I don't normally ship Sterek but I was listening to the song "Animals" by Maroon 5 today and I thought, "Gosh, that fits Stiles and Derek perfectly!" Thus was born this short (kinda pointless) little one-shot. Yay, my first ever explicitly SLASH fic!
I hope you enjoy. If you do, leave a review! ;) And check out that awesome song by Maroon 5!
Eat You Alive
Midnight. Inky darkness, glimmers of stars blotted by heavy clouds. The kind of gloom in which Cimmerian beings dwell, the edge of reality, gateway to Hades, making you forget the existence of the sun. The earth is damp and pungent from fallen rain. Mist swirls around his feet, branches crunching, wet leaves clinging desperately to his Converse sneakers. The wind howls, and rattles the tops of the trees, crying out for the hidden moon.
Behind him bushes rustle. He tries to ignore the way his heart is pounding in his chest, attributing his anxiety to an overly-active imagination. He zips up his Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie against the cold and trudges on. Sweat sticks to his flesh like dew. He can smell his own scent – perspiration smothers the Axe body-spray he drenched himself in that morning.
Nocturnal creatures scurry in low areas, glancing up at the sky from the safety of shadows, their beady eyes glowing, as they check for Death; His great wings silent as He glides, ready to swoop in and devour. A shriek and claws; a final exhale precedes the end of life. It all happens in the blink of an eye.
He could just as easily suffer the fate of that unfortunate mouse. The vulnerable prey of some larger predator. 140 pounds of flesh, blood, and fabulous hair. His pale skin gives him the appearance of a ghost already. His umber irises scan the black trees surrounding him, unfamiliar and threatening in the darkness. His pupils dilate attempting to absorb more light and populate his brain. He takes deep breaths to control his paranoia. Every inhale, exhale, pant and sigh, sounds like thunder.
A twig snaps to his left.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" he calls, though he knows he shouldn't. Knows this is the first mistake horror-movie characters make when they're alone in the woods. Rationally, he should run, but his feet don't get the message. His curiosity is too great. His father would claim he never was a great possessor of common sense – the kind that aids in self-preservation.
He's unsure whether he should continue forward or investigate the source of the noise. He knows he is not alone. He can feel the presence of another, just on the edge. He can feel, more than see, eyes watching his every move.
He decides to search the bushes. He walks on his toes, trying to muffle the sound of his footfalls. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath, as he stretches out his arm, and –
He's attacked. A large, bulky figure pounces on him from the shadows. The scream on his lips is knocked from him, the air rushes from his lungs as he hits the ground. His back flat against the hard forest floor. He tries to get up, but a great weight straddles his waist and pins him. A creature looms above him, tall and menacing. Sharp fangs gleaming; narrow eyes flash an unnatural azure blue. Long fingers grip his wrists and hold them down above his head.
"Derek!"
"Stiles, what are you doing walking around the woods at night alone?" the werewolf growls, in his agitation caught between his human and wolf states.
"I was worried about you. You weren't answering-"
"I've been trailing you for over half an hour! It wasn't hard! You were stumbling and crashing about like a drunk grizzly bear! I could hear you from a mile away! And smell you! God, you reek!"
"I haven't had time-"
"What if I hadn't been the only thing out here tonight? Don't you realize how dangerous it is? Ugh, that you would put yourself in that position!" The flames of Derek's agitation suddenly erupt. Usually he is able to maintain his shifting, but Stiles watches as Derek's temper increases and he transforms into full wolf. Sharp claws dig into Stiles' wrists, piercing the skin and drawing blood.
"Derek!" Stiles gasps in pain.
Derek smells the scarlet liquid leaking from Stiles' cut, and it's the most amazing and delicious aroma he has ever smelled. But the unveiled panic in Stiles' eyes terrifies him. He jumps back in a flash, hiding himself in the comfort of familiar shades, reverting back to his human shape at the horror of what he has just done. That he should be the one to hurt Stiles, when the whole purpose of following him had been to keep an eye on him, to protect him, sickens Derek.
Stiles sits up and grabs his wrist. Blood seeps from between his fingers. Ghastly and gruesome in the moonlight. For such a small incision, he's bleeding an awful lot. A side effect, he figures, from the weakness of his body. He still hasn't fully recovered from their most recent supernatural adventure.
"Here." Derek removes his shirt, his bronze torso glistening with sweat. The embodiment of the Greek god Pan. He hands the material to Stiles, indicating that he should wrap it around his injury. Stiles accepts it shyly, the faintest blush on his cheeks.
"Thanks." Derek steps back again, focusing his line of vision on the tree-line, on the ground, anywhere but on Stiles. "Hey, it's alright. I've been through much worse. Trust me." Stiles laughs; it's not a humorous sound, the mirth fake and strained, barely concealing the trauma buried underneath. Derek frowns. "Come on now," Stiles tries again, "don't be such a Sourwolf."
Derek bristles under the nickname; the scowl remains fixed to his face.
"Derek, I'm okay, really. It's just a scratch. Look, it's already clotting and the bleeding's almost stopped."
With the same suddenness of movement as before, Derek is kneeling next to Stiles. He lifts the boy's wrist to his mouth, and places his lips around the edges of the wound. His tongue licks at the blood, cleaning it in the way only canines can. Stiles is reminded of the time he fell off his bike as a child, and the neighbor's dog lapped at his banged-up knees with an eagerness that bordered on obsession.
This is nothing like that. This feels...good. Stiles can feel the pain evaporating and healing under Derek's touch, can feel his flesh reacting to the werewolf's hot breath and physical closeness in a way that he doesn't expect. Derek removes his mouth with the smallest of suction sounds. Stiles is too stunned to comment on the hilarity of the noise as Derek's lips kiss a line up his arm.
"Derek, what are you-?"
His lips find Stiles'. They taste of beef and mint – a strangely manly taste – seeming to devour Stiles' entire mouth. Derek's hands are on his face, pulling him closer, eager, hungry. Stiles' closes his eyes and lets Derek take the lead. The Alpha male. All animal and predatory instincts. Stiles' inexperience becomes non-existent under the capable guidance of Derek, instructing him with his tongue.
There's heat and there's passion, and when Derek finally pulls away, Stiles has no breath.
"I-"
"Stiles, just shut up." Derek smiles. "Don't ever come into the woods alone again, do you hear me?" Stiles nods slowly, realization dawning. All Derek's grumpiness, his short temper, it all amounts to this simple fact: Derek cares about Stiles. Deeply. Very deeply.
"I won't."
"Good." Derek brushes his fingers against Stiles' cheekbone, sending shivers up his spine. "Or next time I won't be so nice."
END