WHEN YOU FEEL THE TASTE OF BLOOD
In spirit, he was a hundred of years old.
In this body, seventeen.
Stiles looked himself in the mirror – not himself, though, his body. The body that wasn't made for him but it was his anyway, because he possessed it. It was a mid-summer afternoon when a black smoke entered the little brunet boy's mouth – his mouth.
It was mid-summer now and he didn't understood where all of that had gone wrong.
x
Firstly, his plan was to get away from hell. He did it. After thousands of years feeling the smell of burn skin and hearing people screaming all the time, he was tired. He missed earth. He missed his old city, his old life. He missed the smell of grass, hell, he really missed killing someone in Earth, killing someone and the person staying dead – because after years of hell and victims that lived again just to be killed and tortured another time, knowing their fate, he was tired.
The thing that he most liked was to kill and they had took that away from him.
So he ran away, he ran away and stopped at the present Beacon Hills, the city that was his home centuries ago, but now it was just a modern city, with cars and smoke and teenagers laughing and it was everything so different.
But he saw this little boy. This little boy who was like him when he was a kid. A boy full of sadness and lost. And he took the boy's mind. He took it with hunger, hunger to have a physical body again. Something to work with. To live again, even if it was like a parasite.
And he lived.
He passed through the boy's life, his life. He was the boy. That Stilinski kid had died years ago, and it was him. He was Stiles. He was Scott McCall's best friend. He was the Sheriff Stilinski's son.
He was the demon that was in love with Derek Hale.
During the years, he killed a lot of people. Making it seems like suicide sometimes, make it seems like robbery. Little crimes that would cause a fuss on the police for a few days, but nothing more than that.
He liked torturing. He liked the scent of blood. He liked hearing the screams. He liked more and more as the body he was habituating became stronger.
But, aside of that, he was Stiles Stilinski. He lived as a normal person, he made friends, friends who knew nothing about his true identity of course, but they served as a good cover. Nothing in this little boring life – boring but his only escape of hell – mattered to him. Not even the man who took care of him, because, after all, he thought he was taking care of his son. Not Scott McCall.
No one. Until Derek Hale came.
x
For normal people, the way he liked Derek could be wrong. (The way they dated and married and now lived a little apple-pie life).
He saw himself, what he could have been, in that man.
He saw someone who, after losing his family – just like he lost in his first and real life, when he was really a human – didn't killed everyone. Didn't made a massacre and ended up in hell for this. He saw a man who wanted revenge, but didn't went out killing everyone. He wanted justice, not enough blood to drawn himself into and forget everything else.
Stiles didn't regret killing people. It was his nature after all, even when he was human, but he wished he wasn't like that. Wished he could not be like that. But it was him. And he felt good that way.
The first time he didn't felt good was that mid-summer afternoon. A afternoon years after the one he entered a little brunet boy.
He was torturing someone in the kitchen table. Derek wasn't supposed to come home 'till the night. The woman was dead, he was just messing with her body, he was laughing, playing, and Derek saw it.
"Stop it right now or I'll kill you." It was the Alpha voice. He was used to that threatening voice, but, despite what he was, it was never directed to him – because Derek didn't knew what he was.
So he turned around and with hands full of blood he looked to his husband eyes.
x
"You're perfect." Derek said while kissing the freckles in his neck after a good session of sex.
"Yeah, right."
"Stiles, I mean it. You don't believe it, don't you?"
He turned on his back and smiled to Derek.
"If you only knew what I really am, Derek, you wouldn't say that."
"You're Stiles, it's all that matters to me."
x
He repeated that memory over and over while he killed Derek. He was Stiles. He was Stiles. It shouldn't matter what he was, right.
But it mattered. And Derek tried to kill him.
And he killed Derek.
The only one he loved since he was human. The only he loved in centuries.
He didn't let the tears fall. For God's sake, he shouldn't be feeling something. He shouldn't.
But he was. And he was so, so tired.
It was a mid-summer afternoon when a black smoke found its way out of a young man's body.
.
.
If you liked it, please, review! I'm thinking about making a sequel, but I'm not sure.