Warning: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine.
Author Notes: Thank you to my beta, komoflage. You inspire me.
Summary: Derek teeters on the brink of the most important decision of his life.
Word Count: 500ish
She called to him. Pale, luminescent, cold, judging. Her touch was never kind; an unforgiving mistress. Those gentle beams that illuminated the night, inspired poetry and made a lover's touch so tender; they mocked him. She shone down upon him in all her glory, laughing as he lost his humanity. She broke his bones, manipulated his flesh, and destroyed his mind. He became a murderous, vicious beast. A child of her direction.
He'd learned to hate her in his lifetime. Hate what she turned him into. Hate what she allowed; caused to happen. Yes, there was freedom in the change. His actions, unfettered by his morality, were pleasurable; the hunt invigorating; the kill exciting. But the aftermath perverted that freedom. The blood, the mangled remains, the knowledge that he was destruction. He lost himself and became a blade in her hand. So really, freedom was a façade.
The change heightened his senses. He could hear the frantic heartbeat of the boy beneath him, stuttering at each new growl, at each slight movement. He could smell the fear, acrid and bitter, overwhelming the scent of the forest. He could see the pulse pounding under the boy's thin and fragile skin.
Fear, power, hate. Her gifts to him. It was addicting, the power she gave him. It wiped away every last bit of his humanity. Every bit…but one. Somewhere deep below the bloodlust, a memory twisted and turned, fighting for recognition.
Dark, worried eyes filled with concern. A slim body on the brink of adulthood. A touch, a caress, gentle and caring. At one time, the boy had smelled of contented trust, of happiness. He hadn't always smelled of terror. Reassurances of love once fell from his lips, not muffled sobs and choked gasps. Once, he'd meant something, this boy; he was important; he was special.
The fragments of memory waged war, blunting the edges of the bloodlust. Eyes that sparkled with mischief. Lips from which came whispered words of passion. Hands slipping on sweat-soaked bodies. Once, he'd loved this boy; been in love with this boy. And love was so foreign to her as to weaken her hold; allow him to regain control long enough to shove her away completely.
"Derek?" Hesitant, quiet, worried.
"You with me?" He was. Completely with him. He'd thrown off his cold mistress for warmth and love and sanity.
"Yeah," Derek rasped out. "I'm here."
Stiles' hands framed Derek's face, and he lifted his head to bring their lips together in a delicate whisper of touch.
"See? You didn't hurt me." Stiles rested his forehead against Derek's. "You're not hers anymore."
Derek breathed deeply, scenting no traces of fear. Only joy, pride, love. Carefully, he brought his hands up to frame Stiles' face. These hands that moments ago could have snuffed out a life. Snuffed out Derek's only remaining reason to fight for his humanity.
"No. Not hers," he agreed.
"I'm yours."