The Howling
A/N: Hey peeps, here's chapter six! Thanks for your reviews/critiques, and thank ya'll for reading my story. I appreciate every set of eyes [or eye, if you're a Cyclops] that visit here! :]
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When reality came crashing down, it was rarely kind to Stiles. First he had to deal with being forcibly grinded on by his best friend, then he nearly died because of the pheromone bullshit, and then he woke up in the middle of the forest and a half-dead werewolf took him to a boathouse.
Now, however, he was kissing that very same half-dead werewolf, the jerk who never laughed at his jokes, the monster that made Stiles flinch and cower.
And he didn't want to stop, he wanted more, to go further, but—
Stiles pulled away and tucked his head back under Derek's chin. The way they were positioned, with him sitting sideways in Derek's lap and his shoulder digging into Derek's rock-hard (a very bare) chest, he felt awkward yet strangely comforted. Of course this was aside from their kiss, and why Derek hadn't thrown his ass into the lake yet was…well, a good thing, but weird.
Stiles closed his eyes, waited.
"Talk to me," he mumbled, lower lip trembling. "Please. I need to hear something, anything."
He listened to Derek's pulse, eyes still closed.
"This," Derek finally spoke, "isn't your fault." Stiles laughed in response, and it sounded as hollow and pathetic as he was feeling.
Derek's grip tightened, and he continued. "I can't promise you anything, but I'll try to always be there—"
"To hold me in my boxers on a boat?" Stiles interrupted, a sickened look creasing his face. Reality always knew how to make him crash and burn, but he was tired, and still a little cold.
So he leaned further sideways, into Derek's chest—God, the man was like a generator. Stiles kept his eyes closed though. Maybe if he didn't see Derek he wouldn't want to do anything.
He had no problem lying to himself, no problem whatsoever.
The next sensation Stiles felt was the other man's chin coming to a full rest of his head. It sort of hurt, and it sort of didn't; Stiles said nothing and refused to open his eyes.
"What Scott did," Derek said, chin moving on top of Stiles' cranium, "was wrong, but he didn't know what he was doing tonight, or any night he's screwed up for that matter."
Stiles frowned, eyes still closed.
"Yeah, but how about we talk about if I'm back to normal? That's an important topic."
He then felt the older man shake his head. Stiles' hands, which had still been pressed against his chest for warmth, slowly fell to his own lap, and his eyes opened. He felt exasperated, and trapped, borderline-claustrophobic.
"Will I ever be back to normal? Like, have stable pheromones and shit?"
The werewolf swallowed. Stiles listened as the tension continued to build.
"I don't know, I really don't. I've never known a human like you to be fully normal."
That made Stiles huff.
"Okay if you're making fun of me, now is not the time," he snorted and slightly shifted in Derek's lap. "Though I do appreciate the effort."
"I'm serious," hissed Derek, and Stiles felt his grip tighten once more.
"So am I," he replied and looked up.
"But I guess this explains my sudden attraction to you, doesn't it?" he thought but thankfully didn't blurt out. Stiles hoped he was right, that he wasn't really…'into' Derek, despite what his body was hinting at.
"Just stop talking, okay?" Derek's voice was shaky. "I know that's impossible for you but I've got to conserve some energy."
"Okay," replied Stiles, though he wasn't sure how long he could comply.
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She lay in the nude under twisted sheets and blankets, skin free of hickies or any other sort of marking; Scott had been careful, and despite the amount of difficulty, his efforts had been worth it.
He zipped up his fly as quietly as he could, the house dim and quiet. Outside birds chirped in the first hints of sunrise. It was peaceful, serene.
But he didn't have time to waste. Her parents, neighbors, even Lydia herself would be up soon, and Scott wasn't about to stick around.
He turned and looked back at the red-head one final time. He unknowingly smirked before closing the bedroom door behind him.
The house was still dark. He moved stealthily throughout it, no sounds escaping from the floorboards under his still bare feet, and made it to the backyard. Halfway in the moist, cool grass Scott remembered where he'd dumped his clothes, and decided to take off in that direction—and wait, something else caught his attention.
Scott jumped over several fences, some wooden, some chain, and almost stumbled into a familiar looking pool. The smell, as light and faded as it was, made his body twitch.
"Stiles," he breathed, a burst of adrenaline pumping through his body.
He was close to the woods, though he was most distracted with Stiles' scent. It was Stiles, wasn't it? Yes, it had to be, he smelled just he had earlier tonight…only…Derek's scent was there as well, and something irony, reminiscent of blood.
"Where are you?" he thought, eyes widening. "The alpha, oh shit."
His eyes flashed yellow, teeth barring for a brief moment.
"Please don't be dead."
And then he took off into the woods.
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Derek didn't stop Stiles from kissing him again. Instead he grabbed both sides of the boat. With his nails digging into the wooden structure, he fed into the close-mouthed kiss. Stiles was intoxicating—he always had been, and Derek wasn't sure how long he'd be able to last.
All because of this kid, and his warm lips and God—Derek opened his mouth, let his bottom lip be sucked—had Stiles kissed anyone else like this before? What about Scott?
Derek let himself moan, actually fucking moan, urging the young human on and on. His wounds were healed by now. He was sure that was a good and bad thing, since he was suffering from different sorts of pains.
So they continued to kiss, Stiles setting the pace but keeping his hands still safely tucked between their bodies. Soon Derek felt the kid's tongue on his lips and teeth, and so he opened his mouth wider—and the kid felt soft and wet and warm.
Stiles moaned this time, and Derek let go of the boat's sides to grab the kid's shoulders. He knew his eyes were glowing, and Stiles did too because he tore away from him, but Derek's hold around the kid's body prevented him from moving off his lap. The boat rocked and swayed and mixed into Stiles' blabbering mouth.
"Are you making me do this?" The kid was panicking again, trying to get away. Finally Derek let him, ignoring Stiles' disgruntled sounds as his ass slid against the wet bottom of the boat.
"We need to stop. Now," whispered Derek, eyes closing. He was very close to losing control, but what scared him even more was that Stiles had the ability to make him feel this way.
"I'm going to get out of the boat," Derek said abruptly, hands once more grasping the boat's sides. "I want you to count to ten then follow me—"
"No," Stiles shot back. "What if the alpha's still out there?"
"If he wanted to kill either of us we wouldn't be here." Derek's eyes opened as he spoke. "So shut your mouth and do what I fucking say, ok?"
Stiles nodded and brought his knees to his chin, watching Derek closely as he stood to get up.
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Derek wouldn't look at him and kept a good ten foot radius between their bodies. It was cold now, though light was taking over the woods. Stiles watched Derek speed-walking, boots making familiar crunching sounds, and tried to keep up. Instead of focusing in on him like a total weirdo—or Danny—Stiles noted on his pain level. Firstly, his head was light, and his ass was cold and wet with lake water.
But mostly his feet hurt, and Stiles was sure he cut himself on something. At least Derek had let him keep his jacket—for now. He briefly wondered how often the man lost his shirts, and then thought about Derek's car. Hell yeah, Stiles was really looking forward to being in that warm, comfortable, probably stolen vehicle. He was gonna opt to sit in the back so he could fully stretch out, and to avoid Derek's wrath further.
But there was one question itching in his throat.
"Can I ask why we went to the boathouse to begin with?" he called.
"Because I needed to heal," Derek shot back. "And I'm done now."
He exhaled through his nostrils and pulled Derek's jacket closer. The whole night had been fucked up, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he felt.
That and mass paranoia, which always replaced any anger Stiles felt.
"Am I still gonna die?"
Derek stopped in mid-step, and Stiles followed suit, still ten feet behind. The werewolf didn't turn around.
"You're not fucking vomiting anymore, are you?"
"Thanks Doc, that clears everything right up" said Stiles to the back of Derek's head. He really wished the guy would turn around, it was kind of rude—
"I don't know, okay?" Derek snarled and spun around, and Stiles suddenly preferred his backside.
"Then what do you know?" Stiles asked without thinking, eyes widening as he watched the werewolf stalk over to him. Maybe if he played dead he'd go away.
"I already explained about the pheromone and hormonal shit," spat Derek. "I don't know how much fucking clearer I can be! You're a human; werewolves can alter your emotions and sensory perception and…and other crap!"
Stiles opened his mouth but Derek's face was suddenly so close to his, and so full of rage, that nothing came out but air.
Those predatory eyes narrowed, then he growled, and Stiles jumped back. He trembled, just the slightest bit, just enough so that Derek backed off.
Yeah, Stiles would never get used to fucking werewolves, and he meant that declaration in the most non-sexual manner possible.
"That's just how it is! Stop asking me about it because I. Don't. Know."
But Stiles still didn't feel quite right, like Scott's hold was somehow still on him—and Derek just shook his head and turned, ready to keep walking.
"You said," Stiles started, "that my pheromones were still messed up…"
"Of course they are!" Derek whirled back around as he spoke. "Why else do you think you've been feeling sick one minute then trying to kiss me the next!"
"Well I don't know!" his voice cracked in the night. Derek's posture changed from offense to relaxed, but also annoyed. Wait, he was annoyed?
Stiles continued. "I'm not a fucking werewolf! It's not like my pheromones get fucked with every other weekend and then I go on my way!" Stiles motioned to the surrounding woods for good measure.
Derek shook his head, like Stiles would never understand what he was talking about. Great, this guy was acting just like his Dad. Stiles looked away, cold nipping at his goose-bumped legs and feet. His ass too, consequently.
"And now you're looking at me like my Dad does when he feels sorry for me, but—"
"I'm not your father," interjected Derek. "Shut up and listen to me."
Did Derek realize how contradictory his statements were? Stiles tried not to laugh and listened, but kept his eyes fixated on a tree stump. He was seriously getting sick of being told to shut up.
"When a werewolf manipulates a human's pheromones they can make you do anything they fucking want for how long they want," Derek took a step closer and clasped a hand on Stiles' shoulder, though Stiles still wouldn't look at him. "And I mean anything from homicidal rage, sexual attraction, or depression, okay? It's not your fault, so stop with the pity bullcrap. You're going to be fine."
Stiles finally looked back to Derek, face scrunching in confusion. "But you don't know that for sure. And I mean, how is any of this possible? It doesn't make any sense."
Derek sighed and released his shoulder, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did so. "You might as well ask how werewolves exist, and I'm not about to give a history lesson."
Stiles felt his eyes watering. Why he was getting emotional now, he didn't know, though he managed to swallow the lump in his throat.
He watched Derek ignore the single tear that fell down his face. It was unnerving to feel so upset and confused while having this guy around.
"All I know is that if a werewolf's strong enough, we can permanently put an end to a human's rational thinking, or even create a new persona—."
"But, wait, wait…does this mean I'm still feeling this way because…of Scott? Because he's still got some sort of fucking control over me? What if he doesn't even know it?"
Derek's shoulder's sagged just enough for Stiles to notice. "He probably doesn't."
And now he was back to panicking. "Oh shit, I am gonna die."
"Stop saying that," Derek snapped through gritted teeth. "Just. Stop talking."
"And what about what happened in the boat?" Stiles persisted, ignoring Derek.
The werewolf raised his hands up in an attempt to calm him down. "Stop," he said, and kept his hands from shaking. "We're not going to talk—"
"But you didn't even try to stop me, and—"
"Stiles!" the werewolf shouted, voice bouncing off trees and echoing into the early morning. Stiles' heart was beating, fast. This guy could really kill him. Hell, he'd probably killed people before, people like the Argent's who were a lot stronger than him. He could die, right here in the woods, and then Stiles would never kiss Lydia, never play his first Lacrosse game, never see the light of day again—well wait, the sun was almost up.
"Stiles," Derek repeated, calmer, and ran a hand through his hair, but another hand suddenly was back on Stiles' shoulder. It was warm, even through the leather. Stiles tried not to lean into the sensation.
"You're not thinking right. One minute you're afraid of me, the next you want to crawl into my fucking jeans."
Well that was true, though Stiles was always sort of afraid of Derek.
"Will it go away?" he asked and looked to the werewolf, eyebrows raised.
Derek shrugged.
Shit, he really didn't know.
"First thing's first; we're going to my car, I'm going to drive you home, and we're never talking about what happened in the boathouse. Ever," Derek said, and Stiles didn't realize his hand had left his shoulder until he turned around.
He pretended not to feel abandoned as he watched Derek walking away.