for a moment. "I could— I could, um—" He swallowed and cleared his throat, a shadow flicking over his expression so quickly that Derek barely caught it. "That sounds nice," he ended up saying with a smile. "I'll have to check it out."

A heavy, bittersweet feeling tugged at Derek's heart, squeezing it in the gentlest way—acceptance. He loved Stiles for trying, but he'd known from the start that Stiles would never choose him outside of this cell. They had their similarities, but their differences overwhelmingly outnumbered them. 

For starters, he was a serial mass murderer. He had no idea what Stiles' opinion on that was, because while it didn't seem like something Stiles would approve of, he'd never sensed even a hint of revulsion or disgust from him.

Ah, Stiles, his mysterious Stiles. 

For all he knew, Stiles secretly disliked his bloodstained hands.

"Yeah," murmured Derek. A small smile ghosted over his lips in return as he trailed his fingers over the divots of Stiles' waist, chest aching. "They have trails, I think. Could make for a good vacation with your friends."

A pause, thick with emotion. Derek startled, eyes widening, because he didn't understand why Stiles looked like he was going to cry, and then a few tears really did overflow out of Stiles' big wet eyes, and Derek backtracked hard.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked, trying to thumb away the tears dripping down Stiles' cheeks—he thought he'd chosen an okay response. "Oh— Is it because you haven't talked to your old friends in a while?" He cursed himself in his mind for not taking that into account. "Hey, it'll be okay, you'll be out of here soon. You can—"

Even more tears flowed out, much to Derek's dismay, as Stiles sniffled and clutched onto Derek's arms. 

Derek didn't know what to say, so he just cupped Stiles' cheeks, alternating between thumbing and kissing the tears away, until Stiles' breathing steadied and his body stopped trembling. 

"What do you want to do?" whispered Stiles at last—Derek didn't quite register it for a moment because it seemed so out-of-the-blue.

"Do about what?"

Stiles sniffled, eyes glistening, searching. "When you escape. What do you want to do?"

"Mm, nothing really." Derek avoided mentioning his plans to basically stalk him. "If I had things I wanted to do, I wouldn't have let myself be captured."

Stiles let out a wavery snort. "That's true. Y'know, the agent who arrested you liked to brag about it a lot, as if his unit chasing you wore you down so you slipped up. He got pissed when I said that you basically turned yourself in."

"Maybe he did wear me down," said Derek, amused.

"Yeah, sure." Sarcasm dripped from Stiles' voice. "You were so worn down by a unit always five steps behind you that you decided to sit outside that burned shed until the FBI finally caught up and just continued sitting there while they captured you."

A huff of a laugh slipped past Derek's lips. "I do have some advantages." He paused as he ran his thumb along Stiles' cheekbone and up above his eyebrow, mapping the scattered moles. "What do you want to do?"

Stiles didn't reply right away, instead sobering once again and looking down, so Derek added a light, "You can eat all the desserts you want as soon as you get out."

"...I don't want to," he mumbled.

"No? I thought you loved sweets."

He replied so quietly that Derek would've missed it if he wasn't a werewolf.

"But you don't."

Derek’s throat closed. Those three words echoed in his head several times before he digested the implication, but even then, he didn’t want to accidentally read too much into it, so seconds ticked by of him trying to find a decent halfway response that wouldn’t pressure Stiles and could be brushed off if wante—

A watery smile beamed across Stiles’ face like a rainbow after a storm, soft and raw and genuine and vulnerable. “This is my first time seeing you so shocked,” he said with a small huff of laughter.

Derek opened his mouth, then closed it, because he still didn't know what to say, and Stiles just looked at him with open, glimmering eyes as he leaned forward to brush his lips against Derek's in a kiss, gentle and savoring.

"Fuck." The taste of Stiles' lips, sweet like always, washed over his taste buds. He blamed it for the faintest crack in his whispered confession. "I'm going to misunderstand, you know."

Stiles smiled against his lips, a trembling but resolute thing, and blinked back tears. "I— I want it to happen," he said with a sniffle. "I just, I need to figure out how. I will. I promise."

Derek felt like he was melting under Stiles' unguarded smile, heart put on display for him to see just like that night, and his chest lightened in an impossible warmth. "Don't worry so much," he murmured—Stiles' eyes widened for some reason. "I'm good at staying under the radar. I won't let anything happen because of our meet-ups."

He still couldn't quite digest it. His best-case scenario. Stiles wanted to stay in contact.

At least, he did now. A lot of things could change once Stiles didn't spend his every waking hour in a cell with him, but he knew Stiles didn't say these kinds of things lightly, especially with his walls down like this.

The corners of Stiles' eyes crinkled as his brows raised in the center as if he wanted to cry again, but he huffed out a quiet laugh instead and sniffled, hands moving from where they'd held Derek's arms to cup his face. "Has anyone ever told you how soft you are?"

Derek blinked. "Me? Soft?"

"Mhm," hummed Stiles amidst more kisses. "You don't need to hold back, y'know."

"I don't think that's possible with you," said Derek—memories of the way he'd fucked Stiles' mouth just this morning, claws and fangs out, flashed through his mind.

Stiles' cheeks colored. "I meant, like, talking-wise. You don't need to tone down your words for me."

"Who said I was?" Derek hid his surprise that Stiles had noticed.

"You always show me how you feel, but you tone down your words so you don't pressure me," said Stiles. His eyes glittered, knowing and fond. "I want to hear it, too."

Derek paused for a moment before saying, "I'll try," because that didn't sound like the best idea. There was a difference between worshiping Stiles' skin with kisses and telling him that he planned on stalking him.

"I know I'm really shit at expressing myself though, so I'll try harder too," said Stiles as he bit his lip. "But you'll probably have to be patient with me."

"I can do that."

"Like really patient."

Derek snorted. "You're doing great right now." 

"Yeah, after I cried my eyes out," muttered Stiles. "And then wanted to cry again. It's all your fault."

"What can I say? I love kissing your tears away," teased Derek, and Stiles' ears reddened. 

He pressed his lips against Derek's, this time for deeper kisses that ended up in pants and moans and staggered, delayed movements to get to the shower, where Derek didn't give him a chance to breathe, much less gather his walls back up.

Not that he tried to put his walls up. In fact, he did the opposite, initiating more than usual with earnest tinges of fervor as if trying to not just display his heart, but shove it in Derek's hands as well.

Ah, Derek would do anything for him.

So clumsy and cute, so sincere and sexy—a mixture of contradictions that Derek grew more and more addicted to by the day. He inhaled Stiles' sweet, smoky scent darkened by desire like oxygen, devoured Stiles' keening moans of his name like ambrosia, ravished Stiles' needy, sensitive body trembling for more like he was possessed. 

He bit into Stiles' shoulder, licking up the flaming blood. 

Stiles' nails dug into his back. He arched in Derek's arms amidst countless releases, voice scratchy from the lewd noises that kept spilling past his lips, yet still begged for Derek to wreck him more, fill him up, "make me yours"—

Derek snapped. He hadn't intended to knot him, but he couldn't hold his wolf back, not after Stiles begged him like that, and it didn't help that when the base of his cock began thickening, Stiles just whimpered delighted "yesyesyesyes"s and "pleasepleaseplease"s and "you're so big"s and "feel so stuffed"s and Derek's claws shattered a few tiles on the shower wall in an attempt to not fuck his growing knot into him.

Not that it worked.

Stiles wouldn't stop babbling, filter lost amidst his blissed out desire and guard all the way down. He'd moan praises and encouragements, telling Derek how good he felt inside him and "don't stop" s, and Derek could hold onto a thread of his sanity for the most part.

But not when his knot fully thickened inside Stiles, spurts of cum filling Stiles to the brim as his claws gouged the wall trying not to jerk his hips too much and pin Stiles still, and Stiles looked at him with glazed over irises, wet and much too vulnerable, lids fluttering, and gasped in between moans and shivers of his own weak, almost continuous releases, "I'm yours now, right?"

Tears trickled from the corners of Stiles' eyes. 

"You have to keep me now," he breathed.

Derek lost it. Carnal red flashed before his vision as he fucked his knot even deeper into Stiles, savoring the way Stiles' being sang for him, every muscle trying to pull him in and every sound for his benefit. He slammed his hips in shallow thrusts into Stiles and bit the crook of Stiles' neck, claws digging into Stiles' soft thighs on a rumbled growl—Stiles cried out in yet another arch of pleasure. His hole clamped down around Derek as he spasmed and came dry for the umpteenth time.

The jolts of pleasure trembled through Stiles' limp body for a while. As if his climax couldn't fade completely with Derek's knot inside him, still filling him up with cum slowly but surely, soft moans slipped from Stiles' throat as aftershocks of flames and ecstasy shivered across his body. 

Derek couldn't tear his eyes away. The way Stiles' fingers trailed down his body, the way Stiles' hole milked his knot for every last drop and his pale, flushed body fluttered in pleasure within Derek's embrace, the way he licked his kiss-swollen lips and bit his bottom one on little blissed, content whimpers—Derek couldn't help but nip and suckle Stiles' lower lip for himself every time he did that, swallowing Stiles' sweet noises with filthy, lingering kisses, and Stiles must've caught on because he breathed out delighted laughs against Derek's lips, giggles, that sang like music in Derek's ears.

"Do you like it when I lick my lips?" asked Stiles with a giggle between quiet, pleased noises. "You keep kissing me every time I"—he licked his lips—

Derek stole another kiss, ending it with his teeth pulling Stiles' bottom lip, and Stiles giggled again—god, he could get used to that soft, soft pillow of a laugh. 

"I don't like it," he murmured. "I want to be the only one licking these lips."

Stiles' eyes widened and Derek watched him. He'd told him that he didn't need to tone down his words, hadn't he?

This barely grazed the surface of the inferno that consumed his soul.

Stiles ran his tongue over his lips, measured and deliberate and sensual, and Derek growled as he kissed him. His heart skipped a beat hearing Stiles' muffled laughter vibrate through his mouth, feeling those kiss-swollen lips curl into neverending smiles against his. 

"Has anyone ever told you that you have jealousy issues?" asked Stiles, eyes twinkling.

"This is my first time," said Derek. "And my last."

Stiles' breath hitched, and this time he was the one who pulled Derek's head in for a raunchy, obscene kiss that ended in Derek fucking his knot into Stiles again, his possessive growl echoing off the shower walls, as Stiles came dry so hard that he couldn't seem to stop clamping down around Derek's cock with the neediest, most desperate mix of moans and squeals.

By the time they exited the bathroom—or rather, Derek carried Stiles out—the wall clock in the hallway displayed a whopping 7:45 a.m. 

Stiles groaned, limbs tightening around Derek as they lay together on Derek’s bottom bunk. “I don’t wanna move. Maybe I can stay sleeping here. Allen’s serving breakfast today too, right? He’s chill, he won’t care.”

“If he reports that we’re sleeping together to the FBI, they’ll care.”

“Mm, but I’m tired,” whined Stiles as he buried his face in Derek’s chest, “and it’s coldddd.”

"Ah, so that’s why you’re hugging me, I see."

"Shuddup," muttered Stiles. He didn’t move a muscle, face still buried in Derek’s bare chest. "I could die happy like this. I can still feel your cum inside me."

Derek rubbed his face with a groan, a hint of a growl around the edges. "You're going to be the death of me."

Stiles shivered—or maybe it was a flinch—and didn’t respond, instead hugging him tighter, but before he could ask if Stiles was okay or if he’d said something wrong, footsteps thudded through the halls along with keys clanging and doors opening.

“Ah.” Stiles lifted his head. “Fuck. I forgot today was ‘mingling’ day.”

Chapter Text

"What's the matter?"

Derek glanced at Stiles as the escorting guards left the enclosed outside arena and marveled the way the sun lit Stiles' usual deep chocolate eyes in an almost golden amber brown.

"You seem quieter than usual," continued Stiles. "Or like you're thinking hard."

Derek didn't know how to tell him that he'd been stewing over 'You're going to be the death of me' the whole walk here while Stiles chatted with Allen—they seemed to get along weirdly well recently due to their shared love of sweets. No matter how he thought about it, he didn't think the words themselves were the issue, so he began to wonder if they'd reminded Stiles of a sensitive topic. Perhaps they'd reminded Stiles of the predicament that he'd already been worrying over, about how the two of them would stay in contact without getting caught, which would spell certain disaster for Stiles.

Understandable. Honestly, Derek hadn't expected Stiles to think so hard about how they could meet up—he hadn't thought Stiles would want to meet up that much. The fact that he wanted to was more than enough for Derek, because he could take care of the rest, but he knew Stiles would, of course, want his own guarantees. There wasn't much he could do to assuage Stiles' worries besides assure him that he'd never let his presence harm Stiles in any way.

He took a moment to pick the right words to voice his thoughts. “Earlier, I said something and you tensed. I'm not sure why, but if it's because it reminded you about our situation, I want to make sure you know that I’ll never put you in danger. Even on the slim chance that we were seen, I can easily twist the situation so that you won't be involved—I'm good at that. I wouldn't ever drag you down with me."

Succinct enough, to the point, and reassuring, he'd thought, but Stiles' eyes widened and his lips quivered as if he'd seen a ghost. "No," he whispered, "No, that's not—"

"Ah, my favorite nephew!" Peter called out as he strolled towards them. "Aren't you two a sight for sore eyes?"

Stiles sighed and glared at him.

Peter raised his brows. "Am I interrupting something? My bad," he said without a hint of apology on his face. "But surely you can talk about it later. We only get to chat once a month."

"I could go a lifetime without talking to you," muttered Stiles. He crossed his arms and huffed, then looked at Derek. "We're not done here," he told him quite firmly.

Derek nodded. He didn't understand why Stiles seemed so worked up, but he couldn't dwell on it when Peter was leaning in much too close towards Stiles—he shoved Peter back with a low warning rumble that only fellow werewolves would be able to detect.

Unfortunately, Peter looked the opposite of reprimanded.

No, he looked absolutely delighted.

"No wonder I haven't heard you wrecking your cell during the past two full moons," said Peter, grinning, with a lingering glance at Stiles’ shoulder. "And you're very put-together considering that the next one is tomorrow. Even more than you used to be."

Stiles looked between the two of them, a kissable, confused crease knitting between his brows as he glanced down at his own shoulder trying to inspect it. "You have trouble on full moons? What does that have to do with me?"

Peter's eyes narrowed—Derek shot him a look that, of course, went ignored.

"You don't know?" asked Peter. A thread of entertained surprise laced his voice. “What exactly do you know? Surely Derek told you about that bite on your—”

Derek grabbed him by the arm and yanked him aside a short distance away from Stiles. “This isn’t your business.”

“Does he know anything?”

“He doesn’t know about the bite."

“Or the fact that you destroy everything in sight on full moons," added Peter. "Eichen literally shakes from your fits, and now all of a sudden, you’re calm as ever after a certain new cellmate?"

"Just keep your mouth shut. This isn't your business,” repeated Derek.

Peter glanced at Stiles, who stood there watching them in utter confusion. Derek didn’t know how he was going to explain this to him later.

“It’s only a matter of time before he figures it out.” Peter’s gaze flicked back to Derek, his shrewd, ice-blue eyes boring into him. “What did I always teach you? You shouldn’t make anyone your anchor, much less him—do you even know why he’s in here?” he whispered. “For all we know, he could be undercover for the FBI.”

“Does it matter?"

Peter’s brows knitted together as realization dawned over his features. “It’s unrequited?!” he hissed. “Are you crazy?”

“It’s not, but I never expected anything from the start," said Derek. "Whatever happens is fine with me.”

“‘Whatever happens’—” Peter rubbed his face with a deep exhale. “You made him your anchor and gave him a mating bite, idiot! ‘Whatever happens’ spells misery for only you,” he emphasized with a jab of his pointer finger in Derek’s chest. “You didn’t show all those hunters, the entire world, who we are for this. This should be your time. This is your time, whenever you choose to leave this place.” 

Peter paused. “You didn’t survive that fire for this,” he said. A breath of hesitation, then a few quiet words—“I didn’t survive that fire for this.”

The most emotion Derek had seen from him in a long while aside from anger and ambition.

Derek let his guard soften, just in this moment. He didn’t know what Peter saw in his eyes, on his face, but the indignation icing those sharp eyes seemed to fade into distress.

“Derek, this won’t last,” whispered Peter. “The moment he’s out of here, he won’t come back. And”—he sighed—“I dug around, back when he disappeared, and found out about an incident a few months before. He and one of his classmates had been sitting in a car that caught on fire. It was ruled a bizarre accident, but the classmate got severe burns, all over half his torso, and not a hair on Stilinski’s head was singed." Peter looked him in the eyes with a sigh. "You’re not invincible. Even you can be burned alive.”

"That’s fine," said Derek. He imagined that as the second-to-last worst case scenario, with the worst being Stiles dying and him not being able to prevent it despite his plan to watch over him.

Mm, but then again, if him burning to death benefitted Stiles, then it wouldn't be that bad. It'd only be bad if he burned to death because Stiles hated him that much. Or thought he was scum of the earth. 

The latter seemed more likely, especially since he couldn't picture Stiles hating someone to that extent—Stiles didn't feel like the type to kill someone solely because he disliked them.

Peter scoffed and shook his head. “For all we know, he’s playing around with you, trying to get information from you. Do you really think he’d spare a single thought about you once he’s out of that cell? He’s toying with you, Derek, he’s just using you as a way to pass time—"

"You’re wrong."

"Oh, really." Peter's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Excuse me if I don't believe you."

Derek breathed out a heavy sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, the tragic events from years ago blazing before his eyes like they'd happened yesterday as he tried to put the tangled mess of emotions that'd only twisted together even more into words. 

"...Peter, we didn’t survive that fire,” he said at last, voice quiet, resolute. “You did. You’re the only one who survived. You clawed your way to life, out of your coma and insanity, and I…I’m a dead man walking. It doesn’t matter what he thinks about me. I chose him, and I’ll follow him to the ends of the earth, whether we meet again or not." A growl vibrated in his chest as his irises flashed carmine. "He’s mine."

A long, considering pause—Peter scrutinized him. "...All or nothing," he mused, the usual amused glint returned to his eyes with a tinge of fondness, though he would never admit it. "You always were like that."

"I don't know any other way to be," Derek said simply, and it was just as well, because Stiles walked over at that moment with two plastic cups in hand.

"They're handing out lemonade," said Stiles. He gave Derek one of the cups as he sipped from the other. "It's okay. Not sweet enough."

Derek tasted the cool liquid—his cup seemed to have a slight leak at the top so he licked the lemonade that'd spilled off the side and licked his lips. "Not sour enough either. Too diluted."

Stiles didn't respond right away, so he glanced over to see Stiles staring at his face? His mouth? 

Before he could say anything though, Stiles startled on his own and said, "Oh, yeah, pretty much. But it's way better than what we usually get."

Derek hummed in agreement—Peter rolled his eyes for some reason. "Hello, I'm still here," said Peter.

"Get your own lemonade," retorted Stiles. "I only get lemonade for Derek."

A very trivial statement, but it warmed Derek's chest quite nicely. "You heard him," said Derek, quietly pleased. "Only me."

Peter rolled his eyes again. "Are you seriously happy over this? You realize that's pathetic, right? No wonder you're this deep in."

Derek just sipped his lemonade. "If you say so," he said with a hum, because yes, this made him happy and no, he didn't care what Peter thought about it, but Peter's words raised Stiles' hackles and had him staring daggers. 

"What's so pathetic about it?" snapped Stiles. "Because I'm 'toying' with him, is that it? Yeah, I can read lips. I saw all the random accusations you threw about me, like you know anything, like you even know me at all, and I get it, you're worried, fine—but don't act like everyone's just like you."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Eavesdropping used to be considered rude, but I suppose I shouldn't have expected any better in prison," he said with a sigh. "And I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I never toy with my prey. Why, I killed off all those little human subordinates who helped burn our family to the ground quite quickly, didn't I?"

"So trying to manipulate your own daughter into helping you kill Scott doesn't count as 'toying'?" 

Derek sipped his lemonade. So Stiles had read their lips. The whole time.

He tried to remember what all he'd said that Stiles might not take great, but he'd said quite a good number of probably not normal things, so he just stopped thinking about it. Stiles had wanted him to stop toning his words down anyway, right? He was absolute shit at mincing words to begin with. Saying what he thought and letting the dice roll where they may was much more his speed—it was just that his dice in this case were most likely rolling straight into the gutter.

"Are you enjoying your lemonade there?" asked Peter, caustic as ever—Derek snapped out of his thoughts. "Yeah, you. Just gonna stand there while your little boyfriend attacks me?"

Derek, honestly, had no clue what they were talking about even when he had paid attention. He knew next to nothing about what had gone on in Beacon Hills while he hunted werewolf hunters across the states. "...I'm enjoying it, yes," he said. "What's going on?"

Peter threw his hands up in the air with a huff and cast an extremely annoyed look at Stiles when Stiles hugged one of Derek's arms. Derek glanced down at him in pleased surprise—he quite liked the feeling of Stiles' lithe arms and body against his arm, but he thought they'd agreed to keep a certain distance in order to appear 'civil' at most to any onlooking guards.

"Absolutely nothing." Stiles smiled up at him, but then it faded into a worried frown, and it wasn't until Peter yanked his other shoulder that he realized that he'd nearly pitched forward on his face.

His vision blurred and his heart pounded in his ears. 

The way his blood rushed, the way his muscles seized—he could tell.

“Wolfsbane,” he gasped out just as he bent forward and coughed up a mouthful of violet liquid.

A specially grown one judging by the severe, fast-acting effects and the fact that he hadn’t detected anything off with the lemonade.

“All that talk and you poisoned my nephew,” snapped Peter with a hand to Stiles’ collar. “What the hell did you put—”

He cut off. 

Derek could hear them, too.

“What?” asked Stiles, eyes blown in panic as he tried to support Derek. “What is it?”

Footsteps outside the walls, silent, purposeful, and whispered commands in German. 

Derek shoved Stiles at Peter. “They’re after me.” He wiped his mouth and glanced at the other prisoners, now also on guard. “Stay back with the others. I’ll be fine.”

“Wha— Wait, Derek, but you’re—”

“It’ll be fine,” Derek assured Stiles as he extended his claws with pained effort—he needed to give his regeneration a boost. “We can’t let them find out here.”

He’d be damned if Stiles had to reveal his ability here because of him.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but Allen came running up before he could.

“Hey, what’s going on?” asked Allen while staring at the violet liquid Derek had thrown up. “Are you okay? Do you nee—”

Smoke flooded the enclosed area in an instant as explosions blasted through the wall.

Derek barely yanked Allen down in time—gunfire rang out through the air along with shouts of pain, and Allen was no different. Despite Derek pulling him out of the way from certain death, a bullet had still hit his side, so Derek tried to cover him and Stiles as Stiles helped drag him behind a table.

He nearly pitched forward again.

The poison acted too fast, targeting his wolf—he couldn’t shift into a full wolf even if he wanted to, and he couldn’t control his sense of pain either. Before long, it’d affect his regeneration as well, so he had to jumpstart it now, and a simple digging of his nails into his skin wouldn’t work—

He sank his claws into his chest with a deep exhale of agony, around his beating heart, and the pounding in his ears increased into the rhythm of racing, thudding drums. Stiles called his name, and maybe Peter did as well, but he tried to keep his focus on the approaching hunters and gauge the amount of time he had before he needed to act.

More burning bile surged from his throat. Deep violet but darker, blackened, just like the beads of inky liquid that sweated out of his skin.

His feet staggered. He stooped behind a toppled over table to catch his breath and ready himself—the more his body expelled the poison, the more his muscles relaxed and breathed, once more flexible enough to fight—

Stiles yanked him down just as he tensed to pounce for the nearest hunter scoping out for him.

If he blinked, he would've missed it. A small, flat bag of what looked like dried red flowers, a flash of flame from Stiles' hand, and he tossed it over the table right into the middle of the small group of hunters while Allen covered his mouth with his shirt.

"Just a whiff puts humans to sleep," Stiles whispered in his ear. 

Derek had no idea what Stiles had burned, nor did he recognize the dark floral scent that filled the air, like roses mixed with mead and burnt sugar, but sure enough, the gunfire ceased. The smoke-filled area fell silent save for the thuds of bodies hitting the ground and whispered tension amongst the prisoners and guards present, and Derek breathed a giant sigh of relief after making sure Stiles didn't have any injuries.

The black liquid sweating out from his pores lessened. He no longer needed to throw anything up, but now that the imminent danger seemed to have passed, exhaustion seeped into his bones.

"Are you sure you're okay?" asked Stiles, worry emanating from him as he helped Allen apply pressure to his side. "You're not just saying that, are you?"

Derek poured a bottle of water over his head and wiped some of the expelled poison off his skin. "I'm fine, I promise. Just had to give my regeneration a boost."

"By stabbing yourself in the heart?" Horror dripped from Stiles' voice, from the scared look he gave him.

"The deeper the wound, the more it boosts regeneration." Peter strolled over from behind a different table, looking none the worse for wear. "At least in Derek's case, I imagine. The rest of us would just have deep wounds."

Derek wanted to cup Stiles' cheek, assure him he really was just fine, but he reached out to brush some crumbled rock dust off Stiles' hair instead. "I wanted to boost regeneration around my heart before the wolfsbane overtook it. It was also the fastest way to expel the poison from my bloodstream." He yawned and leaned back against the table. "They must be the Lehmann group's relatives from overseas."

"More importantly," said Peter with narrowed eyes, "what exactly did you throw out that knocked out every human in the area within seconds?"

"...Blood flowers," muttered Stiles. "They're a special kind."

Derek glanced at him in surprise—he remembered Stiles telling him about the blood flowers growing in the sites of his massacres. 

It seemed that they held special uses as well, though Derek wondered how Stiles even knew about them. He supposed Stiles must really like those flowers to even sneak some into Eichen to begin with.

Stiles didn't say anything else after that, just helping Allen put pressure on his wound instead, so Derek nodded off to Peter talking about something or another. He vaguely remembered Stiles helping him walk back to their cell, but the next time he fully woke up, he sprang up panting, chest heaving, with wide eyes, flames lingering behind his eyes, but this time of Stiles burning because of him.

Cool hands pressed against his hot skin, soothing and caressing his face. "It's okay," whispered Stiles. He sat beside Derek on his bed with a small bin of water beside him, damp washcloth draped over the edge of it. "You're okay. We're okay."

Derek had to stare at him for a good thirty seconds before registering that he hadn't just killed Stiles with own two hands, dragging him down with him despite his promise that he'd never let that happen, and when he did, he relaxed into Stiles' hands, turning his face to press tiny kisses along the inside of Stiles' wrist.

Stiles looked like he wanted to cry. "I—" His lips trembled, and he swallowed. "I'm sorry. I think it's because of me."

Derek pressed more kisses against his skin as he waited for him to continue. 

"The hunters," whispered Stiles. "I noticed— They wore similar gear to the FBI. I think they had help. It was probably another test, except"—his voice wavered—"they meant to kill you and have me get caught up in the fray to see how I react in a life or death situation. Allen said they asked him a lot of questions about that."

"And your fire?" asked Derek. "He saw it, didn't he?"

"Yeah," said Stiles. "I don't know if anyone else saw, but he said he didn't tell the FBI anything."

"Did he say anything else?"

Stiles let out a deep sigh. "Well, he asked me if I did it, the things the FBI are investigating me for."

Derek made a noncommittal noise—he just realized that he'd never asked Stiles what they were investigating him for.

Not that it particularly mattered to him outside of how it affected Stiles.

He continued kissing the inside of Stiles' hand, still caressing his cheek, and Stiles leaned in for a brief, lingering kiss before drawing back just a hair's breadth.

"I told him, 'I don't know exactly what they're investigating me for, but I've killed some monsters.'" Stiles' bottomless, burnt mahogany eyes pierced through him, searing. "'And I'd do it again.'"

A shiver ran down Derek's spine and he let out a quiet laugh—Stiles stared at him with confused, wide-eyed surprise for some reason. "Fuck, that was hot," he breathed with a lick, nip, and suck on Stiles' bottom lip, and a flame flickered from it.

Stiles bit his lip in a mix of shy fondness and stifled laughter, cheeks pink. "Only you'd react like that. I should've known when you never even asked once."

"Never once thought about it until now," admitted Derek, and Stiles couldn't hold back a laugh this time before sobering a little.

"But...." Stiles licked his lips as his brow knitted together. "I really am sorry. You almost— Because of me—"

"That should be my line," murmured Derek. "If any of the other guards saw— Because of me...." He trailed off with a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll think on it. Maybe I can figure out a good exc—"

"No."

Derek glanced at Stiles in surprise, then looked away. “Easiest would be saying you had a lighter,” he said anyway. “The kitchen might have one. If not, I can—”

Stiles shook his head. “Derek, no,” he said with a sigh as he rubbed his face. “No, it’s not worth it.”

“I’m not going to let you lose your livelihood and become a fugitive.” Derek’s voice rang quiet but steady despite the guilt weighing heavy in his gut. “I meant it when I said I wouldn’t drag you down with me.”

A pause.

Derek continued looking down at his hands, thinking about where to find a lighter, when Stiles lifted his face so he would look at him. 

A wet sheen glistened over Stiles' eyes, and a fond, bittersweet smile trembled on his lips.

“I was never going to stay with the FBI, Derek."

Derek's eyes widened. 

"I didn’t want to tell you anything specific until I figured it out, but I just"—Stiles' hands clenched—"I want you to be safe. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me." He averted his eyes. "If I'm a fugitive, they'd definitely keep an eye on me and you'd probably end up getting caught up in it, so I thought maybe if I could shake off the FBI's suspicion of me, leave Eichen, resign and go off-grid, then you wouldn't get hurt after you escape and we meet up. But I didn't think— I didn't think they would go that far."

Stiles rubbed his face with a deep sigh. "I should've guessed. This wasn't going to work from the beginning. It doesn't matter anymore." 

"Wait, Stiles, it's too soon to tell," Derek tried to tell him, mind still trying to digest everything he'd just said. "They might not know—"

"You nearly died!" Stiles burst out. Tears leaked from his eyes, and Derek's heart felt like it stopped. "I don't care if they find out about my power or not! Don't you get it? What's the point if you're going to get hurt?"

His chest rose and fell with his heavy pants. 

And Derek just stared, eyes wide. This was the first time he'd seen Stiles open up his facade of smiles so completely, of his own will, much less let his thoughts and emotions out in such an explosive surge. 

From the start, Stiles had always seemed too calm, too easygoing. 

He babbled and made faces and babbled some more, but Derek could tell from the moment he looked into those cool, brown eyes that his new cellmate lacked emotion. As time passed, however, he realized—it wasn't that Stiles didn't care, but that he didn't let himself care. A sort of loneliness cloaked him as he kept himself under lock and key, always controlled despite the way his contradictory, absentminded rambling and actions let on, and Derek had found himself wanting to know what Stiles kept inside so tightly.

That never changed. Even when he'd asked Stiles what he'd been worrying over recently, he knew Stiles hadn't told him everything. He didn't mind. It wasn't like he told Stiles everything. 

But this.... 

He hadn't expected this.

He hadn't expected Stiles to get this upset over— over him.  

Because he'd gotten hurt? That was why Stiles was so upset?

Derek couldn't wrap his mind around it, not to mention the fact that Stiles had apparently from the start only planned to stay with the FBI for now so they could meet up without him getting hurt. In fact, everything Stiles had been fretting and worrying over the past week or so wasn't about whether or not he wanted to keep in contact with him, but whether they could meet up without compromising his safety...? 

He would've never guessed. For fuck's sake, he possessed absurd self-regeneration, along with the ability to toggle off his pain sensors, so why his safety? Wouldn't Stiles' safety be more the issue?

"Um, but you're right about it being too soon to tell," Stiles spoke up with a sniffle, looking pink in the face and a bit embarrassed by his outburst. "So I was thinking, if it doesn't go well, or they're still going to continue investigating me, we can just break out. I don't wanna wait too much longer, but—" He hesitated as he rubbed the back of his neck, and Derek could tell that he was trying to shift his expression as casual as possible. "I was wondering if you wanted to live together...? Or meet up sometimes? I'm fine with either, of course, I just thought I should ask, y'know, since you probably prefer one over the other or have something in mind, especially since y—"

Derek cut off his rambling with a kiss. Salty and wet from his tears, but sweet. 

"Are you really asking me that?" he murmured with a fond look, lips a hair's breadth away from Stiles'.

Stiles blinked.

And then he broke into a soft, soft laugh, grinning from ear to ear. "It was a stupid question, huh?"

"Very," said Derek, and Stiles pulled him in for another kiss full of smiles.

Chapter Text

Stiles couldn't stop staring at him.

And no, it wasn't because of the conversation they'd had earlier today, where Derek apparently couldn't comprehend why it mattered if he was hurt because " my wounds heal themselves in seconds".

"You can still die," Stiles had told with an 'are you stupid' look when he'd brought it up. "I could burn you to ashes."

"...Only you could do that though," Derek had responded. "Fires don't naturally get that hot."

A completely idiotic response in Stiles' opinion, so he'd launched into a 'you're not invincible you fucking moron, you nearly died from some poison we still don't even know what exactly it was, you can't save yourself everytime through some stupid shit like stabbing your heart or whatever the fuck you did' lecture with utmost seriousness that somehow ended in Derek kissing him all over until he came in Derek's mouth and forgot what he'd been so passionately going on about.

No, he wasn't staring at Derek because he wanted a continuation of that, definitely not—okay, maybe just a little—but because tonight was the full moon and Derek really did seem completely fine.

Like he had the whole time they'd been cellmates.

If Peter hadn't said that Derek went on a rampage every full moon in Eichen, Stiles would've never known. The question that plagued him, though, was why.

Why did Derek not have issues on the full moon anymore? Surely there was more to it.

He must've stared one too many times, though, because Derek set down his book at some point and said, "I'm fine. I don't have raging fits on the full moon anymore."

Stiles' ears reddened as he stopped coloring the doodle of a wolf and a falcon he'd gotten Derek to draw for him and turned to face him in his seat at the desk. "Was I that obvious?"

"You couldn't be any more obvious," said Derek, voice dry. "Let's just say that."

Stiles pouted. "You can't blame me for being curious! I mean, you look super calm and just fine. Have you always had a lot of trouble with the full moon?"

"A little when I was younger, but no, only after I finished my business. My anger was my anchor, so when it dissipated, I couldn't control my wolf anymore."

"Mm, that makes sense," mused Stiles. He hesitated, heart beating faster as he fidgeted with his fingers. "But I don't really get it. I mean, you're calm and stuff now because you have a, uh, new anchor now, right?"

Derek gave him an amused, yet unfairly fond look. "You, yes."

Stiles could feel his face warm. "Right, yeah. Um, but, like, when exactly did that happen, and how? I kinda totally just talked at you and made you help me steal food." He paused, then added in realization, "Wait, you didn't even initiate conversation until after the first full moon!"

"...You remember when I first initiated conversation?" asked Derek with a raised brow. Even more amusement colored his voice, and he looked like he was stifling laughter—Stiles' face really did flush this time.

“W-Well, it was a big moment!” retorted Stiles, which didn’t exactly help his case—now that Derek brought it up, why did he remember that? 

He supposed he’d already liked Derek to some extent by then, though he’d never acknowledged it to himself. 

He hadn't wanted to even think about it, the fact that the first time he'd felt something in years would lead nowhere but temporary, fruitless disaster, and besides, he'd been living just fine sludging through the movements of life, guard impenetrable and up high, trying to find little bits of joy and peace among trivial everyday moments. 

He didn't need another disaster. Twice was quite enough, and he'd barely been emotionally involved in them—he could hardly imagine what kind of disaster would ensue with his emotions running high.

But Derek....

He'd hated how Derek watched him. He'd hated how Derek always seemed to see straight through him, how Derek never pressed him but left his skin hot and tingling from a single 'accidental' brush of the finger, and then when Derek had kissed him that night instead of the interrogation he'd expected, he couldn't help but come aflame.

The moment Derek had warned him in the shower that he'd never escape his clutches if he didn't stop him now, Stiles had known.

It was too late for him. Even if he hadn't acknowledged the flame, it'd already grown into a blazing fire that only stoked higher and higher and wilder and wilder with Derek's every word, Derek's every action.

From that moment on, he only thought about how to avoid the worst-case disaster—that his actions wouldn't burn Derek as well. 

He was used to being alone. He was used to burning alone. 

He'd never once considered that Derek planned to burn alone from the start as well. He'd never once considered that Derek would risk all he had on him, lay his life in his hands without a word.

The way his blood had simmered and soared when he'd read Peter and Derek's lips, the way his heart had clenched yet broken free—it'd been all he could do to keep himself from lighting ablaze. 

And then Derek had spat up poison, sweated it, stabbed himself in the heart to stay alive, all while telling him that he didn't need to use his powers, and Stiles saw red. 

He still saw red.

For Derek's sake, for Derek's safety, he waited to see what the FBI would conclude on him, but if their answer wasn't satisfactory—

Ah, he'd burn them all down.

If Derek had claimed him so thoroughly as his—his anchor, his mate, his life—then it was only right that Stiles showed him the depths of his flames.

"I think it was your voice," Derek told him, eyes far away as he mused. "The way you always stared at me straight in the eyes, never flinched, never looked down your nose. You'd just talk and talk and talk, most of the time not even to me, and when that first full moon came around, I couldn't even hear the screams over your yapping about how it couldn't be good for my hand joints to do handstand pushups on one thumb."

Stiles blinked. He stared blankly at Derek.

"...I became your anchor because I yap too much," he said.  

The corners of Derek's eyes crinkled in laughter. "Well, if you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous."

Stiles' mind slowly started back to life again. "It sounds fucking stupid!" he retorted. "You're joking, right? You're saying I literally talked so much that you couldn't even think!"

"No, you talked so much that I could think," Derek corrected him.

"Yeah, think about my stupid annoying voice telling you to stop doing thumb handstands," snapped Stiles with a huff as he went back to coloring with a frown and a furrowed brow. "Which you're about to do anyway, and guess what? I'm not going to yap at you! So let's see how your full moon goes tonight without your yapping anchor, why don't we?"

Derek sat up and kissed his cheek. "Were you hoping for a romantic reason?"

Stiles could hear the laughter in his voice—he decidedly kept his mouth shut and ignored him despite his warming ears.

He didn't say a single word for what felt like hours. He didn't say anything, but that didn't mean he couldn't look, did it?

Derek always worked out shirtless, sweats hanging low on his hips, and his workout sessions really did last hours, so it only made sense that he glanced over from time to time every minute or so. 

Or maybe less than a minute.

And what was he supposed to stare at while he ate his dinner anyway, which was an actually okay-tasting bowl of stew tonight? The fake ass window? The bloodflowers he'd drawn?

Of course, he stared down at Derek's drawing pretending he was coloring it whenever Derek turned or took breaks, but he couldn't very well color and eat at the same time—he lacked the ambidextrous skills needed for that.

It had nothing to do with the fact that the way Derek's perfectly chiseled yet pliant muscles tightened and relaxed and glistened and rippled mesmerized him, of course not, nor with the fact that he could watch Derek just move all day in that naturally graceful, lithe, predatory aura of his.

Absolutely not.

He definitely did not fidget in his seat wanting to touch Derek or get rid of his growing erection or snuggle or at least say something— Derek stepped out of the shower after his workout and Stiles swallowed. Beads of water trickled down the divots of his heavenly body, now glistening with fresh water instead of sweat, and disappeared past his v-line under the sweats hanging off his hips.

Stiles wanted to lick the droplets up. 

Discreetly. Yes, because discreet was his middle name—

Derek stared right back at him from where he lounged on his bottom bunk with an all-too-amused gleam in his eyes when Stiles tried to sneak another glance.

He crooked his finger at Stiles and patted the sheets in front of him.

Stiles feigned ignorance. “What? I just wanted to see what you’re doing.”

“You’ve been practically eyefucking me,” said Derek.

“Wha— I—” Blood rushed to Stiles’ face as he stammered. “I didn’t—”

“C’mere, Mieszko," murmured Derek with another crook of his finger, and Stiles’ stomach fluttered—his heart never failed to squeeze from Derek’s nickname for him ever since Stiles had told him his real first name. 

“You’re playing dirty,” he muttered as he crawled onto the bed.

Derek pulled him into his firm arms, against that lush chest. "I've been playing dirty this whole time"—he buried his nose in the crook of Stiles' neck and licked over the scar of his bite—"and it got me exactly what I want."

Stiles shivered as he hugged Derek's head close. "Technically I already liked you before you started touching me all the time."

"I meant today."

"Oh." Stiles' face heated and he avoided Derek's gaze on him. "Right."

"But I'm surprised. I would've never guessed."

"Yeah right," muttered Stiles.

"You're hard to read," Derek told him, eyes searching, and Stiles raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, now you're just spouting shit," said Stiles. "I know I'm a crappy liar, alright? I'm not good at the whole poker face thing like you."

"You aren't, but sometimes you hide your true emotions behind a smile, and other times"—Derek smirked with an all-too-knowing look—"you're quite obvious, like today."

Stiles' face warmed. "I was not eyefucking you!"

"Mhm, what's this then?" Derek slipped his hand down Stiles' pants in one swift move, breaking through the barrier of his baggy shirt covering his crotch, and gave his leaking cock a hard tug.

A mix between shocked moan and a squeal dropped from Stiles' lips before he could clap his hands over his mouth, not that it would've mattered, because Derek yanked his hands from his mouth. He stroked Stiles' cock a few more times, coating his fingers in precum, then slid his hand further down to rub Stiles' hole.

Stiles' mouth dropped open on a needy gasp, and Derek licked his lips, silver green eyes glinting with hunger—a shiver ran down Stiles' spine. 

"You know werewolves have a higher libido on the full moon, don't you?" 

"Huh?" breathed Stiles. "I've never heard of that."

"Isn't that why you've been teasing me for the past two hours," asked Derek with a hidden growl as his fingers rubbed the rim and dipped in, never fully entering, "sitting there pretending you weren't dripping for me?"

Stiles whimpered. Blood rushed to his face and flames flickered from between his legs in jerky grinds. "I wasn't— I'm not 'dripping'—"

"Who're you convincing, Mieszko?" Derek near ripped Stiles' shirt off to run his tongue across Stiles' nipples, feral eyes glowing as they trained up on him. "Look at you moaning like you've wanted this the whole time. It was hard for you, wasn't it? Don't worry, I'll take care of you now."

"Derek, please—" Lewd, desperate noises fell from Stiles' lips. His hips rutted against Derek's hand for more, but Derek wouldn't finger him, instead continuing to tease the entrance with his fingers and tease Stiles' nipples with his tongue, and combined with those past two hours of trying to hide his growing erection, he came in a spurt of flames just like that, only for the pleasure to build up more and more because Derek never stopped, never gave him a chance to breathe, as he finally slipped a finger inside and rubbed Stiles' nipples—

The start of a long, long night.

Derek hadn't been kidding about having a higher libido. It was already high to begin with, but now....

Stiles wasn't sure he would even notice if he burned their beds down.

He'd told Derek to move to the showers, only for Derek to refuse—"You're going to need the mattress tonight," he'd promised.

And god, was he right. 

Stiles thought he'd experienced the ravishing bliss that was Derek. Their shower sex always drove him up the wall, and it'd taken him all he had to not completely melt into Derek's hands during those few days that he tried to rein in his emotions towards Derek, scared and unsure that he could actually do this without fucking it all up, but Derek made him weak with the way he kissed him like breathing in oxygen and took him like devouring a god. He made him want to hope.

Derek always took his breath away, always. Every side Derek showed him, his heart restarted.

The chains crumbled to ash with each jolt that brought him back to life until he wore his heart on display, beating once more, and Derek showed him so much that it hurt to breathe, like too-fresh air that burned his lungs after too long in the dark.

The full moon only amplified it all. For once, that tight control that threaded through Derek's muscles like a second skin loosened and unraveled, bit by bit, revealing more of the stark contrasts that weaved Derek's soul. Both wolf and human, neither one ending or beginning—they melded together, and the full moon brought out more of not just the wolf reined within, but the human as well. 

Stiles' flames burned bright. It was a miracle the bed remained relatively unscathed, or perhaps a testament to how close Derek embraced him. All he could feel was Derek, Derek, Derek, all over, caressing every inch of his skin, ravishing him, worshiping him, demolishing him—

Feral yet tender, demanding yet gentle; his razor sharp fangs and claws dragged over his flesh yet never drew blood, as if he simply took pleasure in watching Stiles lay himself bare to him, letting him run his natural-born daggers down his cock, inside his hole.

He consumed him.

And god, Stiles wanted to consume him too. His flames only blazed higher, wilder, as Derek fucked him with fierce, relentless thrusts in his lap, back arched against Derek's chest and head pulled back over Derek's shoulder to expose his throat for those fangs, all the while unable to do anything except moan and tremble and clench around Derek's cock claiming his insides. He put himself at Derek's mercy, and for what?

"Mine," he panted, demanded. The tips of his fire scorched the bottom of the top bunk above them as his fingers clawed at Derek's shoulders and arms. "You're mine," he growled, "mine, mine, minemine mine—"

Derek shuddered and jerked against him. A primal howl rumbled from deep within Derek's body, dark and feral, obsessive and powerful, and Stiles near burst with the need to make him his. He couldn't stop jolting from Derek's every touch, from the fangs dragging along his carotid to the tongue licking over the bite mark to the claws digging into the soft flesh of his inner thighs, holding them up for easy access to his spasming hole, and his flames billowed around them almost like wings as they fell apart against each other in a desperate embrace that had blood staining Stiles' fingers from scrabbling at Derek so much despite the scratches healing instantaneously and blood trickling down Stiles' thighs from Derek's claws digging in too deep. Stiles whited out on a silent scream from the sheer intensity that wracked his body, burning him body and soul in that too-fresh, too-delicious way, and slumped in Derek's arms.

"All yours," Derek had whispered on a guttural growl before marking his insides as his for the umpteenth time.

He didn't stop there. Stiles opened his eyes, body exhausted, to Derek licking up the tiny trickles of blood on his legs that somehow ended up in him licking up his cock as well while finger-fucking his cum back inside Stiles, over and over, and Stiles didn't know how many times he released like that, nor whether he actually came or if Derek had somehow coaxed some unknown fluid out his overstimulated, long-spent cock, but all he knew was that he fell asleep wrapped around Derek's body like a pretzel, face nuzzled in against Derek's skin as that sharp but spiced, musky scent enveloped him in a deep, dreamless sleep for once, filled with nothing but Derek's everything.

Not a single scream echoed through the back of his head. Not a single flame danced before his eyes, nor a single scent of sweet, charred flesh.

For once, he woke up with a smile on his lips, easy and fond like it came naturally to him, and it only grew wider when Derek greeted him with a good morning kiss.

"Good sleep?" murmured Derek—Stiles could get used to that content, sleep-roughened voice that sent tingles down his spine.

"So good." Stiles smacked his lips as he stretched and leaned into Derek's arms. "No nightmares. You must've fucked them away."

The look Derek gave him, dripping with affection, had Stiles' ears warming as he kissed Derek again. "Mm, the fire always fades away when you sleep with me," said Derek. "And the voices shut up for once."

Stiles ran his fingers along Derek's cheekbones and hesitated for only a brief moment. "...Me too," he admitted. 

The corners of Derek's eyes crinkled, soft. "You hear voices too?" he teased.

"No, thankfully," said Stiles with a snort. "But I do hear screams. And a fire." He caressed the side of Derek's face and neck, relishing the feel of Derek's warm, warm skin against his palm, unblemished and healthy as ever. "I don't think I'll ever stop worrying that it'll happen again, not completely. Except with you next time."

"And I'll tell you as many times as I need to that I'm fine," replied Derek. "Feels good. Especially when you suck me off."

Stiles let out another snort of a chuckle. "Only you would say that you love having your dick perpetually burned."

"No, I love your mouth a—"

"Oh my god, stop," Stiles cut him off with warm cheeks. "You're so ridiculous. I hope you know that all it takes for this to turn sour real quick is if your abilities stop working."

"Abilities don't just 'stop working'," said Derek. "Unless I'm dying, in which case, I would gladly enjoy your—"

Stiles clapped a hand over Derek's mouth, entire face now heating as he gaped. "Stop that— I can't belie— You're crazy!"

"You say that like it's a shock to you," said Derek, amused.

Stiles' chest squeezed as a sudden bittersweet ache rushed over him, and he tried to keep his lips from trembling. "I just— I don't get it," he muttered. "I don't get why you…. I'm not worth the way you treat me. At all."

"...Mm, you're right," Derek hummed in agreement after a pause.

"Right? It's not like I really have anythi—"

"You're worth much more than the way I treat you," said Derek, matter-of-fact, like he was talking about the weather. "But I'm trying. I won't let you down."

Stiles blinked back the tears stinging his eyes—his heart welled impossibly full. "That's my line. I...I nearly burned someone to death once, you know. A classmate in high school. It's probably how the FBI got on my trail, to be honest."

"Didn't manage to finish the job, hm?"

"No," said Stiles with a watery snort despite himself. "I wasn't trying to kill them. Just"—he hesitated—"just the opposite actually."

Derek raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing. "I thought all your firsts were mine."

"You're ridiculous, y'know that?" huffed Stiles. "They are. Nothing happened, and nothing would've happened. I…. It was a dare."

"You were dared to fake interest in someone?" 

The memories played in Stiles' mind like they'd happened yesterday. "No, they were dared," he muttered. "They asked me out and he parked the car and I— I was really nervous and y'know, didn't know how be smooth and make a move, and he put his hand on the middle arm rest next to mine so I thought he wanted to hold hands and our pinkies overlapped and I guess I was way too nervous 'cause next thing I knew, he was on fire and the car was on fire and he was screaming and screaming until they came out silent and he passed out from the pain."

Stiles' chest heaved, heart racing, as he tried to blink the screams away.

"Overheard his friends an hour later telling the police that it was just a dare," he bit out, a whispered, embarrassed confession. "I don't know why I thought he'd actually—" He cut off on a sigh. "But something in me snapped after that, I think. Or revealed itself, more like. When I heard him shout in pain when he woke up again, covered in burns"—Stiles licked his lips and averted his eyes—"I...I kinda liked it," he admitted.

"But he didn't die?" was Derek's immediate disgruntled response.

Stiles let out a deep exhale of a laugh. "Of course that's what you took from that."

"Is he living painfully at least?" muttered Derek.

"Oh my g— He's fine. He has some scars, but recovered perfectly, I believe. It’s not like I just sat there when he caught fire," said Stiles with another sigh. "I managed to drag him out of the car and put it out relatively quickly."

Derek ruminated on something for a moment, then very innocently asked, “What was his name again?”

Stiles blinked, then pulled him in for a deep kiss, more teeth and tongue than anything because he couldn't help the fond grin hurting his cheeks.

God, he’d do anything for this man. His man.

"Mm, what was that for?" Derek's arms wrapped tight around him, keeping him close and in place as Derek chased his lips. "You also didn’t answer my question."

Stiles huffed out a chuckle. "Like I’m gonna tell you his name," he said as he kissed Derek again."I was really expecting a different response, y’know. I’ve never told anyone the details of what really happened."

"Hm? Like what? How unbelievable it is?"

"How unbelievable what is?" asked Stiles. He could hear his heart thump in his ears. "The part where I liked it?"

"The part where he was dared to ask you out and you don't know why you thought he actually liked you, of course," said Derek. "It sounds ridiculous."

Stiles snorted and his heart lightened once more—he never could tell what Derek would say next. "I don't think you know the definition of ridiculous. Isn't the fact that you took all my firsts telling? I've always been pretty under the radar."

"Or maybe you're just oblivious. Which works out great for me," murmured Derek in another kiss, and Stiles laughed against his lips.

"I feel like you took away all the wrong things from this," said Stiles. 

Derek's tongue licked the inside of his mouth. "Should I have been more sensitive? I'm not good at these things."

Stiles smiled into the kiss, content laughter humming from his throat. "Maybe address the part where I said I liked it? That I've never told anyone else?"

"Oh." 

They continued kissing, languid yet fervent kisses, and Stiles' gut couldn't help but twist as he waited for Derek's reaction. Derek never judged him, not once, and he knew that, but that didn't make whispering confessions that'd never left the safety of his mind until now any less nerve wracking.

Derek paused. A brief glance over Stiles' face, then—

"It's kind of hot," he whispered.

And then he went back to licking Stiles' tongue, and Stiles let out a mix between a fit of laughs and moans.

The fact that Derek had the awareness to look a tinge apologetic just made Stiles laugh even harder, and when he said, "Look, you're talking to a mass murderer here, and killing all those hunters felt fucking great," Stiles lost it.

"But— But those were hunters," gasped Stiles between his laughs. "I'm talking about an innocent classmate!"

Derek squinted at him. "He wasn't innocent and he didn't even die. Or get injured for life. And it was an accident. Even a normal person would tell you that there's nothing to feel guilty about regarding accidents."

"Even if I accidentally killed someone?" Donovan's face flashed through Stiles' mind. 

"An accident is an accident, Stiles," muttered Derek. "The entire definition of an accident is that it happened unintentionally, by chance. Mistakes happen. What, did you kill another 'innocent' classmate?"

"Um, it was this guy who hated my dad trying to kill me."

Derek gave him a look.

"Yeah, I know," said Stiles with a snort. "I've killed people since then, but he was my first and last time accidentally killing someone. I think I feel guilty for it being an accident, not the actual killing him part."

"It's much more satisfying deciding to kill someone and carrying it out the way you want," said Derek. "I get it."

Stiles smiled—the air always felt so crisp and fresh around Derek. "I should've known you would."

"Any more hot secrets to tell me?" asked Derek, fond as ever, and Stiles snorted.

"Mm, lemme see," mused Stiles. "I think you're hot as fuck."

The rich sound of Derek's laughter shot through Stiles like fire. "All the better to lure you in with," he murmured as he slid his hands down to fill them with Stiles' cheeks. "Tell me more."

"I really like it when you laugh."

Derek stroked Stiles' cock, hard and dribbling. "I can tell," he murmured with a smile. "Only for you."

Stiles moaned as he gasped into Derek's mouth. "And I think the way you walk is sexy."

"Mm, I'll have to walk more for you then."

"And the way you crouch."

"Mhm."

"And the way you sit.”

"That's good to know."

"And the way you talk. And eat. And breathe."

Derek huffed out another fond, sexy, sexy laugh against Stiles' lips before proceeding to coax the lewdest noises from Stiles' throat.

"I think that's everything, Mieszko," he murmured.

And then he blew Stiles' mind, in a breeze so wild and freeing that Stiles' bones ached from the pleasure of it.

Chapter Text

Derek couldn't help it. 

The more Stiles gave him, the more he wanted—his appetite bared its fangs more and more.

He watched Stiles sit at the desk ever so studiously, brows knitted in adorable concentration, as if working on something important and difficult, but really, he was just coloring that doodle of a wolf and a falcon that he'd wanted Derek to draw, (though it looked more like a deformed chihuahua and a fat duck, if Derek was to be generous with himself).

His eyes lingered down Stiles' body. That loose tee and pair of sweats dwarfed most of Stiles' slender frame and pert butt, but he remembered exactly how Stiles felt in his hands, against his body. He salivated for another taste. He wanted to hear his name on Stiles' lips and feel Stiles' gaze on him and goddammit, he wanted all of Stiles' attention on him in every waking second and in his dreams—

"Stop staring at me like that," muttered Stiles with flushed cheeks, ears red. "I can't focus."

Derek's gaze flicked back up to Stiles' face. "Now I can't even watch you?"

"What's so exciting about watching me?" Stiles glanced at him with an embarrassed, almost shy look that just made Derek want all his attention even more. "It's not lights out yet, okay? So whatever you're thinking about has to wait."

"If that's the only problem," said Derek as he sat up on the bed and ran a hand up Stiles' thigh, "then it's not a problem as long as we aren't seen, no?"

Even more heat rushed to Stiles' face, but before Stiles could utter a word, Derek moved Stiles, chair and all, to kneel between his legs under the desk, then shifted Stiles back in position.

"Wai— Derek—"

Derek nuzzled Stiles' bulge through his sweats and licked a trail up Stiles' abdomen. "Hm? What's the problem?" He glanced up at Stiles. "Go back to coloring."

"Like hell I can," hissed Stiles. "I'm going to end up burning the desk and chair if you keep this up."

"I haven't even done anything yet." Derek ducked his head under Stiles' shirt and kissed up that lean torso to his destination—Stiles moaned and clutched his head through the shirt as he laved at the stiff, little nipples. Stiles pulled his shirt off in the nick of time right before flames danced across his body, and Derek slipped a hand down Stiles' sweats. He rolled those cute buds on his tongue, nipped them and sucked them while stroking Stiles' cock, until he got exactly what he wanted. His name falling from Stiles' lips in streams of moans, his body held tight in Stiles' arms, and full attention on him—he dropped down and sucked Stiles' cock, lifting Stiles off the chair, just as Stiles shivered and cried out in release down his throat. Flames flared from his body, but burned nothing in Derek's steady grip.

Derek licked his lips and set Stiles back down in the chair once the flames dissipated. "Need help putting your clothes back on?"

"Fuck." Stiles' chest rose and fell as he caught his breath, and his gaze traveled downwards. "Maybe after I suck you off."

"No need," said Derek. "Just wanted a little something to hold me over."

Stiles pulled at his arm. "Hurry and stand up, will you?" he huffed. "I'm gonna get caught buck ass naked at this rate."

"And hard as a rock," commented Derek in turned on amusement as he stood like Stiles wanted and watched Stiles' mouth sink down around his cock. His breaths grew unsteady. Stiles glanced up at him every few seconds to gauge his reaction, and the fact that he did just made Derek even harder. He threaded his fingers through Stiles' hair and slid his other hand between Stiles' cheeks—moans vibrated around his cock as he fingered Stiles' hole, still sloppy from earlier, until he heard voices in the distance along with footsteps heading towards their unit.

He would've stopped.

He really would've, except he recognized one of the four people as a werewolf, and not just a werewolf, but an alpha.

Who was telling someone, "I'm just here to see Stiles, alright? I'm not with you."

"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear," a gruff voice replied with a sigh.

It took a beat, but Derek gathered from the pacing of the strides along with the faintest whiff of metal that the other three people were a staff member and two of the three remaining hunters in the US.

More importantly, though, he recalled Stiles mentioning his childhood friend Scott, the true alpha werewolf.

He should've stopped. 

He should've pulled Stiles up and told him that his friend was coming.

But, ah, he wanted all of Stiles' attention. He wanted all of Stiles, only for himself, and he wanted to mark Stiles as his, utterly and completely, and so in a surge of feral possessiveness that had his wolf baring its fangs, he pulled Stiles up onto his lap and sat him down in one smooth thrust on his cock.

Stiles let out a loud moan. A flash of flames and then a devout, wholehearted kiss to Derek's mouth that caught him off guard, searing a blazing need through him, and he really didn't mean for his knot to swell inside Stiles, but Stiles' ensuing chants of "yesyesyesplease" like he'd been waiting for this all along filled his bones with a deep, savage satisfaction that only encouraged his possessiveness. 

"Fuck, you love this, don't you?" he murmured as his cock thickened and grew, stretching Stiles' insides and filling him up while grinding Stiles' ass on his knot in steady rolls of his hips. "If I knew, I'd knot you more often."

Stiles' jaw dropped in a perfect 'o' as his eyes glazed over. "Yes, yes, oh god, don't stop— Derek—"

The footsteps in the distance stopped with a "Wait" from the werewolf best friend, and a smirk played on Derek's lips as he licked over his bite mark on Stiles' shoulder.

"Ready?" His knotted cock, now grown to its full size, throbbed inside Stiles, waiting. "Weren't you worried someone might catch us?"

He didn't know if Stiles even registered his second question, because Stiles just panted and whimpered in response, then moaned a needy "C'mon, hurry, fill me up, breed me—"

Derek's claws and fangs came out on a possessive growl as he did just that, grinding Stiles on his knot as he coated his insides with wave after wave of cum, and he might've let out a primal rumble of a groan both at the way Stiles clamped tight around him with the lewdest of noises and the way the friend cursed in the distance while telling his two companions that "we should really leave and come back tomorrow, seriously." 

"Don't worry, Mieszko," murmured Derek, and he could hear the friend freeze at that before continuing to walk away with the two other visitors. "I'll make you mine until you're satisfied."

~🐺・・❤️‍🔥・・🐺~

The visitors came the next night during Derek's after-workout shower.

Worry was a strong word for the emotion that prickled on high alert through his body. Jealousy didn't quite fit either.

He just....

He didn't know how Stiles would react. He didn't doubt Stiles' feelings towards him, of course, but if Stiles reuniting with his old friends and his old life brought even more of those goofy, content smiles to his face, Derek sure as hell wouldn't stand in his way. His friend, at the very least, hadn't seemed to care about the fact that Stiles was locked up here from the brief snippets of conversation Derek had overheard the previous day. It wouldn't surprise him if the friend would be more than willing to break Stiles out—it sounded like they'd been quite close from what Stiles had mentioned to him.

Like a nagging itch that he couldn't scratch, he couldn't help his desire for Stiles' everything to pay attention to only him, light up for only him, smile for only him. He couldn't do anything except let it simmer under his skin and practice restraint. Pretend he wasn't burning up from within hearing Stiles laugh outside the bathroom as he turned off the shower.

"I can't believe your jaw got even more uneven," Stiles was saying with a snort. "How the hell did that even happen?"

"Don't ask," his friend said. "It's so stupid I don't want to talk about it."

"Jackson hit him in the face with a baseball," a woman spoke up—the Argent daughter, Derek presumed. Lydia? Or was it Allison? Stiles had mentioned all his old friends, but Derek had never been the best with names.

"Wow, thanks for that," his friend muttered.

Stiles let out another burst of laughter. "He hit you so hard your werewolf healing couldn't keep up?"

"Something like that. But h—"

"Why did you kill Kate and Gerard?" Chris finally cut in.

Derek paused toweling himself off in surprise—a tense silence fell over them outside the bathroom. 

He'd suspected Stiles after that conversation with him about the fire, but he'd since forgotten with everything that had happened, although it made much more sense now considering Stiles' ability. 

Hearing it confirmed, though.... A rush of heated pleasure washed over him. 

The delicious scent of their fear still lingered in his nostrils, rich and dark like chocolate.

"I can't tell if you're acting like you don't know or if you're really that blind," was Stiles' blunt response at last.

Derek hung his towel on the rack and stepped out of the bathroom, shirtless and sweats hanging low on his hips. 

Everyone's heads snapped towards him.

"Don't stop talking on my account," he said as he walked over to stand behind Stiles and swing an arm over Stiles' shoulder. "What's this about Kate and Gerard?"

Chris' eyes trained on him, sharp and steady. "After your arrest, you said you killed them, but you didn't."

"And?" said Derek. "The detective was beginning to look desperate with how much he asked the same questions, so I took pity on him and gave him the answer he wanted."

Stiles bit back a laugh, and Chris glared at him. "Is this funny to you? What the hell did you do to them? And now you're what, friends with... that?" Disgust filled Chris' voice as he cast a pointed look at Derek, who just raised his brows in amusement. "How many have you burned alive in the same way?"

"Mm, a couple," said Stiles as casual as ever—Derek glanced at him in surprise. He'd never seen this side of Stiles, calm and collected. It wasn't a facade, he could tell, but rather the calm before a storm that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The visitors seemed to sense it as well, because all three of them tensed.

"What did you come here for?" asked Stiles. "To find out what I did to them? It's not obvious from the crime scene?"

"Not really," his friend spoke up this time, though his intense gaze remained on Derek as it had ever since he'd stepped out of the bathroom. Scott, if he recalled correctly. "It still reeks of terror to this day even though it's just a clearing now. I heard animals avoid it, too. It's strange, to say the least."

Stiles mused on it for a second. "Hm, that's weird," he said, voice dripping with faux concern. "I only burned them as long as they burned an entire family. I even lessened the heat of the flames so they could survive a bit longer. Beats me why they were so terrified."

Derek's eyes widened, and then he couldn't help but laugh as he nuzzled Stiles' hair and breathed in his smoky, sweet scent. "Mm, you're amazing," he murmured with a smile. "That's much better than anything I could do."

"Yeah?" Stiles looked nervous for some reason, fingers fidgeting as he chewed on his lip. "You're not upset that I took away your chance to kill them?"

Derek blinked. He softened as he leaned in for a kiss despite knowing he probably shouldn't, because how could he ever resist kissing his sweet, sweet anchor? "I think it's the hottest thing you've done yet," he whispered against Stiles' lips before drawing away, and Stiles huffed out a sweet, relieved laugh.

Allison cleared her throat from behind the thick bulletproof glass while Chris pinched the bridge of his nose and Scott groaned. "C'mon!" said Scott with a glare at Derek. "Really? I know you heard us coming to visit yesterday!"

"Yesterday?" Stiles looked between the two of them in confusion. "You came to visit? When?"

"Same time," muttered Scott. "There's no way he didn't hear us."

Stiles' brows furrowed. "Same time? Same ti— Oh—" Blood rushed to his face in an eruption of mottled scarlet patches. "Oh god—" He whipped his head towards Derek, gaping. "You— But you— No wonder you were... wordier than usual when you—" He cut off on a groan as he rubbed his face.

Derek felt that he should probably look apologetic, but he watched the way Stiles' ears and nape also flushed red instead.

"I guess you're great at controlling your fire now, huh?" commented Scott with a wag of his brows.

Stiles scrunched his nose. "Oh god. Uh. I mean, definitely, but like, not completely." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Allison. "We can't be having another Brandon incident, y'know."

A shadow flashed across Stiles' face—Derek put two and two together and guessed that Brandon referred to the classmate Stiles had burned. "Yeah, I know," muttered Stiles. "It won't—"

"I just don't have the strength to hold Malia back from punching another person every time she sees them," said Allison. "And Lydia— I can't even stop her, so that's a lost cause."

Stiles blinked in surprise, and Derek's chest warmed seeing the hesitant but happy relief on Stiles' face. "Malia tries to punch him? Why? I mean, I'm the one who messed up. And I really can't see Lydia punching anyone."

"Because he's the reason you disappeared on us," said Scott, steady gaze on Stiles. "Because he's an asshole and you felt so guilty even though it was an accident. Malia's punched him more than once already. And Lydia— What the crap did she do? She called in her connections and had him blocked from a job offer?"

Allison pressed her lips together and rocked back on her heels. "Yup. And leaked chats of him bullying someone to the next company he worked at."

"Ah, right."

Stiles gaped at them—Chris appeared bewildered as well—while Derek smirked. "That's good," he said with an approving nod. "She should keep doing that."

"Not sure how she'll feel about you agreeing with her," said Allison with cautious amusement before turning back to Stiles. "But you seemed to really give the FBI a headache with all those tests they did only for you to skate through them."

Chris glared at her. "You're just telling him everything now?"

"What? I still think it's fucked up that they did all that," said Allison. "You really didn't know their plans?"

"For the last time, of course not."

Allison just gave him a look, then glanced at Stiles. "You said you can't completely control your fire? How'd you skirt the FBI for so long then?"

"Um, well, I mean, I do have good control." The tips of his ears reddened as he floundered for words. "Very good control. Just, uh, sometimes, in specific situations, I might, y'know—"

Derek sucked a brief openmouthed kiss on the side of Stiles' neck that earned him a shocked gasp, then pressed the flat of his tongue up Stiles' skin in a slow lick that left a flickering trail of fire behind. 

Stiles slapped a hand to his on-fire neck with a glare, face scarlet, and Derek licked his lips. 

"Ah," said Allison, brows raised. "I see."

Scott rolled his eyes. 

"You're such a pain," grumbled Stiles, but no real heat lay behind his words. 

A faint tinge of smirk played across Derek's lips as he glanced down at Stiles' flustered expression. "But you love me," he teased.

He'd expected a Stiles-typical retort along the lines of "As if" or "You wish," but instead—

"That doesn't mean you should act like such a menace," muttered Stiles. "I still can't believe you did that yesterday."

Derek's eyes widened.

It probably didn't mean anything, but his mind blanked at the fact that Stiles didn't deny his tease, and then Stiles looked up at him and whatever Stiles saw on his face seemed to surprise him, but then his features softened into a small smile and promising eyes that dripped with affection.

He wrapped a hand around Derek's nape and craned his neck up to kiss Derek, a fond, gentle whisper of a kiss that squeezed Derek's chest impossibly tight, then turned his head to address Chris once again, demeanor shifting into the same as before, a prickling calm before a storm. 

"So?" said Stiles. Derek's nape heated from Stiles' hand, his fingers playing with the edge where the back of Derek's hair began. "What did you come here for?"

Chapter Text

Chris stared at Stiles for a long moment before letting out a deep sigh, and with it, his tough, hostile act deflated—Derek had thought it odd that he couldn't sense any real anger behind his earlier attitude. "I didn't know at first," said Chris with a clear of his throat. "I only began investigating because I wasn't sold on Derek being responsible for it. He's never murdered anyone by fire, and besides that, I found slivers of what looked like melted wood."

Stiles grimaced. "Ah."

"So I began looking into other deaths by fire. Not that I found any, but there had been prior odd disappearances of supernatural creatures, right when they were in the peak of their killing spree. No evidence, but if a fire's hot enough to melt wood, it would make sense that it could burn the creatures completely into ash, and then there's the Brandon incident. I investigated Derek's past murders as well, just to make sure it really wasn't him, and then...." He sighed again. "They covered their tracks well. Nothing solid, of course, but...enough that I began wondering if the rumors about the Hale fire held some truth. By that time, though, the FBI had already gotten involved."

Chris paused and Stiles waited—the older hunter met Stiles' eyes, clear blue irises grave. 

"They're on to you," he said at last.

Derek watched Stiles' expression, but it didn't change in the slightest. "And you're here to warn me?" asked Stiles.

"They are," said Chris with a vague gesture at Allison and Scott.

Stiles studied him for a moment, then said, "If you want conclusive proof, I can send you my recording of them admitting what they did."

Chris' eyes widened in shock, as did Allison and Scott's. 

"Wait, you recorded it?" asked Allison. "Why?"

Stiles shrugged. "I dunno, just in case. There's no other evidence, so at the time I thought it could be, mm, closure I guess, if I ran into any of the Hales. But that goes for you, too, although I'm not sure if it'll help you. To be frank, they're... under duress in the recording."

"I would like to hear it for myself," was Chris' immediate answer. He let out a shaky exhale and closed his eyes for a second. "It would help a lot if you sent it." He paused. "You can't send it from here, though."

"Yeah, I'll send it when I get out," said Stiles.

Scott perked up at that. "Kira and them have been working out how to break you out. They wanted to come visit you—and your dad was super persistent—but Chris already had to pull some strings just to let me come along."

Stiles didn't respond for a moment, jaw tight—he was conflicted, Derek could tell after spending these few months with him. 

Derek took his arm off Stiles' shoulder. "I'll leave you to chat," he said when Stiles gave him a confused look, and went to lounge on his bed with a book in hand.

Not that it meant much since he could obviously still hear them talking, but he didn't want his looming presence to pressure Stiles while he caught up with his friends who still clearly more than cared about him.

Stiles hesitated, glancing back at him, then faced Scott. "I.... You know what I've done," he said, voice quiet but steady. "What’re you putting in this effort for? Those disappearances—they weren't mistakes, and they weren't accidents. We're on different paths now, Scott. I won't change my m—"

"I know," said Scott in a rush. "We know. But just because we're on different paths doesn't mean we can't help each other out or stay friends. You're practically my brother, okay? It would take a whole lot to change my mind on that, like if you, I dunno, murdered Allison or something."

The person in question shot him a glare. "Hey!"

"But, well, if you had a good reason...," mused Scott. "Mayb—"

"Are you serious right now?"

"You get what I mean," amended Scott with a sheepish grin. "And it's not just me—we all feel the same way. Although, I haven't, uh, mentioned your...relationship."

"Everyone knows," said Allison.

"What? How?!"

Allison just gave him a look and arched an eyebrow. "Seriously? You're really asking that? You were literally blushing like a schoolgirl. Doesn't take a genius to put it together. And I told everyone, of course. Oh, Cora wanted me to tell you that she and Laura better be invited to the wedding," she added Derek's way, who blinked in surprise.

He hadn't expected his sisters to know Stiles' friends.

Ah, Peter’s daughter was one of them, wasn’t she? He supposed it made sense. It certainly explained their overall lack of reaction towards him and his, well, crimes. To an extent.

Maybe.

Stiles let out a huge sigh and laughed, shoulders relaxing just the slightest—Derek could smell the relief pouring off him, like water breaking through a dam. "You all are ridiculous, you know that right?"

"We'll always have your back," said Scott.

"As long as you don't disappear on us again," added Allison.

A small smile graced Stiles' lips. "...Right."

Something else still disturbed Stiles, Derek could feel it, behind that small smile that disappeared into that same chilled calm from before, but he didn't know what he could do to help. The only thing he could think of that would cause concern now was deciding how to break out. Perhaps Stiles felt conflicted in whether to break out with his friends' help or figure out how to break out with just the two of them. After all, Derek was pretty sure Stiles' friends’ break out attempts did not take him into consideration, especially since breaking one person out would prove difficult enough, much less an additional person that couldn't cross mountain ash.

He didn't mind either way, since his original plan had been to break out on his own anyway, and if that was really the issue that bothered Stiles, then he figured he could assure Stiles later. 

Of course, emphasis on 'if'. He knew better than to jump to any conclusions on Stiles' thought processes that frankly, remained an enigma to him half the time; he didn't think he would ever completely get over the fact that Stiles had fretted so much over his safety rather than his own not-self-healing, human safety.

"From what I've heard, they're going to erase your records as an FBI agent and send someone soon to notify you of your permanent residence here," Chris was telling Stiles now. "They're not planning on letting you out."

Derek sat up—he scrutinized Stiles, but he didn't say anything or change expression. Derek couldn't even sense a whiff of anxiety from him.

No, something else roiled beneath Stiles' steady calm. 

"But before we resort to breaking out," continued Chris with a pointed look at Allison and Scott, "I think there's a good possibility of striking a deal with the FBI, especially if you have that recorded confession. All they have on you is that fire, and with the added proof that your two victims were criminals, they'd be much more open to some sort of compromise due to your past case results and the fact that your ability would definitely prove useful in many—"

"No."

Utter silence. 

Scott opened his mouth, then paused—

"Someone's coming," said Derek. "FBI."

Scott blinked. "How do you know they're FBI?"

"Steel, gunpowder, polymer—smells like the Glock handguns FBI agents carry," said Derek, voicing his thoughts aloud. "Purposeful strides but rushed and too heavy, stiff back, straight posture. Nervous. They sent a rookie as the messenger."

Chris glanced at him, then continued whispering to Stiles in an urgent tone. "Listen, tell them you have information and that you want to make a deal. Be vague, so the higher-ups will bite. A break-out is dangerous, difficult, and you'd be marked on the FBI's wanted list for the rest of your life; it should only be used in the worst-case scenario. There's a high chance that they'll agree to a deal, so—"

"No," repeated Stiles, voice firm and gaze staring past them at the FBI agent headed their way down the hallway. "Stay out of my way," was all he said with a nod towards the wall before the agent reached them.

Concern and confusion played out across Chris, Allison, and Scott's faces, but the three of them moved aside when the agent reached them to stand near the wall.

The agent nodded at the three of them before facing Stiles and showing him his FBI badge. "I'm here on an unofficial visit to tell you that your badge is now rescinded. We have an eyewitness that saw you use flames, which was the last piece of conclusive evidence needed to confirm your involvement in the murders of Kate and Gerard Argent. No records of you will remain in the FBI and you will reside here for life from this point on." He paused, swallowed, then said, "However, in lieu of the high success rate in your past cases, the higher-ups have decided to offer you a deal. Should you agree, you will have the freedom to go anywhere you like so long as you work FBI cases to your utmost ability without incidence. At the beginning, to ensure you don't go rogue, you will wear a tracker at all times, reside in a room with security features similar to your cell, and be assigned an agent to supervise y—"

"I refuse," said Stiles.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose as Allison and Scott wore similar expressions of confused shock as the agent, though to a lesser degree.

The agent had to take a second to collect his thoughts before responding—another sign of his inexperience. "It's a generous offer," he told Stiles. "The limitations might seem heavy at first, but they'll lighten with time as long as you prove trustworthy."

"No," said Stiles. "We're leaving."

"Um, 'we'?" The agent glanced at Derek, then back at Stiles with furrowed brows. "Leaving? I'm not sure you understand. If you don't accept this offer, you won't be leaving anywhere."

"And who's going to stop us?" asked Stiles—his calm rippled. "You?"

Derek stood up to get a better look at Stiles, then snapped his claws out when he saw the agent put a shaky hand on his gun with wide eyes.

"Like I said, your cell has security features," said the agent, trying to sound confident despite the sweat on his forehead. He clicked something in his pocket. "See?"

Derek could feel the instant that oxygen sucked out of the room—he gasped, then held his breath, but before he could even think about how to get them out of this predicament, the thick, bulletproof glass in front of Stiles melted without even a twitch of his finger.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. The agent drew his gun, only to be lifted and pinned in the air by dark, blood-red flames that slowly burned away at his clothes.

Stiles didn't take a single step. Not one flame flickered from Stiles, but his irises, usually a rich, smooth honeyed chestnut, glowed with vivid, gold fire.

"Let's be clear here," said Stiles, voice so cool and calm that it sent chills down Derek's spine. "I can walk out anytime I want. They sent you, a rookie, as messenger, so you can return my message." The claw of flames tightened as Stiles' tone hardened to steel. "I stayed for my job, then stayed out of respect, courtesy, but you tell your superiors this— they crossed the line. They want to test me, fine. But Derek is mine," he growled. "They tried to kill him with poison like cowards, so now it's my turn."

The agent visibly gulped in fear as Stiles cracked his neck before continuing. 

"I'll give the FBI three strikes," he said. "You used up the first strike just now. Two strikes left." The blood-red flames flashed in violent flickers, and primordial power suffused his voice. "This is the deal—you leave Derek and me alone. I can’t escape? You’ve got it twisted—none of you can escape me. If even one hair on him is harmed—"

Stiles dropped the agent to the floor, his claw disappearing but the gold fires in his irises only blazing ever higher.

"—I'll burn you all to the ground."

Silence, thick and hot and heavy. 

The agent sat there on the floor frozen in shocked terror for a long moment before finally managing to scramble to his feet and run off down the hallway, and Derek just stared as he had this entire time, enraptured, heart racing a million miles a minute, and fuck if the world didn't stop for him in this moment as the realization of what a brilliant, breathtaking, fiery angel he'd plunged in the deep end for hit him like a truck and knocked the wind out of him.

Stiles turned to look at him, golden flames fading and lighting his brown irises aglow into a divine amber. He didn't know what kind of expression he wore, not when he could barely breathe from awe and reverence, but Stiles stepped towards him and stole even more of his breath away in a soul-stealing, hair-tugging kiss. 

"You're mine," breathed Stiles with a nip and pull at Derek's bottom lip, and Derek growled. "Ready to elope?"

Derek swept his tongue through Stiles' mouth one last time, relishing the taste of his tongue with a lick of his lips before drawing back. "Of course," he whispered, a prayer.

Stiles grinned, easy and fond and seraphic, cheeks pink, and leaned in for a quick peck before grabbing his two colorings. He shoved them in Derek's hands for, well, obvious reasons, so Derek carefully folded and tucked them away in a pocket while Stiles went over to Chris, Allison, and Scott, who still stood there at a loss as to what they'd just witnessed or what to do.

Derek couldn't blame them.

"We're leaving now," Stiles told them like he was heading off to the airport for vacation. "I'll give you three minutes."

Scott blinked. "...Three minutes for what?"

"To get the fuck out of here, obviously," said Stiles. "I can't guarantee your safety past that."

"Uh, what the crap are you going to do?" asked Allison.

Stiles gave her a look. "I think the better question is what the FBI is gonna do, don't you think?"

A pause.

"Right," said Allison.

"They set up camp at the sheriff's station," Chris told him. "They're going to have reinforcements here within minutes. A lot of them."

Stiles gave a half-nod, half-shrug. "I figured."

"He's saying that even with your ability and, uh, I guess Derek's strength, it's dangerous," said Scott. "Are you sure you don't need backup?"

Stiles raised his brows. "You'd become a fugitive to help me out?"

"Of course not," said Scott. "I'll wear a mask."

Stiles huffed out a laugh and after a brief pause of hesitation, hugged Scott for a solid moment, then Allison. Chris even gave him a half-handshake, half-hug thing along with a murmur along the lines of "Your dad says you better contact him or he'll let Roscoe rust," to which Stiles grimaced.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of this," he told them like it was fact, a sexily confident smile on his face—Derek licked his lips imagining just how many ways he'd take Stiles later. "Nothing on this Earth can touch me when I'm serious."

Scott snorted. "Wow. Humble."

"You'll see," said Stiles. "Now get out so I can wreak havoc."

The three of them jogged out after one last lingering look and overlapping "don't you dare ghost us or else" threats and "contact us whenever you're safe" s, and Stiles sidled up to Derek's side where he stood leaning against the bunk bed frame.

"You didn't have to give me space earlier," Stiles told him.

"I didn't want to inadvertently pressure you," said Derek.

Stiles' fingers curled around his bicep. "I know. And I'm telling you not to doubt me again. I might not be able to mark you as my mate like a werewolf can, but you're mine." His eyes flashed gold with fire. "I'd burn the whole world down for you."

Derek swallowed—his heart caught in his throat.

"All yours," he murmured, voice thick and grated around the edges with emotion, hope, and cautious... happiness.

"And I'm all yours," Stiles whispered back so quiet Derek felt it more than heard it. 

He brushed his lips against Stiles', a tingle of electricity, soft as velvet, and Stiles ran his tongue across his lips, slow and sensual, flames flickering—he kneaded Stiles' ass in his hands, a gentle grind against his leg, as they pressed up as close to each other as possible for these few minutes.

It was with heavy breaths that they released each other. 

"Ready?" asked Stiles, eyes alight, before burning a hole through the thick wall of their fake window to the dark night outside.

Adrenaline coursed through Derek's body, keeping his muscles limber and senses on higher alert—he kept Stiles updated on the vans in the street, the agents spilling out to get into position, until they reached a clearing near the front of Eichen surrounded by agents.

"Stay back a bit, okay?" Stiles told him.

Derek raised an eyebrow.

"For me?" asked Stiles. "I'm worried that even your insane regeneration can't handle my hotter fires. Plus, y'know, the drawings."

Derek snorted as he backed up a little. "Right, the drawings. I did notice you used low temperature flames on that agent. What's your hottest fire?"

Flames released from Stiles' body, color changing from red to orange to yellow as the temperature increased. 

Then white, then blue, while gunshots rang out around them.

"Violet," said Stiles as his cerulean flames soared higher and higher around him, flickering in tinges of scarlet and purple, until they spread into vibrant wings of fire that filled the sky, finally breaking free.

The heat simmered through the air, warming the cool night into a hot summer day.

A sweep of an arm, and explosions lit the dark sky.

Derek could hear the shouts, the whispered reports—it seemed that Stiles had exploded every single firearm in the near distance.

But the wings of flame only flared in more and more beautifully violent flashes, dancing in a blazing crescendo as a few fiery feathers drifted in the wind towards Eichen—

Stiles stood there with his head thrown back, as if taking a breath for the first time, and Eichen went up in flames.

Screams of panic, stampedes of footsteps. Chaos reigned, yet Derek barely smelled any blood spilled, and perhaps the fact that Stiles had set the building on fire in such a controlled manner from a few feathers, without moving a single finger, as easy as breathing, was what truly struck terror.

An imminent, unavoidable disaster.

He smiled, free and wild and untamed, and Derek fell for him all over again.

The agents retreated and split up to rescue the patients inside as ambulances and firetrucks arrived on the scene—Stiles' wings drew back in, flames receding around his body as he turned to look at Derek.

"I think we're good now," he said.

Derek laughed, quiet and proud. "You think?"

He shoved something in Derek's arms with a wag of his brows—a fat wad of cash, apparently. "For the road. Got it when I set the place on fire."

"...Right." Derek couldn't help but laugh again, because he would've never imagined in a million years that they would put more time and effort into folding dollar bills so they'd fit in their pockets than actually breaking out of prison. 

"I wasn't sure how long it'd take us to get to your place, so I kinda just grabbed a bunch," explained Stiles with pink ears after a solid few minutes of them trying to organize the bills into compact bundles.

Derek brushed a kiss on Stiles' forehead. "Shouldn't take too long. I'm quite fast as a wolf. We can cut through the forests."

"Mm, perfect." Stiles paused, then asked, almost shy, "So how'd you like my fire? I might've shown off a little—the blue fire was completely unnecessary, to be honest."

Derek looked at him for a long moment.

He leaned in to whisper in Stiles' ear—

"You're not sleeping for the next few nights."

And Stiles' ensuing laugh, happy and free, set his heart alight.

~🐺・・❤️‍🔥・・🐺~

Moodboard by TriskHellion &...*drumroll*...

Fic Playlist Link!!

(also by the amazing TriskHellion)

Chapter Text

Stiles rested his chin on the counter, arms sprawled out in front of him around his little wolf mug of hot chocolate coffee as he watched Derek walk around the kitchen in nothing but briefs. 

Two years had passed, and he still couldn't get used to this. The fact that they lived here, on a remote gorgeous mountain near a beach, in their own little cabin with their own little garden of produce and herbs and their own little greenhouse of Derek's blood flowers and miscellaneous poisonous plants that Stiles enjoyed tending to--he'd never imagined such peaceful contentment for himself like this.

Especially to share and bask in it with someone who he'd burn down the world for.

He woke up each morning finding new things that weren't really new but charmed his heart as if they were, like little refreshers or reminders of his life now that he'd never once dreamed would happen to him.

Today, it was Derek. It was always Derek, but today, it was the way he walked in particular. He padded around the kitchen, silent and lithe, so graceful he looked like he was gliding, all while still drowsy and cooking bacon while sipping coffee from his bird mug—the style matched Stiles', and Stiles absolutely loved their couple mugs that Derek had given him their first Christmas together regardless of Derek's thoughts on the matter.

He still remembered how embarrassed Derek had looked giving them to him. "They're too...cute, aren't they?" he'd muttered not even a minute afterwards and tried to take them back.

God, Stiles would never get used to him. He couldn't even get used to the way he walked, for fuck's sake. How did he look so sexy just walking around frying bacon and cooking scrambled eggs?

"I finally opened that letter from Peter," said Derek—Peter had apparently managed to escape Eichen during the ruckus even though Stiles had made sure not to set the supernatural levels on fire. "He thinks you're some kind of phoenix? And your friends think so, too?"

"Oh, yeah." Stiles popped a marshmallow in his hot chocolate coffee. "I never told anyone what I actually am. Only my dad knows."

Derek flipped a piece of bacon and glanced at him. "How come? Not that they're far off the mark."

"What, because a phoenix and a raróg are both birds?" asked Stiles with a snort. "A phoenix is literally a divine bird that represents the life cycle and I'm a friggin' fire demon. Not that I mind that now, but I used to. I didn't want anyone to know I'm a demon, so I let them draw their own conclusions. I don't even know anything about rarógs, anyway, besides my fire abilities. Which I learned through trial and error."

"There's not much about them in the bestiary," agreed Derek. He slid the eggs and bacon onto two plates, then sat beside Stiles at the counter and practically shoved both slabs of bacon in his mouth in one go. "I think it suits you, though," he added after eating half his eggs in his second bite and washing it down with coffee.

Stiles finished chewing his mouthful before replying. "I do like burning things," he said. "It's pretty satisfying."

"You do," said Derek with a snort as he sat back with his coffee, plate now empty while Stiles continued munching on his eggs. "But that's not what I was talking about."

Stiles glanced at him. "Really?" He sipped his hot chocolate coffee and snacked on one of the limited edition Mont Blanc Kit Kats Allen had sent them in return for the limited edition s'mores marshmallows they'd gifted him for Christmas. "Oh, did you mean how it's a falcon? I do kinda feel like my spirit animal would be a bird, but I dunno about a falcon...."

"No." Derek just looked amused in an exasperated, fond sort of way now, and Stiles' heart skipped a beat—he would probably never get used to Derek's smiles, too. 

Nothing could've prepared him for Derek's next words, though.

"In Polish mythology, rarógs are birds small enough to fit in a pocket and bring happiness—it suits you perfectly," Derek told him, all warm and sleep-roughened and casual and matter-of-fact, like it was obvious fact. "You somehow managed to bless me with more happiness I could ever dream of in our little pocket of the woods, my little raróg."

Stiles' eyes widened, and he froze mid-sip.

Derek leaned in and pecked him on the lips, silver-green eyes dripping with soft, cozy adoration, then murmured, "You're better than any phoenix, Mieszko."

All air left Stiles' body—he forgot how to breathe, the rise of emotion welling through his veins too overwhelming, just all-around too much, and then Derek's eyes widened because it overflowed out of his eyes, and he launched himself at Derek so hard that they nearly toppled to the floor, chairs clattering to the ground. 

Derek's back hit the wall, then the fridge as Stiles practically clawed at him trying to get more and more of him. He only paused for a brief second to pick up the drawing they'd knocked off the fridge, that doodle of a wolf and a fiery falcon together he'd had Derek draw for him back in Eichen, and he almost didn't manage to stick it back under its magnet before he yelped in surprise as Derek threw him over his shoulder to cart off to their bed.

It really was a spacious bed, just as Derek had told him.

Of course, it looked less spacious with how mussed the sheets stayed day and night, Stiles gasping filthy moans as Derek took him with lewd, echoing squelches at odd hours, sometimes even for days at a time. He always thought he knew Derek's touch like muscle memory at this point, knew his taste like the best chocolate, but sometimes, god—

His flames blazed a pale yellow, almost white, and tears trickled from the corners of his eyes as he cried out from Derek's every lick and caress, hot and sparked and fervent like it was all... new against his too-sensitive skin.

And maybe it was all new.

He discovered new emotions with Derek, discovered new depths of his flames for Derek, and just when he thought he'd discovered almost everything, Derek stole his breath away with such ease, and maybe it was the fact Derek said the most ardent things like they were as factual and obvious as the sun setting in the sky and the moon rising to meet it that always shook his core and swallowed him whole.

His whole life, years and years of suffering and doubts alone, flared into something new from just a few casual words.

God, his body blazed. His lungs burned. A rush of crisp mint air so sharp and refreshing it froze, shattered, and renewed him, body and soul, blowing through him with a gust that carried him back home on a gentle breeze into Derek's arms, always holding him close—he marked Derek as his. He bit Derek's shoulder and savored the burning taste of iron on his tongue.

The way Derek groaned, growls rumbling in waves of reverent, possessive satiety—he would never get used to how much they drove him crazy. 

Derek must've changed the sheets at some point, because he opened his eyes to Derek stretched out under him in lazy contentment, his favorite look on Derek, with freshly laundered, not burned covers surrounding them. 

"You blazed hotter than usual today," mused Derek, arms around Stiles and lips against his hair.

"And you claimed me harder than usual today," replied Stiles with a muffled laugh.

Derek smiled against his forehead—he tipped his head up to look at Derek.

"I can't help but lose it every time I discover something new about you," said Derek, his small smile dripping with oh-so-fond mischief.

He leaned further in to brush a kiss so soft and reverent against Stiles' lips that it branded fiery hot.

His silver-green eyes shone molten. 

"My little raróg," he murmured.

And Stiles' breath caught—flames danced across his hot, flushed cheeks, across all the places pressed up against Derek, and Derek laughed.

Ah, Stiles thought. He could get used to this.

That rich sound, this spacious bed, entangled in each other's arms so close that he felt Derek's every noise and breath through their bodies as Derek embraced him in a feral wind that lit him ablaze, for the rest of their lives—

Derek was his happiness.

Derek was his raróg.

When he told him that, Derek softened just so, eyes glistening as the sun shining through the window melted into his skin.

And Stiles' heart burned alight once more, evermore.

~🐺・・❤️‍🔥・・🐺~