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The Hunting of the Snark... I Mean Spark

Part 1 of What I Tell You Three Times Is True

Peter listened as the water stopped and various cabinets in his bathroom were opened and closed and waited for his guest to reappear. Stiles, scrubbed red from the shower, walked into the room rubbing viciously at his hair with a towel. The fragrance of borrowed shampoo clung to him even more tightly than the damp fabric of Peter’s bathrobe and seeing the young man like that, covered head to toe in Peter’s things, in Peter’s scent, caused his wolf to lift its head and rumble in satisfaction, even if the reason the boy was in his den was less than optimal.

“Three times, Peter.” Frustration sharpened Stiles’s voice, pulling the man’s attention back from his wolf’s wanderings. “You know what that means.”

Peter knew. One is an incident, two is a coincidence, three's a pattern, and four is enough for a warrant. Not that they could get a warrant, even if they did end up with a fourth victim. It didn’t matter to Stiles, though. He, like his father, was a cop at heart—protect and serve was etched in their bones. Usually, Stiles also had a streak of ruthless practicality that balanced that idealism out, but this time was different. Peter hoped it didn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

“Proving the pattern to the rest of the pack is going to be… difficult.”

Amber eyes rolled and Peter smothered a smile. It still surprised him how much pleasure Stiles’s snark generated in him. Like calling to like.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Stiles flung his towel at the hamper and missed. From four feet away. Peter shook his head. How the boy had survived this long in a world full of predators was truly a mystery. “Lydia will believe me. Probably. And Danny. But…”

“But they’re not wolves.” Peter nodded and leaned back in his chair. “They aren’t the ones who’re going to want to believe it’s possible in the first place.”

Stiles walked to the corner of the desk that dominated the office and propped one hip on it, everything about his posture telegraphing his irritation with the situation.

“Scott’s going to think I’m crazy—literally—and he’ll suspect anything coming from you because you’re clearly still trying to manipulate him.” His lip curled a fraction and Peter wasn’t sure if it was the beginning of a smile or a snarl. “That means we’re going to have to go at the problem sideways, again, because as much as I’d like to say he wouldn’t go there again, I’m sure you’re with me on the Never Going Back to Eichen bandwagon.”

Peter gave his own eyeroll at that. “Our True Alpha does have a limited repertoire of responses, and you’re right, Eichen House is not on my list of spa retreat destinations. My question for you is simply: since we know he won’t listen to reason, why bother trying to convince him? It isn’t as if the people Hengstrom is using aren’t willing. If Scott wants to throw in with the crazy mage, why not let him?”

Stiles shifted his weight, swinging a lean leg absently. “I guess it’s the lying that gets me, because I don’t believe he doesn’t know exactly what his miracle cure does. You can’t wield that kind of magic if you don’t understand it intimately. That leaves two options,” he held up one long finger. “One, he’s leaving details out because he doesn’t think they’re important—which would be stupidly shortsighted—or two,” he held up a second finger, “he knows the details are important and he’s not telling people on purpose, which leads to another whole line of questions about why he’s keeping them secret and what he’s getting out of the de-wolfing process that’s so important that he doesn’t want to risk scaring his victims away.”

Peter nodded. When the mage arrived, he’d introduced himself to the local Alpha and had bemoaned the fact that Deaton wasn’t currently in residence because he wanted to share his new skill with the druid. Invoking the emissary’s name worked like magic—all puns intended—and the True Alpha had warmly welcomed the man to the territory and had immediately begun questioning him about this new and wonderful spellwork he’d invented. Hengstrom had been hesitant to speak of it, saying he didn’t want to step on Deaton’s toes—but Scott reacted the way he always did when there was something new and shiny that he wanted: he poked and prodded and wheedled and insisted until the mage caved and laid out the framework of what he called his “life’s achievement.”

It was delicate work and Peter had been impressed with Hengstrom’s ability to play the young Alpha right up until he uttered the phrase “werewolf curse.” McCall’s spine had stiffened and red crawled up his neck as he ducked his head and looked away, shame and self-loathing oozing from every pore. Every wolf in the room stiffened, feeling the negativity of their leader through the pack bonds, and Peter was no different. His gums itched and his fingers ached, claws and fangs closer to the surface than they should be, and he knew his wolf was feeling threatened in a way that born wolves weren’t supposed to feel.

The mage promised Scott, and any other bitten wolves that were interested, the chance to be human again, and he knew immediately what the True Alpha’s reaction was going to be. Hell, anyone with a braincell that had known the boy for more than two seconds knew what he was going to do. He never even paused to think how giving up his wolf would affect the rest of the pack. No, McCall was consistent—he wanted what he wanted and screw anyone that might get in the way of him getting it.

He did, at least, ask a few questions and the mage passed his minimalist lie detector test—Yes, he’d performed the rite dozens of times. The rite had 100% efficacy. All the people he helped went back to their human lives with nary a trace of wolf left in them. Here’s an oddly convenient list; call them if you want to.—And then the idiot didn’t think, didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate for a minute, he simply reached out and swept the mage into the biggest hug Beacon Hills had ever seen, and then had run off to tell Kira the good news.

Stiles and Peter watched the interview silently, doubt clear on both of their faces, but once their Alpha had made his approval clear, Stiles shook the man’s hand briefly, took the list of “cured” that was proffered, and directed the mage to the hotel in town that the pack had an arrangement with.

Then Stiles went to work.

It took the Spark six hours to contact most of the people on the list, but there were a few he hadn’t been able to get through to. Finally, one number that had been calling incessantly—his magic nagging at him that it was important—picked up and the tearful woman on the other end informed him that yes, her husband, Oscar, had undergone Hengstrom’s procedure and had been thrilled with the results. Unfortunately, he’d died a few months later. They hadn’t been able to determine a cause of death—he simply didn’t wake up one morning. It was possible that the procedure had been hard on his heart or something, but no one could really say. She was sorry she couldn’t be more help.

After another six hours he’d found two more people who’d had their wolves removed who had mysteriously fallen ill afterwards. One was currently in a coma, and the other had been committed to a mental institution after having attempted to kill his family, the whole time screaming for them to kill him, please kill him. That he couldn’t stop it. It wouldn’t let him.

That report reminded Stiles too much of his possession by the Nogitsune; he and Peter were on a plane the next morning. Three hours and several Jedi mind tricks after landing, they’d gotten to visit the last victim… and the minor demon that was squatting in his soul. Peter had struggled with seeing the man strapped to his bed, flashbacks of his own time imprisoned in a similar bed with nothing free to move but his head setting his teeth on edge, and Stiles… well, the Spark had his own fight to fight. His spark hovered just beneath his skin, setting the boy almost aglow, and while his wolf was used to the temptation, the demon was immediately overwhelmed with hunger.

The body on the bed strained and lurched against its bindings as they listened to it rave about how Stiles was perfect, how the fire under his skin was nice but the darkness around his heart was beautiful and infinite and vicious, how he had a demon-shaped hole in his soul that just cried out to be filled. Stiles waited as every word left a wound behind, and Peter could smell the blood on him as he bit his lips to remain silent. Finally, the demon released its host deciding that it was worth giving up the body it had for the chance of controlling the power of a Spark. Peter sucked in a breath, terrified that they wouldn’t make it out of the hospital without a demonic stowaway, but then his impossible, incredible boy burned the creature out of existence in the flash of an eye before it could jump bodies. He listened as Stiles’s breath caught on a silent sob in his throat, and Peter ached to gather the bowstring-taut Spark into his arms and tell him that yes he was perfect, that the demon had no idea how beautiful his darkness truly was because he used it to defend the ones he loved, that if there was a hole in his soul Peter would crawl into it and fill it and wrap him up in protective arms, keeping him close, and safe, and his… but he knew that all it would take would be one uninvited touch and Stiles would shatter, so he kept his hands to himself, and bided his time.

A moment later the victim woke from his possession in grateful tears, but when Stiles explained that he couldn’t repair the holes in the man’s spirit that had allowed the demon to take up residence in the first place, he insisted they leave him in the hospital, that it was where he wanted to stay, where he needed to stay. He’d do anything to protect his family from going through that nightmare again.

Stiles told him that evening that he suspected the man wouldn’t be around long enough to regret that decision; his life force was already leaking out through the holes in his aura. Listening to the Spark whimper in his sleep as he thrashed on the hotel bed that night, Peter knew Stiles would regret the decision enough for the both of them.

One good thing came out of the whole nightmare. After explaining what had happened to her husband, the last victim’s wife was more than willing to answer their questions, and she was much more expansive than the mage. She told them that Hengstrom only pursued weres that had been changed within the past five years, claiming that anyone that had been a werewolf longer than that wouldn’t ever be able to truly erase the behaviors they’d learned. He’d asked other questions—where her husband fit in the pack hierarchy, how he’d been turned, whether his wife was a wolf—before agreeing to remove her husband’s wolf, but that the one thing that seemed most important to him was whether they were going leave the territory after the procedure. He implied that continuing contact with the members of the pack would hinder her husband’s healing process. He said that her husband’s scent would change, and the other wolves wouldn’t be able to trust him anymore and that it would be safer for everyone if they cut ties completely, but he’d also said that any exposure to the supernatural would make it harder for her husband to transition back to his human life. She hadn’t questioned it at the time, but it had made the whole situation more difficult when he’d started showing signs of deterioration because she didn’t have the pack as a support system and since they didn’t have their emissary available to ask for advice.

Oh, and their emissary hadn’t been around when Hengstrom had arrived, either.

Stiles had looked at Peter at that point and quirked an eyebrow, an entire conversation in the tiny movement. Who knew they would ever actually be sorry that Alan Deaton wasn’t around?

Stiles stopped swinging his leg suddenly. “Did Scott ever mention that Kira was a kitsune?”

Peter thought back over the conversation he’d witnessed and shook his head. “No. Hengstrom asked if he was mated to another wolf and Scott said no, but that was as far as it went. Why?”

He paused and raised his eyes to the Spark’s as the penny dropped. Oh. Ohhh.

Scott was going to have a problem. Kira wasn’t a wolf, but she was a kitsune but more importantly—she was pack. The only thing McCall valued more than his own vaunted humanity was his mate, and after the youngest Argent died, he’d become even more protective of the little fox.

Stiles grinned, sharp and vulpine, clearly ready to hunt. “I think we need to have a little chat with our Alpha’s mate.”

Peter grinned back letting his own fangs drop a fraction and resting a heavy hand on Stiles’s knee. “You know, sweetheart, I think you’re right.”

***

Kira wasn’t alone when they got there, but it could have been worse. Ms. Yukimura wasn’t a fan of Stiles’s—she still saw too much of Void in him to ever be comfortable—but she would listen more than Scott would, so Peter considered it a win.

“And you destroyed the demon? You’re positive?” She lifted a delicate hand and poured another cup of tea. If Peter hadn’t been watching so closely, he’d have missed the fractional tightening of muscles in her fingers.

“As positive as I can be,” Stiles replied. “I know it isn’t in Peter, and I know it wasn’t in Mr. Anderson when we left him. If you’d be so kind as to make sure I haven’t brought him along with me, I would be… grateful.”

It cost the boy something to make the request, but when the older woman’s eyes settled on him and she nodded once, the silent stress that had been hiding in his spine melted away and Peter could almost feel a sigh of relief pass over him.

“There is nothing… new in your aura, Spark,” she said with a dip of her head, and Peter had to fight back a growl at the cautionary phrasing and silent implication that there was something extra in his aura already, but that was a fight for another day. “The demon must, then, have truly been vanquished. Your skill has grown. I congratulate you.”

Stiles forced himself to dip his head in acceptance. His skills had grown through necessity, and so much of that necessity could be laid at this woman’s feet. It was amazing that he was even able to stay in the same room. Peter wasn’t sure he could have.

“I am simply sorry that I wasn’t able to do more for Mr. Anderson. As I said, the procedure that Hengstrom subjected him to has left his spirit shredded. He will die; it’s just a matter of how long it will take.”

Kira twisted her hands in her lap. “You’re sure? There isn’t anything else that could’ve caused the damage?”

Stiles shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kira, but you know I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure. I know how much this means to Scotty, and yeah, him giving up his wolf would throw the pack into chaos, but we’ve dealt with chaos before and survived. I wouldn’t take this chance away from him on a hunch. The problem is that because of the chaos we’ve been through,” he threw a hard glance at the elder kitsune, “Scott doesn’t trust my judgment. He thinks I’m paranoid.” He let out a bark of laughter. “He isn’t wrong. But neither am I about this.”

Kira pushed her hair behind her ear and sighed. “I believe you. I was talking to mom before you came about how something about this just felt off. Hearing you explain what you’ve found just makes that feeling stronger.”

Peter sat back and crossed his legs. “So, how do we make your husband listen to the truth?”

Kira quirked a lip and tilted her chin to one side, her inner fox clear and sharp. “The way I see it, the only way he’s going to believe it is if it comes from Hengstrom himself.”

Stiles’s whole body stilled, his normal state of constant movement frozen. “I like where you’re going with this, but it’s going to be tricky.”

Kira looked at her mother and they both smiled their trickster-kitsune smiles. “Leave that to us.”

***

In the end, it was surprisingly simple. Painful, but simple.

“You should let him try this on Peter, first.” Stiles said, innocence personified.

Scott perked up. “On Peter? But he wouldn’t want to…” he swallowed what he’d been intending to say and turned to look at the mage. “Could you actually do that? Take the wolf from a born wolf?”

Hagen Hengstrom looked as Swedish as his name sounded. Tall, blond, buff—he didn’t look like any of the mages Peter had ever met, but then Stiles himself didn’t look like them, either. His blue eyes were pale and clear and there was something old and cold in them that Peter didn’t want to be close to, but he was bait, so, he stepped forward.

Hengstrom shook his head, one fist tightening minutely. “No. Definitely not. There is nothing in him that isn’t infiltrated with wolf. He’d go mad without it.”

Stiles snorted. “Like we’d be able to tell the difference.”

Scott looked surprised that he would say such a thing, but then laughed. “I suppose you’re right. Not much to compare it to as far as sanity goes.”

Peter forced himself not to snarl at the boy and let Stiles go on.

“I mean, if the procedure is 100% effective…” he left the sentence hanging, and the mage stepped right into it.

“It is 100% effective,” he insisted, “it’s just that his wolf is so embedded in him that it would rip his soul to pull it out.”

Stiles tilted his head and raised an innocent eyebrow. “Rip his soul? That doesn’t sound good.”

Kira shifted closer to Scott and put an arm around his waist. “No. No it doesn’t.”

Scott looked down at his wife and frowned. “You said before that it didn’t hurt.”

Hengstrom froze and then shook his head. “That isn’t what…”

Scott frowned harder. “You said you’d performed this rite dozens of times.”

Hengstrom nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! I’ve done this dozens—hundreds—of times. It does exactly what I’ve promised.”

Stiles made a non-committal sound. “But actually, all you said was that it removed the wolf and the people went back to being human after. You didn’t say anything about whether they were healthy and happy, did you?”

Kira tugged on Scott’s shirt. “Did he?”

Scott shrugged. “I don’t actually remember. I was so excited by what he was telling me that I don’t think I asked.” He turned back to the mage who looked decidedly paler under his golden tan. “What happens to the people after you take their wolves? Are they healthy? Can they… have families? Does it mess with any of that?”

The mage frowned and took his time before answering. “I don’t stay in touch with all of the people I’ve helped, so I don’t know exactly how they all are. But I can assure you the rite did exactly what it was supposed to do, and they were all completely human afterwards.”

Stiles made another noise. “I’m sure it’s fine, Kira,” he waved his hand between Hengstrom and Scott, “I mean, if there was a problem I’m sure Deaton could fix it, and the pack would be here to…”

Hengstrom lurched forward, hand up. “Um, that’s not…” he swallowed, “I mean, I’m certain that Druid Deaton is very skilled, but this magic is specialized, and he wouldn’t be familiar with the process. It’s best if the blessed can accept the return of their human status completely, make a clean break with their previous packs and limit their exposure to the supernatural. As humans they’re so much more susceptible to injury and you wouldn’t want to endanger your family that way unnecessarily, would you? You and your wife would be able to move on, have children, start your own veterinary practice without all of this hanging over your head.”

Scott’s frown had deepened to the point that Peter thought he could get a playing card to stick in the crease between his eyebrows.

“My wife is supernatural.” He hugged Kira tighter to him and Hengstrom frowned.

“But you said you weren’t mated to another werewolf!”

Kira looked at him, adorable confusion on her face. “He’s not. I’m a kitsune. I’m surprised you couldn’t feel my magic. Dr. Deaton says it’s unmistakable. Plus… I’m pack.”

Hengstrom looked bewildered, wondering how things had gotten so out of hand.

At that point Liam stepped forward, his back stiff and eyes slitted. “It seems to me that there’s more to this rite than you initially let on. So, tell me just one thing: If Scott lets you take his wolf, what will happen to his Alpha spark?”

Peter forced his face to stillness. Finally, someone was asking the right questions.

The mage frowned. “I’m not sure. I’ve never removed the wolf from an Alpha before.”

The whole pack took a step towards Scott, suddenly sensing the threat to their Alpha.

“You don’t know?” Liam sounded strangled and he turned to look at Scott. “You mean you didn’t ask? You were just going to let him take your wolf and leave us all omegas?”

Scott deflated a little. “I just figured it would go to the next person in line in the pack. Maybe you. Maybe,” he frowned, “maybe Peter. I mean, he’s been an Alpha before. Not a good one, but still.”

Liam was livid. “You were just joking about him being crazy, Scott! Plus, you’re a fucking True Alpha! It isn’t like it’s got a line to revert to. Maybe it just disappears into the ether it came from, and then what would happen?”

The mage was slowly stepping away from the angry young wolf, trying not to draw attention to himself, but Peter’s Spark was having none of it.

“All politics aside, the thing I worry most about is what would happen to Scott’s soul if you ripped the True Alpha spark out of it. I mean, think about it Scotty. The only reason you’re an Alpha at all is because of your soul---it’s got to be tangled up tightly in there. If there is, what did you call it? Tearing? When you remove the wolf? What? Does it leave holes in his soul or something? Mess with his aura? Is that why he shouldn’t be around supernatural stuff afterwards, because something could get in through those holes?”

Kira took her cue like a professional, one dainty hand flying to her mouth as she gasped in fear for her beloved. “Oh my God, that can’t be, right? Nothing could get into his soul, could it?”

Hengstrom knew he was trapped. A room full of wolves would hear if he lied. “It’s… possible. But, in a world of magic anything is possible.”

Kira moved to stand in front of her husband. “I’d think you’d have led with that fact. As a matter of fact, the fact that you didn’t makes me wonder what else you don’t tell people about your precious rite.”

Mason gave a side-long look to the man. “Makes me wonder what he gets out of it.”

Peter allowed himself a smirk. Mason certainly had potential. He would have to spend a little more time with the boy. The True Alpha needed someone who could see through false altruism that didn’t have a history with him. It would be much easier to get him to listen, then.

A rumble from the back of the room drew his attention. Ah. Reinforcements.

Alan Deaton swept into the room with all the gravitas of an opening night diva, every eye upon him, and he glided to a stop beside his wide-eyed protégé.

“Remind me never to accept an invitation to a conclave I am unfamiliar with, Scott. It always seems to lead to trouble,” he said, dark eyes resting on the now surrounded mage.

Peter wondered if that meant that the druid had been lured away somehow, but that could be sussed out later. Right now, he wanted to know what the man intended to do with the interloper.

Deaton was a terrible emissary, but he wasn’t a bad magic user and when Peter saw his eyes widen and a rim of green flash in them, he couldn’t help but wish he, too, could see things with druid’s sight.

Whatever it was, it didn’t make the man happy.

“Scott?” The druid didn’t look away from Hengstrom. “Have you allowed your guest access to you or any others in the pack?”

Scott shook his head, a little sheepishly. “No. We were about to get to that. Lucky for me, Kira was here. She seemed to know right away that something was weird.” He hugged his wife tightly, and the little fox met Peter’s eyes and smiled. Leave it to her, indeed. It was a good reminder never to get on the woman’s bad side. He looked at Stiles and they shared an incredulous look that quickly devolved into twin smiles of satisfaction. Working together like this behind the scenes was often frustrating, but the connection it built between the two of them wasn’t something Peter was ever going to willingly give up.

“I believe Mage Hengstrom and I have some things to discuss. I’d appreciate it if a few of your pack members would escort him over to my offices. Then, I think you all could do with a quick check up. Just to make sure that there isn’t anything… missing.” His voice softened. “Or extra.”

A noisy exodus followed, leaving Stiles and Peter alone. Together. Again.

“She’s impressive,” Peter nodded his head in the direction of Kira’s disappearing back. “I don’t know what she sees in him.”

Stiles laughed then, only a little bitterly. “She sees what I once saw in him. A bottomless well of faith and singlemindedness that sometimes,” he sighed as he watched everyone leave, “sometimes feels like devotion. I hope she never loses it.”

Peter looked at the Spark and wished with all his heart that he could erase the heartache that Scott McCall’s fickleness had caused. Since he can’t, though, he will make do with replacing fake devotion with constancy, and human fickleness with a loyalty that the wolf-kings of old would bow down to.

“Since Alan has the mage under control, what do you say to a milkshake? My treat.”

Stiles smiled then, weak but sincere. “And curly fries?”

Peter wrapped his arm around the Spark and guided him towards the door. “Of course, sweetheart. What kind of man do you take me for?”

Stiles’s smile got a little more mischievous and Peter rolled his eyes. “Don’t answer that.”

The smile brightened even more. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Zombiewolf.”

And well, if the boy’s heart stuttered on the lie Peter wasn’t going to call him out for it.

***

Peter listened to the water falling in his shower and the one monopolizing it. Again.

“Three times, Peter!” Stiles was ranting. “I told him. I told him after the first time. I told him again after the second time, but this is three times.” The water stopped and the glass door opened with a tiny squeak. Peter imagined what Stiles looked like, skin red from the heat of the shower and his own frustration, and wished that just once the boy was flushed and rosy in his shower for a better reason than Scott fucking McCall’s incompetence.

Peter lounged on his bed, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, and waited with calculated patience. It didn’t take long.

Stiles stomped in wrapped in Peter’s robe, a wave of scented steam swirling around him and a prickle of agitated magic washed through the room causing the fine hair on Peter’s arms to stand. The Spark was actually angry this time.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Stiles stomped into Peter’s closet, opening and shutting drawers more violently than necessary, looking for something to wear. Peter didn’t mind. His wolf loved seeing the boy in his clothes, and if he’d bought a few things that ran a little smaller just for the Spark to “steal” well, his tailor didn’t need to know.

“Can’t do what anymore, dear heart,” he asked, aiming for calm. He watched the shadows move on the floor as the boy stripped just around the corner from him. It was a good thing the Spark couldn’t hear his heart. He’d probably run out of the apartment faster than he ran from the troll earlier.

Peter was always the scariest monster when it came down to it.

“I can’t keep trying to save his ass and having him ignore me. I can’t keep manipulating things from stage left hoping that it works out and that nobody fucking dies.” He stomped out of the closet, a pair of Peter’s jeans slung low on his hips and a V-neck that was a size too large falling off one shoulder. He tossed his towel at the hamper. He missed. Again. At least some things never changed.

“Mason almost died tonight, Peter,” Stiles flopped, all long legs and arms like a puppet with its strings cut, on the end of the bed. “If Liam hadn’t doubled back for him, he wouldn’t have had a chance. And it could have all been avoided if Scott had just listened to me.”

Peter rumbled sympathetically. Stiles needed comfort, not fuel for the Scott McCall Is A Terrible Friend fire.

The Spark sighed and dropped back onto the bed, exhaustion finally catching up with him. He’d gotten better in the years since Peter bit Scott. He was stronger. Had more stamina. Had magic to reinforce his bat when he swung it, and potions to help him heal faster when he didn’t manage to get through a fight unscathed… but he was still human, and he was tired.

“You did what you could, sweetheart,” Peter tried to console, but it was hard. He’d love to point out every flaw, every shortcoming, every insult and betrayal, but his boy was smart. He already knew all those things; pointing them out would just hurt. “It’s Scott. It isn’t like he’s finally going to learn a lesson from all of this. Deaton will support him no matter what, and until either he or Kira force him to change, he won’t.”

Stiles didn’t say anything for a long time. If his breathing hadn’t stayed the same Peter would have thought he’d fallen asleep.

“Scott won’t change, so it’s up to me.” The words were soft, but very final sounding.

“What’s up to you? Do you have a plan for forcing him to change?”

Short curls shook in a negative. “I can’t change him, but I can change me.”

Peter’s wolf growled in the back of his mind at the thought of Stiles changing. He was perfect. He shouldn’t have to change because his packmate—his so called Alpha—wasn’t worth his teeth.

“And how do you intend to change? More Spark studies?”

Stiles rolled onto his side and gave Peter an assessing look. “I got a call from a pack outside of Las Vegas last week.”

Peter stiffened and curled his fingers so that Stiles wouldn’t see his popped claws. NO. He couldn’t leave. Peter wouldn’t have it. He’d…

“Calm down, Zombiewolf,” Stiles said, sitting the rest of the way up and smirking a little. “It wasn’t like that. They aren’t looking for a new packmate, they just need a little help.”

Peter felt the panic drain away, and a new kind of caution take its place. Trust his boy to read him so well. He’d have to be more careful.

“What kind of help?”

“Seems they have themselves an aqrabuamelu.” Stiles watched him for recognition, and Peter couldn’t help feeling satisfaction when the Spark looked proud that he nodded.

“Scorpion man. Not native to the area… how’d it get to Nevada?”

Stiles shrugged carelessly, the V-neck hanging even lower to expose the shadow of a collarbone. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d think the Spark was teasing him. “What happens in Vegas rarely stays in Vegas, dude. I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet someone brought the fucker in for some sort of supernatural freak show and it got away from them.” He grinned, looking all of ten years old and full of mischief. “Like the alligators in the sewers where someone flushes an overgrown pet.”

Peter shook his head. The boy was a menace. “I’m assuming they don’t know how to handle the creature?”

“Got it in one. They’ve heard about our successes in driving off weird monsters and were wondering if we could help. I thought about telling Scott and seeing if he wanted to curry some favor with a relatively close pack, but…”

Peter watched and waited. Then he prompted. “But…?”

“But… I was thinking maybe I’d go out there and take care of it for them. Maybe negotiate a non-treaty kind of fee for assistance. Like a contract hit without the Mob, I mean, Pack involvement.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. As long as McCall didn’t get his knickers in a knot over Stiles killing things again. That problem didn’t seem to be that much of a factor in Stiles’s calculations, though.

“McCall won’t like it. He’s made it clear how he feels about this kind of extermination.” There was no judgment in his tone, but Peter couldn’t let him commit to something like this without being sure he knew what he was getting into.

“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. Not after yesterday.” Stiles’s scent soured under the cucumber-citrus bodywash.

“Yesterday?”

The Spark flopped back onto the bed again, this time more hopeless than boneless. “Yeah. When I was trying to convince Scott about my plan for the trolls, he said it again.”

Fuck. That idiot.

“You know he doesn’t mean it.” Peter tried to soothe, but he was just a little too angry on Stiles’s behalf for it to be truly soothing.

“Oh, he meant it. And I know he meant it because of this.” A long arm shot up from the bed and the Spark shook the thin black leather band dangling from it. “I made it last new moon. A charm bracelet to beat all charm bracelets. Take that, Pandora!” There was an almost hysterical edge to his tone. “The emissary of the Parker pack taught me how to make it. She uses one to allow her to stand on equal footing with her wolves—she can scent them and listen to their hearts with it, even though she’s human.”

Peter couldn’t stop the rising of his eyebrows as he stared at the innocent looking thing. Stiles had been able to hear his heart. To read his scent. His brain spun in denial. For a month.

Stiles hadn’t said anything, though, so he would do the same. Maybe he could salvage things.

“So, you listened to his heart when the two of you were planning?” He tried to steer the conversation back onto slightly less terrifying ground.

“You mean when he told me, again, that I shouldn’t worry about planning because I wasn’t pack?” Pain was threaded through Stiles’s words, but under it there was a clear note of just being done with it all. “Yep. And Scott’s heart was clear as day---not a flutter to be heard. He truly believes I’m not pack, and if the Alpha says I’m not pack, then I’m not pack. That means, among other things, that that self-same Alpha can’t tell me what to do. As a best friend Scott could still do that, but he hasn’t been a friend, not to mention a best friend, in a long time I think.”

Peter didn’t argue. The brat had been many things over the past few years, but a good friend was rarely on that list, and even more rarely as far as it applied to Stiles.

“I don’t believe McCall will see it that way,” Peter poked at the argument gingerly, trying to see where Stiles was going with this. “Is that why you’re telling me? Do you want me to cover for you while you’re away?”

He couldn’t help feeling a little hurt by the idea that Stiles would be moving on without him, but he knows that getting out of Beacon Hills even for a little while would only do the boy good. As long as he intended to come back.

“No,” Stiles shook his head and levered himself up and off the bed, whiskey brown eyes fixed on his in the lamplight. “I want you to come with me. I mean… how often are you going to get a chance to face off with an aqrabuamelu? Plus, Vegas. Who wouldn’t want to go to Vegas?”

Peter’s wolf sneered. Who wouldn’t want to surround themselves with perfumed, alcohol soaked, despair ridden people in buildings full of too-bright lights, and bells and whistles shrieking twenty-four hours a day?

“Sounds like just what the doctor ordered.” He found himself saying, even knowing that the Spark would hear the lie. “When do we leave?”

Stiles grinned—a wide, true thing that made Peter’s chest tighten. “Well, first we need to swing by Home Depot. I need to buy a fuckton of diatomaceous earth.”

***

They stood in the Vegas packhouse, a wolf and a Spark, covered in diatomaceous earth and blood.

“I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done, Spark Stilinski,” the Alpha would have bowed if there had been an ounce less steel in her spine, Peter was sure. As it was, she dipped her head in thanks and held out a leather satchel full of goods. “I know you hadn’t expected to walk into a hostage situation, and because of that I’ve added a few,” she made a vague gesture to the bag, “items to our payment agreement. My niece’s life is priceless to me; I only hope that this is satisfactory recompense.”

Stiles took the bag and shrugged it over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that, Alpha Garcia, but your generosity is appreciated. I’m just glad that Peter and I were able to help.”

The Alpha looked at Peter and he forced himself to stillness. A Beta this far from his Alpha, without his Alpha’s approval… well let’s just say he didn’t want to get into the matter if he didn’t have to. I appeared that today was going to be a good day, though, as Alpha Garcia just nodded to him as well.

“The two of you fight well together,” she said, “I can see how it works.” She looked between the two guests, filthy and tired, and bowed deeply. “Your sister would be happy to see you so settled, Beta Hale. May your moons be ever bright.”

Peter felt his breath catch and chanced a glance at Stiles, but the Spark’s expression didn’t change except for a tiny arch of an eyebrow, almost challenging him to respond to the Alpha’s blessing. His wolf, though… his wolf wanted to howl and preen that the Alpha thought Stiles was his mate and would bless such a union so publicly. It made the blood in his veins rush and his heart pound, and then, then, Stiles smiled, soft and fond, and he knew the little monster had let the Alpha believe they were mates from the beginning. Had wanted her to see them that way. Had wanted all of them to see them that way.

Had wanted him that way.

Peter was many things, but a fool was not on the list. He gave Stiles one piercing look before turning back and bowing to the Alpha, grasping this last best chance at happiness with both his clawed hands. “May your days be ever joyful. My sister spoke highly of you and your pack. Your blessing means more than I can say. Thank you.”

He let the truth of his words ring clear and watched, fascinated, as Stiles’s skin pinked in pleasure. Oh, how he looked forward to exploring how far down that blush went.

“Yes, Alpha Garcia,” the Spark said, not meeting Peter’s gaze. “Thank you. But, if you don’t mind, my…” he stumbled over his words and the blush deepened when he accidentally made eye-contact, “Peter and I need to get all of this stuff off before it begins eating through our skin the way it did the aqrabuamelu’s. Spells can be made to be specific, but potions can’t really differentiate between types of skin.”

He sounded sheepish and young and it must have appealed to the Alpha’s protective instincts because she immediately acquiesced and sent them back to their hotel to rest and lick their wounds with a smile and an open invitation to visit whenever they were in the area. It was, in Peter’s not so humble estimation, the best possible outcome.

***

Stiles wandered out of the bathroom wrapped in an acre of terrycloth and a haze of Peter’s shower gel. Again. The boy had made a break for the bathroom claiming dibs on the first shower as soon as they’d arrived, and Peter had been impatiently waiting his turn alternately trying not to think too hard about the stuff on his skin or the naked young man in the shower. One was decidedly easier to ignore than the other.

While sitting there it occurred to him that Stiles taking over his shower and appropriating his bath products was becoming a habit he didn’t mind. As a matter of fact, he thought he could be happy smelling that particular combination of scents for the rest of his life. That was a thought for later, though. For now, he had another priority, and he pushed his way into the shower stall, determined to scrub himself raw if necessary, to get the noxious paste of blood and potion off his skin. Once he was behind the shower curtain, though, he was practically overwhelmed by Stiles’s scent. Clearly, he had been enjoying more than just getting clean, and it made Peter’s wolf whine with want. His mate was teasing him, but he’d get even soon.

It took longer than he wanted to get the hardened goo off, but he managed without causing too much secondary damage. Finally, he wrapped himself in one of the hotel robes and sauntered back into their room.

Stiles was stretched out on the bed he’d slept in the night before, eyes slitted, almost closed, and Peter could smell exhaustion on him. “Tired sweetheart?” he asked, and the boy made a grumble of acknowledgment.

“Killing giant scorpion monsters in the desert takes it out of you. Who knew?” Stiles yawned, jaw cracking. “The desert always does this to me, though. I remember being bedridden for two days after mom dragged me and dad to White Sands National Park. It made no sense—nothing but gypsum sand for miles. Not a milkshake or a curly fry in sight. I was miserable. At that point I was like, screw this dry heat/wet heat argument. How about a nice place where it never gets hot enough to melt your balls or cold enough to hurt your face? That sounds good to me.”

Peter perched on the edge of the bed and reached out to lightly touch Stiles’s knee. The skin was still slightly tacky with damp but soft under his fingers, and he didn’t think he imagined the delicate shudder than ran through the young man’s body. “I’m not particular,” he said. “I find that good company makes up for a multitude of environmental sins.”

Stiles looked at him, gaze steady. “So, you don’t have a dream destination? Chalet in the Alps? Cottage in the south of France?” He paused and licked his lips. “Red-tile roofed villa in Argentina?”

Peter stopped his exploration of Stiles’s skin. “Argentina? What ever made you think of Argentina?”

Stiles shifted, the robe slipping and baring yet more long leg. “Well, you said good company was important. I thought maybe that included, I don’t know… extended family?”

Peter’s heart stuttered at the thought. Derek and Cora. They’d been gone long enough that he’d begun to accept that he wouldn’t see them again. “I’ll admit, the idea of family has its pull, but family of choice, pack and mate, is more important.” He cupped the back of Stiles’s knee and squeezed. “I wouldn’t run off chasing rainbows when what I really want is already closer to home.”

Stiles rolled over on his side. “And what do you want, Peter?” The fact that he used Peter’s name instead of a silly nickname brought home how serious the Spark was feeling. “If you could have anything, what would you ask for?”

Peter stared down into amber eyes and gathered his courage in his claws again; facing Alpha Garcia was nothing compared to baring his soul to Stiles. “If I could have anything, I would have everything, sweetheart.” He shrugged a carefully careless shoulder, trying not to show just how vulnerable he felt. “I’d take you as my mate. I’d be an Alpha again. I’d bring Derek and Cora back and have them become pack again. We’d find our own territory—it wouldn’t have to be Beacon Hills; Hale territory stretched much farther afield than that. We’d rebuild the Hale Pack.” He dropped his gaze to his curled fingers. “Maybe adopt a couple of pups to raise. Sell our services to smaller packs to refill the coffers and regain the respect that the Hale name used to command.” He reached out and grabbed Stiles’s hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a fang-laced kiss to the knuckles there, emotions riding him too hard for him to hide them anymore. “But if all I could have was you, forever? I’d be the happiest wolf in the world. Never doubt that.”

Stiles sat up and pulled Peter into a hug. “I’m glad you weren’t upset that I let Alpha Garcia think we were together. I thought… well, I won’t go into what I thought. I’m just glad I wasn’t wrong. I mean, I could have been. You haven’t even tried to kiss me.”

Peter rumbled deep in his chest, arms snaking around Stiles’s waist. “An oversight I intend to rectify immediately, if not sooner.” He dragged his cheek along the Spark’s neck, scenting him heavily before pressing their lips together, reveling in his boy’s trembling breath and grasping fingers. “Kiss you. Touch you. Cover every inch of your skin in my scent so that any were that comes in contact with you can smell that you’re mine.”

Stiles’s groaned and leaned into him. “Want that,” he pressed hot lips along the edge of Peter’s jaw, and they both shivered, “want that so much. Want everything with you.”

Peter grinned into his skin. “Everything, hmmm? I like the sound of that.”

Stiles made a noise of frustration. “Yes, everything, but it’s going to have to wait at least a little bit longer.”

Peter made a moue of distaste, dropping another kiss on Stiles parted lips. Stopping was the last thing he wanted, but he refused to rush his mate in this. “I do not like the sound of that. But you’re probably starving. You’ve only eaten four times today.” He pulled Stiles tightly against his side, letting his hands trail under the edge of his robe one last time to tide his wolf over. He wasn’t a saint, after all. “Let’s put our clothes on—dear God I can’t believe I’m saying that. You are a terrible influence on me.—and I’ll take you out to dinner and to see a show. It is Las Vegas, after all. It would be a shame to leave without seeing a tiger or Celine Dion or something. Something that isn’t likely to attack us, anyway.”

Stiles rubbed his face into Peter’s neck, mouthing gently along the skin and nipping at it for his teasing, but there was breathless laughter in his voice when he spoke. “Yes, being attacked by Celine Dion would be terrifying. Regardless,” he said, sitting up and moving so there was a little space between them. “We at least need to go to Caesar’s Palace.”

Peter laughed, heart lighter than it had been in years. Caesar’s Palace? Why not? “Is Caesar’s Palace on your bucket list, dear heart? Or is it just the pinnacle of tourist trap kitsch and you feel the need to commune with it somehow?”

Stiles shook his head and gave him a mischievous smile. “No. It’s just that Caesar’s is where Derek and Cora are going to be staying. They should be getting into town in about, oh,” he peeked around Peter’s shoulder and glanced at the bedside clock, “two hours. Just long enough for us to make out a little before we have to go meet them. Or get some dinner. Whichever you want.”

Peter was stunned. Derek and Cora were coming to Las Vegas? And Stiles had already arranged it? What else did his Spark have planned? He looked down at the force of nature in his arms and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d managed to find such a perfect mate. He forced his words through a dry mouth. “And what if I want everything, Stiles?”

Golden eyes glowed and the mischief faded into determination. “Then you’ll have everything, Peter. I knew when I made this move what I wanted; luckily, my wish list and yours are almost identical. I know that you were waiting until I was ready before you made any sort of move, but you were never going to believe that I was unless I did something drastic, so… I did something drastic. The Alpha’s blessing was an unexpected bonus. Derek and Cora were the easy part. They know you’re not perfect, and it’s going to take a lot of work to build your relationship back to anywhere near where it needs to be, but they’re willing to give it a chance if you are.”

“And the rest?” Peter asked, almost afraid of the answer. “There’s no pack without an Alpha, and I lost my red eyes a long time ago, sweetheart.”

Long fingers combed through the scruff of his beard. “About that,” Stiles tilted his head to one side and smiled. “I got a call from an Alpha in Saskatchewan. Seems they have a rogue Alpha running around biting people without asking first, and you know what they say.”

“No, sweetheart,” Peter said, closing the space between them, thoughts flashing through his mind and hope fluttering wildly in his chest. “What do they say?”

Stiles pressed even closer. “Well, it’s like it was the garage.” He held his wrist up and shook the little black bracelet that covered his pulse point just a breath away from Peter’s fangs. “Consent is sexy.”

Peter stared at the limb, longing to bury his teeth in the tendons, and thought, not for the first time, that this boy would either be the life or death of him.

***

“Canada?” Scott sounded confused. It was sad that Peter could identify the flavor of confusion. This one was Someone is offering me something that’s too good to be true, and I want to believe them, but the last time I did I ended up with no motorbike, a pocket full of magic beans, and sleeping on the couch.

There was a reason Kira was Peter’s favorite packmate. Or… soon to be ex-packmate if all went well.

“Yes, Canada, Scott. There’s a pack in Saskatchewan that Talia had a treaty with, and they’ve reached out and asked if I could come up and help them with a training program for some of their younger wolves. They don’t have much interaction with other packs because they’re so isolated, and their Left Hand is getting old enough that he isn’t able to keep up with the young ones’, ah, enthusiasm.”

Scott grinned. “You mean you’re volunteering to move to the Great White North and let a bunch of teenagers beat up on you?”

Peter sneered a little. “It isn’t like I don’t have experience with it.” He gave the teenagers that surrounded them a significant look. “And they don’t have anyone else to turn to. I didn’t think you’d mind if I took a little… time away. In the name of pack inter-relations.”

Scott waved a hand. “No. No, of course not. Take all the time you need.” He looked at Liam and grinned. “In Canada. I’ll let Deaton know that you’ll pass our good wishes on to the Alpha there. Hey, maybe we can even get some sort of treaty out of it.”

Peter simply stared. “Perfect. I’ll have their emissary contact Alan after I arrive. In the meantime, since I’m not going to be in residence, but since I intend to keep the property in my portfolio the pack should continue to use the loft as a base. I know it is hard on Kira to try to host everyone at your apartment.” He gave the kitsune a half-smile and she nodded back, grateful of his consideration. He almost felt guilty for all the listening devices he’d hidden around the loft over the past week.

Almost.

With Scott McCall and Alan Deaton in charge, it paid to keep a close eye on things.

“Alpha McKittrick is expecting me by the beginning of next week. Will that be a problem?”

McCall looked like Christmas, New Year’s and his birthday had all come at once. “Not at all. Not at all. Next week sounds great, doesn’t it, gang?”

The gaggle of teenagers made approving noises, even if Mason and Kira shared a look that held more understanding than Peter was comfortable with. It didn’t matter. As long as they kept their thoughts to themselves for a couple of weeks, everything should go as planned.

He’d braced himself for questions when he returned from Nevada, but no one had even missed him. He didn’t know whether it was better or worse that McCall hadn’t realized that Stiles had been gone as well, but he’d take the oversight it if it meant that his mate had less confrontation to deal with, even if it meant having to face the unpleasant fact that his former best friend had completely left him behind.

Peter couldn’t wait until the truth came out and McCall realized what he’d thrown away. He’d be a laughingstock amongst the packs, no matter what his pet druid told him, and he’d known men like this True Alpha before. Looking the fool was the one thing they couldn’t abide. It would eat him alive, and Peter looked forward to watching the feast.

He cast a look around and realized that the next time he saw these faces it would be with an Alpha Mate Spark and red eyes. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come fast enough.

***

Alpha power scoured through him, blasting away at his control and consciousness, and he howled in pain and confusion as his soul was re-written.

“Hell of a power-up, huh, Zombiewolf?” Stiles was there by him, hands warm against his wrists, magic washing over him like warm ocean waves, voice soothing and comforting the terrified animal in his mind, and Peter nodded to show he was there and aware even if speech was impossible around the mouthful of fangs he was sporting.

“You’ve got this,” his mate sounded so confident, so calm, “you’re stronger than you were last time. Better. You’re going to be an amazing Alpha. My Alpha, Peter. My mate. Just hang on a little longer for me, okay?”

Peter could feel Derek and Cora running over the snow-covered ground. They’d stayed out of the fight on his order; he wouldn’t have been able to focus if he’d been worried about their safety, too. Stiles had also stayed back, but his skills worked from a distance, and his added magic made the fight much less painful than it would have otherwise been.

He remembered what the Las Vegas Alpha had said, that they fought well together. It was true. They did everything well together. As Alpha mates they would be amazing together.

A rumble started low in his belly at the thought, hungry and wanting, and he breathed in Stiles’s scent—ozone and petrichor, the camphor of ancient forests, the sweet notes of apple and woodsmoke, and over it all Peter’s own god-damned shower gel—and he managed to put hid fangs away, his desire to keep his mate safe stronger than the wolf’s yearning to rip and tear and wallow in the meat of battle.

“You with me, Peter?” Long fingers stroked up his arms, and Peter nodded. Stiles let out a satisfied hum. “Told you. Told you you’d be perfect like this. Powerful. Beautiful. Perfect Alpha. Just perfect.”

And it felt perfect—like he always it imagined it would after he watched Talia become Alpha. Like it should have felt when he took the spark from Laura.—red tingeing the edges of golden pack bonds between him and Derek and Cora. He could sense their emotions now, their hunger for a strong pack, their hope that he’ll become the Alpha they need as well as the family they want. And Stiles? Even without the bond in place yet, his wolf knows his mate. He could pick that heartbeat out of a thousand. Could scent him from a mile away. Already his in so many ways.

“Think you can stand up now?” Stiles asks and Peter realizes they were still crouched in the snow where he’d fallen after killing the rogue, legs knocked out from under him by the strength of the Alpha spark.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he said, pushing to his feet and pulling the younger man up with him. “If I needed to, I think I could almost fly.”

Stiles snorted and gave his chest a thump. “Riding that high, are we?” Derek and Cora were standing just beyond arms reach sharing a smile and for once Peter didn’t feel like he was being laughed at. No. His pack was laughing with him, joyous in the moment, and he shook his head and let them laugh.

“It feels,” Peter tried to find the perfect words and couldn’t, but he needed to explain somehow. “Good. Right. Last time it didn’t feel like this, but now it’s like a shoe that was too tight finally stretched and now fits.”

Derek nodded. “That’s what happened when I was Alpha. It was like the Alpha power didn’t fit. I thought at the time it was just because I hadn’t been trained for it, but I think it’s more than that. I think the person has to fit the Alpha-power instead of the other way around. Whether that’s from birth or growth or whatever: you can’t fake it and have it work right. This,” he waved a hand at Peter and looked at Cora for confirmation. “This feels right.”

Cora leaned into her big brother and Peter could see relief in every line of her body, as if she’d finally been allowed to stand down from a perpetual state of alertness. “It does. It hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Not since…” her voice faded, and Derek hugged her hard. “Not since mom.”

Stiles had been silent during this exchange, allowing the remaining Hales their moment of healing, but he wasn’t one to be quiet for long. “Awesome. Glad to hear it. Couldn’t be happier about it, and am looking forward to talking about it more, but as the token human I need to say something.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “And what would that be, dear one? Have you some hidden wisdom concerning the nature of the Alpha spark?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, but I do have some wisdom concerning the care and keeping of pack humans. The instruction manual says that humans aren’t meant to be kept out in the snow this long, and that means that if you three wolfy space-heaters don’t get me inside soon, I’m going to be a Spark-cicle.”

Peter barked out a laugh and swung his mate-to-be up in a bridal carry, pulling him against his chest and letting him bury his face in the heat of his neck. “Well, there are too many things that I’d miss if they froze and fell off, so I suppose we should head back to the cars. I, at least,” he wrinkles his nose and then rubs it into Stiles’s hair, “need to change. I don’t think the hotel will let me in looking like a serial killer.”

Stiles smirked into his skin. “I’m sure hunting is a thing around here. You could always say that Bambi fought back---if your wolfy pride could stand it.”

His wolf chuffed at the insult. A deer got the better of an Alpha werewolf? Never. Peter sniffed dismissively. “I’d rather walk up to the reception desk naked.”

He didn’t tell the Spark that his murmured I wouldn’t mind wasn’t quiet enough to not be heard, but the peal of laughter from his niece and nephew made it clear. At least Stiles’s ears were warm after that.

***

Later that evening they lay together bundled up in blankets in front of an unlit fireplace. Stiles had lined every shelf in the cabin with battery powered candles and had brought out a pair of enchanted logs that he placed on the andirons. They radiated heat without flame, and Peter had to fight back tears in the face of his Spark’s sensitivity. Maybe it was the new Alpha power making him overly emotional. Maybe it was just Stiles.

It was probably just Stiles.

“Feeling okay, Z?” Stiles rolled in his arms and looked at him with concern. Apparently, he wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he thought. “Not having Alpha blowback or anything, are you?”

Peter tightened his hold and shook his head, trying to find his voice. “No. I was just thinking about how I never thought I’d get this.”

His boy nodded and settled back down. “You’d probably written the whole Alpha thing off. I’m glad it worked out, though. Thanks for going through with it. I know it’s hard.”

Peter shook his head again. “That’s not it. Honestly, the Alpha spark has been the easiest part of all of this. I’d always believed that I’d manage to get my Alphahood back someday. It’s…”

A cold nose pressed against the side of his neck and Peter could feel him nod more than see it. “Having Derek and Cora back. Family. Pack. I get it.”

That just made the wolf growl and grumble in the back of his mind, because clearly he didn’t get it. He didn’t get it at all. “No, Stiles, that isn’t what I meant either. Don’t you understand yet? All these other things?” He tried to calm his voice, but his wolf was riding him to make his mate understand. “The pack, my niece and nephew, the Alpha spark---all of these are wonderful, and I wouldn’t give them up for anything now that I have them, but they would never have happened without you. You are the everything. You are my everything. I never thought I would find a mate, find my soul’s match. Hell, for more than half my life I was convinced I didn’t have a soul, and then you came along. Brighter than any flame. Stronger than any force of Nature. You crashed into my life and nothing has been the same and I am so fucking grateful.”

He pulled Stiles up so he could look into the whiskey depths he dreamed of every night. “I wouldn’t be here without you.” Stiles opened his mouth to argue, because his boy always argued, and Peter shushed him. “No. I mean it. If I hadn’t scented you in the woods. Hadn’t had you so close to me in the garage. If you hadn’t killed me and then taken me back in when I was too stubborn to stay dead. If you hadn’t found something in me to value, something you could care about…” he pressed their foreheads together. “I wouldn’t be here.”

Peter resettled them, pressed his lips against Stiles’s temple, and listened to his heart race in his chest. “I am a selfish bastard. I’ve been called a narcissist more times than I can count and until the past few years I’d have agreed with that assessment and embraced it proudly. Now, though, I know it isn’t true because I know, just as surely as I know your scent and the sound of your heart, that there is no me without you.”

Stiles laid in his arms unnaturally still. “Oh.”

That one syllable conveyed a whole conversation full of self-doubt and fear and isolation and yearning, and Peter’s wolf finally settled when a sweet cherry-blossom note of hope threaded through the Spark’s scent. “You really mean it. It isn’t just that I’m useful.”

Peter frowned and a frustrated rumble rolled through him. “You’re everything. You could sit on the couch and read comic books and demand foot rubs and curly fries every day for the rest of my life and I would thank the Moon that I had you to love and cherish and care for. You’re my mate, Stiles.”

“I just thought that since you hadn’t…” Stiles’s voice faded into an insecure mumble and Peter recognized the damage he’d done by not explaining himself earlier.

“Sweetheart, if the only thing on the table had been our relationship, I would have asked you to mate me as soon as you were legal. First, though, there was the problem of McCall, because as much as I loathe the brat, he was important to you and I wasn’t going to ask you to choose between us. If I’m honest, I was afraid if I pushed, you’d choose him, and I wasn’t willing to give up the parts of you I had for a slim chance at more. After Las Vegas, everything was different. I knew you wanted me, and I wanted you more than anything—there were full moons I had to leave Beacon Hills so I wouldn’t find you and drag you off to my bedroom to mark you, to mate you, to make you mine in ways that no were could mistake. You had a plan, though, and if that worked out, we could have everything together, and I wanted to give you that, to give you everything. I couldn’t mate you before I fought the Alpha, though.” He squeezed tighter. “If… if it hadn’t worked… If I failed to defeat the rogue, you would have suffered terribly if you had a mate bond already in place. You’re not a wolf, but as a Spark, you’d have felt all of it—all my pain—and if I’d died? Well, let’s just say I wasn’t willing to run the risk of putting you through that.”

Stiles was shaking in his arms by that point, and Peter ran a comforting hand down his spine. “The worst didn’t happen, though, and now that the threat has passed, I want you in every way I can have you.” He grasped the boy’s chin in his hand and turned his face so he could see him in the flickering candlelight. His eyes were wide and wet, his lips pink and bitten, and Peter had never seen anything more beautiful. “Can I have you, sweetheart?” He was so close they were sharing breath. “Will you be my mate? Be my everything?”

He should have been expecting it, but the Spark still managed to catch him by surprise, lunging up and flipping them in their blankets until Peter’s back was against the couch and he had a lap of warm, clinging boy. He waited for the Alpha wolf to rebel, to push back and demand submission, but all it did was rumble pleasure at his strong mate.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Stiles dropped a kiss on Peter’s open lips, chaste and sweet, and then another, this one hot and hungry, while threading his fingers through the short hair at Peter’s nape. He tugged gently and the wolf tipped his head back so his mate could lick into his jugular notch. The Spark made a low satisfied noise before pulling away and smiling, trust and happiness glowing in his eyes and magic flaring and rippling around them.

Peter remembered something his Grandfather had told him, long ago under a forgotten full moon: “Faint heart never won fair maiden.” His life had proven that to be true. If he hadn’t finally bitten the bullet, finally put himself on the line, he’d have missed this. Missed everything.

He pulled Stiles back down into another kiss and then flipped them back over, pinning his boy under him. Stiles squawked in surprise and Peter grinned. His mate was going to hate finding out he was the fair maiden in their story, but Peter had definitely come out on top this time.

Maybe next time he’d let Stiles come out on top. He was flexible.

#teen wolf #steter #spark stiles #peter hale #stiles stilinski #developing relationship #bad alpha scott mccall #getting together #first time in this sandbox #canon I don't know her

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feelingfredly · 4 years

Text

Trapped in Someone Else’s Dream

Author’s Note: This started out as an angsty little vignette but I was quickly informed that it needed more, so... I wrote more. It is darker than some of my other stuff, especially at the beginning, but I tried very hard to keep everything safe and consensual, even if sane wasn’t exactly possible due to bad guys doing bad things. As always, this is adult stuff for people who are into adult stuff, and if you’re particularly sensitive to issues of consent this might be a little too gray for you. And now... Enjoy!

Part 1:

Chris had warned him. Chris-mother-fucking-Argent had warned him, and he still hadn’t managed to avoid the hunters. Well, that wasn’t exactly true… he could have avoided them, but that would have meant leading them back to their base, and he wasn’t doing that.

He and Stiles had been tracking this group for three months, the stench of their hatred and lust for killing leaving a trail through the desert that was unmistakable. The hunters killed any supernatural they came across, and any human that got in their way, and even the Hunter’s Council had declared them personas non gratis, not that it meant much. They’d found more than enough support to keep them going, every time leaving a group behind that simply shook their heads and said they’d never heard of those people, even as communities were burying their human dead. The Code had never meant less as far as Derek was concerned, and that was saying something.

“Ah, good, good,” a cheerful voice cut through his reverie, “someone’s finally awake. I was beginning to worry that you’d gone past sedated into comatose, but nope, those Hale genes are just as potent as ever.”

Derek just shook his head a little, trying to clear the last of the haze, but there was something wrong. It wasn’t like last time he’d woken in this cage. His wolf wouldn’t settle, and he could feel it pacing in the back of his mind, waiting for an opportunity to surface.

“You feel it?” The man came a little closer and Derek got a good look at him for the first time. Late thirties. Good-looking in a stringy kind of way, with dirty blond hair and a few days of whiskers, except for the toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth, he would have looked totally at home on a beach or a farm or a basketball court looking for a pickup game. The perfect face to blend into a crowd. A perfect hunter.

He shifted his weight in the cage, careful to avoid the bars in case they were electrified. He’d learned that mistake earlier. Settling into a casual looking position, kneeling up on his heels in a bastardized seiza that would let him shoot up quickly if he got the opportunity, he eyed his captor. The man was attentive, like he was watching for something, but there was no way to know exactly what without more information. He sighed. One thing he’d learned from Stiles over the past few years was that you couldn’t get information from the bad guys if they weren’t talking, and since he couldn’t follow his first instinct and just rip the guy’s head off, at least he could keep him talking. Luckily, the Spark wasn’t here to see it—he’d never let Derek live it down. “Whatever floats your boat. I know! I bet you’re looking for a review to post on Yelp. How about this? Accommodations leave something to be desired. 1/10, would not recommend. A little harsh, perhaps, but for things like this it’s better just to get to the point. Rip the band-aid off fast.”

The hunter made a disapproving noise. “And here I was told that you were the quiet one. Clearly, our information needs to be updated.”

Derek rolled his head trying to loosen his shoulders, but he couldn’t get the muscles to relax. “No, your information’s right. I am the quiet one.” That got him a look. “Believe it or not, the others are worse. Chris—oh, that’d be Chris Argent, you might know the name?” The hunter stiffened a little and Derek nodded. “Right, that’s what I thought. But Chris told me that he had fantasies about how to make Peter be quiet, but I stopped him right there. I mean I get the impulse—I’ve met Peter, after all—but I don’t need to know details about their private time. Boundaries are important.”

His hands were free. There was something wrong with that. They’d been bound the last time he’d woken. Why would they have cut him loose? When did they do it? He rubbed his wrists, the faint burn from the wolfsbane-soaked rope still itching on his skin. He was healing; there was something really wrong with that.

“Argent should’ve been the one to die instead of his wife.” There was a viciousness under the casual tone, and Derek didn’t think he was imagining the glimmer of hatred aimed at him in particular. Great. A fan of Victoria’s, probably blaming him for her death. None of the hunters ever questioned the whole suicide thing. They made no sense. “The fact that he’s screwing a wolf instead of killing them is one of the reasons we’re here today.”

Derek was beginning to feel more like Stiles with every passing moment. Apparently, he was expected to be some sort of message for the Argents in general, and probably for Chris specifically. Better and better.

“Clearly, you know each other, so, I’m sure he’d be happy to speak to you. If you grab my phone—you still have my phone, right? He’s number three on my speed dial. You could tell him whatever you wanted to, hunter to hunter. No need for all these theatrics.” He waved a hand at the bloody cage floor and tables of weapons.

Derek rubbed his forehead—he was sweating. He knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t seem to stop. His wolf was getting louder, calling for Stiles, wanting the Spark, needing to see him. Maybe that was why he couldn’t shut up—he was channeling his inner Stilinski. That was a terrifying thought.

He dragged his hands along the tops of his thighs and hissed when he realized that at some point he’d popped claws and had torn through his jeans and scored through the top few layers of skin leaving furrows bleeding sluggishly as his body tried to heal the self-inflicted injuries.

“I don’t have anything to say to him that you can’t say for me, Hale,” the hunter shook his head, a smug look on his face. “Anyway, I think your delivery will make a little more impact than a phone call from little ol’ me. You see, he and I never really saw eye to eye after he stole Vic from me. And now she’s gone, and he’s decided that he likes his loyal dogs better than the hunters that saved his life, time and time again. It ain’t right, and he knows it, but he’s been dodging paying the piper so long I think he’s forgotten just how much of a debt he owes. So, this is me sending him a final notice, if you will. His bill has come due, and you are going to be the first installment in his payment plan.”

Derek fought down a wave of shivers, he was sweating more now, and he tried to focus on the hunter, but it was almost impossible over the whining of his wolf. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so close to losing control. He wanted to snarl, to howl, to pace the cage.

“Killing me won’t make him happy,” he said, trying to make the words come out clearly around his fangs, “but I’m the wrong Hale to be targeting if want to actually hurt him.”

The blond sidled up to the cage with a look on his face that said he knew something Derek didn’t. He didn’t like that look at all.

“Oh, no,” he said, entirely too pleased with himself, taking the toothpick and pointing it at him, “you’re exactly the right place to start, because you… you are the wolf pining after a human mate. A human pack member.” Derek couldn’t stop the snarl. “No, no, don’t try to deny it. Everybody knows that the youngest Hale is smitten with the Sheriff’s son. The boy that runs with wolves. Argent might have a soft spot for wolves, or maybe just for Hales in particular, but even he wouldn’t be able to stop the hunters rising up to take down a pack that turned on its own token human. A wolf-mate is supposed to be sacred—protected by the pack—and I’m going to rip that right out from under him, make him watch that boy dying at his feet as he bleeds out from wounds inflicted by his very own sweetheart, his Sourwolf.” The man shuddered dramatically. “Just gives me chills thinking about it. Can you imagine what it’ll do to him to have to put you down? How his mate will take it that an Argent has killed another one of his remaining family members? You think he won’t look at Chris and see Kate and Gerard in him? No, that zombie bastard will turn on him so fast it’ll make his silver-head spin, and then it’ll be kill or be killed, and I will have ripped his heart out or your dear Uncle Peter will have ripped his throat out. Win/win if you ask me.”

Derek couldn’t control the impulse, flinging himself at the bars of the cage, roaring at his captor, wanting nothing more than to get his hands around the man’s throat so he could strangle the words that were spilling from his mouth.

“You don’t know anything, hunter,” he spat the words out, “I would die before I hurt Stiles, so you might as well just kill me here, because the minute you turn your back it’s over. I will find a way to end you.”

The hunter laughed. There was no fear in his scent. He smelled of… satisfaction.

“Oh, but you see, I know something you don’t. I know you realized that you’d been cut loose earlier. You had to wonder why.” Derek just glared at the man, blue eyes blazing in the shadowed cage. “One of my friends is something of a scientist, you see, and while he’s a good hunter, what he really likes to do is cook up a little bit of fun on the side. Meth. A little X. Just stuff that folks use to take the edge off. So, one day he was thinking… what if he could come up with something that affected ‘wolves like that? Something that calmed them right down. Might make them easier to kill, right?”

The blond moved around the side of the cage and pulled something off a nearby table. A syringe. Shit.

“He came to me and I got him the things he needed to work on his little experiment, and what do you know? It worked. Now, I’ll be honest, it didn’t work the way he’d expected. Sedation wasn’t the outcome, but it did something. Something amazing! It boiled away the human parts of the wolf almost entirely. Nothing was left but the animal. Then, he added a little something-something for kick, and then you had an incredibly horny animal. With super strength and super speed. An animal that would fuck the first thing it could catch right into the ground. Didn’t matter if they were screaming or dying or bleeding out—because by that time, most of them were, I have to admit—the wolf just kept at it until the drug burned itself out of its system. Initially, I thought it would be the way to unite the humans against the animals—drug the whole lot of you and when you turned on the people around you have them all see you for what you really were. The problem was that my friend could never get the formula just right after that first batch, so I had to figure out how to get the most bang for my buck.”

Thank Mother Moon was all Derek could think. They didn’t have an endless supply of whatever this crap was. Still, if he’d been injected with it, what was that going to do to him? What was he going to turn into?

“The tendency for a wolf to go after their mate first was just a lucky discovery—serendipity, if you will—and then… I had my plan. I needed either you or your dear sweet uncle to put it in play, and you were just so helpful, chasing me across the desert until. I. Caught. You.”

He leaned in and Derek lunged, managing to get one swipe through the bars before the blond jerked back. “Hoo-ee, you do move fast. That’s good. That means you’re almost up to speed. Once you burn enough of the wolfsbane out of your system the rest of the drug should kick in nicely.”

Derek felt a spurt of panic as he realized that the sweating from earlier was probably him burning through the first stages of whatever he’d been injected with. Plus, the longer he’d been sitting, the itchier he felt, like his skin didn’t fit. His heart was racing, and there was an ache building low in his belly, his cock beginning to press against the zipper of his jeans, and he howled into the ether.

“There it is. Right on schedule. Now—I have a present for you.” The hunter sauntered across the room and opened a zipper bag. The instant he pulled the flap up Derek recognized the scent—Stiles. The bastard had one of Stiles’s hoodies, and he tossed it into the cage at the wolf’s feet.

“I know it isn’t like giving a bloodhound a scent to track, but it should do the trick. Doesn’t the wolf want to come out and play? Doesn’t it want its mate? I bet you can almost taste him, can’t you.”

Derek held the fabric up to his face and breathed in the scent of musk and mate and he could feel his wolf rising to the surface. Fuck. The wolf was maddened by the scent. It forced itself to the front of his consciousness, past every barrier Derek had ever learned, and he could feel himself losing the battle for control. Drugged and feral and howling to be free, it ached to satisfy the hunger riding it. The wolf scented Stiles, smelled his unclaimed mate, and Derek curled forward over his knees as his breath caught, swamped by the overwhelming possessiveness that boiled through him, incandescent and indecent. The call, denied for so long and yet undeniable, was overwhelming and again his wolf threw itself, snarling and snapping, against the chains of Derek’s control, howling his wants into the echoing darkness of his mind. Hold him down and lick him open. Stab his pretty hole with our tongue, stab him with our cock. Make him beg. Make him cry. Make him come all over himself. Pull his hair and fuck his mouth and stripe his face with come until he smells like us, tastes like us, aches for us… fuck, fuck, FUCK. My mate. Mine. MINE. The hunter smirked, listening to him mutter and whine. “You’re just about ready, aren’t you, mutt?” Derek growled and retreated to the farthest corner of his cage. “Ready to tear your throat out.”

The hunter snorted. “With your teeth, right?” The bastard shook his head, that God-forsaken toothpick still dangling from the corner of his mouth. “You’d think after a hundred years you fuzzy bastards would get some new material, but no. It’s like a broken record. Gonna kill you, hunter bastard. Rip your throat out, with my teeth. Shit. I’ll be honest, it lost its kick the third or fourth time I heard it. Right before I cut those wolves loose on their nearest and dearest, and then stood back and watched them eat the hearts out of the chests of the ones they swore they’d protect.” Derek’s wolf thrashed against his control, howling for Stiles, howling for his mate, and he knew that if he caught him there was no telling what kind of damage he’d do in this feral form. He could only hope that Stiles hadn’t stuck around after getting loose, but knowing Stiles… yeah, that wasn’t likely. Whatever happened though, he was going to kill this man. And yes, he was going to rip his throat out—with his fucking teeth.

Part 2:

“It doesn’t make sense, Chris,” Stiles muttered into the phone. “I just watched two trucks pull out. All six of the hunters we’ve been tracking were inside, and if I wasn’t hallucinating, one of them fucking waved at me as they drove away.”

“Any sign of Derek?” Chris asked, voice soft, and he sighed. Derek and the hunter had a complicated relationship, but no one could say they weren’t invested in the other’s well-being. It just so happened that they had a no one gets to kill him but me relationship. Stiles understood. No one got to take a shot at Peter but him.

“No. They were only carrying one cage and it was visible and empty. If they have him,” Stiles forced the words out, “if they had him, they left him and the second cage behind.”

He rubbed at his chest, an ache like live coals burned behind his sternum. The thought of Derek caged, hurt, maybe worse… it made his spark rage.

“That’s a good sign,” the hunter muttered something away from the phone, probably explaining things to Peter. Zombiewolf was just as much of a control freak as Stiles; sitting and waiting was probably killing him. Again. “If they left the cage behind, then Derek’s probably still in it and healthy enough to be considered a threat.”

It didn’t sit right. “Or it’s a trap.”

Chris let out a huff of air. “Oh, it’s definitely a trap. The question is whether Derek’s the prize or the bait.”

It was hard to believe, but in some ways Stiles had become a bigger target than the remaining Hales. Things had changed over the past two years. The pack of Hales and Hunters were known throughout the supernatural world and there were always going to be people who wanted to eliminate the threat they posed to the existing Hunter hierarchy, but Stiles’s spark had become something of an urban legend. They called him the Spark of the Burned, the Boy That Runs With Wolves, but after he’d literally turned a hunter inside-out to prevent them from killing Lydia, he’d earned himself a hefty bounty on his head, with or without his packmates.

“Great,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “The perils of popularity.”

“Peter says he’s managed to charter a flight that’ll get us there in six hours.” Stiles appreciated the fact that he didn’t bother to say to wait for them. “You have your tracker still?”

“Two. I have the standard one in the heel of my boot, and I swallowed the extra ten minutes ago.” He’d choked the little bastard down as soon as he saw the trucks leaving. They’d had too many fights where their external trackers were found or accidentally destroyed. Swallowing one wasn’t a great plan because it would just make them kill you faster if they decided it was important to dig it out and destroy it, but Stiles figured it was better to run the odds that they’d be out from under the hunters’ eyes quickly, and the tracker would just help with finding them in the desert before they died of exposure if they had to run.

They truly lived charmed lives.

“I’m going dark now,” he said, taking a deep breath and focusing on his spark. “I’ll see you all when you get here. Bring the wolfsbane collection and a blowtorch just in case.”

Chris passed along the request and Stiles heard Peter say. “You always throw the best parties, sweetheart.”

He thought about Derek and hoped they had something to celebrate. Soon.

***

Six more inches. The door had opened six more inches.

Derek growled and yanked on the cage door, but at this point he didn’t know if he was trying to speed it up or slow it down. As long as he was in the cage Stiles was safe, but his wolf wanted out of the cage, howled to be free, snarling and snapping, and he caught himself as he threw himself against the bars again, his wolf not willing to wait quietly for the hunter’s automatic door opener to finish working.

Out, out, out! The wolf had to get out. Had to find Stiles. Had to find him and fuck him and mark him and mate him.

No. Derek bit into his own arm until he drew blood. He couldn’t let the drugs drive him like this. He had to stay in control. Stay. Stay in. In, in, in. Had to stay in the cage. Let the hunters come back if they wanted. Let them burn him and cut him. Anything so he didn’t put Stiles in danger. His mate was safe and to stay that way, Derek needed to stay in the cage, stay in the dark, stay away, stay, stay, stay… he’d waited years, he’d wait forever.

Derek knew it wouldn’t last, though. Stiles would come. Stiles always came. He was as constant as the moon, his need to save his pack as strong a pull as the tide.

The wolf howled and Derek looked down. He’d clawed through the meat of his thighs, shredding his jeans, so he just shucked off the tatters. His skin was burning; his cock was aching where it pressed against his belly. He didn’t know how long he’d been hard, but he could feel every beat of his heart in skin that was stretched too taut, too thin. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be touched, to have Stiles’s hands on him, his mouth—God, Stiles’s mouth. He’d dreamed of that mouth so many times, but now it was almost too much to think about. The heat, the soft wetness, the agile tongue that never stopped… he didn’t want it to stop. Don’t stop. Never stop. Suck and lick and pull, dripping saliva down his length, wet and slick and hot and open, fuck that mouth, flex his fingers in that hair, hold his head, fuck his face, choke him, come in his mouth, on his face, fuck, mark, anything… everything.

Derek dug his claws into his skin again trying to keep the wolf under control. Pain worked some, but even that wasn’t enough to keep it quiet where it paced in the back of his mind. The growling, the howling, the whining, keening cry he couldn’t keep behind his too sharp teeth. The animal was winning, and Derek almost wished he could just pass out from the overstimulation, but there was no such mercy to be had. At first, he’d tried jacking himself off to relieve the need that was riding him. His hand was brutal against his skin as he stroked too hard and too fast, trying everything he could to find relief, but something about the drug wasn’t letting him reach his peak. Orgasm was there, just beyond his reach, but nothing he did brought it any closer. The only thing that brought him any comfort was burying his face in Stiles’s hoodie, the faint scent of his mate enough to dull the razor-sharp pain that was crashing through his body like waves of torment.

He knew his heart was racing, beating faster than he’d ever felt before, even faster than when he was suffering from yellow wolfsbane poisoning, and he knew his body couldn’t keep healing from that kind of stress. He just hoped that his heart would stop before Stiles found him. Derek would die either way, but at least Stiles would survive. That would be comfort enough. It had to be.

He dropped to his knees and held the red fabric up to his face, smothering himself in the last traces of Stiles that lingered on the cloth. He’d handled it too roughly, rubbed it against himself too much, and now it smelled more of Derek’s blood and desperation than the Spark. He grieved the loss, and he could feel tears coursing down his face thinking he’d never again smell the frankincense and ozone that permeated everything Stiles owned after so many rituals, never smell the sharp-sweet scent of his sweat, never smell the musk of his arousal. Never smell the iron tang of his blood coursing just under the thin skin of his throat.

He could almost smell it, longing so strong it was making him hallucinate the scent that haunted his dreams.

But no, it wasn’t a dream. It was too real. Too strong. He could smell Stiles. Stiles!

The wolf was done being denied, and Derek watched from a corner of his mind as his body thrashed and crashed against the cage, bruises blooming faster than they could heal, blood running from half a dozen self-inflicted gashes, and somehow he knew that would just make it worse when Stiles eventually found him. The wolf howled in the dim glow of the lone electric light.

Footsteps sounded, closer and closer, and the smell of Stiles got stronger. “Derek? Where are you? Derek? Come on man, howl again or something.”

Derek growled and shoved the sleeve of the hoodie into his mouth to try to muffle the sound. No, no, no. Stiles couldn’t be here. He looked down at the cage door; the automatic lift had raised it another three inches. Three more inches and he could crawl under it. Three more inches and he’d be free. Free to chase, to catch. Stiles would be right there, and Derek would have him, have him the way he’d always wanted him, have him to keep him, to hold him, to roll in his scent and bite into his skin. His Stiles. His Spark. His mate. His.

The noises came to an abrupt halt, and Derek looked up to see Stiles standing in the doorway, shirt torn and bloodied on one sleeve—fucking hunters had hurt his Stiles, hurt his mate, he’d find them and kill them, tear them apart and leave the meat for the crows—and a look of beatific happiness on his face.

“Oh my God, you’re okay,” the Spark flew across the room, jumping over the cables and batteries and pipes that lay scattered on the floor. “What did they do to you, big guy?” Stiles was muttering as he took in the torture chamber around them. Derek was rumbling deep in his chest, his wolf still fully in control, and he had to fight just to get his lips to form the words needed to warn his mate of the danger looming over them both. He pressed himself against the back wall of the cage to get as far away from the Spark as possible.

“Drugged. Dangerous.” His fangs were fully extended, and his throat was raw from howling, but he knew Stiles heard him. “Go. Leave. Now.” He snarled the last words in full Alpha voice, feeling the grip he had on his control slipping away now that his mate was close enough to almost touch. To almost taste.

Stiles snarled back at him, human but unafraid. “Fuck you and your fucking martyr complex, Derek, I’m not leaving you here. You know better than to even say that.”

The Spark was running hot, his eyes glowing an unearthly amber-gold, and the wolf in him practically rolled in pleasure knowing that his mate was so powerful, that he wanted to protect him, that he wasn’t going to leave him in danger. Stiles was a perfect choice, a perfect partner. Perfect. He’d defend the pack. Support his Alpha. Kill any threats to the betas. Give him the best pups. Take his cock and his come and….. Fuck. Derek had to stop this. Somehow.

If he’d been more human, he’d have wept at the irony that he was now the threat to his pack—to his mate—but he could only howl his frustrations. After a decade of trying, hunters were finally going to destroy him. His control snapped, and he dropped to the floor and started trying to push his way under the gate, the rough metal along the bottom tearing into the muscles of his shoulders as he tried to get out, to get closer to Stiles.

The Spark had stopped at the nearby table to look at the motor that was slowly opening his cage. In a flash he’d realized how wrong it was. It shouldn’t be set to release a ‘wolf. Ever. He looked back at Derek with horror on his face.

“Fuck, Sourwolf,” he shook his head, the wheels clearly still turning, “you said they drugged you? With what?”

Derek wasn’t able to answer. His wolf was completely in control. He managed to get his head under the gate and bared his fangs with a guttural grunt, eyes glowing red as he stared up at the Spark. “Mine.”

“Hang on, big guy,” Stiles was trying to stop the gate lift, but it was too late. Derek was free.

***

Derek was okay. No, scratch that. Derek was alive, but not okay. Fully beta shifted and not in control in a way that Stiles had never seen before was clearly not okay, but whatever was wrong could be fixed because DEREK WAS ALIVE.

Now it was up to Stiles.

“Drugged. Dangerous.” The ‘wolf snarled at him, scrabbling against the bars of the cell, but not to get out, he was trying to get away from Stiles. “Go. Leave. Now!” The ‘wolf roared then, and Stiles could feel the Alpha command reverberate through his bones, but he wasn’t leaving the asshole like this. He would never leave Derek like this, and the man knew it.

“Fuck you and your martyr complex, Derek, I’m not leaving you here. You know better than to even say that.” He roared right back.

Hell no, he was not leaving. They saved each other. They were partners. They were… Stiles couldn’t even begin to quantify what they were, but nothing in their relationship allowed for leaving. Maybe that wasn’t the healthiest way to feel about someone, but after a lifetime of unreliability, Derek had become the bedrock of his world, and he was not about to lose him to some fucking hunter with a needledick and a God complex.

Derek had gone from pressing himself against the back of the cage to flailing and growling as he tried to squeeze under the rising lift-gate. There still wasn’t enough room, but that wasn’t stopping him—Stiles could see skin ripping across Derek’s shoulders as he shoved against the rough metal, and while he knew the wounds would heal, the ferocity with which the ‘wolf was throwing himself at the opening was stomach-turning.

Stiles stepped back to get a better look, flaring his spark a little to make sure there weren’t any nasty magical traps set, but no. It was all mundane. Horrible and torturous, but nothing more than human evil at play. It just didn’t make sense. In ten years, he’d never seen a hunter release a were voluntarily, especially not after they’d gone to the trouble of caging and torturing them. But this cage, clearly, was programmed to open. To release Derek. A clearly not himself, possibly drugged, semi-feral alpha….

“Fuck, Sourwolf,” he muttered, watching the born wolf struggling, lost to his wolf in a way that Stiles had never seen, because Derek had never failed to control his shift. Never. “You said they drugged you? With what?”

Maybe letting Derek out of the cage right now wasn’t the best plan. Stiles looked around trying to find the power source for the lift, the mechanism that attached it to the gate, anything. Ah! There! He spotted the pulley system just above the cage just as Derek managed to squeeze himself under the bars with a satisfied grunt and a gravelly sounding, “Mine.”

Something skittered around in Stiles’s belly at the sound, dark and wanting, but the look on Derek’s face stole any pleasure he might have had at the claim. Something was seriously wrong with the ‘wolf; he would never say that if he was in his right mind, no matter how good it sounded to Stiles, and a crazed alpha was not a safe alpha.

Stiles threw himself to the side just as Derek swung a meaty arm in his direction, the claws just missing his side.

“Derek! Come on, man!” He yelled back at the other man, trying to get through whatever was messing with his head. “Fragile human here. Watch the claws! And the teeth!”

He grabbed the top of the cage and hauled himself up until he was lying across its top, trying to put some space between himself and the two hundred pounds of grabby-handed werewolf chasing him.

Stiles stared at the glowing red eyes and tried to focus on anything other than the fact that Derek was stark naked and aroused, his clothes nothing but a pile of bloody rags topped by a splash of red that looked like the hoodie that had gone missing from Stiles’s bag at the hotel two nights before.

Well, that made the trap part of things clearer. All this time the hunters had been luring the hounds that had been tracking them. Which meant that Stiles was exactly where they wanted him. The question was why.

“Mine.” Derek grabbed the edge of the cage and lifted himself off the ground in an effortless pull-up that was unfairly impressive and any other time would have been sexy as hell, but right then Stiles just wanted him to back the fuck off.

“Yeah, you said that already, buddy,” he muttered as he scooted awkwardly across the bars trying to make sure he didn’t get caught in any of the gaps as he stayed out of arms’ reach. “Your what, though? Emissary? Sure. But as much as I enjoy a good back scratch, Der,” he looked at the razor-sharp claws the ‘wolf was wielding, “I’m going to have to opt out of the role of scratching post, just in case there was a question.”

Derek stared at him and Stiles could almost hear the frustrated huff. At least that part of him was the same. He growled, his speech slurring between dropped fangs. “Mine. My Stiles. My mate.” He pulled himself up in one smooth motion and landed in a crouch on the bars like an overgrown kid playing King of the Castle.

The possessive growl made Stiles shiver. Great. Derek was tripping on some psychotropic molly that made him think they were mates.

“Dude,” he started and the ‘wolf growled. Fine. “Derek. Alpha. I need you to focus. This thing you’re feeling isn’t real. I’m not your mate. The hunters…”

Derek roared and lunged, sweeping an arm out in a vicious bid to grab the Spark and pull him closer.

“Noooo! Mine. Mate.” The sound cut through the room, full of agony and longing, and Stiles gritted his teeth. He’d never hated anyone the way he hated the men who had done this. Derek had been fucked with by these psycho hunters his whole life. First, they’d taken his innocence, then his family, and now they’d fucked with his chances to have a real mate bond, forcing him to feel emotions that weren’t real. Forcing him, again, to want someone against his will. Stiles couldn’t think of anything more sadistic to do to someone who’d just gotten to the point of feeling like he had control of his own life.

Stiles would make them pay if it was the last thing he ever did. They would regret hurting his Alpha. He would see to it… personally.

His anger didn’t blind him to the immediate danger, though. He and Derek sparred regularly, and he knew he wasn’t going to last long if the older man got a grip on him. He couldn’t run and leave Derek loose, either—the hunters were going to come back at some point—and he couldn’t lead him out of the compound and run the risk that Derek would end up loose in civilization with no control or awareness that he shouldn’t be showing his wolfy good looks to the general population. Stiles’s only hope was keeping a little distance between them so he could use his spark to slow Derek down, keeping the werewolf’s attention on him until the drugs wore off. Oh, and hoping against hope that if he did get caught his friend was somehow still aware enough of Stiles’s limitations to not to use his full strength against his puny human self.

Stiles threw himself away from the grasping hand and dropped off the far side of the cage. He knew it wasn’t going to slow Derek down much, but it bought him a moment. He glanced back over at the liftgate mechanism and groaned. This was such a bad idea, but currently his choices were bad, worse, and oh fuck no. He focused his spark and threw a concentrated ball of power at the cable holding the liftgate up, while throwing himself into the cage.

The gate slammed shut, barely missing Derek’s outstretched hand, and the ‘wolf raged at his prize being stolen from him. There was nothing holding the gate closed now except its weight, but that was going to have to be enough. Stiles reached into his pocket and pulled out a loop of spider-silk rope reinforced with his spark and coated in wolfsbane--the newest line of Stilinski created werewolf restraint. It was spelled to tighten at a word, and if he could somehow bind Derek’s hands with it, the rest should be easy.

“Right,” he said, looking at the raving naked werewolf prying the door open like a can of tuna, “easy.”

He scuttled forward and grabbed Derek’s hands where he was gripping the gate, cupping his hands around the clawed fingers. “Der, stop! Please.”

Derek released the gate and in the next second Stiles was being hauled forward and pinned against the ‘wolf’s body, the bars crashing to the ground between them ignored. Red eyes drooped shut as the Alpha leaned in and sucked in a deep drag of Stiles’s scent, a subsonic rumble rolling through him.

“Need you,” he pulled Stiles’s arm through the bars and pressed his mouth against his wrist, dragging fangs against the tender skin, tongue leaving a scalding trail along the pulse point. “Waited so long.”

He sounded lucid, but the delusion was clearly still affecting him. “Sourwolf,” Stiles tried, curling his hands and gripping Derek’s fingers as tightly as he could. “Come on, I know you’re in there. I need you to focus. The drug is making you crazy. You have to hang on until you can burn through it. I know you can do it.”

The other man only grunted and rolled his hips, pressing his erection against Stiles’s fly through the gap in the bars. It was dark and angrily red, the tip glistening in the low light, and Stiles couldn’t imagine how painful it must be.

“That doesn’t look good, big guy.” He leaned forward, letting the ‘wolf rut against him, hating himself for watching, for noticing just how thick Derek’s cock was, how hot and hard. He hated not able to stop his ADHD brain from jumping through every salacious thought he’d ever had about the older man, and he’d had more than enough of them over the years. More than anything, he hated that it wasn’t real.

Derek groaned and shook his head like a wet dog, but his eyes were a little clearer. “Need to come. Hurts. Need you to touch me. Please.” That was all he managed before his eyes clouded again and he moved, faster than Stiles could follow, releasing one hand and slipping it behind the Stiles, pulling him even more tightly against the bars, the wolf clearly back in control as he growled out-- “Mine. Mark you. Mate you. Fuck you. Keep you. Mine.”

It wasn’t fair. The words were everything Stiles wanted, but the sour stress smell of Derek’s sweat, his glassy eyes, the pain evident in every move he made, turned them into ashes. The ‘wolf was desperate for his mate, though, and he could provide that comfort, could pretend for Derek’s sake, even if it killed him inside.

“Yours. Always been yours, Der, just been waiting for you,” he tilted his head in submission, counting on the bars to keep Derek from just ripping into his neck and hoping that the Alpha was too far gone to recognize the truth in his words once the drug wore off. “Breathe deep, that’s right. Get a good sniff. I’m not going anywhere.”

Derek let out a low keening whine, sucking in air like a drowning man that had suddenly surfaced. “So good. Mate smells so good.” The words were practically unintelligible, but Stiles had a lot of experience interpreting fang-slur, and he breathed a little easier as Derek’s aggression faded with each lungful of Stiles’s scent.

What wasn’t fading was his hard on. Stiles moved his free hand slowly towards Derek’s naked hip, slipping it between the bars and resting it on the dimple of his butt cheek, the brief contact causing the older man to jerk like he’d been electrified. He rutted forward, canting his hips and rubbing his pre-come dripping cock against any part of Stiles he could reach, a breathless chant of yes, yes, mate, touch, please, fuck, please hanging in the air between them.

“Derek?” Stiles tried to reach whatever part of his Alpha was still aware. “What do you need me to do? Can I… ?” He swallowed thickly, hissing as claws punctured the skin of his back. “Can I touch you?”

The ‘wolf didn’t answer with words, but the response was clear as Derek grabbed the hand Stiles had pressed against him and wrapped it around his cock. His skin was burning hot, hotter than normal, and the sound he made at the contact was equal parts agony and pleasure. He stared at the Spark, gaze as hot as his skin, hunger in every line of his face as he bucked into Stiles’s hand. “Going to fuck you until you scream. Mark you. Come all over you. Fill you up. Make you smell like mine.” The words sounded like they’d been dragged over shattered glass, rough and painful, and the alpha red of his eyes practically pulsed with power. Stiles figured that was as close to consent as he was going to get.

The hair at the base of Derek’s cock was trimmed short but was surprisingly soft on his knuckles. He rubbed the backs of his fingers against it lightly, teasing the skin there until the ‘wolf growled at him, clearly wanting him to get a move on.

“God, even like this you’re amazing,” Stiles murmured, overwhelmed with feeling as he slowly pumped his length, gathering the slick at the tip to smooth the stroke. The ‘wolf’s growl turned into a groan and his eyes fluttered—actually fluttered—closed as he rocked into Stiles’s grip chasing his orgasm. “That’s right. We’re going to fix this. Just let go. Let me take care of you.”

The hand on his back flexed, fingers clenching, and he braced himself for the claws again, but Derek didn’t actually dig into the meat. That was an improvement.

Red eyes shut and fanged mouth open, Derek panted hotly into his face. He couldn’t ever remember seeing Derek so free of the thoughts that burdened him constantly, he was simply feeling and wanting and chasing his pleasure. Suddenly, all Stiles wanted was to see what he looked like when he was coming. The Spark sped up his movements, using his thumb to tease that sensitive spot under the flare of the crown, giving a little twist at the end just the way he liked to touch himself. They were both breathing heavily, the only thing keeping them apart a ton of steel gate.

The Alpha licked his lips and rested his forehead against the bars. Stiles listened as he started to mutter, the words punctuated by the slick slap of skin against skin. “Fuck, Stiles. Need so much. Want so much. Want to hold you down. Lick you open. Make you come on my fingers, on my cock. Fuck your face. Cover you in my come. My mate. Mine.” The last word twisted into a howl of satisfaction as ropes of hot white come spilled out over Stiles’s hand, the roar rattling his teeth as he squeezed harder making sure to pull every drop from Derek’s cock, trying valiantly to quell the attraction he felt for the ‘wolf in front of him and failing, terribly.

Like a storm had passed, when the waves of orgasm finished shuddering through him, Derek’s eyes opened and he was calmer, the Alpha red now just a thin ring around the iris. He looked at Stiles and the Spark saw recognition in the depths as he pulled his hands back through the bars shakily.

“You with me, dude?” Stiles asked, surreptitiously rubbing the come off his hand, not wanting to embarrass the other man more than was unavoidable.

Derek jerked his head, glancing around as awareness kicked in. “Stiles? How did you get into that cage? Did the hunters come back?”

Stiles reached out and rested his hand over Derek’s heart. It was racing and sweat was pouring off the ‘wolf. Whatever the hunters had dosed him with wasn’t just messing with his mind, it was doing a number on the rest of him as well.

“The hunters are gone, but they drugged you with something. We need to get you somewhere safe to let it run its course.”

Derek shook off his hand. “No, no, no. You need to put me back in the cage and get out of here. I’m dangerous! I’m going to hurt you if you stay here.”

Stiles groaned. “We already went through this. I’m not leaving you. Whatever this stuff is, it looks like it’s mitigated when you get off, so, we’ll just keep…” his voice trailed off and he waved his hand to imply getting Derek off, but the Alpha wasn’t listening.

“You don’t understand. The stuff they gave me… it’s making my wolf crazy. Feral. I don’t know how you managed to push it back, but it isn’t going to last. I can feel the need to…”

“Fuck someone?” Stiles asked, deciding that now wasn’t the time for niceties. “Yeah, you made that pretty clear.”

“Not just someone,” Derek growled at him, frustrated, and losing control, “my mate. It’s trying to force me to claim my mate and it’s building again, like a burning under my skin. They want me to lose control, so I’ll hurt my mate, to hurt you and I’d rather die. Promise me you’ll put me down before it gets to that.”

“You’re not going to hurt me, Derek.” Stiles’s heart hurt at the pain in Derek’s voice, but he wasn’t giving up that easily. “Move over here and stick your hands through the bars.”

He could practically see the wolf surfacing. Derek’s eyes got hazy and bled a deeper red. The wolf in him didn’t like the commanding tone in Stiles’s voice, but when the Spark moved to the side of the cage he followed, his step a predatory crawl. The Spark held the loop of rope out up and took a deep breath.

“Put your hands through, Der,” he said, baring his neck a little to soften the order, “please.”

There was something calculating in the Alpha-red eyes, and one hand went through the bars, but the second hesitated.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Alpha.” Stiles knew the wolf would hear the truth. He had no intention of harming him or letting him harm anyone else. Derek couldn’t live with yet more guilt. “Other hand, too? Please?”

The soft request worked, and the second clawed hand joined the first. Stiles grasped one wrist, looking in Derek’s eyes. “You’re not going to like this, but you’d like the other choices even less.” And with that, he slipped the rope around his wrists and commanded, “Capistrā́te.”

It only took a second for the ‘wolf to recognize the rope, but for all his supernatural reflexes he wasn’t fast enough to beat the binding. The spider silk was Stiles’s most recent creation, and Derek had volunteered to help test it so the man, at least, knew that once it was in place there was no getting out of it without chopping off a body part. Stiles just hoped that Feral Derek didn’t decide that gnawing off a body part was actually an option. The way he was thrashing against the restraints and growling wasn’t encouraging.

“I can’t say I’ve never imagined you tied up naked before because I’m not that big of a liar, but this…? This wasn’t at all what I pictured.” Stiles shook his head at the ridiculousness of his life. “Now, let’s see what I can do about relieving some of that burning need you were talking about.”

The gate was heavy enough that without his spark he would never have been able to move it, but a lever of power allowed him to lift it enough to slither under it. Once free, he walked up behind the bound Alpha and wrapped his arms around him.

Stiles had always enjoyed the tactile nature of the ‘wolves around him. Pack and scenting and the bonds created by that closeness was something that soothed an ache in him that had been created when his mom died leaving him and his dad to figure out how to survive without her constant hugs and physical affection. Derek didn’t indulge as much as the others, still physically reserved after too many losses and betrayals, but Stiles knew that it comforted his wolf when he allowed it. Since he was currently unable to stop the Spark from hugging the fuck out of him, Stiles scented him thoroughly. He dragged his hands over Derek’s back and nape, rubbed his shoulders, and ran his fingers through the other man’s hair. He pressed his body fully against Derek’s back, imagining that this would be what it would be like to be the big spoon if the Alpha ever deigned to be cuddled, and he finally rested the point of his chin on one broad shoulder and rubbed his smooth cheek against Derek’s stubbled one, relieved to hear a somewhat pleased rumble rolling through the ‘wolf’s chest, only to have to jump back when that was followed by a sharp turn of the head and snap of the teeth. Fangs barely missed the curve of his cheek, scraping but not breaking the skin, and he cursed as he pulled away.

“Fuck, dude, watch the teeth! You know you can’t turn me, but I’ve got enough scars, I don’t need any on my face.”

Derek was muttering again, yanking against the spider silk. “Let me loose. Let me loose.” He shook the cage with his struggles and Stiles plastered himself along his back again.

“Let me make you feel good again, Der,” he whispered against Derek’s overheated skin. “You want that?” He slid his hands down until he reached the ‘wolf’s straining cock, the head purple and wet with his earlier come and more. From this angle is was easier, almost like stroking himself, and he made short work of it, alternating tight, short little strokes and long leisurely pumps as he rubbed soothing circles on Derek’s hip with his other hand.

The ‘wolf dropped his head back, a shuddering moan torn from his throat.

“So sensitive,” Stiles said, hand still working, “wonder if you’re always like this. Probably not, but that just means that you should enjoy it if you can. Screw the hunters.”

Just because this was being forced on him didn’t mean he should suffer, and Stiles was determined to make the whole thing as pleasurable as possible. Derek was going to agonize over it afterwards no matter what happened, so the best he could hope for was that he didn’t cross some line that made it impossible for them to go back to being friends, not to mention being able to ignore the simmering attraction that he’d felt for the older man for years.

Derek arched back into him, rolling his ass against Stiles’s hardening cock. “I can smell you.” He gutted out the words. “Smell like sex and want and mate and mine.”

Stiles groaned. “You can’t say things like that. You’re going to remember all of this tomorrow and you’re either going to push me away or want to kill me for seeing you like this.”

“You want it. Want me,” the ‘wolf snarled, apparently angry about it. Derek thrashed again and the spider silk dug a groove into his wrists, blood dripping on the floor of the cage, and he howled his rage at being restrained. Stiles realized he had to do something fast or the Alpha was going to actually hurt himself.

“Have you seen you?” Stiles flicked his thumb pulling a startled groan from the man in his arms. “A man would have to be blind or dead not to want you.”

“Never said.” The Spark couldn’t believe that even drugged to the gills Derek was arguing about this, so totally convinced no one could or should want him.

“Didn’t want you to feel pressured, Der,” he said, nipping sharply at the top of his shoulder. “Just because I wanted you, didn’t mean you had to feel the same.”

Something snapped and the ‘wolf growled. “My mate. Always wanted you. Now I’m going to have you, take you,” he twisted his wrists away from each other and flicked his claws against the spider silk rope trying to saw through it even as it burned him.

“Stop, stop!” Stiles squeezed the cock in his hand almost brutally, dragging the ‘wolf’s attention away from the rope. “You want me? Prove it. You say I’m your mate? Fuck my hand like you mean it. Give me your come. I want fistfuls of it, I want to rub it all over myself, I want to lick it off my fingers.”

Derek froze in his arms and turned to flash his Alpha eyes back at him. “You… you aren’t lying.”

Well, fuck. There went any hope of getting out of this with his plausible deniability intact.

He redoubled his efforts, trying to at least cloud the moment with sex. He twisted his grip, stroking Derek in luxuriously slow, inexorable pulls. “Why would I lie about something like that? Now, are you going to come for me? Are you going to give your mate what he needs?”

Like flipping a switch, the ‘wolf started to move, snapping his hips forward with so much force that Stiles had to brace himself on the cage so he wouldn’t lose his grip. Derek pulled his arms back and gripped the bars at hip height like he was imagining holding Stiles’s hips as he fucked into him.

“God, just look at you. Huge. Practically dripping. Everything I could want. So strong, so good. Fuck, Derek, let me see it. Let me see how much you want me. Show me what it would be like to be split open by this big cock, fucked until I forgot my name, until I could only say your name. Come inside me again and again until I’m full of you, jizz dripping down my thighs, so everyone knows what we did, knows that you took me like this.”

Derek convulsed in Stiles’s hands, his body shaking, muscles drawn so tight that the bars bent in his grip, a litany of filth spilling from his lips just as what felt like a gallon of come spilled from his cock. Mine, mine, mine. Taking me so well. Fill you with my come, mark your skin, paint your insides white with my come and then lick it back out again. Never let anyone else touch you. Kill anyone that tries. Rip them to shreds if they even look at you.

It should not have been nearly as hot as it was, but that seemed to be the way it always was with Derek. Everything about him was unfairly sexy. Stiles buried his face against the ‘wolf’s shoulder and rested there, only jerking to attention when the Alpha trembled in his arms and collapsed to the floor unconscious, naked legs splayed akimbo on the concrete, his dick still red and angry looking but flaccid for the moment.

Stiles eased the big body down until he was lying beside the cage, hands still bound but arms loose. It didn’t look comfortable, but it was better than things had been. Plus, it meant that he could take a moment and search the lab for anything that might be useful.

“If I were a hunter mad scientist, where would I keep the werewolf drugs?” He muttered under his breath. Hunters always had a back-up plan, and usually kept some sort of sedative on hand to take down supernaturals they didn’t want to have to actually fight. His attention was split between looking around, listening for returning bad guys, and making sure Derek didn’t wake up unattended, and when the Alpha began to stir, he knew he had to speed things along. He sent a pulse of energy out to check for traps and found a non-descript gray box in the corner, locked with a ward. It was the work of a second to shred the spell, and Stiles was pathetically happy to find elephant tranquilizers inside. At least the bastards were consistent.

“Okay Derek,” he said, hurrying back to friend’s side, “I know you hate these things, but they should keep you calm enough for us to get you out of here safely.” He jabbed the needle into the meatiest part of the Alpha’s ass and hoped that the double dose was enough to counteract the other medicine without causing further complications. He pulled out his phone and called Chris.

“Argent.”

“Stilinski,” Stiles snarked. “How far out are you?”

There was noise behind Chris. “We just disembarked. It should take us an hour and forty-five to get to your hotel.” Another pause. “Peter says he’s driving.”

That would cut quite a bit off their drive time. The older ‘wolf wouldn’t spare the horsepower and had the reflexes to handle it.

“Derek’s out for now, but they dosed him with something terrible. Like ecstasy but worse. And they messed with his mind somehow. Brainwashed him into thinking I was his mate.” He gritted his teeth. “It was beyond cruel, Chris. He was practically feral. They forced him into rut. If I hadn’t been able to restrain him, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Peter said something in the background and Chris made a surprised noise. “You’re sure?”

“Sure about what?” Stiles asked. “What’d he say?”

There was a pause. “Peter says they didn’t mess with his mind.”

Derek made a whining noise behind him, and he turned to look at him. He was sweating, and he was half hard, but he was still out.

“You didn’t hear him, Chris.” He bit the inside of his lip trying to block out the memory of Derek’s heated claims. “He flat out told me I was his mate. Said he needed to claim me. He was out of his mind.”

Peter spoke loudly enough that he could be heard over the phone. “Stiles, I’m not going to go into details, but I’m fairly confident that we won’t have to worry about deprogramming. You just need to keep him safe until the drugs are out of his system. Can you get him to the hotel by yourself?”

“I can move him, but you better have a damn good explanation when you get here, or we’re going to have a bigger problem than flushing a massive dose of werewolf molly out of his system. I’m not letting them get away with this, Chris. Derek shouldn’t have his choice of mate taken from him along with everything else hunters have stolen from him.”

The hunter sighed. “We’ll be there soon. Hang tight, and don’t let them circle back and track you to the hotel.”

Stiles looked at the cage with the pile of shredded clothes. “Probably too late to worry about that. They had a hoodie of mine from the hotel we stayed at two nights ago. I figure that they know where we set up base but going back is a risk I’m going to have to take. I can’t leave him unattended, and I can’t just drag a drugged naked werewolf into a new hotel to ask for a room.”

Stiles thought about the hunters and what he wanted to do to them. He hoped they were stupid enough to attack him at the hotel. They wouldn’t live to make another mistake.

“Just watch your own backs and get here as soon as you can.” He glanced back at the shivering ‘wolf and set his jaw. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

***

Thank God hotel bed frames were metal.

“Let me up, Stiles.” Derek thrashed against the spelled bindings holding him. Spread-eagled. On the bed. Stiles’s life was cruel and he didn’t deserve this. He was never going to be able to erase this image from his memory.

“Open wide, Der.” He grabbed the Alpha’s jaw and levered his mouth open, pouring another vial of neutralizer down his throat. That was the fourth he’d dosed the ‘wolf with so far and he was running out. Hopefully, Peter and Chris had thought to pack more. “Your temperature is going down, but I want to make sure we’ve counteracted everything in your system.”

He looked down at his friend, who was beyond pissed at still being restrained, and patted his shoulder where it peeked out above the blankets. “I know this isn’t comfortable, but I just need you to be patient for a little longer. Okay? We have to make sure all of the,” he swallowed thickly, “side-effects are gone.”

A red flush rode high on Derek’s cheekbones, embarrassment flooding his system as soon as his faculties had started to return. “Just let me up. I can take care of myself from here on out. You don’t have to keep…”

Touching you? Stroking your cock until you come all over yourself? Whisper that you’re a perfect mate, that you’re everything anyone could want? Stiles choked back a hysterical laugh at the irony of the whole situation. Wanting to keep you like this forever so I can have you for myself?

Fuck everyone that said he didn’t have a filter; he had an Olympic level filter. He could do this. “I’m your Emissary, Derek, I’m not going to leave my Alpha—my friend—to ride out the worst drug trip ever by himself.”

If Derek could have curled in on himself, he would have. There was frustration and anger and something that looked like despair in the rigid lines of his body as he strained against the spider silk rope.

“You said Peter and Chris will be here soon,” he wouldn’t meet Stiles’s gaze, but he gritted the words out. “I’ll be fine until they get here. I just… I need you to go, Stiles. Please. I know this was awful for you, but I didn’t think you’d be cruel.”

Stiles looked at him, confused. “Cruel? I’m not trying to be cruel, Der. I just want to take care of you. Make sure you’re okay. You said some things back there, things that weren’t right, things you’d never say if you were okay, so even if the physical effects are,” he looked at the still twitching lump of Derek’s cock under the light blanket and swallowed thickly, “lessening, we need to make sure that your head’s straight again before you do something you regret.”

Derek let out his own bitter laugh. “Regret? You have no idea how many regrets I have right now, Stiles, but your being here is just making it so much worse. I’m trying, God I’m trying. You shouldn’t have to deal with me, with this. I’ve already crossed so many lines… Fuck.” He sounded almost broken and Stiles’s heart hurt in his chest. “I can smell you. I can smell us, and I can’t stand it. Please, Stiles. Please just go.”

Stiles’s brain was running a mile a minute trying to parse through everything Derek was saying. He didn’t want the ‘wolf to feel like he’d crossed lines—there should be no lines between them—and he certainly didn’t want him to feel responsible for everything that had happened. They both underestimated the hunters, and Derek had paid a terrible price for their ineptitude. But if his presence was making things worse, if the drugs were still hijacking his sex drive and the scent of mate, no matter how false that concept might be… Stiles wasn’t going to subject him to that kind of pain unnecessarily.

“Dude, I am so sorry. I didn’t realize you were still being messed with by the crazy fake mate thing.” He stood up and cast around the room, grabbing the open bottle of water beside the bed and angling the straw towards Derek’s mouth. “Take a couple of sips of this for me, and I’ll go sit in the hall or something and wait for Chris and Peter to get here.

Derek arched up, the sheet slipping down to his waist, and Stiles couldn’t help but watch the play of muscles there. “The hall, Stiles? You could leave the fucking hotel and I’d still be able to heart your heartbeat. I could pick your scent out of a stadium of people.” He licked his lips, exposing a hint of fang. “There were nights when you were at Berkeley that I could feel you jerking off, I could smell it like you were in the room with me. The first time it happened I was halfway to the city limits before I got my wolf back under control.” Derek bared his teeth in a predatory smile, eyes blown and black, and Stiles shivered. “I made it all the way to Fresno the first night you took that rugby player home with you.”

Stiles stared, the words washing over him in a hot wave. There was no way this could be true. When he was at Berkeley? He graduated three years ago. He met Andrew when he was a sophomore, for Christ’s sake.

“You’re saying,” he stumbled over the words, still struggling to come to grips with what Derek was saying, “that you’ve felt like this about me since I left for college?”

There was a screeching of metal, and suddenly the mattress crashed to the floor, the metal frame bent completely out of shape as Derek pulled the spider silk loops loose.

“No, Stiles,” he said darkly. He lunged forward and grabbed the Stiles’s wrist, pulling him down across his lap. “I’m saying I’ve felt like this since I caught you and Scott trespassing in the Preserve.”

The Spark jerked back, pulling futilely against the Alpha’s grip. Disbelief, anger, and longing fought for dominance in his mind as he searched for lies in the ‘wolf’s face and found none. He really was Derek’s mate. He was Derek’s mate. “You never said anything. Why didn’t you say something?”

Derek leaned in close, his nose buried in the soft hollow under Stiles’s ear, and his hot breath sent shivers buzzing across his skin. “I was too broken. You were too young. You were vulnerable and being with a ‘wolf would have made you even more so. Then, you moved on. Dated. Were happy. You were my pack and my Emissary, and just that was better than I had any right to hope for.” He nipped at the tender skin of Stiles’s earlobe and his hot tongue traced lines of invisible fire down the side of his neck before pressing with the tip against his fluttering pulse like he could taste it. “You didn’t say anything either, but now…”

“Now what?” Stiles flinched at the breathlessness of his voice, but his pride wasn’t what he was concerned with right then.

“Now, I don’t have to hide it anymore. Now I know the truth.” Derek pressed the words into his skin like a brand. “You told me, remember? In the warehouse? You said you were mine; that you’d always been mine. Said you were just waiting for me.”

Suddenly the ‘wolf moved, flipping them so he loomed over him, and Stiles could feel his heart slamming against the cage of his ribs, his cock already more than half hard, his brain fizzing with possibilities that he’d never dared to entertain outside of midnight fantasies.

“I’ve denied the wolf its mate for years, Stiles, but I can’t… I can’t…” Derek sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, his whole body vibrating as he bullied his wolf into temporary submission. “If you don’t want this, don’t want me, you have to go now. Don’t run.” Derek twisted his head to one side, his mouth twisted in a snarl, his eyes closed against the sight of the Spark under him. “If you run, I will chase you and catch you and…” the ‘wolf breathed through his mouth trying to catch his breath without drowning in the Stiles’s scent. “Just, don’t run.”

It was testament to how wrecked Derek sounded that Stiles didn’t immediately do what he was being told not to, but he knew the ‘wolf was still fighting off the effects of the hunters’ drug and didn’t want to push the Alpha into something he’d regret, no matter how much the thought of being chased and caught excited him. He reached up and cupped Derek’s jaw, rubbing the hinge with his thumb until the muscle there relaxed.

“Not running, Sourwolf,” he said, looking up at the older man. “I’m right where I want to be.”

It broke something, like a dam being washed away, and suddenly Stiles was swept up into strong arms. Derek ground his face into the join between his neck and shoulder, his beard rubbing until the skin was bright pink and sensitive, and the Spark could feel the bass rumble of the Alpha’s growl as it reverberated through his chest.

“Mine.”

Stiles couldn’t stop the shudder that shook him, and the ‘wolf grinned with too many teeth against the meat of his throat. “You like that, don’t you? Like being mine. Want me to mount you and mark you. Fuck you like a bitch in heat, that pretty ass in the air, wanting to be split wide on my cock. You want your Alpha to fill you with come until it drips out of your hole, sloppy and sensitive. Want everyone to know who you belong to.”

Stiles groaned and threw his head back, stretching the long line of his neck in a tempting arch. “Ye-esss. Fuck yes, Der. Yours.” The words were thin and breathless, but there was nothing but an aching truth in them. “Always been yours. Always be yours.”

His head was spinning, the filthy words painting every picture he’d ever dreamed of.

“Turn over and show me that pretty hole.”

Stiles moved but not quickly enough. The ‘wolf wrapped a strong arm around his waist and hauled him onto his knees, his free hand popping the button open and pulling Stiles’s jeans down until his legs were trapped together at the knees.

“God the things I want to do to this ass.” Derek leaned in and breathed deep. “You smell so good. Always smell so good. Can’t wait to have you stretched around me. I’ve dreamed of fucking you hard with my teeth in your neck. But first, I want to taste you. Fuck you with my tongue. Make you beg.” He dragged a thumb over the tight furl, gently tugging, and then dipped in and dragged his tongue over Stiles’s sensitive rim. “Make you cry you want it so bad.”

Stiles arched up trying to get more of Derek’s thumb in him, aching with the need for something, anything, in him. “Yes,” he said. “Please. Please, Derek, I need…”

The thumb disappeared and he whined, rocking his hips back in shameless supplication, and then there was Derek’s tongue, hot and wet and insistent prodding at his hole.

“Need?” The wolf stabs and circles, spit dripping from his chin before pushing his thumb back in between licks. “You have no idea what it’s like to need. But I’m going to teach you. Make you howl for it like my wolf has howled for you. For its mate.”

Stiles shakes and shudders under the onslaught. “I didn’t know. You didn’t say.”

His hole was being teased sloppily wet and open, and he looked back to see Derek staring up at him over the curve of his ass, eyes burning Alpha red and fangs dropped to drag and catch on the gathered skin. It was more than he could take. He reached back and grabbed at Derek’s hair, trying to pull him closer, but the ‘wolf wasn’t having it. He growled and nipped the flushed skin of one buttock, leaving a perfect set of fang marks that Stiles would feel for days.

“Please.” He was begging but he didn’t care. “Alpha. Please.”

The Alpha liked that, adding a finger along with his thumb, licking between them and muttering. “My mate. So hungry. So needy. Perfect for me. Going to fuck you soon. You want that, don’t you? Want me to bend you over and fuck you until you don’t know anything but me, the feel of me, the smell of me, the stretch of me.”

“Yes,” Stiles nodded against the pillows. He wanted that. Wanted all of that. His spark was stirring, and he could feel his Emissary bond burning in his chest, glowing brightly in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t wait for Derek to add a mate bond to the ties between them. “Fuck me, Derek. There’s slick in my bag. Please. Hurry.”

Derek growled, the Alpha didn’t like being ordered around, but he pulled away long enough to dump Stiles’s bag on the hotel room floor, rummaging with one hand until he found the little bottle.

“Did you expect to need this?” There was a darkly accusatory tone to the ‘wolf’s question as he poured the liquid over his fingers and knelt back up behind Stiles on the bed. “Were you going to pick up someone to fuck? Drag them back to your room with me right next door? You know I’d have heard you. I’ve heard you before. Listened to you with that guy last year in Reno. Hotel walls aren’t as thick as they should be. You asked the next day if I’d gotten lucky, but you were the lucky one—lucky I didn’t storm into your room and tear the guy to pieces. But I didn’t. I sat there on my cold bed, pumping into my fist as you let that bastard fuck you. The sounds you make… fuck.” He groaned and pressed a finger into Stiles’s hole. “No, I laid there and listened to you telling him what to do, how to fuck you, and then I smelled your come and bit through my pillow trying to stay quiet, knowing the whole time that it should have been me. I could fuck you better. Fuck you until you couldn’t even string a sentence together. You’re my mate. Mine.” A second finger joined the first, and then quickly a third, twisting and stroking, searching out that spot that made all Stiles’s nerves light up.

“Wasn’t looking for anyone. Haven’t been,” he bit his lip on a strangled cry as Derek stretched him a little more viciously, prodded at his prostate a little more insistently, “for a while. Didn’t want them.”

“That’s right, baby,” he said on a satisfied rumble, “no one can satisfy you like I can. Look at your hole, sucking my fingers in. So hungry for me. So fucking pretty. Going to wreck it. Going to fuck it until it remembers the shape of me.”

Derek fell on him then, forcing his face to the side so he could plunder Stiles’s mouth. Their lips moved together, sliding and wet and hot, and it was everything he’d ever imagined and more. He wanted to delve into the ‘wolf’s mouth, to find its secret corners, to lick up his taste and map his teeth. He lunged into the kiss, sucking Derek’s bottom lip into his mouth, and his heart fluttered in his chest as his Alpha moaned.

“Fucking tease,” he growled, nipping Stiles’s lip harsh enough to break the skin and then chasing the drops of blood.

“Not teasing,” he forced the words out on a whine as Derek’s fingers slipped out of him, leaving him open and aching. “Wanted you to notice me but didn’t mean to tease.”

The blunt head of Derek’s cock dragged across his sensitive hole, the edge catching as it passed. “Showing off for your Alpha. Showing what a good mate you’d be. Can you take Alpha cock, though?” Derek rocked his hips and Stiles hissed as it popped just past the rim and he arched his hips inviting more. Slowly the Alpha slid his whole length in, and the Spark’s eyes rolled back in his head. Derek’s cock was huge, endless, filling Stiles completely until he could feel heavy balls bounce against his ass. Then it was all in—fuck he’d fit that entire Alpha cock inside him—and he was so full he could feel it all the way the back of his throat.

The ‘wolf howled then, deep and feral, and Stiles could only hope that the walls were thick enough to keep the other occupants of the hotel from hearing them. He didn’t feel like explaining to the cops that no, he wasn’t hiding a large dog, and yes, those are bite marks and bruises, but they were entirely consensual.

“Mine.” Derek draped his body over the shivering Spark, keeping the smaller man pinned on his cock, his weight so much that it should be smothering, but Stiles reveled in it, thrilled at finally being claimed by the ‘wolf he’d wanted for so long. “Never should have waited. Should have claimed you the night I found you, bred you and knotted you and kept you full of my come.”

Stiles whimpered at the thought. It shouldn’t be sexy. He’d always demanded his partners use condoms—he’d had enough lectures from the sheriff about safe sex for it to be second nature—but the thought of Derek’s come, his Alpha’s come, filling his ass, leaking out around his cock as he fucked into him brutal and demanding… well, that was a kink he never knew he had but was definitely willing to embrace.

He felt the ‘wolf grin against the back of his neck. “You like that idea, too. I can smell it. Good.”

“Fuck yes,” Stiles groaned, raising his hips in a silent invitation, Derek’s cock pressing deeper than anyone had ever gone before. “Fill me up. Mark me inside and out. Make sure everyone knows I’m yours. Please.”

His nerves came alive as Derek fucked into him. The stretch and burn left him breathless and his cock bounced against his belly as the ‘wolf stroked into him so hard it was all he could do to keep his balance.

It felt so good to give in like this, to let the ‘wolf take what it wanted, to know that the man he’d bound himself to as Emissary wanted more—wanted all of him—and he wanted to give all of himself, to be claimed as the Alpha’s mate.

“Fuck Stiles, you feel so good. Being so good for me. Such a good mate, presenting like a pretty little bitch for me to take. Going to keep you like this. Never going to let you off my cock. Going to make you come so hard you’re going to cry for mercy.” He reached around and gripped Stiles’s dick, rolling his thumb over the slit as he squeezed precome out to slick his fist. He started to stroke, first slow and insistent, pulling a low groan from the Spark, and then faster, until the human could feel his orgasm bearing down on him like a locomotive. “You’ve run with wolves long enough to know, though. We aren’t known for mercy.”

Stiles was so sensitive. Derek’s cock was carving a space inside him, leaving an aching void every time he pulled back. The rough hand around his length alternated between sweet strokes and vise-tight pumps, dragging him to the edge and then cutting off his orgasm every time it threatened, but the ‘wolf never flagged. He was driven by the need to claim, to mate, to mark, pulling Stiles along on wave after wave of sensation, until he was a sobbing mess, his cock drooling onto the sheets beneath him, body shaking and ass fucked raw.

“God, baby,” Derek sounded like himself for a moment, his lips hot and wet as he mouthed the back of Stiles’s neck. “Gonna come. Going to fill your gorgeous ass so much you’re going to be dripping with me for days.”

He nuzzled under Stiles’s ear, pushing the sweat-damp hair away from the skin and placing his teeth along the tendon. “Want to bite you. Claim. Say yes. Be my mate, my mate, my only. My Stiles. Say yes.” He sank his fangs a little further into the skin, worrying it back and forth until there would be a mean little mark even if he didn’t set his claim there.

Stiles pulled himself back from the edge once more, his consciousness fuzzy but there. “Yes. Do it. Bite me. Finish the claim. I want you to.”

He turned his head just enough to meet Derek’s eyes, red irises burning with lust and want and things that he didn’t even have words for, and nodded once, feeling the movement pull the skin under the ‘wolf’s teeth. “Come on. Come on, come on! Do it.” Stiles didn’t care that he sounded desperate. He just needed. The hand on his cock sped up and he felt a rumble of something from the ‘wolf and he knew they were almost at the finish line.

“Next time I’m going to hold you up and fuck you against the wall so hard you’ll have my bruises on you for days. Going to jerk your cock. Going to make you come on my knot. Fill your ass up so tight you fucking scream for me.” Derek’s hips pistoned against him, cock ramming against his prostate. “But now I need you to come with me, baby. Feel my knot? That’s right. Come with me. Right. Now.”

Stiles was flying, the taste of copper in his mouth where he’d bitten himself, head thrown back in a silent scream as Derek’s knot swelled, stretching his ass until the skin was thin and tight and hot. Come pulsed in ribbons under him as a now-clawed hand loosely gripped his dick, and surprise if that didn’t make him twitch harder, adding another strand of sticky white across the sheets.

Sharp teeth pierced his skin at the vulnerable hollow of his throat, the only thing between him and bleeding out after having his jugular punctured being his Alpha’s iron control. Stiles could feel Derek seizing with his own orgasm, the hot wave of come heavy inside him as it filled him, the knot stretching him pulsing with their matched heartbeats. He could feel it in his skin, could feel the pulse of his spark as it reached out and seized the magic of the mate bite, braiding the amber gold of his power through and around it, like it wanted nothing more than to possess and protect the bond forever. Everything was a rush of magic and DerekDerekDerek that was so overwhelming he didn’t know if he’d survive, but if he didn’t, he knew he’d die complete.

“So perfect,” the ‘wolf licked across the mate bite sending another wave of shivers through the Spark, the little convulsion tightened him around Derek’s knot wringing a whine from the ‘wolf. “Took me so well. Mine. Look so good on my knot. In my arms.” He pressed a line of hot kisses against Stiles’s jaw. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I’m not sorry that you’re mine now.”

“Not sorry,” Stiles replied, patting the arm around his waist. “Happy. Tired, but very, very happy.” He let the ‘wolf roll them onto their sides, enjoying the warmth and closeness of being tied to his mate. He made a pleased noise deep in his chest. He knew Derek would struggle with the claim in the coming days; the ‘wolf was a martyr on the best of days, and this had not been the best of days. Stiles also knew, though, that if Derek’s wolf had chosen him before the hunters had drugged him, they’d be fine. He suspected Peter had known about the unfulfilled mate bond and that was what he had meant when he said they wouldn’t need to deprogram Derek after all. He’d take that up with Uncle Creepy later; keeping secrets from your Emissary was a bad idea. But that could wait… after all, they now had all the time in the world.

***

“So, you’re saying this whole attack was aimed at me?” Chris’s fingers were white where they gripped his beer bottle too tightly. Peter’s hand was on his shoulder rubbing soothing little circles, but Derek could tell they were both worried. He was worried, too. Even now, after claiming his mate and having more sex in the past twenty-four hours than he’d had in the past twelve months he could still feel the almost feral drive to take, claim, bite, mark… He struggled to stifle a growl.

“Well, yes. I mean, there was the whole “start a war between humans and werewolves” thing, but I got the impression that that was just a bonus for him. I might have lost some of the details, but the asshole enjoyed monologuing. I just worry that he’ll try again, and strike more directly at you or Uncle Peter since this plan didn’t pan out the way he wanted.”

Derek could only thank the powers that it hadn’t. He reached out and squeezed Stiles’s hand. The thought of hurting him, of possibly killing his mate… he wouldn’t have survived it, even if Chris hadn’t managed to put him down.

“So, we’ll find him.” Peter managed to sound calm and blood-thirsty at the same time. The Left-Hand of the Hales was definitely in play; no one threatened those Peter cared about with impunity. “We find him and kill him and make anyone that helped him pay a high enough price that no one will ever try again.”

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand back, a vicious little smile on his face. “I managed to take a few things from the warehouse that should help us track them down. I was invested before, but now… now it’s personal. That asshole is going to regret ever hearing the name Hale, and then… Well, then he isn’t going to do much more than fertilize a nice patch of desert. Maybe feed a few vultures. Give back to Nature, you know?”

Derek’s wolf preened and strutted in the back of his head, proud of his blood-thirsty pack. Proud of his protective mate.

Chris looked at them, raising the bottle and taking a deep swallow. “I know it doesn’t even begin to cover things, but I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you’ve been dragged into this. The Argents owe you a debt we can never repay, Derek, but I promise I will make sure this man and his crew will never hurt you or your pack again.”

Derek shook his head and met his uncle’s eyes, blue flashing with red. Chris still didn’t get it. “You’re pack, Chris. He isn’t going to hurt any of us, including you. You’ve suffered at the hands of hunters, too.”

A wave of affection rolled off his mate and he could feel the mate-bond vibrate with pride and satisfaction. They were the Hale Pack, and they protected their own.

#teen wolf #sterek #derek hale #spark stiles #feral derek #nonconsensual drug use #all the sex #knotting #werewolf mates #claiming bites #explicit language #implied torture

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feelingfredly · 4 years

Text

Fox Prince

for @feelingfredly, inspired by “Home Is Where You Hang Your Heart”

all the love to my incredible muse 💙> Fred < 💙

go read all their stories on AO3 *really* _now_

Reblogs with credit ok

please be kind, do not repost to other sites without my permission and credit.

Artwork is mine, characters belong to:

Ichigo Kurosaki, Gin Ichimaru © Bleach - Tite Kubo

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feelingfredly · 4 years

Text

Stiles’s Mouth Writes Checks His Body Can’t Cash

Chapter Two: Foreign Love Languages

Notes: Please note that the tags have changed. This chapter is mostly Boyd and Erica, with all the applicable F/M body parts.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

***

“You’re really okay with me just following you around for a week?”

Stiles had been given contact information for one Erica Reyes, a prosecutor in the local DA’s office, and had been told to contact her within twenty-four hours. It had taken him twenty to get up enough nerve.

The blonde gave him a look. “If you’re not up for this, tell me now. I don’t have time to fuck around with a wannabe. You’re either in or you’re out. What’s it going to be?”

Half an hour and access to the FBI’s databases had given him a two-dimensional image of the woman, but in person she was almost larger than life. She was beautiful—great hair, great lips, curves to die for—but it was the sharp edge of her personality that was most appealing. This was a woman who would eat someone alive and not bother to spit out the bones.

“No, no, I’m in. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t being…” his voice faded away and he had a hard time meeting Erica’s eyes. “I mean, if you’d been given a choice about all… this.” He flailed his hand to indicate the incredibly awkward situation, but the look on her face made it clear that he was the only one feeling the awkwardness.

“You think, somehow, that I’m being coerced into doing this? That what? My Dom is going to beat me because I said I wasn’t comfortable with some lanky Feeb following me around for a week? That somehow I don’t have a choice in this?” She snorted. “You really do need the remedial BDSM classes, don’t you? This…” she waved her hand, mocking his earlier movement, “is entirely safe, sane, and consensual. Consensual. Do you need a dictionary? I think we have one in the office—maybe even one of those huge unabridged fuckers that you could use as a bludgeon if you had the need. I’m actually thinking you might benefit from a whack over the head with it. Or maybe that’s just me.”

Stiles sighed. “Look. I get it. Really. It just strange to me that you’d sign off on having someone you’ve never met and know nothing about being dumped into your private life. I know I wouldn’t be comfortable with it, and I thought it was only right to ask you, straight up. No games, no Doms, no one watching… just, are you okay with it?”

A little of the fight leached out of her, but she still looked pissed. “Look. I’m not the best person to explain this to you because I am so not a Dom that it isn’t even funny. I have enough on my plate putting crack dealers, abusive pimps, and the occasional murderer behind bars. However, I know that you’re doing all of this,” she waved her hand again and Stiles was seriously beginning to regret ever having shown that side of himself to her, “for a good reason. Master Hale didn’t tell us details, but I know you’re a Fed, and I’ve worked with enough Feds to know that you’re actually not that bad. So, since I trust Master Hale and he vouches for you, and Boyd has given his approval, I don’t have a problem.”

She picked up a leather messenger bag and shoved it at him. “However, because I can’t just have any rando walking around through the offices, you are now officially my security detail. Take this and go change.”

Stiles juggled the bag, surprise making him more clumsy than usual. “Security detail?”

Erica shrugged. “It’s not that unusual. We get a lot of death threats because of the work we do, and some of them are serious. I just finished a case that was drug related, so the idea is that someone decided it was time “to shut that big bitch mouth up” and you are here as private security to make sure nothing happens to poor little me.”

Her matter-of-fact approach to that kind of threat was disappointing. Clearly it had happened before. There was, however, something ironic about someone targeting a female werewolf like that.

“Shut you up, huh?” He said, shouldering the bag and falling into step beside her. “Doesn’t sound easy.”

Erica grinned for the first time since they started talking, but there was a feral challenge to the edge of it. “You have no idea. But you will.” She winked. “Believe me.”

***

Stiles headed for the shower when they got to Erica’s apartment after work, glad for the escape. It was much nicer than he’d expected—old building, but clearly renovated—and he figured there was money coming from somewhere other than the salary of a city employee, no matter how up-and-coming she was.

He stripped quickly, dropping the uniform he’d worn all day on the floor, and sighed in pleasure as he climbed under the spray. He’d have to ask if there was a washer and dryer he could use. TAC gear made him sweat like crazy, and the offices had been hot and miserable. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for the ‘wolves. He’d suffered through, though, sitting back and watching as Erica Reyes powered through her day, slaying paperwork and sexist coworkers with equal aplomb, but by the end of the day he could see the tightness around the corners of her eyes, and the unusual thinness of her lips as she struggled to not snap at people’s stupidity or laziness or moral bankruptcy, or in the case of her immediate superior, all three. Honestly, he didn’t know how the dude wasn’t dead yet.

Erica simply ignored him, letting every slimy thing the bastard said slip right past her, but by the end of the day, he could tell she was chomping at the bit to get away from him.

“Oh my God,” she muttered under her breath as she packed up her notes, “sometimes I want to just throw all this crap in the garbage and grab the first flight to Tahiti. Sun, sand, Boyd and never having to listen to Harrison again would be some version of heaven.”

Stiles grabbed his own bag and slid into guard position behind her, reflexively scanning the surroundings. He might not actually be security, but he knew how to act the part. “Why don’t you?”

Erica didn’t respond immediately, too busy weaving through the masses exiting the building at the end of the day. Laser focused, they made it into and out of the elevators, and finally out into the parking garage, where a black car waited for them.

She leveled a look at him, and Stiles wondered if he’d managed to piss her off again. “I’d get bored. I’d last a week. Two, tops, if Boyd kept me busy. After that… yeah, beach bunny life isn’t for me.” She opened her own car door and indicated for him to climb in the front. “Now, shut up, get in, and start paying attention. School starts now.”

Stiles swallowed once, shut up, and got in.

Boyd—Master Boyd—was in the back seat waiting, and everything about Erica changed the moment she saw him. Her shoulders lowered and her jaw unclenched, and she smiled—really smiled—for the first time in hours. Not what he was expecting, honestly.

“Hey Baby,” Boyd wasn’t wearing anything unusual, no bad porn leather or latex, just soft gray trousers, and a dress shirt. He was a slab of a man, someone you definitely wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, but he never seemed angry or on edge like some other people Stiles met at The Den. No, Boyd was all zen energy and focus. Next to him, Erica seemed like she was vibrating she was wound so tightly. “Bad day?”

Boyd pulled a fragile strip of pink velvet out of his pocket, and Stiles caught the glimmer of a tiny charm as he settled the ribbon around Erica’s neck. “Not bad, Daddy,” she said, leaning into his meaty shoulder as much as the seatbelt would allow, “just long. Harrison was—difficult.”

Stiles had to bite his tongue not to jump in with Harrison had been a sexually harassing douchecanoe, and that Erica shouldn’t have to put up with his bullshit, but he’d seen enough of his female coworkers’ struggles to know that wasn’t helpful, and anyway… his orders were to shut up and watch, and for once, he was going to follow orders.

“You got much work to do tonight?” Boyd rested his big hand on Erica’s knee, gently squeezing, and she sighed.

“Too much. Need to finish two things before my 8 a.m. with Marvin, and I need to pull my case notes for a domestic abuse case that came through the office a few months ago. Rehab and restraining order weren’t enough to keep the bastard away, and now we’re dealing with the fallout.”

The fallout was a woman in the hospital with four broken bones and a kid that was being shunted into foster care until someone from the family could be found to take him that wasn’t going to just turn around and hand him over to his psycho dad. Erica had had to take a few minutes in the ladies’ lounge when the case came in. Stiles knew it was to keep herself from wolfing out because she was so angry and frustrated, but Harrison mocked her as soon as she left the room for her delicate sensibilities. He didn’t know Erica would be able to hear him, but clearly, he didn’t care.

“Okay, then, this is what we’re going to do. I want you to take your work into the little office and finish up what you need to. I’ll have dinner for you when you’re done. Bath after.”

Erica screwed up her face, “I don’t wanna take a bath tonight. I’m tired. I just want to get this shit done and go to bed.”

And then, something in the atmosphere shifted. Boyd’s hand tightened on her knee and he turned in the seat to face her fully. “First, you know better than to use language like that, Baby, and second, just because we’ve got company doesn’t mean you’re going to get away with sassing me. Understand? Now apologize.”

Erica flashed a look towards the back of Stiles’s head, eyes gold and lip stuck out mutinously; he wondered what that was about. “No.” She jerked her knee away and slid a few inches towards the door. “I didn’t sass you, Daddy, I just told you I didn’t want to take a bath.”

Boyd frowned. “You know that you don’t get to make that decision, and I know that you’re just acting out. Now, apologize, or a bath isn’t the only thing you’re going to have to take tonight.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Boyd.” She looked out the window, back stiff, hands white knuckled around the hem of her blazer.

Boyd sat back in the cushion, still as intimidating as ever. “That’s two strikes. I don’t threaten, Baby. You know that.”

He hadn’t been kidding.

Stiles turned off the water and climbed out of the shower. He scrubbed his face with a towel and tried to reconcile everything he’d seen.

Boyd never raised his voice. Erica had pouted and threatened and refused to get in the elevator, and Boyd had just wrapped an arm around her and chivvied her forward like a toddler. She’d sniffed and told him he didn’t love her. She whined to Stiles to help her, that Boyd was being mean, but he’d just stood to one side and shook his head, marveling at the occasional canny gleam in the blonde’s eyes as she tried to play her way out of whatever situation she’d gotten into.

It took about five minutes for him to realize—yes, he was that stupid—that she didn’t actually want out of anything. She was driving the whole scene, pushing Boyd into reacting certain ways because they had rules in place that he always, always followed.

The big man ushered Erica into her office, efficiently decorated but soft, padded chairs and pink curtains and a lamp with a pink and cream shade. The desk was some dark wood, and sturdy, and Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever been bent over it and spanked or fucked or whatever Daddy’s did to their misbehaving brats.

He figured she had. He also figured she didn’t mind one bit. That was the thing—even with all the ruckus she was making, the terrible tightness was gone from her shoulders, and her lips curved into a smile sometimes when Boyd wasn’t looking. She wanted this. Needed this.

It was hard to wrap his head around.

Oh, he’d read the literature. He knew that subs often had high stress positions and that giving control over to someone else was supposed to let them relax somehow. He just had never seen how it worked, before. Having someone tell him off for breaking rules had never made him feel relaxed, that was for damn sure. And as far as shouldering the stress for him? He didn’t trust anyone that much.

A knock at the door pulled him from his reverie. “Dinner’s on the table if you’re hungry. Nothing fancy, but I made enough for all of us. Figured we should start as we meant to go on for the week.”

Stiles nodded. “Thanks, man… uh, I mean Master Boyd.” He stumbled over the title, but he’d told himself he’d make the effort.

“Just call me Boyd while you’re here. I’m not your Dom or your Daddy, and anyway, Erica doesn’t like to share.”

“Share? Like it would piss her off for me to call you Master Boyd?” he asked.

“Exactly like that,” Boyd nodded. “Our relationship is exclusive, which means that she only answers to me, and that I don’t play with anyone but her. It let’s her feel safer. Like her position in my life is important enough for me to give up the chance to have someone else kneel for me.”

Stiles understood that. Wanting to come first. Wanting to be someone’s only.

“You being here,” Boyd was searching for words, but he got the impression it was because he didn’t want Stiles to walk away with a bad impression of Erica, “it gives her an audience, and she likes an audience, so she’s acting out.”

Stiles wondered what to do with that. “Like an exhibitionist likes an audience?”

Boyd smiled slow and wide. “Sometimes. Today, though, she just wants the attention. Her boss pushes her buttons on a normal day, and then add having someone else in the house, she needs to push the boundaries to make sure they’re still there. That her world is stable, and that I’m not going to leave her hanging, or choose a new toy just because he’s living in the house for a week.”

Now, wasn’t that a thought? He pushed it to the back of his mind and nodded. “Gotcha. Thanks for the explanation. Having the Cliffs Notes helps.”

Boyd just nodded back and headed back in the direction of the kitchen. Dinner was going to be interesting.

He hadn’t been prepared for watching the spanking and he tried not to think about what it meant that it left him hard and wanting after Erica had been soothed and brought back down from the edge of too much and tears.

Hours later he was still trying.

***

Thursday was bad. Everything that could go wrong, had gone wrong. Stiles had actually stepped in and pulled a coked-up client away from Erica, but he couldn’t stop the raging vitriol he was spewing from getting everywhere. She was raging, livid, and when it came time for lunch, instead of going out, Erica called Boyd.

He’d gotten there in ten minutes.

“You’re driving,” she growled at Stiles, and he noticed that the regular driver had gotten out of the black sedan and taken a seat on a bench by the elevator bank. He got behind the wheel and waited for orders.

Boyd guided her into the back seat, leaning over to buckle her seat belt for her. “Hold on, Baby.” His voice was low and soothing. “I’m going to take care of you, okay? Just give me a minute to get things situated.”

Erica let out a whine that raised the hair on the back of his neck, but Boyd just shushed her and kissed her temple. “That’s good, Baby-girl,” he said, the praise thick and warm, “you’re so good to let me know what you need. Now, be my good girl and wait just a minute. Can you do that for me? Be my good girl?”

The blonde nodded once, tightly, and Boyd praised her again before shutting the door and walking around to Stiles’s window.

“Need you to drive down to Centennial Park. Take the underpass on Lincoln. Don’t turn on Fifth, there are traffic cameras. Once we hit the park, just loop back here. The route takes about forty minutes. Make sure no one notices us. Can you do that?”

Stiles had more than enough evasive driving training to stay under the average traffic cop’s radar. “Can do.”

Boyd didn’t respond, he just climbed into the back, pulling a bag and a thermos from the footwell.

“You want your ribbon, Baby?” Stiles glanced into the rearview mirror. Boyd’s big fingers made Erica’s throat look even more fragile than usual, and Stiles knew that even though she was a werewolf, the man could do real damage if he wanted. Stiles had figured out that that part of the couple’s dynamic was important. Erica needed to feel like her safety was Boyd’s choice, that his care for her was more valuable because he was dangerous. A regular guy wouldn’t have been able to hold her down and spank her the way Boyd could. They wouldn’t have been able to withstand the claws she let slip when she was bratting. They would never have the physical upper hand, never have been able to handle her, and she would have had to control herself so she didn’t hurt them, and that was exactly what she wanted a break from.

“Need more than the ribbon, Daddy.” Erica was hoarse, her eyes wide and wild, and Boyd dropped a soothing kiss to the open collar of her blouse.

“I know, Baby, I know,” he said, nipping lightly at the soft skin, “and I’m going to give it to you. Did you take off your panties before you came down?”

Blonde curls bobbed. “Yes, Daddy. Didn’t want to wait.”

That explained the quick detour to the restroom, Stiles thought. His mind skittered away from the details—how wet she must be, how her heart must be racing, how she wanted her Daddy to take everything away and just make her feel something, something good and right and chosen and safe—but they’d invited him into this, and the fact was that this was what he was supposed to be learning. He was supposed to know how she felt, know what she needed, be able to read a situation so he could provide those things for someone else.

It was hard when he couldn’t help but think how nice it would be for someone to do this for him.

“That’s it.” Erica gasped at whatever Boyd was doing, and Stiles met her eyes in the rearview mirror. She bared her teeth and hissed.

“’S cold, Daddy,” she said, the words hitching on her breath. Boyd had opened the thermos, ice clinking inside, and Stiles ran through the lessons he’d had on temperature play under the big man’s careful tutelage. He’d seemed partial to chilling toys before use rather than using ice directly on excited skin, and that seemed to be the case here.

“Your toy’s cold, but your skin is hot. Doesn’t it feel good?” Boyd’s question almost drowned out the slick sounds coming from the back seat, but not entirely. “Want you to feel good, Baby. Focus on the shiver. Can you feel it? Feel it building?”

A quiet buzz joined the schlick schlick sound of the dildo as it played across the blonde wolf’s most private parts. She kept staring at him in the mirror, challenging him, forcing him to share the moment, wanting him to know, wanting him to see, letting Boyd show her off.

He shifted in his seat, his own excitement growing, and she smiled a little smugly knowing that she and Boyd were doing that to him.

“Yes, you’re pretty aren’t you,” he could hear the smile in Boyd’s voice as well, “letting him watch you. Knowing he likes what he sees. You like being seen, don’t you Baby-girl?” The buzz ratcheted up another notch. “Let’s show him something gorgeous.”

A few more minutes passed and Erica let out a tiny ah ah ah and then groaned, long and shuddering, and even without wolf senses, Stiles knew she’d come, her eyes finally falling shut against the pleasure that had taken over.

“That’s my girl,” Boyd murmured, kissing the side of her face, and letting her turn into the broad warmth of his body, “so beautiful. All that pleasure, right under your skin. That’s all for you, Baby. Ride it out, for me.”

She shifted, long legs clenching and stretching as the waves of her orgasm receded, and when she finally reopened her eyes, they were clear and bright again.

“Feeling better?” The answer was obvious, but the question was sincere.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, nuzzling against the underside of her Daddy’s chin, a cross between sated woman and comfort seeking wolf. “Everything’s better now, thank you.”

“Thank you,” he said, reaching into his back for another thermos that he pulled a damp cloth from, wiping the evidence of their activities away so that his Baby could go back to the office without worrying about being a mess. It was touching to see that level of preparedness and forethought. Erica was a lucky brat. “You did so good for me. Letting me know what you needed. Letting me take care of you.”

They touched and petted as Stiles made the last few turns before pulling into the parking garage. When they exited the vehicle Erica looked cool and poised and totally unruffled, and Boyd? Well, his smile was small, but heartfelt.

“Ready to head back in, Stilinski?” The blonde jerked her head towards the elevators, and he nodded. The driver slipped a bookmark into the novel he was reading and slipped back into the driver’s seat without comment, and the sedan pulled away.

“That happen often?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“No. Full moon’s tomorrow. Today wouldn’t have been so bad if my wolf hadn’t been demanding that I rip every asshole’s head off and shove it down their throats. Boyd knows, though. His wolf likes taking care of pack, so it works for both of us.”

Stiles nodded and pressed the call button. It clearly did. He could respect that.

***

Derek pushed the folder across the desk. “I think everything is in there.”

Stiles took his release papers and slipped them into his bag. In some ways the week had flown by, and in others he’d felt like it had taken forever. “Thank you. Master Boyd had no problem signing off on things?”

The older wolf shook his head. “None at all. He said you were respectful, interested, and invested in understanding their dynamic. Erica approved of you as well, and honestly,” he smiled, “of the two of them, she’s the more demanding.”

Stiles would have boggled at that at one time, the thought that the sub in a dominant/submissive relationship was more particular than the Dom, but after watching a functional pair up close he knew better. “I’m glad they were satisfied. The week was—enlightening.”

Derek watched him, and Stiles felt oddly vulnerable, his normal armor of insolence gone. “I’m happy to hear it. I hope you understand, now, why I felt like you weren’t ready to move on.”

He nodded. Even heading into an undercover situation where he was supposed to be a bad Dom, you didn’t want to have someone breaking rules they didn’t understand. Too much real damage could be done that way, and while the end goal of the mission might still be attainable, the fallout could be significant.

“I do,” he said, trying to make his sincerity clear. The wolf could probably smell it on him, but it was still important. “I hope that my earlier moments of, ah, insubordination haven’t left any hard feelings.”

“Water under the bridge, Agent,” the Master of The Den gave his approval and stood, holding a strong hand out across the desk. “I hope your operation is successful.”

They shook hands and if Stiles held on a half-second longer than he had to… well, nobody needed to know but him.

#teen wolf #stiles stilinski #fbi stiles #erica reyes #vernon boyd #daddy kink #brat erica #public sex #light bdsm

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feelingfredly · 4 years

Text

Just Remember I Love You

Summary:

Stiles pulled up the playlists and took pictures of them... as he scrolled through, he saw one labeled M&D's song and he was like, Who's M? Derek and someone had a song? Stiles can't stand the thought of Derek and some stranger having a song. And a cheesy 70's love song at that!

Talia loved music. She wasn't a great singer but was always humming and singing and dancing around. She and her husband met at a disco night, of all things, and they were often seen dancing to a scratchy radio in the kitchen late at night after the kids were supposed to be in bed.

There was a song called Just Remember I Love You that she loved. It was "their song" because while wolf life was nice, it wasn't perfect and damn if it wouldn't be better sometimes if there were wolf antidepressants because even Alpha wolves get the blues, and when things were more than she could bear, Paul, her husband, would sing it to her.

After the pups came along Laura heard daddy singing it to mommy and one day when she was sad she came and demanded the "make it better song" so, Talia sang it to her as they danced around the kitchen and it made everything better.

After that, it was the thing to do when someone had hurt feelings, or a broken heart, or was stressed at school--someone would sing Just remember I love you, and it'll be alright... Just remember I love you, more than I can say.

After the fire, Laura tried to sing it to Derek and they both fell apart because nothing was ever going to be alright again.

They listened to other songs together, but not that one... never that one

Time passed until one day Stiles Stilinski let himself into Derek's loft. The wolf was puttering around the kitchen with his battered old smart phone in a coffee cup, letting the cup act as a sound box so there was this echoey music drifting through the loft and Stiles was surprised because this was Camaro guy, with his scruff and leather jacket, listening to 70's soft rock? nah... that's just nuts, dude. But, before he can say anything, Derek was scrambling to turn the phone off and practically ripped Stiles's head off for just barging in without calling first or at least knocking.

A couple months later Stiles was sidelined with a jacked-up knee and was sitting in the Camaro while the others were fighting the MOTW right over there and he was bored and antsy and freaking out, so he poked through everything in the car and there was Derek's phone, so thank God he could at least listen to music or something while his friends were maybe getting eviscerated and he couldn't do anything, and there are only two playlists on the damn thing--of course Derek doesn't have something as useful as Spotify--and one of them was your typical 00's angry music, and the other... was fucking yacht rock, man.

So, when Derek and Isaac pile back in the car Stiles is ramped up on fear and relief, full of asshol-itude and was like, "You need to join the modern age, Sourwolf... The youngest song on your phone can legally drink." and Derek pushed back with, "What, you jealous because you're still getting by on a lousy fake I.D. and All-Star gets laid more than you do?"

But Derek takes the phone and shoves it into his pocket like it's something precious... and Stiles, who is an asshole, but not a stupid asshole, realized that there was something important on that phone.

Derek never took it into fights.

Derek never put it anywhere that it could get hurt.

Derek had another fucking phone.

so, what's the deal with that one?

He can't let the idea go--it eats at him. Why the two phones? Why the freaking beat up second-gen piece of crap that should have been put out to pasture years ago?

So, the next time he was alone and saw the phone he grabbed it--the sucker doesn't even have a lock screen--and he called himself. At least that way he can get the number, right? But it didn’t come up as Derek Hale on his caller ID. It came up as Laura Hale.

Which made a strange sort of sense. If it was Laura's phone, he'd keep it for sentimental purposes, right? Holy fuck, the dude's been paying for his sister's phone the whole time, keeping some little piece of her alive. There are probably messages on that fucker from before the fire.

He's more careful about the phone after that.

He didn't stop watching, though. He popped into the loft unannounced more often. Offered to go make coffee for anyone--everyone--so he could get a little alone time with the phone.

He finally got it one day when Derek was in the shower, so covered in nixie guts that he didn't stop on the way up to grab it like he normally did, and Stiles pulled up the playlists and took pictures of them... and as he scrolled through, he saw one labeled M&D's song and he was like, Who's M? Derek and someone had a song?

It hit him, harder than he could admit comfortably. He knew about Paige, and Kate, and Jennifer, and even Braeden, because... well, they all knew about them, but there's an M now... someone Derek cared enough about to have a song with, and fuck, Derek wasn't supposed to be a romantic... Stiles was a romantic. Stiles wanted to woo someone with flowers and candlelight dinners and in-jokes and a song they could play at their wedding. Derek's just distance and angry eyebrows and that little bit of respect that leaked through occasionally, and gratitude, because fuck, yeah, that's what everyone wanted from the hottest thing they've ever seen, gratitude. He'd pick the slamming up against things over the fucking gratitude every damn day because Derek should know that he didn't got to bat for him because he wanted thanks, he did it because he cared for the bitter bastard, okay? At least when he was angry he looked alive, invested, and he was LOOKING AT STILES and actually seeing him.

Yeah, so bad attention was better than no attention, sue him.

Later when he was alone, he pulled up Spotify and loaded the song, and well... it wasn't what he expected at all.

When there's so much trouble that you wanna cry

The world has crumbled and you don't know why

When your hopes are fading and they can't be found

Dreams have left you waiting, friends have let you down

He listened to the song three times in a row, and by halfway through the third he was wiping away tears, because fuck that's... well, that was a lot.

"It was my mom and dad's song."

The window--the fucking window--was open, and Stiles had been so wrapped up in the song that he hadn't heard Derek and his super-secret wolfy breaking and entering. Stiles was instantly up and deflecting--he didn't mean to pry (he totally did) and what was Derek doing there, and didn't he ever knock, and fuck use the door, and everything he'd ever said when one of the wolves had broken in while he was jerking off, but somehow being caught listening to this seemed even more personal to him.

He couldn't imagine how Derek felt

Derek just stared at him as he stormed and when he wound down and scrubbed the evidence of tears away Stiles just sagged under the scrutiny. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I just... I wanted..."

"You wanted to know.” Derek said, less antagonism in his voice than he had a right to. “You always want to know. That's sort of Stiles distilled."

They stared at each other for a little before Stiles waded in with an apology. He at least owed the wolf that much. "I didn't mean to stir up bad memories, Der. I am sorry."

Derek looked a little distant, like his mind wasn't actually there in the moment, and Stiles bet he looked a lot like that when he was thinking about his mom.

"Not bad,” he said finally. “Just hard sometimes. Good memories, though. It's why I can't let that--" he waved at the computer that was still playing the song on loop--"go."

Stiles nodded. "I get that. I feel that way about my mom's recipes. I can't cook them for dad, but I'll bake the cookies or the bread and remember cooking with her, and then end up giving the stuff away. Mr. Abernathy next door loves it when I get sentimental."

They sat like that for a while until the quiet got to be too much and Derek took off again, leaving Stiles with a little bit more knowledge about the older man, and a lot to think about.

He called Cora the next day. She cried when he told her what happened, and when he apologized to another Hale for stirring things up she yelled at him for hurting her brother, and yelled at the Universe a little, and then cried again as she explained the significance of the song. When she calmed down she asked him to email her the playlist because she was too young to remember the names of the songs and she wanted to listen to them again, and if they cried a little more at that, well neither of them was going to tell anyone.

But… now he knew. He knew what the song meant, what it was for, and he had a plan. It might not be a great plan, but hell, he's had worse.

He didn’t make a move for weeks. He wasn't stupid, and he knew Derek wasn’t either.

He started by playing some 70's music around the house--even getting a laugh out of his dad as he busted out "Do the hustle!" in the kitchen one day as he danced around making a casserole for pack night.

"Your mom and I used to go out dancing all the time.” The sheriff actually smiled at the memory. “She could dance up a storm. You get that from her."

And just like that Stiles had another thing to thank Derek for....

Finally, it was time. He'd been spending more time with the wolf, his spark finding an anchor in the alpha, and he could feel it developing into something like a real pack bond. Derek clearly felt it as well, his shoulders relaxing every time Stiles would get close enough for him to bump against him, subtly scenting his new packmate.

Then it wasn't so subtle. A hand on the head, Stiles rubbing Derek's shoulder, a scruff of the back of the neck... and time. Sitting. Talking. Snarking. But time spent together, alone or with the others, but always together.

And then it was his birthday. 21. Finally legal in all the ways, and finally ready to make that last leap of faith. The ladies at Jungle were thrilled to help, and when everyone asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday, he said "pack night at the club--no excuses" and they gave in, because as much as he was an asshole, he was their asshole

They got there, dressed in their club gear and black leather coats, and Stiles pulled up in his Jeep and rolled out wearing a shirt unbuttoned to his navel that showcased his toned torso, a big gold pendant he'd enchanted the month before for a protection spell but that looked like one of the terrible 70's zodiac sign necklaces, and skin tight pants that flared out into truly terrible bell bottoms. "Oh, didn't I tell you? It's a theme night! Disco, Babies! And I'm the Dancing Queen!"

The pack groaned and then laughed, following the nutcase they'd adopted into the club, listening to the thrum of the music and saying, "Fuck it." before heading to the bar for drinks that their spark would add a little kick to so they could feel a buzz for the night.

Derek gave him a long look, and then another, but just sighed and nodded as Stiles pulled him out onto the packed dance floor.

"Thanks for coming, Sourwolf." He made the appropriate noises, and Derek swayed against him, surprisingly--or not surprisingly, the dude was physicality embodied--a good dancer, and not shy with the hips once he got going.

"Happy Birthday, Stiles," he said, bending down to speak directly into the spark’s ear, "this is the only gift you're getting."

Stiles looked at him from under his lashes and smiled. "It's the only thing I wanted, Der. Really."

They finished their dance and then his best Lady of the Jungle, Brianna Cracker, walked up to the microphone--"We have a special birthday boy in our midst tonight--hey there Little Red, looking good!--" the crowd cheered and Stiles wriggled around in Derek's hold to look at the stage, flailing his arms a little at the attention.

She went on, "He had a special request so he could dance with his boo--or his boo-to-be if he doesn't fuck this up tonight--so everyone wrap their arms around their special someone's and get ready for something slow and sweet. Happy Birthday, Red! We love you!"

And then… the song played.

Derek froze, so like a deer in headlights that Stiles had to bite his lips not to make a joke, but now wasn't the time for jokes. He held out his hand hopefully, and Derek finally thawed enough to take it, wrapping Stiles in an almost painfully tight hug.

"Give me a chance, Sourwolf?" Stiles asked quietly. He felt Derek's head nod once against his neck, and Stiles felt a knot in his gut unravel.

It was going to be alright.

Notes: This fic owes its existence to Sirius XM's Yacht Rock Radio, and Firefall's amazing 70's classic, Just Remember I Love You.

"Just Remember I Love You" by Firefall

When it all goes crazy and the thrill is gone The days get rainy and the nights get long When you get that feelin' you were born to lose Staring at your ceiling thinkin' of your blues

When there's so much trouble that you wanna cry The world has crumbled and you don't know why When your hopes are fading and they can't be found Dreams have left you waiting, friends have let you down

Just remember I love you And it'll be alright Just remember I love you More than I can say Maybe then your blues will fade away

When you need a lover and you're down so low Start to wonder, but you never know When it feels like sorrow is your only friend Knowing that tomorrow you'll feel this way again

When the blues come callin' at the break of dawn Rain keeps fallin', but the rainbow's gone When you feel like crying but the tears won't come When your dreams are dyin', when you're on the run

Just remember I love you And it'll be alright Just remember I love you More than I can say Just remember I love you And it'll be alright It'll be alright It'll be alright It'll be alright

#teen wolf #sterek #derek deserves nice things #stiles is a nice thing #feelings #tooth-rotting fluff #mild hurt/comfort #songfic #derek hale #stiles stilinski

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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Stiles’s Mouth Writes Checks His Body Can’t Keep

Summary:

Working for the FBI put him in a lot of weird positions, but this one was turning out to be one of the weirdest. It was fine, though. Stiles just had to keep his mouth shut, his head down, and learn the ropes--ha! ropes!--of being a Dom.

Too bad Derek Hale seemed to bring out the brat in him, instead.

Chapter 1: Laying Down the Law

It looked like an interrogation room at Quantico with better chairs, and Derek Hale, professional Dom and owner of the BDSM club The Den, was standing on the other side of the table, suit perfectly pressed with nary a button askew, clearly expecting to play the role of interviewing Agent. This was going to be fun.

Not.

“So,” Stiles slouched in his chair, long legs sprawled in front of him. It had already been a long day, and he wasn’t in the mood for more of this Master/slave bullshit, but work was work and he’d get through it. He always did. If he happened to ignore dungeon protocol, well Hale wasn’t his Dom. “Why dids’t thou summon me, my Master?”

The attitude wasn’t really called for. He’d barely interacted with the man in charge since he’d been selected for this mission, and Hale had never been anything but professional, even when Stiles had pushed, and he had pushed. He’d wanted to see what happened when he knocked the big bad wolf—Of course he was a werewolf. It wouldn’t be Stiles’s life if it didn’t end up revolving around a fucking werewolf.—off kilter, but he hadn’t gotten much more than a hard stare and a few slightly-more-familiar-than-a-coworker chemosignal sniffs.

To be honest, Derek wasn’t at all what he’d expected when he’d gotten this assignment. He’d half expected some flabby guy with a hard-on for making twinks lick his boots or crawl around behind him on a leash to be in charge. Derek Hale, on the other hand, could easily have passed as one of the ex-Marines at Quantico. He had a certain air of authority that probably served him well in his dungeon, but that still didn’t make him Stiles’s boss. He was here to learn how the game worked, that was all, not play it.

“Have a seat.” Derek motioned to the chair that Stiles was already sitting in and lifted an eyebrow, disapproval clear on his face. Stiles had always wanted to be able to lift just one eyebrow, but no dice. Yet another way that the wolf was unfairly favored.

“Thanks, man,” he forced a laugh, knowing he’d probably pissed the other man off by not waiting for the invitation to sit, but he was tired, and Hale could deal with it. “Long freaking day, you know? But really, what’s up? I guess Lydia told you that I finished the knot tying lessons this afternoon? And I finished that course on temperature play safety yesterday with Boyd, so… I’m thinking all I need is for you to sign off on the paperwork and I can get out of your hair.”

Stiles was man enough to admit that if he’d run into Derek Hale anywhere else, he’d have tried to climb him like a tree. He was a little taller and more than a little broader than him, with black hair just long enough to pull and muscle definition that would make professional athletes jealous. Add a family fortune that had more in common with the Rockefellers than the Kardashians, and a face that wouldn’t look out of place on one of the billboards over Times Square, and he was actually, nauseatingly perfect.

“I’ve spoken to both Mistress Martin and Master Boyd . They reported that your skills were,” Hale paused, like he was considering his words, and Stiles forced himself not to fidget, “acceptable.”

He fidgeted. Just a twist of fingers and a tap on his thigh, but it was a fidget, and the moment of weakness drew Derek’s attention like a beacon. Shit.

“I’m assuming from your tone that acceptable is not what we’re aiming for here?” Stiles scrabbled back control of his movements, holding the other man’s opaline gaze. “Don’t tell me, Hale-warts requires an Exceeds Expectations before allowing someone to graduate to full-fledged Whip Wielder status?”

Derek froze, legs shoulder width apart, hands loosely clasped behind his back in a parody of parade rest and shook his head, eyes never breaking contact. “And there is the problem, Agent Stilinski.”

Stiles snorted. Like a disapproving head shake was going to change the way he acted. He may not be a hundred and forty-seven pounds of fragile bones and sarcasm anymore, but the snark he’d forged in his younger days was just as sharp as ever, and he wielded that Outstandingly. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow. I’ve done every lesson, taken every class, fulfilled every part of my contract with The Den. If your instructors had a problem, they should have said something.”

Derek just stared at him for a moment. “My instructors report to me, not you Agent, and they did say something. As a matter of fact, they said many things. Would you like to hear a few of them?”

The rumble in his voice straddled a line somewhere between conversational and Danger, Danger Will Robinson , and Stiles felt something like nerves curl in his stomach. It shouldn’t have affected him—he’d been through terrorism training that made this look like a PTA meeting—but there was just something about Derek Hale that pushed his buttons.

So, he pushed back.

“By all means, Sir ,” he said, defiance clear in the title, “I’m always open to suggestions for improvement.”

Something flashed in the wolf’s eyes. “Funny. Master Argent said something to that effect, actually. He praised your knife work and your attention to detail. Said that you were like a sponge, soaking up information.”

Stiles shifted a little, praise sitting uncomfortably after the earlier criticism. “That sounds more than adequate .”

Derek nodded. “It was. Until he followed it up with the fact that after learning the process, the minute he gave you a series of directions to follow with a sub you failed and went off on your own because you refused to follow someone else’s orders.”

Stiles huffed, “Chris clearly didn’t tell you the whole story. I was watching what the sub was…”

“Master Argent,” Derek snapped, “was the instructor. You were the student, and you failed to follow direction. End of story.”

Stiles’s jaw stuck out mutinously. “I won’t argue that he was the instructor, but...”

Derek wasn’t having it. He practically snarled.

“But you will argue everything else. Mistress Lydia had nothing but compliments for your rope skills, said you had lovely fingers and an excellent grasp of the spatial constructs required for suspension, but that you got ahead of yourself and wouldn’t listen when she tried to reel you back in. Master Boyd refused to fail you for the temperature safety class, but he said you needed something he couldn’t give you to get where you needed to be.”

Stiles thought about Boyd, a large, careful man who could read a body under his hands more clearly than many of the interrogation experts back at field headquarters. “What did he say I needed?”

His voice sounded like he’d been gargling rocks, but he forced the question out, dreading the answer.

“Would you care to guess?” Derek rested his hands on the table’s top, fingers splayed, and Stiles shrugged. He’d play along. His commanding officer was counting on him to successfully complete this training so he could proceed to the next stage of infiltrating a suspected human trafficking ring that worked out of the back of a high-end BDSM club, and the only way in, the only way to really get a feel for what was happening was to come in the front door and prove himself to be a reliable practitioner of the lifestyle. If the instructors here wouldn’t sign off on him, they’d yank him back to desk duty in a heartbeat, and he wouldn’t let that happen. The field was where he could do the most good. It was where he belonged.

“I don’t know about Boyd, but Lydia,” that got him a growl and he backed up a little, rolling his eyes, “Sorry, Mistress Lydia probably said I needed a good spanking. That sounds like something she’d say.”

Derek gave him a pitying look. “She actually suggested I throw you out. She doesn’t believe that you have it in you to even pretend to be a Dom.”

Stiles’s eyes bugged out. “Hold up now, I did everything she told me to do. I followed her directions to a T.”

The wolf walked around the end of the table and leaned against its edge a few feet away from him. “And during all that time you never once addressed her by her title or thanked her for her assistance or seemed to, in any way, appreciate her instruction.”

Heat flooded his face, and he looked away. How could he explain that he’d been fighting an unprofessional reaction the whole time he’d been handling the red silk ropes that the Shibari Mistress used for his training, trying not to lose his focus in an ADHD-complicated haze of fascination and hunger for the look of peace on her sub’s face? To not give into the urge to let the redhead use him for her suspension lessons? He couldn't, so he didn't.

“I appreciated it; I just didn’t think it necessary to thank her for doing her job. I mean, it is her job to teach this stuff, right?” He laced his answer with snark in an attempt to disguise his discomfort.

“This stuff ,” Hale snarked back, “is something she’s dedicated years of her life to and you come in and act like it’s a Boy Scout badge that means nothing more than a new way to tie your trainers when you’re headed out running.”

Stiles scrubbed his hand through his hair and let out a frustrated sigh. “Look, I get that I could have been a little more respectful…”

Derek slid a little closer, frown still tight on his face. “A little more respectful, Agent? You’re expecting to walk into a professional dungeon where the members consider respect and the use of titles to be as basic a requirement as no shoes, no shirt, no service at a restaurant. You have zero understanding of what it means to be given the respect and responsibility of a Dom. You defy authority at every turn, break every rule, push every person you interact with to the edge. You’re so persistent that I’d almost think you were pushing for some specific reaction.”

Stiles’s breath caught in his chest, and he hated that the werewolf could hear his heart race. Attention . The word popped into his head as clear as day. He craved the attention . Maybe it was some sad side-effect of an absentee parent or wanting to screw the authority figure in his life for failing to support him in favor of serving the public. Maybe it was a carryover from his days where the local packs failed Scott when he’d been bitten and left him struggling as a squishy human thrown into the deep end with supernatural creatures that could eat him like a late afternoon snack. Whatever the cause, he was fed up with not being the important factor in the equation, so he broke the rules. It got him the attention he craved and it let him control the situation. But surely a Dom was someone who wanted attention and control, too. Derek certainly expected both.

“I like to be in control.” He knew the words for a lie as soon as he spoke them, and so did the wolf.

“Care to try that again, Stiles?” It was the first time the man had ever used Stiles’s name instead of his title, but Derek’s tone was painfully patronizing, and Stiles wanted nothing more than to knock the arrogant look off his face. The only thing was, he didn’t trust himself to stop at one swing if he started, and he knew that no matter how good he’d gotten at hand-to-hand over the past few years, the werewolf would still kick his ass.

Stiles glared up at him instead. “Okay, how about this, Derek ? I’ve seen too many raging incompetents in positions of control, and since I’ve learned that it’s better the idiot I know instead of the idiot I don’t, I prefer to be in control.”

The werewolf’s eyes flashed red at the blatant challenge, but Stiles didn’t flinch, instead he leaned forward into the other man’s space, putting his face close enough to the alpha's throat that his wolf would know it for the threat it was.

“So. As long as we’re sharing,” he knew he was pushing his luck, but couldn’t bring himself to care, “what do you prefer? Floggers at ten paces? Snip, snails, and cat-o-nine-tails? Or let me guess, you just stand around expecting everyone to jump when you snap your fingers because you write their checks?”

The wolf moved faster than Stiles's eyes could follow, closing the remaining distance between them. Hot breath scalded the skin of his neck, and Derek's dropped fangs poised for a long second along his jugular in a silent but flagrant show of force before withdrawing just far enough that he wouldn't draw blood when he spoke.

“I expect people to do what the experts they've hired tell them. I expect the respect that I extend to be returned, but I prefer …” long fingers hovered where his pulse hammered at the base of his throat, and Stiles could feel the sandpaper scrape of whiskers against his hypersensitive skin. Derek’s mouth lingered so close that the words vibrated against his skin as they were spoken. “Oh, I prefer putting mouthy brats like you on their knees and teaching them to stop trying to burn themselves on fire that’s too hot for them to handle.”

The werewolf’s teeth were a little too long, a little too sharp, and Stiles couldn’t deny that he wanted them longer, and sharper, and dug into the meat of his shoulder. He shuddered and forced himself not to turn his face into the wolf's neck.

“I could handle anything you could dish out.” He didn’t recognize his own voice, rough and breathless as it was in the quiet room.

Derek laughed at that, dark and suggestive. “Stiles, you still don't get it do you? I’d take you apart and scatter the pieces. Strip you down to your bones. You don’t trust anyone, and without that, a Dom would shatter you like glass. I won’t do that. I Dom because I want everything you have to give, given freely. You give nothing? You get nothing. A Dom would starve on what you offered.”

He pulled back and blatantly adjusted the hard length of his cock where it pressed against his trouser placket, eyes still bleeding red at the edges. Stiles was reluctantly impressed with his control. He didn’t feel nearly that stable.

Derek returned to the far side of the table and slid a folder across the polished surface. Stiles pulled it towards himself with a single finger, trying not to show how shaky he felt. “What’s this? Kicking me out after all?”

The wolf shook his head, as calm and collected as he’d been at the beginning. “No. Master Boyd was right. You’re smart and you've got the potential to carry this off, but you need to experience a few things before I can recommend that you be approved for the next steps.”

Stiles swallowed; his throat was tight. “And what would those things be?”

Intelligence and ADHD fueled an incredibly vivid imagination, and he could feel his heart rate speeding up again, rocketing under his breastbone so loudly that he knew the wolf could hear every flutter and kick.

Derek raised his eyes, red gone but the compelling opalescent shine commanding even more of his attention. “Nothing too strenuous. I want you to shadow one of the subs for the next week. Erica is a brat. I want you to watch how she asks for what she needs without ever actually asking. I want you to see the give and take that happens between her and her Dom. She’s a challenge, but Master Boyd has the patience of a saint, and cares for her deeply. If you can manage the week, keeping your mouth shut, respecting the process and the people, I will sign off on your paperwork. If not, I’ll contact your commanding officer and tell her to send me someone else.”

Stiles wanted to argue, wanted to lash out at this man with his I-know-better-than-you attitude, but this wasn’t a fight he could win, and honestly by fighting he would only prove the bastard’s point.

A week. He could keep his mouth shut for a week.

He met Derek’s eyes and faced the silent challenge there with an accepting nod.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” he said, rising to his full height, not trying to hide his own erection. Hale would see it as a sign of sexual immaturity to deny the reality of his body’s reactions. The wolf dropped a little fang and Stiles sucked in a tight breath at the unexpected smirk. It changed the other man’s demeanor completely.

“I look forward to seeing your success, Agent.” Derek breathed in deeply and Stiles knew he was scenting his arousal. He nodded and acknowledged to himself, whether he’d ever admit it to anyone else, that he wanted the werewolf’s approval more than was probably healthy.

“I’ll do my best not to disappoint. Sir.”

The corner of the ‘wolf’s mouth lifted in a predatory smile, and Stiles fought down a shiver. He was so fucked.

#teenwolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #light bdsm #dom derek #FBI Stiles #brat stiles #stiles stilinski is a little shit #derek puts up with no shit #writer pulls crap out of thin air #no beta/no problem

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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Kitsunegeddon 2020

As the days grow shorter, and the nights longer, the equinox draws near once again, and with it, kitsunegeddon comes back once more!

What is it?

This is a one-day event to celebrate the mischievous creatures known as Kitsune. Faithful servants of the god of sake, rice and prosperity, Inari, these tricksters have been known to cause all sort of incidents, be it as a prank or as a blessing, altering the world in a mix of illusion and magic.

Introduce them into the canon of any series and see the madness unfold!

Theme: Anything revolving the kitsune lore, can include Inari, shrines, yokai, etc. Your character can be a half-kitsune, or be turned into a fox by one, or any and all combinations so long as a kitsune is involved in your work!

Content: Fanfic, Fanart, whatever you can come up with, honestly.

Fandoms: All fandoms are welcome!

Date of posting: September 22nd!

Word count: 500 words minimum, no max limits!

Completion status: This event doesn’t require you to have a complete fic by the 22nd, although it is encouraged. Same as with other mediums, you can always show off a wip, so long as we can see the final result!

Got any doubts, suggestions? Our Ask Box is open!

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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GinIchi Day 2020

What is GinIchi Day? And how can I participate?

It’s a day-long event to create fanworks—fics, art, and anything else focusing on the GinIchi pairing. The prompt page is right: here.

Why?

Because GinIchi’s a rarepair we’d love to see more of and a set event makes it more fun and motivating for fans to take part!

When?

August 12th — the midpoint between Gin and Ichigo’s birthdays.

Where?

The collection’s hosted on AO3. And we have a Discord (linked on our FAQ page), so feel free to drop by! We’ll track #ginichi day 2020 on our Tumblr for reblogging posts and giving out updates.

Who?

It’s open to everyone! You just need an AO3 account to post to the collection. Or a Tumblr account to post on Tumblr. If you’re posting to another site, submit a link and we’ll share it on our blog.

How long will the collection stay open?

We’ll set works to reveal at midnight UTC and keep it open for a week after the event has finished so there’s no chance of missing your chance to post.

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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Sometimes Not Seeing Is Believing

Bam, bam, bam. The loft door rattled in its track.

“Come on, dude… open the door.” Stiles yelled; frustration lanced through the words, but Derek didn’t move.

“I know you’re home,” more rustling, Stiles's hands were full of something, “and if you wanted to pretend you weren’t home, you shouldn’t have left the Camaro out front. Now open the damn door or I’m going to drop all this shit and the place is going to stink of l’eau de wolfsbane for weeks.”

Derek listened as Stiles juggled things from hand to hand and sighed. Which was worse, Stiles or wolfsbane? Stiles or… Yeah, he’d take the wolfsbane. It would hurt less.

He waited, listening as the bags shifted again, and rolled his eyes when he heard keys clinking together as Stiles finally gave up on him and unlocked the door for himself. The very same door whose locks he had just changed for the fourth time. In six months. He wondered if there was a spell Stiles used to copy his keys. He was too much of a spaz to be such a successful pickpocket.

“I’m not in the mood, Stiles.”

Long limbs flailed their way across the living room until Stiles finally coasted to a stop at the table, dumping bags and boxes on the surface, the smell of Thai mixing with wolfsbane and cinnamon and lightning. It shouldn’t have been as appealing as it was, but this was Stiles and for some reason rules didn’t apply to Stiles.

“You’re never in the mood, Sourwolf,” he snarked, a pink lip curled up in a grin that was half-mocking half serious. “If I didn’t know Braedon better, I’d recommend you get the hardware checked out, but clearly it’s a software problem, or you wouldn’t be such an asshole about it all the time.”

Derek refused to get angry; it had stopped keeping the younger man away a long time ago, and it was exhausting. “You know a lot about assholes?”

Stiles gave him a carefully casual look, his eyes just a little bigger than usual, but Derek could hear the stutter in his heartbeat as he responded. “Assholes? If you mean the coffeeshop kind or the grocery store kind, then yeah, I run into them all the time. But, like real assholes? Hardware kinds of assholes? I know as much as the next sexually curious bi-guy, but if you’re looking for something deeper—Oh my God, I just said deeper about your asshole—shit. No.” He scrubbed a hand through the long mop of hair that insisted on flopping over his forehead. “Assholes, right. Because if you do have an actual hardware problem, I could probably track down one of Deaton’s contacts and we could get you…”

Derek watched as the chaos unfolded in front of him, the blush that tinged the tips of Stiles's ears, and the way his voice dropped and graveled out as he spoke.

“They say,” he said, a little louder than usual, “if you run into an asshole in the morning, you run into an asshole.” Derek’s tone cut straight through the babble, and Stiles stared at him, surprised and confused at the conversational hijacking.

“Dude, that’s like Tautology 101, right?”

Amber eyes fixed on him, now curious and waiting for what would come next, and Derek forced himself to hold the gaze.

“Right, right, but it’s the next part that’s important.”

Stiles leaned forward, his chest a little out over the edge of the counter, and Derek noticed the way his nipples pressed against the fabric of his thin shirt, how the stretched-out neck showed the shadow along his clavicle, how it framed the hummingbird beating of the pulse point at the base of his throat.

“Okay,” he said. “Go on.”

“So, if you run into an asshole in the morning, you run into an asshole. But if you run into assholes all day—like at the coffee shop or the grocery or my apartment—then then you’re the asshole.”

Derek could see the wheels turning and felt a burst of satisfaction when Stiles froze as the penny dropped.

“Oh my God, Dude. You’re such an asshole.” Amber eyes disappeared in crinkled laugh lines, shoulders shaking, and floppy hair… flopping, and Derek couldn’t help the tightness that squeezed his lungs, his breath short and his heart kicking up a beat.

“And there’s my point made.” Derek rested a hip on the edge of the table, forcing himself back to blasé, and looked at the mess. “What is all this?”

Stiles was still staring at him stunned, his jaw now slack, pink lips parted, and Derek fought the urge to reach over and snap it shut or thumb it further open. He wanted to thrust the callused pad of his finger against Stiles's tongue and teeth, to hold his mouth captive and revel in its wet heat. He wanted to… well, he just wanted.

A moment passed, and then another, and suddenly Stiles was back with him, laughter gone and the full force of his attention a heavy weight in the echoing space between them.

“Well this,” he indicated the plastic bags full of takeout, “is dinner from that new place over on 4th. Peter mentioned that you’d been there and liked it, so I figured it was a suitable bribe for the rest of it.”

Thanks Peter, Derek thought tiredly. Peter and Stiles had been spending time together since the nogitsune was killed. He’d wondered about it in the beginning, half-afraid that Stiles was going to try to commit suicide by werewolf, but it made a strange kind of sense. Peter knew what it was like to be helplessly trapped in his own body, and although neither of them liked to admit it, they were people who lived their lives hyperaware of the chessboard that stretched out around them. They spent their days evaluating other people for their strengths and weaknesses and cataloging the weaknesses for the next time someone needed to be taken out of the game. As the Hale Pack’s Left Hand, Peter had been trained to ruthlessness from childhood. He espoused the belief that everything was a weapon if you knew how to wield it, and then the fire had stripped away any of his remaining hesitance to wield those weapons to their greatest destruction; the nogitsune had burned away Stiles's. They were predators and they recognized themselves in each other, and instead of fear or awkwardness they found companionship.

The world should be terrified; Derek was. He was also more than a little jealous of their closeness, but that was an entirely different problem.

“The rest of it? Including whichever one of these things reeks of wolfsbane? I’m not sure Thai is enough of a bribe for me to let you poison me.”

Stiles gave him a lopsided grin. “I wouldn’t poison you, Der.” His grin turned sharp and sharklike. “At least not much. I just need to test it on you to make sure it will work on other weres.”

Derek snorted. “And you didn’t think Peter would be a better target for your experiments?”

That got him a shrugged shoulder. “He offered, but I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

Peter offered? To let Stiles poison him?

“Okay,” he looked at the younger man suspiciously, “you’ve got my attention. That requires an explanation. Or two. Uncle Peter—my Uncle Peter—offered to let you poison him? And you turned him down? I don’t follow.”

Stiles's grin softened a little, the shark-teeth disappearing behind pink lips, but the sharpness was still there in his smile. It was always there. Derek dreamed of that smile. Of those sharp eyes and teeth. “I know, I know. It seems too good to be true, but really, it isn’t a good idea.”

“And poisoning me is?” Derek poked the Gordian knot of Stiles's words harder. When Stiles danced around something like this it was never a good thing. Better to get it all out in the open and work backwards from no.

“Now don’t get your knickers in a knot, Grumpywolf. This isn’t like normally poisoning someone. I mean it is poisonous, but then so is water in the right situation. Or the wrong situation? You know, drowning, water intoxication, all that jazz?”

“No, Stiles,” Derek sighed. He sighed a lot these days. It was a bad habit he picked up from having been around too many teenagers over the past few years. “I don’t know what you mean by all that jazz. Enlighten me.”

Stiles nodded, and somehow having been given permission to spew data, instead his brain settled down and focused. “Poisoning is when any substance interferes with normal body functions after it is swallowed, inhaled, injected, or absorbed, lots of things can be poisons. Technically. So, I’ve managed to cobble together a combination of wolfsbane, kanima skin—don’t ask how I got it, you don’t want to know—and a few other wonders of the botanical and magical world and have created an incredibly potentially poisonous invisibility potion.”

Derek stiffened. “An invisibility potion?”

Stiles laughed a little shakily, waving his hands around, long fingers wiggling in his best abracadabra kind of motion. “I know right? Harry Potter eat your heart out. But really… it worked for me—mostly—but because it’s got a fairly massive amount of aconite in it, I’m worried about using it on any of our moon-affected family and friends. Plus, I don’t think Peter really needs the temptation of being able to turn invisible whenever he wants to. I mean, he’s hard enough to keep track of when I can see him. He doesn’t need any help creeping.”

An invisible Peter. Derek shuddered. Now that was a terrifying thought. Actually, an invisible Stiles was almost as terrifying. There was no telling what he’d get into and Derek wouldn’t be able to see him, to protect him, to… hang on a second. He said it worked for him. That meant that he--

“Are you insane?” Derek’s voice cracked under the strain of not yelling, the racing train of his thoughts running through all the ways that could’ve gone wrong, and he wouldn’t even have known that Stiles was in danger. His heart tried to beat its way out of his chest, and he felt his claws dig into the wooden tabletop. “Making something that dangerous without telling anyone?”

“Hey now, hold up, Sourwolf,” Stiles grabbed his hand, pulling Derek back to himself in a rush. “No need to get all growly. We’re in total agreement: no superpowers for Peter.”

Derek sucked in a breath, the heat of Stiles's hand on his drawing his focus, and he flashed his eyes angrily. “Kind of missing the point here, genius.” He forced himself to breathe. “I’m upset that you drank something poisonous. Superpowers for Peter would be better than you being dead.” His wolf howled in the back of his mind, protective and frustrated and helpless. So damn helpless when it came to Stiles. Didn’t the man have any sense of self-preservation? “So, before I call the Sheriff and start telling him things you would really rather he not know, you’d better start explaining. Now.”

He smelled the surprise rolling off the younger man, Derek’s reaction clearly unexpected, and he felt a stab of remorse. Over the years that Stiles ran with the pack his health and safety had often been an afterthought rather than a priority. He’d sacrificed his body time and again without appreciation or recognition. Derek was the first to admit that he had been a lousy Alpha to the human in the pack, and later, after he’d lost his Alpha spark, he’d abandoned Beacon Hills and everyone in it. Derek had wandered the world with Cora and Braedon finding himself, picking up the pieces of his own life, but he’d never been there to help pick up the pieces of Stiles's, never been there to help or hold or heal him, and now, for his sins, he couldn’t change the dynamic no matter how he ached to.

“Huh.” The hand resting on his pulled away finally and he watched it as Stiles pushed it shakily through his hair. “First off, I guess, I was never in any danger, so pulling the Dad card is totally unnecessary, dude. My, uh, my spark has gotten strong enough that I can pretty much burn out any poison in my system if I know what it is and that it’s there, so my testing the potion for its poison factor was a non-thing. Not a nothing, because the test was definitely a something, but it wasn’t a thing thing. Like a capital T thing. And as you can see, I didn’t turn into an ever-loving, blue-eyed Thing—although Peter’s eyes are blue and he’d probably love that comparison. He’d probably turn it into some sort of sex stamina reference and then we’d never hear the end of it.—the”

“Stiles.” Derek rubbed his eyes and sighed. Again. “Focus.”

Pink tinged Stiles's cheeks and he could hear the skip-skip-pause of his heart as the younger man wound down and refocused on the subject at hand.

“Yeah. Right. So, the point was there was no danger for the Stiles and no need to include the Sheriff—which is still a low blow, even if he does know about the monthly fur-and-fang-a-thon—but still superpowers for Peter would be a tick in the bad column, so I’m here with Thai and potentially poisonous potions for you to consume. If you’re willing.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think my having superpowers would be a bad thing?”

Stiles snorted. “Dude. You having superpowers would be awesome! You’d be like Thor to Peter’s Loki. Iron Man to his Ultron. Superman to his Lex Luthor.”

“Batman to his Ra’s al Ghul?”

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him way too seriously. “All the points for knowing the pairing, but no. You’re never going to be Batman.”

Derek snorted. “Let me guess. Because you’re Batman?” Stiles shook his head.

“Wrong again, my wolfy friend.” Derek watched as long fingers pulled a bag across the table, rattling the vials and jars inside. “The Bat’s a loner that’s given up on relationships. He has like two people at a time that he lets in his world—that’s all he has room for, and all he wants. More than he wants, sometimes. No, you’re not Batman because even though someone killed your family, they didn’t kill your hope. The world may kick your ass over and over again, but you just keep getting back up and putting the Jenga-tower of your life back together, and every time it’s a little better, taller, stronger, sometimes with new pieces you find and adopt along the way. It ain’t pretty, but it’s pretty awesome.”

Stiles's eyes glowed a little around their amber irises and Derek didn’t hear a single hiccup in his heartbeat. The faith he had… it took his breath away. Was there anything he wouldn’t be willing to do for this man? Probably not. He just had to hope that no one figured that out—especially Stiles.

“Whatever,” Derek said, pushing away from the table and grabbing the bag of Thai with a forced eye roll, and moving it to the other counter. “But I’m not eating until afterwards. Throwing up when the potion goes wrong would suck.”

Stiles nodded and grabbed his things, settling on a stool at the table. “Sounds reasonable to me, which doesn’t mean much but hey! It’s better than sounding unreasonable, which is where most of our plans start.”

There was no point in arguing. It was true.

“So, this potion… I’m assuming that you have more of the wolfsbane you used in it to burn and dose me if it goes wrong.”

Stiles nodded as he pulled one of the jars from the bag and shook it before setting it out with the other assorting jars lined up in front of him. “I’ve actually already burned a couple of blooms and have them ready to go. I’m pretty positive that you won’t feel anything from the aconite—it should be completely neutralized now that it’s bonded with the other ingredients—but I’ve been absolutely positive about things that have gone sideways before, as Scott can attest.”

“Hell, I can attest to that.” Derek crossed his arms across his chest. “Remember the harpy repellant?”

Stiles opened his mouth to say something—probably to argue again that anyone that wasn’t an expert in medieval Latin could have mixed up the recipes for a repellant and an attractant, again—but the words faded as his gaze lingered on his biceps a little longer than usual. Derek’s wolf stretched and sniffed with interest at the faint spike of arousal that wove through the Spark’s scent, and he forced himself not to move, not to lean across the table and reel him in, not to cage him with the muscles that the younger man seemed to like so much. Once Derek crossed that line there would be no going back for him, and he wouldn’t let his wolf push him into grabbing something that would never satisfy.

He wanted all of Stiles or nothing, and he knew he’d probably never have all of him. Knowledge, though, did nothing to stop the yearning.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. But you have to admit that once we knew what I’d actually made instead of what I thought I was making, that it worked like fuck. I mean we had harpies for days. It was like a Best of Runescape monster farming mission. I swear Isaac leveled up three times that week.”

Derek shook his head. “You have the strangest way of looking at things.”

Stiles raised a shoulder rose in an unusually graceful shrug. “Silver linings, dude. You should embrace them.”

Derek didn’t say that he embraced the silver lining of having Stiles in the pack every day, regardless of how it tormented his wolf.

“Werewolves and silver don’t mix.” Stiles rolled his eyes and Derek gave him a half-hearted glare. “And don’t call me dude.”

“It’s Beacon Hills, Sourwolf,” he said. “The silver lining is the only thing that keeps me going.”

There was a stutter in Stiles's heartbeat, and Derek cast a sidelong glance at the Spark. It made sense that there was something important that kept him going, but it was strange that he felt the need to hide it. Derek respected secrets, though. He had more than enough of his own.

“Whatever works.” He let the subject drop and turned his attention back to the pile of magical detritus on the table. “So, are we going to do this or not?”

Stiles let out a breathless laugh. “Masochist. Can’t even wait for me to poison you.”

“Not a masochist,” he said, spreading his hands expansively. “More of a control freak. Peter isn’t the only one who likes to be in control of things you know.”

“Yeeeaaaahhh.” The word sounded like it had been stretched on a rack until it was just a breathless hiss. “Not touching that one with a ten-foot pole.”

Derek let the corner of his mouth twitch, grabbing the opportunity to tease a little. “You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it, Stiles. It’s like the boxers/briefs question you were obsessed with back in high school. The logical next step would be who’s a top and who’s,” he paused to let the words land between them, “not.”

The younger man shook his head, like the motion would dislodge the thoughts inside, and frowned. “Nope. Nope. Nope. Not playing that game with you, Sourwolf.”

The ‘wolf leaned in infinitesimally, enjoying watching the other man shift on his stool. “So, there’s another game you’d prefer to play. All you had to do was say something.”

The pink on Stiles's cheeks ripened to rose and the mottled edge of embarrassment spread beneath the collar of his shirt. The burnt cinnamon and ozone that was his constant scent deepened with musk and salt and the sticky iron scent of blood rushing close to the surface of moon-pale skin. Derek’s mouth watered, and he could feel the itch of his canines threatening to drop with his need to bite, to mark, to claim and keep.

Dark eyes, gleaming and liquid, fixed on him and he could feel the air thicken and slow around them, time bending around them, like a river passing over rocks.

“Keep that up and I’m not going to feel bad if this experiment goes badly.” Stiles's voice was rough, and Derek’s wolf howled with satisfaction knowing that he wasn’t the only one affected.

He considered teasing more, drawling something suggestive about experimentation or making sure Stiles never felt bad again, but he backed off instead. This was prey he couldn’t afford to spook.

“Well,” he said, rocking back on his heels to give the younger man breathing room, “I can’t have that. I am putting myself in your hands after all.”

It was more truth than he usually shared, but there was enough camouflage for it to look harmless.

Stiles stared, the heat of his blush still radiating even as the color faded, and Derek waited. His wolf wouldn’t let him drop his eyes, but he didn’t push beyond that challenge.

“Okay.” There was a world in the word, and he watched as the tightness slowly leached out of Stiles's shoulders as he sucked in a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s get this party started.”

Back in his safety zone, Stiles pushed the first of three vials across the table, keeping the larger jars of ash and herbs—and was that charcoal?—to the side, before tapping it with a long finger.

“This is the actual invisibility part of things. It doesn’t taste too bad, or at least it didn’t to my human taste buds. There’s no guarantee that you won’t smell or taste something I can’t, but it shouldn’t be too noxious. I measured the dose to give you about fifteen minutes of full activation. You’re bigger than I am, and this much lasted about twenty-five minutes for me.”

Derek picked up the vial. “Just drink it?”

“Yeah, dude, just knock it back like a bad wolfbane shot at one of the betas’ parties. It should have less aftertaste than the stuff they add to their liquor.”

“And instead of drunk I end up invisible.”

Stiles couldn’t hold back a little laugh. “That is the hope.”

Derek tilted the test tube and watched the silvery liquid run back and forth. “And the other ones?”

Stiles jerked a little, pulling his eyes away from where he’d been watching Derek’s hands, almost hypnotized. “Well, that’s the thing. For a human, making someone invisible is huge, but for weres there are other issues.”

Derek nodded. “Like heartbeat or scent.”

“Exactly.” Stiles held up a test tube of thick purple liquid. “This is my best attempt so far at something that will muffle the bio-sounds—breathing, heartbeat, joints popping, all that stuff. The other one,” he picked up the third, gently waving it, the shimmery rose gold liquid coating the glass, “masks scent. It’s going to be the hardest to test because scent isn’t a thing for me like it is for you, so I guess I could take it—”

“No.” Derek cut him off. The thought of not being able to smell Stiles's scent made him grit his teeth and fight back a growl. “It’d be better if we tested that with another were.”

“But I was thinking that as Alpha your senses are better than any of the betas, so if you can’t—”

“No, Stiles,” he refused. “I’ll try it later. We’re already pushing the parameters of a reasonable test with two senses.”

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him, clearly ready to argue the points, but he backed down, probably realizing that he was lucky to be getting cooperation with as much as he was.

“I guess that’s okay,” he said, slipping the rose gold potion back into his bag, and Derek reached out and touched his hand.

“We’ll do it later. I would just be more comfortable doing this in stages.”

Something thoughtful moved behind Stiles's eyes and Derek watched as he came to some conclusion before he accepted everything.

“Sure, Sourwolf. It’s got to be a little weird for you, messing with the wolf senses and all. We’ll put the stealth potion back, too, for now.”

Derek wondered what Stiles would think if he knew just how much he messed with his wolf without the help of any potions, and how the wolf wanted more, not less.

“Probably a good idea. Isn’t like you’re the best judge of stealth either—I’ve seen twelve-year-olds on roller-skates sneak up on you.”

Long limbs flailed a little, like he could fend off the words that way.

“I was focused, Der. Focused.” Stiles huffed for a moment and then shrugged. “But to be fair, true enough. I should probably let you test those out against Peter. I’ve noticed that even though he doesn’t have the whole Alpha-upgrade anymore, he seems to be more aware of his surroundings than everyone else.”

Derek made a dismissive noise. His wolf didn’t like the careless praise of another’s skills. “Born not bitten. He’s had longer to get used to it; he doesn’t have to re-frame things when he notices them.”

He watched Stiles's face as the tumblers turned in the Spark’s head and could almost hear it when they clicked into place and another thought was unlocked.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. Kind of like learning a new language. In the beginning you’re doing that English to whatever translation in your head until one day it just sort of snaps into place and suddenly you’re thinking in Urdu.”

“Well, I’ve never studied Urdu…” He spread his fingers out on the tabletop and let the comment just hang, smothering a grin as he watched the man across the table’s eyes grow large in disbelief.

“Look who’s found his sense of humor finally!” The disbelief faded from Stiles's expression and was replaced by something that in the dark, when he was alone, Derek might call affection.

In that same dark, Derek might admit he wanted to see it again.

They sat there for a minute, the quiet stretching between them until it started to curl at the edges, and Derek knew he had to steer things away from the rocks just beneath the surface of his emotions.

He cleared his throat and uncorked the vial, the time for discussion past. He raised an eyebrow and Stiles raised one of his own in reply and that was it. He knocked back the few tablespoons of liquid, the scent of wolfsbane sharp but not overwhelming, and waited as the younger man watched him swallow.

Stiles's eyes followed the movement of his throat and when his forehead creased into a frown Derek thought the potion must have failed, but then a slow smile spread across the Spark’s face. He reached out, long fingers almost touching Derek’s hand on the table, but then pulled back at the last moment.

“Moonlight disappears down the hills, mountains vanish into fog, and Sourwolf vanishes not into poetry, but into thin air.” Stiles's voice was soft, almost somber. “Still with me, Der?”

Derek looked at his hands. He could still see them, so apparently the potion didn’t affect his view of himself, just how others perceived him. “Still here. Nothing actually looks different from my side of the equation.”

Stiles nodded. “That’s the way it’s supposed to work. No good being invisible if you misjudge your reach and knock shit over while you’re trying to be all sneaky. I know that’s probably more a me thing than a wolf thing, but still seemed like the better choice of action.”

Derek nodded and then realized how stupid that was. Stiles couldn’t see him. “I’m sure there are a few of the pack that would benefit from it as well. I know Isaac still doubts his senses sometimes.”

Amber eyes widened a little. “This is so freaky. I can hear you, but I can’t see you. Like, if I closed my eyes I could reach out and find you by touch, but just to look… you’re not there.”

Something about that image—Stiles reaching for him with his eyes closed—pleased Derek’s wolf. “Try it. See if you can find me with your eyes closed.”

He shifted his weight and moved a step to the left of where he’d been standing, but he left his hands trailing on the tabletop. Stiles tilted his head slightly and closed his eyes, listening, but Derek had been practicing stealth since he was a pup playing hide and seek in the Preserve.

A moment passed and he could almost hear Stiles's heartbeat in the silence. Another. And another. Suddenly a hand shot out and before he could move there were long fingers around his wrist, their grip tight and dry and slightly callused from wear.

“Caught you.”

The words were breathless and hoarse, and Derek froze at the sound. Then, he moved.

A twist and a quick levering of his arm had him free and he took two large steps to the side and then two forward, landing silently behind Stiles, ready to move again if he needed to.

“So,” the words, this time, came with a twist of a grin, “you want to play, hmm?”

Derek’s wolf pranced and pawed at the ground, wanting to nip and tug and pull and pin, but the man simply watched and waited as the Spark cocked his head to the side once more and listened.

He wasn’t sure what Stiles was listening to; he was holding his breath, and was standing stock still, no movement or sound of clothing to give him away, but somehow, he was fairly certain Stiles knew exactly where he was.

The Spark shifted his weight and pulled his hand closer to his body before spinning, his hand swinging out in an arc that ended with those damnable fingers wrapped around Derek’s arm just above his elbow.

“Caught you again, Sourwolf.”

His grin spread, taking over his face, and Derek found himself caught in the wild joy that gleamed in his eyes. Then, Stiles's face changed, the eyes focusing on him in a way they hadn’t, and he figured the potion had worn off.

“There you are!” The almost-fondness was back, and Derek couldn’t stop his answering smile.

“Here I am.” He looked down at the hand still gripping his arm. “I have to say, you’re a better hunter when you’re blind than I gave you credit for.”

Stiles let go slowly, fingers dragging over warm skin, until he’d pulled back completely, and all Derek could feel was the echo of his touch.

“It was strange. I couldn’t see you with my eyes, but I could feel where you were and could almost see where you were going to be.”

That was different. Stiles was a lot of things but tuned into his surroundings wasn’t one of them.

“Do you think you might have some connection to the potion because you made it? You could feel me through the magic?”

Stiles paused and looked at him, long and slow, and Derek realized he was looking at him with his spark and not with his eyes. He wondered what his wolf looked like.

“I suppose. Won’t know until we try it on someone else.”

There was a hesitance in his voice and Derek sighed. “Uncle Peter gets superpowers?”

Stiles grabbed the Thai and put it back on the table between them, dragging cartons and cutlery out before nodding reluctantly. “Looks that way, dude. At least this will give us a chance to test all the potions at once, now that we know that the potentially poisonous one isn’t actually, you know…” he waved his hand, “poisonous.”

Derek grabbed his Gka Prow Gai, frowning down into the carton thinking of all the ways this could go wrong. “Silver lining, I guess. And don’t call me dude.”

***

After five years you’d think he’d have lost the impulse to kill his uncle, but you’d be wrong. Very wrong.

“Darling,” Peter gushed, looking at the array of potion vials in his hand, “this is simply amazing. Let me take you away from here, Beacon Hills has nothing to offer you. We can go to Paris—I’m sure Chris would open the little pied-à-terre on the Rue de Ponthieu for us, and there’s a magick shop just down further along the Champs-Élysées that--”

Derek growled and Stiles rubbed a hand over his face. “No, Peter. We talked about this.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but that was before I truly grasped the depth and breadth of your talent. This,” he waved the invisibility potion back and forth dramatically, “this changes things.”

Stiles rolled his eyes hard enough that Derek could hear it. “Nothing has changed, Peter. Nothing. Back off. No means no. Consent is sexy. All those things. Write them on your hand if you need help remembering.”

“I’d be happy to help. I could carve them into the back of his hand with one of Chris’s wolfsbane blades,” Derek said, sotto voce. Peter, of course, heard him as if he’d shouted. Which was what he intended, so it all worked out.

“I just think that you’re undervaluing yourself, Stiles,” the older were said, ignoring Derek’s comment and lounging against the side of Stiles's jeep until he looked like an ad for one of those terrible smelling colognes that humans seemed to love. “With skills like these, you could take the world by storm.”

Stiles snorted. “You mean you could take the world by storm if you had constant and controlling access to skills like these, and I’ve told you before, I don’t need a manager, a gigolo, or an overgrown juvenile delinquent to help me prove my value.”

Derek smothered a grin. With his v-necks and his perfect tan Uncle Peter would make an excellent gigolo. Maybe they should set up a Craigslist ad for him. He’d have to suggest it to Stiles the next time Peter was being particularly annoying.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Peter shook his head, clearly dismayed at Stiles's short-sightedness. “Just promise me you’ll keep an open mind for when Beacon Hills finally loses its charm.”

The idea of Stiles wanting to leave made him itch, like his skin didn’t fit right. “I’m sure that Stiles could find a better offer if he decided that he didn’t want to be here anymore, Uncle Peter. He doesn’t have to settle for hauling his personal zombie plague around with him.”

He caught a flash of amber eyes, wide and surprised, and gritted his teeth. Stiles could have the world on a string. He should know Peter was never his best option.

“Be that as it may, nephew, Stiles isn’t foolish enough—”

“Can we get back to the testing?” Impatience, thy name is Stilinski. “I mean, all this back and forth about leaving is pointless because A) I’m not leaving Beacon Hills. I like it here. All my favorite people are here. And B) It isn’t like I’m going to take your advice anyway, Peter. The last time I did I ended up having to offer a favor to that skeevey ghoul guy that works for the FBI. Not something I want a repeat performance of, thanks.”

Derek jerked around and glared at his uncle. “You got him involved with a ghoul? Are you crazy?” He let out a huff of breath. “Don’t bother answering that. Of course, you’re crazy—we already knew that. Now we know that Stiles is crazy, too, because he’s definitely not stupid, and yet he lets you talk him into this crap.”

That got him an unrepentant grin. “It’s called plausible deniability, Sourwolf. Peter’s got broad shoulders—perfect for taking the blame for some of my less, ah, judicious decisions.”

Peter preened. “See Derek? Stiles needs me.”

It was going to take another five years to not want to kill him, at this rate. At least.

“What Stiles needs,” he said, trying not to think about Stiles's interest in his uncle’s shoulders, “is a guinea pig, and you are a pig. So, drink the damn potion, already. I’m going to sit over here and hope you get a rash from the wolfsbane. Who knows? The Universe might decide that today is my lucky day, and you’ll actually keel over from aconite poisoning.”

Stiles shifted his weight slightly, a chagrined look on his face. “Actually, Der, I was thinking about it, and I think that you should take the invisibility potion, and the other two this time, too, and Peter can do the whole Where’s Wolfie thing and see if he can sense you. It’s a better plan than you using your super-alpha senses to find him, because odds are good that we won’t be using this stuff to hide from alphas, just betas and omegas and puny little humans, so we need to see how a beta would fare against it.”

It made sense, but it still rankled. His wolf didn’t like allowing the older man to effectively hunt him. He wasn’t prey; he especially wasn’t Peter’s prey. It was what Stiles wanted, though, so he soothed the wolf with thoughts of satisfying his mate. It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to use all his advantages against the other wolf, though.

“That’s why I wanted to do this out here in the Preserve. Once the potions have kicked in, it should be a good road test for how it might be used in a fight situation.”

Peter stopped lounging. “So, you really have made this work? He was completely invisible?”

Stiles nodded. “Completely. There was some magical bleed through, I think. A vibration. I could almost feel where he was, but he hadn’t taken the sound dampener or the scent blocker, so those may solve the problem.”

Derek watched as the two of them discussed the finer points of the potions and he waited until they’d ironed out all the parameters for the experiment, and then braced himself for the terrible taste of wolfsbane and knocked back the three potions.

It was strange how similar Peter and Stiles's expressions were, until suddenly, they really, really weren’t the same at all. Peter’s eyes were wide and disbelieving, and Stiles's were bright, the amber lit with mischief and happiness as the invisibility kicked in.

“Told you, Zombiewolf. Now… you tell me what you can sense.” Stiles sounded smug, but honestly he deserved to be smug about this.

“Well,” Peter said, finally, “clearly I can’t see him. And I can’t hear his heartbeat or hear him breathing.”

Stiles nodded. “Good. Still just standing there, Der?”

A terrible, no good, very bad thought took root. He didn’t have to play along nicely, so he wasn’t going to. Screw Peter. He moved lightly to the side, circling a little towards the older wolf.

“Derek?” Stiles asked again, but Derek didn’t reply. The potion wasn’t supposed to block intentional communication, but he could play that off for a while.

“Huh, I wonder if the potion silenced his speech.”

Peter was scanning the area but still wasn’t focused on where he was standing. “It isn’t like we’d be missing much. My dear nephew isn’t exactly loquacious.”

“He talks when he needs to,” Stiles said, a slightly far-away look on his face as he turned and looked directly at where Derek was standing, “and when he does it’s worth listening to. Unlike a few others I can name.”

Peter cocked his head to one side and smirked. “Don’t let the bullies get you down, sweetheart. Your non-stop prattle is simply an idiosyncrasy of genius.”

“And yours is an idiosyncrasy of ego,” Derek muttered the words right next to Peter’s ear and raked his semi-sheathed claws down his uncle’s back before leaping away. Peter jumped in surprise and then crouched, facing the direction that the attack had come from, but he clearly still had no idea of where his attacker was.

Derek froze, trying not to let the grass under his feet rustle, and his uncle frowned. “Now that wasn’t very nice, nephew.” The words carried an edge and it pleased his wolf that the older man was flustered.

“Not nice, but still awesome,” Stiles crowed. “He totally snuck up on you.”

That praise pleased his wolf even more.

“I underestimated the efficacy of the muffling potions. I can’t hear him at all.” Peter scanned the area, panning back and forth over the clearing.

Derek didn’t move. He was fairly certain that Peter would quickly clue in on listening to the sounds his footsteps left behind, and he didn’t want to give himself away too soon. Hunting Peter was fun. Peter had never truly been prey, even when he killed him. Watching him, hackles raised and eyes tight, was very satisfying.

“And you can’t see him? Or feel him?” Stiles looked a little confused, but more curious than anything. He’d been watching Peter, but then, inexplicably, he twisted his head quickly and was staring straight at Derek—again.

“I can’t see him any more than you can, darling. I can’t smell him, either. It’s most… disconcerting.”

A minute passed and while Peter was facing the opposite direction, focused on a sound a little farther into the trees, Derek jumped away, landing as softly as he could, and Stiles's gaze never left him. It was as if he was completely visible to the Spark.

“Weird.” The word was quiet, but it got Peter’s attention.

“What’s weird, sweetheart?” He never stopped scanning the area, but he noticed that Stiles was staring at something. “Did you see something?”

A pause. “No, I can’t see anything. I just thought of something. Do you think emissary bonds might affect this?”

A gust of wind blew through and Derek took the opportunity to move again, the rustling of trees and grass giving him extra cover, but Stiles still tracked him.

“That would imply that you think your emissary bond might be affecting things, and that would further imply that you see something that I don’t.” Sometimes he hated it when Peter was smart, but there was no flaw in that logic. There was definitely something affecting the Spark.

“No,” Stiles denied frustratedly, “I can’t see anything, I can’t hear anything, and I certainly can’t smell anything, but... there’s just…”

Peter was careful about telegraphing his movements, but Derek could see when he’d triangulated on the position Stiles was staring at. He dodged before Peter pounced, but not fast enough to completely prevent contact.

“How interesting,” Peter practically purred the word, eyes fierce and bright as he shot a look back at Stiles. He tracked that amber gaze again and jumped faster than a cat, forcing Derek to give up on trying to minimize the sound of his feet in the grass.

Stiles realized what was happening and snapped his gaze to the older wolf, preventing him from being able to use him as a homing signal.

“Aw sweetheart, I almost caught him. Show me where he is again.” Fangs dropped and blue eyes flashed. “I owe him a pat on the back after all.”

Derek darted in and swiped a hand across Peter’s neck, just managing to avoid the temptation to actually rake his claws across the exposed stretch of skin, and then danced away again, growling. “And I owe you absolutely nothing, Uncle Peter. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m impressed, Derek.” A mean smile taunted him, even though Peter clearly still couldn’t track him without help. “This is the longest you’ve lasted in a fight against me in forever. Maybe I should cancel those remedial MMA lessons I bought you for Christmas—” He tutted and then sighed. “Oh, never mind. The invisibility isn’t permanent. Unfortunately.”

Derek’s wolf howled at the insubordination, his need to put the beta in his place thrumming through him, but this wasn’t the time or the place for that. Stiles wouldn’t approve, even though he’d probably understand if the thunderous look on his face meant anything.

“Alright Peter, that’s enough,” he said, all his playful snark gone. “I think the experiment has shown us everything it can at this point.”

Peter turned his ice blue gaze on the Spark. “Don’t stop us now. We were just starting to have fun.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You were just starting to get your ass kicked, now shut up before Derek stops being a gentleman and finishes.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s my ass he’s concerned with.” Derek wanted to knock the smarmy smirk from his uncle’s face. “But for your sake, Stiles, I’ll be big.”

Derek couldn’t smother a surprised laugh when Stiles muttered, “A big pain in the neck, and no I’m not making the mistake of saying you’re a pain in my ass again, either, jerkface, and yes I know you can hear me, but I don’t fucking care. I so don’t fucking care, Creeperwolf. Just…”

“Stiles,” Peter said with a laugh of his own, his earlier bloodlust fading, “calm down. Everything’s fine, and look, Derek has rejoined us, just in time for post-game analysis and commentary.”

Stiles settled his gaze on him, his mad muttering temporarily stopped, and gave Derek a half-hearted smile. “Welcome back, Der. Any side effects? Your senses still super-mega-alpha-awesome?”

Derek made a mental run through and found no problems. “Everything seems to be in working order. I didn’t lose anything while the potions were in effect either. Sound and smell stayed the same.”

That got him a satisfied nod. “Excellent. So, basically all the benefits with none of the drawbacks. I was afraid there at the beginning that it was muffling all your sounds, but you were just fucking with him, right?”

He let himself smirk, looking at Peter as he agreed. “Guilty as charged.”

Peter fumed for a moment—he hated being the butt of jokes, especially Derek’s jokes—but then refocused and stared at Stiles. “So, are you going to explain how you could track him when I couldn’t?”

Stiles just shook his head. “You have to have the most fragile ego I have ever seen. No, I don’t have any skills that you don’t, oh great shaggy hunter. It’s my spark, I guess. I made the potion so something about my magick clings to him and I can sense it. I can’t think of any other reason why I can track him, and you can’t. The next test will have to be another magick user trying to track him while he’s invisible. That will let us know if there’s a weakness that witches can exploit against us, or if it’s just something about me.”

Peter cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s another possibility…”

Stiles frowned. “What do you mean ‘another possibility’? You mean you think it’s being caused by something other than spark residue?”

There was something flickering behind Peter’s eyes that Derek didn’t like. He looked nervous, but he smelled almost… hurt? Disappointed?

The older wolf moved across the clearing to the spot where they’d dropped their gear and picked up Stiles's bag for him, ever the gentleman. “So, I suppose you’ll make another batch of the invisibility potion, and call someone—Maryam, maybe? She’s only a minor Spark, but her magick is similar enough to yours to be able to sense the residue if anyone could.”

Stiles took a minute to follow, still looking at Derek curiously, before finally heading over towards his uncle. “No, I’ve made enough that we don’t have to wait—thank the moon, that potion takes at least two lunar cycles—but Maryam might be a good idea… hey. Stay out of that! Peter!”

Derek watched as Peter reached into the bag and lunged for the older wolf as soon as he realized what was happening, but he was too far away to stop him before he’d managed to pull out another vial of silver liquid and swallow the contents faster than an underaged frat boy at his first party.

“Peter! You absolute fuckbucket,” Stiles snarled, staring at the space where his uncle had been standing. “I know you were miffed because you wanted to try it, but this is not the way to get me to cooperate. See what happens the next time you want some obscure tantric text translated. Your Sanskrit sucks, dude, and after that stunt I am so not feeling the love, so neither will you. Sneaky blue-eyed bastard.”

Derek crouched, waiting for an attack. “Where is he Stiles?” he asked around fangs that had already dropped. He scanned the clearing reflexively and then stopped, trying to focus on Peter’s heartbeat. It took him a moment to find it, but once he did, it was easy to track the other wolf. “Never mind,” he growled and then pounced, claws out.

Peter spun away, but Derek’s claws showed red when he pulled them back. “You shouldn’t take what doesn’t belong to you, Uncle Peter.” He paused, recentering himself on Peter’s heartbeat. “You’ve never appreciated the things you’re given. I told Stiles you’d fuck up. I just didn’t think you’d be this obvious about it.”

A rough laugh cut through the empty space. “I wouldn’t be this obvious, nephew. This was a calculated risk. Stiles?” Peter called to the Spark. “Can you track me through your magick, sweetheart? Can you sense where I am?”

There was something almost hopeful in the question, like he wanted Stiles to be able to track him.

“No,” Stiles's reply was soft and perplexed, his eyes large and liquid as his brain ran through all the possible reasons. “I can’t sense you at all.”

Peter sighed, and before Derek could take another swipe at him, he’d picked up Stiles's bag where he’d dropped it on the turf, letting the bag floating in mid-air clearly mark his location. “So, the connection between you and my lump of a nephew isn’t connected to your magick, or the potion, at all. I’d wager,” he sounded rueful, “that you’d be able to find him blindfolded as well.”

Stiles chewed on his lower lip, hesitance sitting awkwardly on his typically confident frame. “So, it is the emissary bond that’s allowing me to follow him?”

“No, dear boy,” Peter slipped the bag over Stiles's shoulder. Derek watched the flannel wrinkle where his uncle was resting his hand and he growled lowly, unhappy at the contact. “If it were an emissary bond, you’d still be able to track me as Derek’s second. No.” The wrinkles disappeared, and he could hear Peter’s retreating footsteps. “It’s something else. I’m sure you two can figure it out. But I think I’m going to take this opportunity to stretch my legs. My wolf and I could use a little time.”

Suddenly there was a pile of abandoned clothes on the ground, and Derek could hear Peter’s heartbeat fade as he ran towards the deepest part of the Preserve, apparently in wolf form.

“Well, that answers the question about whether the things on someone using the potion stay invisible if they come off.” Stiles mumbled, gathering the fabric up and looking a little bereft. It made something in his chest hurt.

“You okay?” His wolf was whining, and he strangled his instinct to rush over and put his hands on the smaller man, to physically check that there was nothing wrong, to comfort him however he was allowed. He wanted to bury his nose in the divot behind Stiles's ear where his scent pooled; he wanted to soothe his mate. “Peter’s fine. He smelled a little upset, but his chemosignals read more like when he’s pouting than when he’s getting ready to go on a killing spree.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice a little rough around the edges, “not so worried about the killing spree thing. Peter likes his life right now, more or less; he won’t jeopardize it over not getting something he wants.”

He wants you. The words spun through Derek’s head and he gritted his teeth against speaking them. “Good. I’d hate to have to kill him again. Repetition is so boring.”

Stiles gave him a half-hearted grin and hiked his bag higher on his shoulder. “I know how you hate to be bored.”

Derek shrugged. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

They turned and started walking towards where they’d left their cars. “You going to tell me what Peter was talking about back there?”

He had a suspicion. Lots of people misjudged Derek’s intelligence over the years, assuming that because he didn’t say much he didn’t think much, but he wasn’t stupid. Whatever was bothering Stiles was more than just the theft of a potion. If it were anyone else, he’d just let it ride, but this was Stiles.

Peter had emphasized that it wasn’t an emissary bond. There weren’t many bonds that affected wolves, and pack bonds and emissary bonds were the most common. There was an Alpha’s bond with their betas, and of course, there were mate bonds. Mates had a connection that no other could supersede; not even an Alpha could break it without stealing all the memories the couple shared. His wolf had decided that Stiles was his mate years ago. Derek knew his heartbeat and scent better than he knew his own. He could pick the younger man out of a crowd—yes, even blindfolded—but Peter was intimating that Stiles was connected to him, and that… well, that didn’t seem possible.

Stiles was stalking towards his Jeep muttering, cursing under his breath about stupid Peter and his big fucking mouth and never doing another favor for the fucking asshole since he can’t stay out of other peoples’ business, until Derek’s suspicions had started to choke him.

What if Peter was right?

He reached out and snagged the strap of Stiles's bag, spinning him until they were face to face with the open bag between them. Several more vials clanked in the depths and Derek reached in and grabbed a handful.

“You know,” he said, voice rough, “it isn’t fair that I’ve been the only one running around being chased all the time.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. “What does that mean? I told you that I tested the stuff before I ever brought it over to you.”

Derek nodded, rolling the test tubes slowly between his fingers. “True. But I never got to see it. I mean, I believe you when you say it worked, but maybe we should test to see if my super-mega-alpha senses can track you.”

He stepped close and could hear the click in Stiles's throat as he swallowed. “You think that would make a difference? You couldn’t track Peter.”

“Peter said there was something else connecting us,” he lifted a shoulder in a careful shrug, “we should test it and see.”

Wheels within wheels were spinning. If it was a mate bond. If Stiles had chosen him for a mate without telling him. The bond wouldn’t be stopped by the potions. He’d still be able to find his mate.

Find. Keep. Mark. Mate.

He held the three potions out on his open palm. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

Stiles stared at him, whiskey-bright eyes wide, and he reached for the vials slowly, almost like he wasn’t in control of himself. At Derek’s last words, though, he jerked back to himself and snorted. “Yeah, no. I’m not running off into the Preserve with you chasing after me. I don’t care if I’m invisible to everything and everyone, I’d still manage to trip over a tree root and kill myself. If you’re that set on me trying it, I’ll play along, but I can pretty much promise that you won’t be able to sense me any more than you could Peter. Whatever theory he was contemplating, I think he was way off base.”

He opened the corks and downed the potions with a grace and economy of movement that seemed completely out of place on the flailing body Derek was familiar with, and then, just like with Peter, Stiles was gone.

It took a moment for the rest of the changes to register. The electricity and spice scent was gone, as was the hummingbird heartbeat, and for a gut-wrenching instant Derek grieved their loss, a hole in his world that seemed to echo with emptiness.

“You okay there, Sourwolf?” The empty air spoke, and his wolf stopped howling, clinging to the sound of Stiles's voice.

“Fine,” he said, and he would be. It might just take him a minute. “I’m assuming from where I heard your voice that you haven’t moved yet?”

A hum of agreement sounded. “It’s weird knowing you can’t see me.”

Derek smirked. “That doesn’t mean you should make faces at me or flip me off.”

Stiles squawked indignantly. “You sure you can’t see me?” He huffed. “It isn’t fair if you lie, you know.”

He smiled. “I don’t have to see you to know what you’re going to do, Stiles. I’ve known you long enough to predict things pretty well.”

As far as teasing went, it was pretty tame for them, but Stiles didn’t usually have this kind of protection to hide behind when they were playing around.

Derek stood very still and took a moment to block out the sounds of his own heart and breathing, focusing on the grass and the breeze, trying to see if he could hear Stiles shifting position, but there was something niggling at the edge of his awareness, a quiet little tug that was pulling his attention to the left.

There.

He didn’t see anything, or hear anything, but he knew as surely as he was breathing that Stiles was standing right there. He didn’t think, he didn’t wait—he pounced, wrapping his arms tightly around the Spark and grinning wildly.

“Caught you.”

Stiles wriggled in his arms, and Derek could feel the heat of his skin wherever they touched. “Not fair! You said you couldn’t see me!”

He released the squirming man and stepped back. “I can’t. You’re totally invisible.”

A huff hung in the air. “Then how did you catch me?”

Derek waited a few seconds before responding, feeling as Stiles shifted position again. He didn’t turn to look at where he knew the Spark was standing. “I could just tell.”

That got him a frustrated growl that was ridiculously appealing to his wolf. “Not fair. Invisibility should give me at least a hope of dodging your wolfitudinousness.”

He moved more quickly, trying to come up behind Derek, apparently looking to surprise him with an attack of his own, but that wasn’t happening. At the last second, Derek turned and grabbed the invisible man with both hands, pulling him into a full-body hold. “What is it they say?” he asked, a little breathlessly. “All’s fair in love and war?”

Stiles's face was pressed into the skin of his neck and he shivered at the angry little snap of teeth he felt ghosting over the tendon there. “Last I knew we weren’t at war, Der.”

Derek slid his hand up Stiles's back, pressing him more firmly into the cradle of his neck and shoulder, as he whispered. “Who said I meant war?”

And just like that he knew, just like Peter had known, there was only one reason he and Stiles could sense each other, only one reason they could find each other no matter how many potions they took or how many senses they sacrificed. They were mates; they would always find each other.

The body in his arms had stiffened as he spoke. “This isn’t a game, Sourwolf. Let me go.”

Derek sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

The Spark made an angry sound deep in his throat as he thrashed around helplessly trying to get loose. “And I’d rather not be mocked, if it’s all the same to you!”

“I’m not mocking you, Stiles.” Derek tried not to sound angry, but his mate was doubting him, and it made him want to just sweep the Spark into his arms and carry him off to his den so he could keep him there until his mate was boneless and sated and convinced they belonged together forever. “I’m just saying that this isn’t a conversation I’m comfortable having with an invisible man that I’m halfway certain is going to run off into the woods the minute I let go instead of staying here and talking to me, calmly and rationally. At least if I hold on to you, I’m guaranteed I won’t just be talking to myself.”

Stiles stopped wriggling, and Derek couldn’t decide if he was happy or sad about it. “I’m assuming you’ve figured out what Peter was alluding to? About the bond?”

The Spark sounded so small and defeated; it made his heart hurt. “He meant a mate bond, didn’t he?”

Derek felt a hank of floppy hair rub against his cheek as Stiles nodded whispering like he was afraid of what would happen if he spoke the words too loudly, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for anything like this to happen. Honestly, I don’t know how it did happen, it’s not supposed to be something one person can trigger by themselves, but I’m sure I can find a way to control it. I’d never…” he swallowed thickly, hiding his face in Derek’s stubble. “I never intended to force anything on you. Never, Der. I swear. I’ll figure it out. I can fix this.”

And then, between one breath and the next, Stiles was visible there in the circle of his arms, whiskey-bright eyes wet with emotion. Derek raised a finger and gently traced the white-marble camber of his cheek, following an imaginary line connecting his moles in a dreamy dot-to-dot where the only picture brought into focus was how he wanted to touch that skin even more.

“There’s just one problem with that idea, Stiles,” he said, letting the smaller man step back from the cage of his arms, sensing that he needed the breathing room.

“Just one?” he asked. The question was accompanied by a wet laugh, self-deprecating snark back in full force, and Derek nodded. “Yes.”

There wasn’t much height difference between them anymore, but it felt like Stiles had folded in on himself in an attempt to hide somehow. He felt the smaller man brace himself against whatever emotional blow was coming next.

“What’s the problem, then?” He stood there, embattled and beautiful, wrapped in a wisp of defiance and refusing to meet Derek’s gaze. The wolf lifted his mate’s chin with a finger, forcing their eyes to meet, and shook his head slightly. “You can’t fix what isn’t broken.”

Stiles froze for an instant and then his eyes widened, the amber taken over by pupils shot wide in surprise, a deep breath sucked in reflexively against the suffocating panic. “It isn’t broken?”

Derek shook his head again. “Not unless I’ve been broken—my wolf’s been broken—for years now.”

The air between them shuddered with static electricity and Derek wondered wildly for a moment whether making love to the Spark would feel like being struck by lightning. He didn’t care if he burned, though. He’d burn happily if it meant Stiles was in his arms and in his bed and in his heart.

“So,” long fingers splayed over his heart and he knew that Stiles was wishing he could hear heartbeats, could hear lies, “you’ve felt this way? For years?”

It was time. “My wolf chose you as his mate before I chose you as my Emissary.” He wrapped his fingers around Stiles's. “You were an obnoxious kid, but even then, I knew you were smart and loyal. I respected that, even if you annoyed the crap out of me. My wolf paid attention to you, though. Then with the nogitsune, and Mexico, Boyd and Erica, and everyone leaving for school or parts unknown… We were both learning how to live. My wolf missed you terribly, and after a while I realized that so did I.”

Stiles struggled over a laugh. “That’s hard to believe. When I came back after working with Maryam and the other Sparks I was convinced you hated me.”

“Never!” The word came out more forcefully than he intended, but he didn’t apologize. “I didn’t know what to do with you. You’d… changed.”

Taller, broader, more confident, talented, powerful, and so, so sexy. He didn’t know how to explain without sounding like a stalker.

“You’d changed, too.” Stiles looked up at him. “After I came back, I mean. For the first time I felt like you weren’t staring constantly into the past. You’d decided that you were going to actually try to live. To try for a future. You’d let people in.”

Derek supposed that was true. He’d settled into his never-wanted but accidentally regained Alpha-dom and Peter and Cora had filled his need for Pack. Isaac had forgiven him for driving him away and had come back every few months to strengthen their connection. He’d taken a job at the library and spent his evenings writing his own stories, the outlet giving him a place to organize his thoughts without anyone judging him, and then Stiles showed back up, and he knew what he wanted for the first time in a very long time.

And now it looked like he was going to get it.

“I was jealous.” Stiles's voice was quiet, but strong. Derek heard no lie in the words. “I saw you one day at the library. A couple of kids, fresh out of high school and feeling their oats, were standing across the counter from you and you were laughing and teasing them, and you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I’ve seen Lydia Martin naked, so that’s saying something.”

“You’ve seen Lydia naked?” The words were out before he could stop them, but it was surprising. After all those years pining, if he’d gotten as far as having Lydia naked, it was hard to believe Stiles wouldn’t still be chasing the Banshee.

“Yes, we got to naked times, and yes, she’s beautiful, and yes I still think she’s amazing and I love her, but I realized a long time ago that there was something missing in the equation of Lydia plus Stiles equals forever, and it was never going to work.”

Derek wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “What? What was missing?”

Stiles rested his head against Derek’s shoulder, the soft warmth of his breath teasing along the bare skin. “Lydia, at her core, lives to break things down. She is control and dissection and understanding and death and destruction. She takes people apart so she can see how they work, and then puts them back together. She loves people, don’t get me wrong, but she loves them after she understands them. I needed someone who loved me even though they didn’t understand me. I’m a Spark. I’m not a genie with infinite cosmic power and an itty-bitty living space, but my magick is all about belief and circumventing the impossible. I need someone who believes in me, even when—maybe especially when—I don’t make sense.”

Derek rubbed their faces together, blatantly scenting everything he could reach, a rumble of pleasure rolling deep in his chest at finally having his mate so close. “I’ve never thought you made sense, but that never stopped me from believing in you.”

He expected a snort and a snarky answer, but Stiles never did the expected.

“Good,” he said, eyes dark and serious for once as they lingered on his wolf’s face, “because I never stopped believing in you, either.”

The distance between them was only inches but it felt like miles, and Derek couldn’t stand it. He wrapped his hand around Stiles's nape and pulled him up, angling his head so that their mouths met halfway. Derek groaned, finally tracing the pink lips that had taunted him for so long. They were soft and pliant under his tongue, opening with a slick wet sound that cut straight through him, and he cursed his need for breath because it meant he had to pull away for air.

“God, Der,” Stiles moaned against his mouth, sucking in a desperate breath of his own, his hands hot and greedy as they trailed up and down over Derek’s chest, “wanted you for so long. Can’t believe I get to have you. Finally get to have you.”

Derek took advantage of his gasp and slipped the tip of his tongue into Stiles's mouth, first teasingly shallow, tracing the inside of Stiles's pouting lower lip, and then deeper, searching the corners for all his secrets. He breathed in the spiced ozone of his scent, dizzy with everything. “Yours. Been yours forever. Believe it. Please, please believe it.”

Stiles laughed, a joyous bubble of a thing that set his wolf dancing, and cupped Derek’s face with his hands. He stood there, staring, the amber of his eyes glowing molten gold in the afternoon light and said, “I’ll never doubt it again. Never doubt us again.”

And he didn’t.

#sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #spark stiles #bamf stiles #magic stiles #poor peter #derek deserves nice things #stiles is a nice thing #HEA #tooth-rotting fluff #late to the party #don't know how this happened #teen wolf

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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My life. OMG, this is my life.

Fanfic writer: Okay, this is some of my best work. It’s way better than my other stories. I’m hoping, and partly expecting, some good statistics

The fanfic: 40 hits, 2 subscriptions, 5 kudo’s, 1 bookmark

Fanfic writer: Looks at their poorly written, uninspired, and not as fun to write fanfiction

The fanfic: 26,000 hits, 500 subscriptions, 1,200 kudo’s, 400 bookmarks

Fanfic writer: Is very confused

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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love comes first (...but it comes last, too)

Hiyori has thoughts...

It wasn’t Shinji’s girls that were the problem; she was used to them. He had his first loves, but she knew what that meant. If they were his first, then that just meant that they weren’t his last.

Last was what mattered. She was the one that was there at the end. The one that carried him bleeding from the field of battle. The one who made sure he ate and rested and didn’t fall into the endless black simmering inside him, even if it took yelling and sandal throwing to keep him distracted from the jagged edge. It didn’t matter that he flirted, that he ranted, that he poked and prodded and turned the world upside down.

“Eh Shinji! I have to go or I’m going to be late. Remember that Yuzu is expecting you for dinner tonight.”

Ichigo’s voice cut through the warehouse, and she struggled not to clench her teeth. Urahara’s golden boy was everywhere—cooking in the kitchen with Hachi, playing the guitar with Love—his stupid reiatsu leaking constantly, so strong she couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t pretend it wasn’t always there. She could feel the residue of it on Shinji hours after the kid left for his classes at the University, pretending he was normal and alive and human.

“Yes, Ichi-chan,” Shinji walked out of their bedroom to see Ichigo off, affection clear in his voice. “Just remember that I’m not the one that was late last week. Or the week before. Or….” The teasing faded off and Hiyori tried not to think of what swallowed the sound and failed.

It wasn’t right. The kid had more power than anyone she’d ever known, and it terrified her. Oh, not that he’d turn on Soul Society or the Visored. No. It was worse. Ichigo refused to accept that he would never be human again, maybe that he never was, and if he denied himself so absolutely, he could never be trusted not to deny other things. Other people.

So. She would do what she always did. She would watch and wait and put the pieces back together when it all inevitably came crashing down.

Last. It was a burden she was honored to bear.

#bleach #shinji hirako #hiyori sarugaki #words 100-500 #Visored #weird introspection of a character that I usually don't even notice #no beta/no problem

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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Fred is a sucker for these. So sayeth the Fred, so sayeth we all.

100 Words Tag Meme

Rules: Write 100 words of the trope you were tagged with, then choose a new trope/theme and tag people to participate. Any fandom, any ship!

Tagged by: @wynnefic :elmofire:

My trope: soulmates

-0-0-

Studies have been done: approximately 57% of those who register have reciprocated names; 32% go unreciprocated or unfound; and the remaining 11% have no soulmates at all.

For as long as anyone has asked, Owen has said that he falls into the third category - that is the lie. Since the age of six, Deckard Shaw has been scrawled on the inside of his right forearm in his brother’s handwriting - that is the truth.

He makes a habit of wearing a lot of long-sleeved shirts from a young age.

Not even Deckard knows. It is the one lie nobody ever questions, because it’s not exactly something most people are proud of. But Owen has never cared, and it is by far the preferable option because for as long as Owen has been alive, the name just above the crook of Deckard’s left elbow has read Lucas Hobbs, and even though it’s Owen whom Deckard fights for, Owen whom he half-raised, Owen whom he loves, it’s still not Owen that the universe declared should be his most important person, and Owen’s hatred for the man who took his place on his brother’s skin before he was even born will remain until the day he dies.

Better no soulmate, he thinks after his tenth birthday comes and goes and he still insists he has no name, than to bear the weight of Deckard’s guilt. Or worse, his pity.

Deckard only ruffles his hair, tells him it doesn’t matter, and puts the next five kids who try to taunt Owen about it in the infirmary. People learn to shut up after that, and Owen thinks he can tolerate it after all so long as he never loses his brother’s devotion.

He still resents the hell out of it, and some days he thinks it would be easier - and certainly fairer - if he’d been born with any other name at all.

-0-0-

Tagging: @rainingskyguy, @hadrian-pendragons, @starriewolf, @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger, @hotpinklizard, @queerfictionwriter, @aerdnanocte, @rikkamaru, @hamelin-born, @rayshippouuchiha, and anyone else who wants to play lol

Your trope: apocalypse, cuz i’m predictable like that

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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100 Words Tag Meme

Rules: Write 100 words of the trope you were tagged with, then choose a new trope/theme and tag people to participate. Any fandom, any ship! Tagged by: @cywscross My trope: Apocalypse

In Beacon Hills things were skewed. Things didn’t just go bump in the night. They bumped their scary asses 24-7, and I hated it. I hated the people dying, my life being turned upside down, and that the only person I really wanted to bump uglies with was a 40-something zombiewolf, but I was used to it.

Quantico was a different kind of skewed. Things were still bumping 24-7, but there was no chaos to it. If anything could make an apocalypse boring it’s the FBI, and my spark… well, it missed the challenge. I missed the challenge.

I guess that’s why things changed. Somehow, my spark became a beacon for the whole East Coast, coaxing more monsters out of their holes, and I got back in the fight. I felt the rush again.

As far as apocalypses go, I can’t complain. Zombiewolf’s in my corner and nothing is boring. He says it’s a power thing, my need to be in the middle of everything, and I can’t swear he’s wrong. But it doesn’t matter.

I’m used to it.

Tagging: anyone that wants to play @chaosgreymistchild @fox-the-hermit

Your trope: Hurt/Comfort

#100 words meme #teen wolf #apocalypse au #stiles stilinski #writing meme

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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Monday, May 25th, 2020 - Sunday, May 31st, 2020

General Info

What is UraIchi Week?

It’s a week-long fanworks event to promote the Urahara Kisuke x Kurosaki Ichigo ship. There’s no sign-up, it’s just for fun, and everybody can participate. Completed works and wips are both acceptable, and any type of fanwork (fanfic, fanart, gifsets, etc.) is welcome. The ship itself can be written romantically or platonically, basically anything you want so long as it stars these two characters together in some way.

Posting:

For those of you with Tumblr, you can tag your stuff with #UraIchi Week or #UraIchi Week 2020 in the first five tags of your post. I’ll be tracking those two tags so I’ll see it and reblog it to this blog. (If it’s been a few days since you posted and I still haven’t reblogged it, something probably went wrong, Tumblr’s not always reliable, so just shoot me an ask about it and I’ll reblog it.)

For those of you with AO3, I will create a collection a day or two before the event starts, and you’ll be able to add your work to the collection when you post. (I’ll toss up a notice for everyone once the collection is up.)

And of course we have our Discord server (link is on the sidebar) so if you want to come and talk about what you’re working on or you just want to chat, feel free to join us there!

Themes

As always, themes for this event is optional. It’s your choice whether or not you want to make a fanwork that includes all the themes of that day, or a fanwork for each theme, or a fanwork for just one. You can make something for each day of the week or just one or two. And if your fanwork doesn’t fit any of the themes, there’s a Creator’s Choice option on the last day. All prompts can be interpreted any way you want as well, it’s entirely up to you. The important thing is to add to that excellent UraIchi content and for everyone to have fun :)

Keep reading

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feelingfredly · 4 years

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Home Is Where You Hang Your Heart

Fluffy/Angsty Goodness for GinIchi WinterFest 2020

Ichigo pulled another handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it across the table. He’d learned to come prepared to these meetings. “He’s doing fine, Ran. I swear. Please don’t cry.”

The redhead thanked him and swiped once at her eyes before the cloth disappeared into a shaky fist. “I know, I know,” she sighed and straightened her shoulders, “I just…” her voice faded away and her gaze clouded. “I just worry, you know?”

Ichigo knew.

Rangiku was a fierce fighter, a bottomless pit when it came to alcohol, and a shameless flirt. She was also a mother hen, a victim of spiritual abuse, and someone still desperately trying to come to grips with the truth about a relationship that had turned out to be nothing like she’d always believed. It was no wonder she was torn up.

“I don’t want him to think..” She couldn’t even begin to put all the things she didn’t want Gin to think into words.

“What?” Ichigo snorted. “You don’t want him to think that you don’t care? That you wouldn’t take on the whole of Seireitei if it would make a difference?” He rolled his eyes and Ran gave him a watery smile. Just like Yuzu and Karin, he thought, she just needs someone to tell her it’s okay. That she’s done enough. “Trust me. He knows. He also knows that it wouldn’t make any difference.” Ran’s face puckered up a little and he raised a hand to stop her before the tears could start again. “Yet. It wouldn’t make any difference yet. It’s going to take a long time for people to stop believing the worst of him.”

She nodded and then looked at him, weighing her words. “You don’t believe the worst of him.”

Ichigo settled back in his chair and shrugged. “I’m also the guy with a hollow living in the back of his head who spends all his time with a Visored who turns the world upside down and a banished Captain of the Gotei 13 who I’m pretty sure sells sex dolls out of the back of his candy store. Some of those housewives that come by regularly are pretty scary.” He shook his head. “Understanding Gin is a walk in the park after that. But don’t tell him I said that. It might make him feel like he has to prove something.”

Ran laughed, her first real laugh since they’d sat down together. “Oh no, you wouldn’t want that. The human world might not survive.”

Ichigo thought about Gin laser-focused on teaching him a lesson and struggled to fight back a flush before it gave the woman across the table something else to think about. The last thing he needed—even less than another occasionally sadistic ex-Captain—was a matchmaking Rangiku.

He lifted his drink in a silent toast, hiding his red cheeks behind the rim of his cup. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

***

“Here. I brought some hot chocolate.” Gin handed a wide ceramic cup across to the little girl sitting on the tatami. She was posed beside a window made of balsa wood and rice paper, a small lamp on the other side giving the impression of winter sunlight streaming in on the puddle of brightly colored silk that wrapped her tiny frame. “If you like it, I have a tin for you t’ take home. You’ve been so patient.”

A blush of happiness pinked her cheeks. Never too young to appreciate being appreciated, he thought, taking a moment to readjust his camera, or to be susceptible to bribery.

“Is it good, Suzu-chan?” He cocked his head to one side as he asked and the little girl nodded, her face buried in the steamy cup, eyes big as they stared at him over the rim. Perfect. He snapped another photo.

He kneeled up and moved across to the other side of the mat, moving slowly so as not to startle the child. She’d clung to her mother when they arrived, tears threatening during the long process of putting the layers of the kimono on her, but she’d relaxed after a few gentle compliments and a few sweets.

“Ah, your hair’s so pretty today. Did your mother fix it for you?”

The big eyes narrowed a fraction as she nodded. So… not totally susceptible to flattery. That’s a good girl. Stay smart like that. He looked down at his camera, watching the suspicious look fade from the girl’s face through the preview screen and when she raised the cup again, he snapped another picture.

Gin paused, checking the light and the little girl’s positioning for the umpteenth time. Suzu-chan’s mother was waiting patiently in the alcove off the set watching and he motioned for her to come over.

“I’m almost finished, but I would like to try to get at least one standing photo now that she’s calmed down. Could you help her up, please? She was afraid she was going t’ trip in the hikizuri earlier, and I don’t want her to panic again.”

The woman bowed to him and smiled, creeping over to the little girl and holding her hand out for the cup with a sing-songy, “Kashite, Su-chan?” The child handed the cocoa to her easily and smiled as her mother helped her to her feet, getting her balance on the tiny okobo before sending a shy smile to Gin, proud of her accomplishment.

“Jus’ perfect, Suzu-chan,” he said, moving so her mother could step away. He ducked in and straightened the hem of the kimono with a practiced twitch. “Stand right there for me.” He focused the camera in his hands and palmed a remote for a second camera on a tripod on the other side of the tatami. A single press of the button and the camera started taking automated photos on a timer, a hidden eye on the tiny subject in front of him. “Now,” he said, making a production of raising the camera in his hand, “can you bow for me? Jus’ once, please?”

The little girl looked at him, a fierce look of concentration on her face, and she dipped into a bow so lovely that it would have made a maiko rage with jealousy. The grace of innocence, he thought, taking a final picture of the girl, half-turned away, miniature rice-paper kanzashi swinging beside her cheek.

And then they were done. It took almost as long to remove the hikizuri as it did to put it on, but at least by the end of it the child wasn’t crying. He bowed deeply to the pair of them and made arrangements with the mother for the finished photo package to be sent for approval before turning to his model and bowing again. “Thank you so much, Suzu-chan. You made my job so easy, and now you’re all finished.”

A big grin spread across the little face. “Thank you, shashin-ka-san!” She gave him a bow in return. “Do I still get to have the hot chocolate?”

Gin smiled. That’s right, little one, never lose track of what’s important. “Of course.” He nodded seriously. “You’ve earned it.” He handed her the tin and she hugged it to her chest with another bow of thanks before leading her mother back out into the festival in a whirlwind of excitement.

“Another happy customer,” a voice murmured behind him.

Gin didn’t jump but it was close. The gigai from Urahara was many things, but good at reiatsu sensing wasn’t one of them. Yet another thing to get accustomed to. “All my customers are happy, Kurosaki-kun. I take pride in my ability,” he tilts his head a fraction and looked at the redhead over his shoulder, “to satisfy.”

He was fairly certain that the color on Ichigo’s cheeks wasn’t from the winter wind. At least he didn’t need to relearn that.

“Clearly,” the younger man said, aiming for cool. “That’s why you’re booked solid for the whole festival.”

Gin walked over to the corner where his computer was set up temporarily, plugging the camera in to download the pictures he’d taken. “You sound surprised, Kurosaki-kun.”

Ichigo shrugged. “I’ll admit that the whole ‘authentic Meiji era costume photography’ thing wasn’t something I saw coming, and the fact that you’re a freaking child whisperer is oddly unnerving, but your success? No surprise there. I’m pretty sure you could sell freezers in the Artic if you set your mind to it.”

A bitter retort hovered on the tip of his tongue-- Even without Aizen hypnotizing people for me, Kurosaki-kun?—but he forced it back. Ichigo didn’t deserve it. He was one of the most straightforward people Gin had ever dealt with. It wasn’t his fault that no one else said what they meant.

“I jus’ know what people want, Kurosaki-kun.” He tipped his head to one side. “Like you. I know what you want, too.”

Ichigo froze like a red deer suddenly faced with a wolf. It was adorable.

“A-and what do I want, if you’re so smart?” His voice was a little too shaky and Gin could tell he was on the verge of retreating into denial and bluster. He really shouldn’t push so hard. It was just too much fun sometimes.

Gin took a moment to unplug things and slide the laptop into its bag. He’d work on today’s photos back at the apartment.

“Why the same thing I want, of course,” he said, smiling a little as he caught the bob of Adam’s apple out of the corner of his eye. “Dinner. It’s been a long day. You want t’ get takoyaki from the vendor next door, or d’ you have something else in mind?”

Ichigo paused and shook his head like he was trying to clear out cobwebs.

“Takoyaki.” He picked up the now packed computer bag and slung it over his shoulder leaving Gin to lock the little studio up for the night. “I’m starving.”

***

Ichigo bulled his way through the crowd trusting Gin to stick close behind him. He didn’t look around. He was sure his face was still red, and he didn’t trust himself to keep his mouth shut if Gin decided to tease him more.

I know what you want, too.

The words echoed in his head, and he wished he could have the moment back, just once, to do something differently, to be brave and face this thing that hung between them. To admit that yes there was something he wanted, something he wanted badly, and it sure as hell wasn’t takoyaki.

The crowd parted in front of him, his scowl was good for that, and almost before he realized it, they’d made it to the food stand.

Ichigo had never liked takoyaki growing up, but the first day of the festival Gin had pointed out the stand, excited over something in a way that Ichigo’d rarely seen, and he happily let the older man drag him there for dinner after they’d worked up an appetite setting up the studio. Gin didn’t remember his human life any more than most occupants of Seireitei, but it was clear he’d lived in the Kansai district from his accent, so it made sense that he’d love a food that Osaka was famous for. What Ichigo hadn’t been prepared for was the sheer pleasure on Gin’s face as he ate the little fried bites like he hadn’t eaten in forever.

Just what he needed on top of Gin’s teasing.

The vendor greeted them with a smile and started shoveling the steaming balls into paper boats. “I have something for you Ichimaru-san,” he says, handing over a little dark pot along with the takoyaki. It smells sweet and sour and like citrus and vinegar.

“Ponzu!” Gin looked like one of the kids he took pictures of, all pleased smiles and gracious head tilts. “Thank you, Sato-san!” He drizzled it generously over his boat and breathed in deeply, his enjoyment clear on his face. “This smells amazing!”

Sato-san nodded with satisfaction. “My wife made it and when I told her you’d mentioned missing it, she wanted me to bring you some. It isn’t for the menu, but for a good customer like you?” He bowed deeply and chuckled. “I am happy to be able to do this.”

Gin looked almost startled by the kindness and bowed deeply. “Please let your wife know that her generosity was most appreciated. If there is anything I can do for you—I’d be happy to do a portrait for her if she’d like. I have a new kimono that needs a model.”

The vendor laughed. “My Himari would be too embarrassed for something so grand. Your happiness is all she wanted, Ichimaru-san. I will pass along your compliments, though. A little flattery goes a long way, you know.”

Ichigo watched as a shutter closed across Gin’s face, the pleasure banking into something more polite and less real.

“Absolutely, Sato-san. It is even better if it is true, though, and it is. Thank you again! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He handed Ichigo his boat and bowed again before leading them to one of the few high-topped tables separating the counter from the crowd.

They stood there enjoying their food, Gin’s quiet mood so different from what Ichigo had been expecting, before he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“He didn’t mean anything by it, you know.” Ichigo waved a chopstick for emphasis. “He was just trying to be friendly.”

Gin paused for a moment and then nodded. “I know. It’s just hard sometimes t’ separate the real from the phony.” He took a bite and chewed silently, staring off into the crowd. “I’m tired of the lies and the manipulation. I just want people to know that I mean what I say. I want it to be real.”

Ichigo nudged him under the table with his knee. “It is real, and they know you mean what you say. A little bit of flattery isn’t the same as lying, it’s just… social lubricant.”

Gin made a noise in his throat and Ichigo could feel the heat returning to his cheeks. “I see. And lubricant is something you’re familiar with Kurosaki-kun?”

“Bastard. You know what I meant.” His flush got worse and Ichigo couldn’t help but be thankful for the cold breeze blowing. He could pretend his face was just… wind-chapped. Right. “I guess what I was trying to say is that I know what it’s like when someone doesn’t do it, like Isshin. Or can’t do it, like me. Do you have any idea how many fights I could have avoided if I’d just learned how to say things differently? How many feelings I wouldn’t have hurt? How many times Karin wouldn’t have stomped on my foot because I said something completely honest and still managed to completely miss the point of what I was trying to say?” He snorted and picked up another takoyaki.

“You missing the point, Kurosaki-kun? Surely not.” Gin teased, and Ichigo felt the tightness around his chest loosen a little. It was working.

“You have no idea.” He shook his head ruefully, perfectly willing to humiliate himself if it made Gin feel better. “One time I told her homeroom teacher that Isshin couldn’t make it to the parent/teacher conference because the yakuza thug with the stab wound was more important than she was. Completely true? Yes. Totally honest? Absolutely. Utterly the wrong thing to say? Hell yes. We had three social services visits that month because I was too stupid to realize what that would sound like to someone that didn’t live my life. Being able to spin things a little would have been a godsend.”

Gin sighed and pushed his empty takoyaki boat away from him. “After everything I did people don’t see it that way. As harmless spin, I mean. I lived a lie for more than a hundred years. My best friends… the people I loved... None of them could tell the difference, and now that they know that the person they thought I was never existed, they doubt everything I say. Honestly, I don’ blame them.”

The tightness squeezed Ichigo’s heart again, and he made an aborted reach across the table to touch Gin’s hand. “I get it. I really do. You’re better at double-talk than most, and you haven’t always been the most honest guy in the world, but now you’re using your skills for good instead of evil, so it’s different. You don’t have to be so afraid of just being yourself, you know. Especially not with me. And if they can’t tell the difference? Fuck ‘em. Just be you. The people that care will figure it out.”

Ichigo popped the last fried dough ball in his mouth deliberately. He had learned a little bit about shutting up over the years, even if he wasn’t good at the whole moderated-honesty thing, so he chewed and waited.

Gin didn’t say anything for a few minutes and Ichigo was afraid that once again he’d managed to make things worse rather than better.

“You make it sound so easy, Kurosaki-kun.” His voice was almost wistful under its normal layer of snark.

Ichigo shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be hard. Just, I don’t know… treat people the way your treat the kids you take pictures of. Tell them what you want. Say thank you when you get it. Be firm but fair. Oh, and don’t let Hirako talk you into going to jazz bars, and never drink anything Urahara hands you. Simple.”

Pale blue eyes peered at him through dark blond lashes. “Only you, Kurosaki-kun.”

Ichigo frowned. “Only I would what?”

Gin shook his head and gave one of his closed-mouth smiles, clearly pleased but also clearly unwilling to explain.

Well, at least he was smiling.

***

Ichigo puttered around in their little kitchen and Gin could hear the sound of the tea tin and the kettle. It was amazing how comfortable he’d become sharing his space. He hadn’t felt this way since he and Ran shared the back room of a little inn in the Rukongai where the innkeeper was kind enough to let them do errands for a space of their own, however small.

“I told Yuzu that we’d come for dinner Sunday evening. She found a recipe for dojima roll that she wants your opinion of.”

Ichigo had stopped asking if Gin wanted to do things once he realized that the answer was always going to be some form of no. He insisted that interaction was necessary if Gin was going to survive staying in the human world and that his family and friends were the least likely to cause problems if he slipped up and spoke of things that humans wouldn’t—or shouldn’t—understand. It didn’t seem to occur to him that their familiarity with Seireitei and the problems with Aizen meant that his family and friends were also the ones most likely to have a problem with him in the first place, or that it might be hard for Gin to sit across the table from Isshin, Ran’s old Captain, and pretend that nothing was wrong, pretend that he didn’t know that the man would prefer anyone else for his eldest child.

“You know I appreciate the offer, but I can’t. Please apologize to Yuzu for me.” Gin kept his voice even. “It’s the last weekend of the Winter Fest and I have a full day of sittings scheduled…”

His voice trailed off as Ichigo wandered out of the bathroom. He had a towel draped over his shoulders, his hair still wet from the shower, and Gin didn’t think he’d ever seen him so at ease. The water darkened the spiky locks turning the natural orange into something softer, and his eyes glowed amber against his tan. It took his breath away.

Luckily, Ichigo had no clue about the effect he had.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I checked the schedule and you have the second set of Shima portraits to do in the afternoon—the youngest boy I think. You had him down for the hitatare, although why anyone wants to put a three year old in a samurai outfit is still a mystery to me—but you should be done with him by four and then it’s just back here to drop off the equipment, and then I can open a garganta from anywhere so we won’t have to worry about travel time, and…”

Gin held up a hand and Ichigo ground to a halt. “Kurosaki-kun, please.”

Something in his voice made the redhead frown. “What?”

He stilled himself, the shallow smile he’d worn for years hovering, but he forced himself not to give into the lie. He could do this. “I just… don’t think I should go. I appreciate the invitation but, no. Not this time. Thank you.”

A light dimmed in Ichigo’s eyes and Gin wished he could take his words back, but this was for the best.

“Oh,” the spiky head nodded, and he could see the shudder of a breath drawn too deeply too fast. “Okay. I get it. Simple, right?” There was nothing simple in Ichigo’s response.

“What do you mean, Kurosaki-kun?” Gin tilted his head a little, a tiny whisper of dread shot through his curiosity about what would happen next.

He should have known nothing about Ichigo would play out the way he expected. Slowly the younger man fisted his hands in the ends of the towel, pulling it tightly over his chest, and he shrugged, too casually, before answering.

“It’s like I said. You’re telling me what you want—firm and fair—and saying thank you. Couldn’t be much clearer. Sorry if I was making you uncomfortable, I just…” he looked away, his composure slipping into something soft and hurt.

Gin wanted to tell him, wanted to explain that he hadn’t made him uncomfortable, that Gin was being a coward, that he wanted to keep Ichigo to himself, that he dreamed of them hiding away here in Osaka not just for the festival season but always. He couldn’t, though. He’d driven enough distance between people that he cared about. He wasn’t going to be the cause of a rift between Ichigo and his family and friends.

“It isn’t like that.” The explanation sounded weak even to him.

“Then what is it like?” The words burst from the younger man. “I don’t understand. I thought you liked spending time with…”

Me, Gin could almost hear him say, and wouldn’t that open Pandora’s Box?

“I do.” The conversation was quickly becoming something Gin wasn’t prepared to deal with. “It’s just that I’ve been worried. Your father has been very generous to allow me into his home, but I know it must…”

A twisted bark of laughter split the space between them “You’re kidding. You’re worried about Isshin?”

When he put it that way it sounded a little strange, but Gin remembered the way the Taichō had watched him when he’d pushed Rangiku away. Remembered the judgment in his eyes. That kind of feeling didn’t just vanish into thin air.

“He was Rangiku’s captain. He didn’t approve of the way I treated her back then, and I’ve seen the way he looks at me now. I don’t want to cause any more trouble, Kurosaki-kun, and I certainly don’t want to force you to choose between me and your family.”

Ichigo looked at him like he was insane, and maybe he was. After everything that had happened, it was probably a foregone conclusion.

“First off, Isshin can take care of himself. He isn’t as much of an ass as he seems, but if he has a problem with you, he’ll deal with it his own way in his own time. Trust me. He learned to deal with the Visoreds, and with Yoruichi, and Urahara, and he’ll either learn to accept you or I’ll punch him in the head until he shuts up, but either way that isn’t something to worry about.”

Gin’s heart stuttered a little in his chest. No one but Ran had ever been willing to fight for him before.

He forced his mouth to form words. “You can’t just punch anyone that doesn’t want me around in the head until they give in, Kurosaki-kun.”

Ichigo stuck his chin out a fraction and met his eyes fiercely. “Try me.”

And, oh Soul King help him if he didn’t want to.

***

He was a grown man. He would be 200 next year. He could do this. It was only dinner.

“So, Ichimaru-san,” the bland voice could have hidden a dagger in it, or it could have just been Isshin being polite. “How’s the photography business going?”

Ichigo shifted minutely beside him and Karin shot an under-lashes look at him and he marveled for a moment when he realized that they were both preparing to jump in and defend him. From a question about his business. That he was proud of.

Kurosakis. They were insane. The whole lot of them.

“I won’t pretend there wasn’t a steep learning curve, but I’m pleased with it.” Gin sipped his miso and smiled appreciatively at Yuzu who was watching every bite he took. The girl had pulled out all the stops with dinner, making a whole bevy of Osakan favorites in his honor. “There is something magical about being able to capture a moment forever.”

Yuzu nodded when she was satisfied that he like the food well enough. “I love the kimono you designed for Inoue’s engagement portrait. I thought Ishida-san was going to have a stroke when she declared that she wanted you to handle the wedding, but even he was pleased with how the pictures turned out, and you know how fussy he is about everything.”

Gin had been surprised as well, but the Quincy was besotted and whatever his Princess wanted she got, even if it happened to be a disgraced Shinigami as his wedding photographer. Although, honestly, the fact that he’d killed a number of traitorous Shinigami was probably a point in his favor as far as Ishida was concerned.

“Matsumoto told me you’d been sponsored by the Sōtaichō himself.” Isshin raised an eyebrow. “Must have made things a lot easier having that kind of backing.”

It was true. Money made money and Gin wouldn’t have been able to do nearly as much as quickly if he’d been working from zero. It was a situation that benefitted Kyōraku—human world money wasn’t an issue for the Shinigami, and he’d have one fewer reminder of Aizen and the destruction around him if Gin wasn’t in Seireitei every day—but he was fairly certain that it had been Ichigo who convinced him.

“Indeed,” he nodded and smiled a careful smile, “he wanted me out from underfoot, and the seed money for my business was less than he’s funneled into Urahara-san’s shōten or what he provides for Hirako-san and the other Visored.”

Karin snorted. “I bet. Having you out of sight meant he didn’t to have to explain to everyone that you were smarter than everyone else and had been trying to take Aizen out of the picture before the rest of them ever got their heads out of their asses.”

Isshin made a startled noise and snapped his eyes across the table to his daughter; she glared right back at him. “You know I’m right. And anyway, what was he going to do? The amnesty wouldn’t have protected Ichimaru-san from the nuts in Seireitei that wanted a scapegoat, and he couldn’t just dump him in the human world without having his presence draw every hollow within a hundred miles. He had to make a deal with Urahara-sensei, and you and I both know that he wasn’t going to do anything without some cold, hard, bankable reasons for helping the Gotei 13 after all the ways they’ve screwed him over.”

Isshin choked on a laugh. “You know, sometimes I think that letting you work with Urahara might not have been the best idea I ever had.”

Yuzu shoved a bowl of yakisoba at him with a huff. “Like it was ever your decision.” She looked at Gin and smiled, as sweet to him as she’d been gruff to her father. “We would have found a way to study with Urahara-sensei no matter what Dad said. He just went along with it because he didn’t want to look like a pushover because we went behind his back.” She shot a pointed look at her brother. “He’s learned to pick his fights.”

Ichigo couldn’t smother his own grin at that. He was so proud of his sisters and he’d trained them to stand up for themselves no matter what. Gin knew that if they wanted to study with the Shinigami, Isshin wasn’t going to be able to stop them. Ichigo would never allow it, and from what he’d seen of Karin and Yuzu, he might not even have needed to step in.

Isshin sighed dramatically. “You see how they are? So stubborn,” he smiled at Gin for the first time, a sharp little glint hinting in his eye running counter to the broad grin, “they get it from their mother. Just like Ichigo. Once they get something in their heads there’s no talking them out of it. No matter how dangerous it might be.”

You’re a bad influence on my son, but I know him well enough not to push. He’d dig his heels in and be even more on your side, and I’m not dumb enough to do that, no matter what people might think of how Shibas handle things. Gin could almost hear the wheels turning. He could play that game, too, though. He’d spent enough time with Aizen that he could probably carry on twelve-layer conversations if needed.

“Luckily, all three of your children seem to be blessed with the uncanny ability to accumulate allies who will back them up no matter how dangerous the situation they find themselves in.” He smiled at the girls, wide and guileless, and he forced himself not to respond to the disbelieving snort from the redhead sitting beside him. “I know that there are at least half a dozen Captains willing to fall in line and ask how high if any one of them said jump.”

You don’t have to worry about Ichigo. There is a line of people willing to remove me from the picture in an instant if I hurt him. Gin let the smile drop from his face and actually met Isshin’s gaze, waiting until the man recognized the message and nodded once, satisfied at least for the moment.

“Have you seen Matsumoto-san recently, then?�� Gin changed the topic, remembering what Isshin had said about them discussing Gin’s sponsorship.

The ex-captain nodded. “She drops by every now and then. Now that she’s forgiven me for disappearing on her.” He sighed. “Neither of us have been very good to her, have we, Ichimaru-san?”

There was a pain in the other man’s voice that echoed in Gin’s chest. No. Neither of them had been very good to Ran, no matter how much they cared for her.

Ichigo spoke up. “I saw her yesterday. She needed help with something Hitsugaya wanted her to set up in the training yard at the tenth.”

Gin looked at him and noticed there was a bit of flush along the tips of Ichigo’s ears. Like something was embarrassing him.

“Aw, did she flash her boobs at you again, Ichi-nii?” Karin teased, also having noticed the redness. “If she keeps doing that you should have Toshiro reprimand her for sexual harassment.”

Ichigo’s face was burning now. “It wasn’t like that at all. She hasn’t flashed me in…”

Amber eyes shot up to aqua ones and Gin couldn’t figure out what the panicked look in them meant.

“We set up some new kidō exercise targets and then had lunch. She offered to feed me because I’d done her a favor and we hadn’t talked in forever.” He glared at his sister. “That was it, and don’t start threatening to talk to Toshiro just because you want an excuse to talk to him. Ran doesn’t need any more trouble.”

Yuzu stood and headed for the kitchen, probably to bring out the dessert she was so excited about, but Gin couldn’t take his eyes off Ichigo. There was something strange, there. He hadn’t seen that kind of reaction in him in a long time. Not since… well, not since he’d defended him.

Karin stood to help her sister with a huff. “Fine. But you shouldn’t let her treat you like that. I’ve seen the way she gets all handsy and flirtatious when she’s out. It’s bad enough when it’s someone like Hisagi-san that she’s already had a relationship with, but she needs to know that there are boundaries that aren’t cool to cross.”

“I can take care of myself, Karin,” Ichigo said. “You’re just jealous because Toshiro gets an eyeful just standing next to her. It isn’t Ran’s fault.”

It was true, the younger Kurosaki was obviously jealous, her feelings for the snow prince out there for everyone to see, but Gin couldn’t explain away the curdling feeling in his own stomach at the idea of Ran hanging on Ichigo, drunk and flirtatious, her copious charms on display. She was beautiful, and Ichigo was only human, after all.

Ichigo tapped Gin on the shoulder, the warm hand pulling him from his reverie. “Look. Yuzu’s dojima roll. She’s been waiting for this for forever.”

Gin leaned into the touch a little, ostensibly to get a better view of the tray Yuzu was carrying and the heat of Ichigo’s skin almost scalded him he was so hyperaware of it.

And I’ve been waiting for this forever. The thought sucker punched him, and he couldn’t stifle a gasp.

“Everything okay there, Ichimaru-san?” Isshin asked, his eyes taking in the closeness between Gin and Ichigo.

Gin shoved it all down into the box where he kept all his emotions, refusing to let his feelings cause yet more problems.

“Of course, Kurosaki-san,” he said with a tilt of his chin, pulling his phone out of his pocket as a distraction. “I was just surprised by Yuzu-chan’s skills once again. That looks amazing.” He lifted the phone enquiringly. “Could I take a photo, please? It’s just too lovely not to record for posterity.”

Yuzu smiled brightly enough to not need extra lighting, and Gin was thankful that the dojima roll was, actually, impressive enough to merit his attentions. He spent a few minutes fussing over it and Yuzu, taking different pictures and letting Karin tell him about the other roll cakes that had failed and been passed off to Jinta at the shōten. Gin smiled and nodded and allowed the noise to wash over him as he slowly reassembled his shattered reality around his newly recognized feelings for the man sitting next to him.

He put the phone down and picked up his plate, nibbling at the sweet to make it last as long as possible before he had to face Ichigo alone on their trip back to their apartment.

It was ridiculous how obvious his feelings were when he stopped and actually looked at them; he wondered if they were that clear to everyone else. Isshin’s comments could have easily been a shovel talk, and he’d gotten similar don’t fuck with Ichigo lectures from several of his friends. Probably worst, looking back, had been the hand pats and understanding looks he’d gotten from Orihime. She’d said “Once Ichigo decides someone is worth caring about you just have to let him. He isn’t going to stop; he just takes a while to figure things out. So, be patient with him. Okay, Ichimaru-san?”

He takes a while…? Gin would have laughed if he didn’t think he wouldn’t be able to stop.

They stayed like that for a while, the wound-spring-tightness of his nerves slowly relaxing as they finished dinner and prepared to leave.

“Ichimaru-san!” Yuzu piped up from the table where she was standing. “Don’t forget your phone. Can I get a copy of that photo you took?”

She dragged her fingers across the screen and the phone lit up, and as quick as a striking cobra she was flipping through the icons searching for the camera function.

“Oh, here they are. I’d just sync the phones, but mine is charging upstairs and I…”

She stopped, staring at the photo library and Gin wondered what she’d seen. He didn’t use the camera for much, just random candid shots. He’d taken a lot of pictures of the displays at the Winter Festival, the lights and the people. Nothing special.

She flipped through screen after screen, her eyes getting bigger until Karin reached over and snagged it from her.

“Here, let me look. It can’t be that hard to find. I mean, he just took the pictures an hour ago.”

She looked down at the screen and then back up at her sister, sharing some twin mind-meld apparently before Karin stopped on one photo in particular and pulled it up.

“Ichi-nii,” she said, looking over at her brother where he was gathering their things to leave. “You should see this.”

Something heavy settled in Gin’s stomach.

“Sure, what is it?” He noticed that it was Gin’s phone in his sister’s hand. “Don’t tell me you stole his phone. Come on, what are you? Twelve?”

He reached out and as she dropped it in his hand Gin caught a glimpse of the screen.

It was Ichigo standing at the window of their apartment, the dawn sky casting a slanted light over his grinning face. He remembered the moment—they’d been laughing after breakfast, getting ready to open the Festival Studio, and Ichigo had been so striking in the half-light, the expression on his face so clear and bright, that Gin couldn’t resist taking his picture, even as Ichigo groaned and complained that he always looked stupid in photos, and why did Gin insist on doing this to him.

It was an attractive picture, no doubt, but he didn’t understand why it seemed to affect the girls so much.

Ichigo didn’t understand either, apparently.

“Huh, this one turned out pretty good.” He looked at Gin and rolled a shoulder. “I guess you’re good enough at this photography thing that you can even make me look okay.”

The girls were still doing the silent conversation thing and Isshin had caught on. He took two of his oddly graceful strides across the room and took the phone from Ichigo, looking at the image that was causing all the fuss.

First came surprise, but hard on its heels was something else, something softer, and Isshin’s whole stance changed as he looked up. He looked at Gin and paused before asking. “You think I could get a copy of this one?” He waggled the phone to indicate the picture and Gin nodded. “Don’t have any recent pics of Ichigo for the scrapbook, and Masaki would love this one.”

Ichigo snagged the phone and groaned. “Come on, old man, it’s just a picture. Gin takes tons of them. It’s no big deal.”

“But you’re smiling, Ichi-nii.” Yuzu’s voice was quiet. “You were smiling in all of them. I don’t think we have any pictures of you smiling. Not since… well, not since you were little.”

Not since his mother died, Gin filled in. The girls were looking at him intently, an almost painful hope on their face. He understood. He’d do almost anything to make the redhead smile, too.

“Well,” Ichigo was pinking around the edges again, the silent conversations finally making him too uncomfortable. “I guess he’s just good at getting me to smile. The sign of a good photographer, right?”

Isshin nodded. “Still. I’d like a copy. Sometime. There’s no rush. It’s not like you won’t be coming back for dinner next week, right Ichimaru-san? I’m sure Yuzu would love to use you as a guinea pig for more of her new recipes.”

Something settled between the two ex-captains with the invitation, an olive branch extended. Isshin was willing to bury the past because somehow Gin had made his son happy and he would do anything to help keep him that way, and Gin… well, Gin was no fool. The girls watched him, looking like they expected him to run from whatever this silent agreement was, but all Gin could think was that they weren’t going to fight to keep him out of Ichigo’s life, and for that he would put up with a thousand family dinners.

“I’d be delighted. Have you ever had persimmon bread, Yuzu? Karin? I’ll bring some with us the next time we come. You’ll love it.”

***

“Tonight is the last night. You should get to enjoy the festival a little instead of just working through it.”

Ichigo had been wheedling and coaxing for the past two days saying that Gin needed to relax a little, that he’d been working too hard. The truth was, Gin had been using work to hide from this thing that was threatening to consume him. He would see Ichigo over breakfast and long to brush the soft spikes of his hair down. He watched from the protected corner of his workspace, two monitors hiding his face as he spied on the other man reading or playing video games or sketching. He would lose his train of thought as he was matching silks for his costumes because a color would remind him of Ichigo, and at night? At night his dreams were haunted by aches that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for decades.

“You know I have clients scheduled right up until five, Kurosaki-kun.” Gin couldn’t help but laugh at the pout that flitted across Ichigo’s face.

“Well, then, just promise that you’ll meet me for dinner as soon as your last appointment is finished. You don’t have to break down the studio until tomorrow. Classes have been over for six weeks and I still haven’t gotten to really celebrate having survived another year.”

Gin gave him a snake-sharp smile. “I see. Since that’s the case, I suppose I can make time. It isn’t safe to let you loose unsupervised. You’re like an unsupervised toddler… someone will give you a puppy and an espresso and then we’ll all be doomed.”

Ichigo laughed. “I’d point out that you’re the one that’s good at wrangling toddlers, but I don’t want to be wrangled. Although, if you followed me around like a puppy, I probably wouldn’t complain.”

Gin’s heart was imitating a taiko from the twilight kumidaiko performances, slowly ramping up to a ferocious pace before dropping off and then starting up again without warning.

Ichigo was dressed in black trousers and a long black jacket that looked surprisingly like his bankai robes and Gin had been caught staring more than once. It must have been welcome, because the redhead’s usual awkwardness in the face of that kind of attention had turned into a terribly attractive swagger of confidence that Gin wanted to inspire in him again and again.

He was so attractive, and not just physically. It was as if a gravitational field surrounded him, that pulled people towards him, and Gin longed to stop fighting and let it pull him closer and closer until there was no space left between them, to let the whirlpool that was Ichigo Kurosaki suck him under, surround him, and drown him.

“Is this a special occasion?” he asked, his voice light and still teasing. Ichigo paused and then nodded once, slowly.

“Sort of.” He didn’t explain, but his face was pink, and Gin didn’t think it was from the cold.

“In that case, how can I say no?” He bowed, an almost snarky thing from the waist, and Ichigo smiled. “Where shall I meet you?”

Ichigo looked like he’d won a prize and Gin was afraid that his face was turning pink as well. He hadn’t blushed like a schoolboy even when he’d been a schoolboy.

The things this man did to him.

“Seven, sharp. At the izakaya row. We’ll start there and see where the evening takes us.”

“Seven it is, then.” Gin watched Ichigo scoot away, obviously following plans that only he knew, and turned and headed into the studio, a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

Tonight, he would tell Ichigo how he felt, and if he was right, he wouldn’t be alone in his feelings.

***

Ichigo was walking on air.

Gin had finally agreed to go out with him, a night on the town… or at least on the festival. The izakaya alley would be a start with something to eat and then they’d get hot shochu and wander down to the light tunnel and look at all the displays.

He knew he hadn’t been imagining the looks being sent his way, and he certainly wasn’t imagining how those looks set his pulse racing. It was more nerve-wracking than battle in some ways; he wasn’t inexperienced, but he’d never felt anything like this.

Which is why he called in reinforcements.

“I want it to be perfect, Ran.”

Ichigo appreciated the older woman’s willingness to help, but he was worried that she was going to turn it into a side-show. She wasn’t exactly known for her tact.

“Are you sure about this, Ichigo?” She’d been waiting for him, slowly—or not so slowly—making her way through a bottle of something alcoholic, and the wobble in her voice indicated that things were likely to get a little emotional. She was Gin’s only family, though, and if Gin could run the gauntlet at the Casa Kurosaki, he could deal with a sauced sister.

“I’ve never been more sure, Ran.” The words came easily, and Ichigo was almost surprised by the depth of truth in them. “Watching Gin get comfortable in his own skin over the past year has been amazing. Getting to see him puff out his chest and posture with tiny samurai or soothe a tiny tearful geiko? I can’t even begin to explain how it makes me feel. I have to give this a try.”

Ran looked at him seriously, her gaze taking his flushed face and shining eyes. “And if he doesn’t feel the same? I’ll be honest, Ichigo. I can’t remember the last time he let anybody close enough to do more than have a quick tumble. Kira moped after him for decades, you know.”

Ichigo swallowed hard. “Yeah, I know. If he doesn’t feel the same way, it’ll be rough for a while. But I’ll be graduating next year, and I can find another apartment. He’s doing well enough that he can hire an assistant if he needs the extra help, so he won’t have to deal with me at all if he doesn’t want to. I’m not going to take my disappointment out on him, if that’s what you’re worried about. That wouldn’t be fair.”

Ran shook her head. “Every time you open your mouth you either make me think you’re stupid or you’re perfect.”

Ichigo rubbed the back of his neck. “Which is it this time?”

Ran leaned forward and put her arms around him, embracing him tightly and planting a kiss on his cheek. “Right now, I’d say you’re pretty damn perfect, Ichigo Kurosaki.”

They stood like that with the crowd parting around them, and Ichigo laughed, wrapping his arms around her as well.

“You really think it might work?” He looked down at her and grinned as she nodded.

“He’s smart enough to know a good thing when he sees it, and you are definitely good for him.”

Ichigo couldn’t hold his happiness in and swung her around like his would one of the twins, his heart filled with anticipation.

“Thank you Ran,” he said, setting her back on her feet, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support in this.”

Rangiku punched him in the shoulder and stepped back. “Don’t get too comfortable. If you screw up, I’m still going to tell your dad. And Renji. And Rukia. Believe me, I’ve thought this through.”

Ichigo grinned. “You wouldn’t be Gin’s sister if you hadn’t.”

***

The irony settled on him like a weighted blanket. His last appointment had cancelled—the child had come down with a cold—and Gin had been so excited to get to Ichigo early. He’d changed clothes—Ichigo had once seen him in a traditional kimono and had been enthusiastic in his praise, and whether it was just because it was a fine outfit or whether he thought it particularly attractive on Gin, he thought it would be a nice surprise since Ichigo had gone to such pains to dress up as well.

He’d chosen a gray silk montsuki and black hakama, something close to his shihakusho, and if he found comfort in it, then no one else needed to know.

The comfort hadn’t lasted.

He walked out of the festival grounds, just picking a direction and going. He didn’t know where he was headed, he just needed to get away. Clouds had moved in and the wind had picked up and the chill nipped at his skin. He barely noticed it.

The snow crunched under his feet. It was strange to make so much sound—his gigai made more noise than his reiatsu-silenced steps ever did—but everything was strange in the human world.

It was cold. His fingers were trembling and blue. He couldn’t feel them.

He couldn’t feel anything.

That wasn’t true. He felt pain. Pain that he hadn’t felt since he died in Ran’s arms, her scalding tears hot on his face. His blood hot as it gushed around her fingers.

That pain was icy now.

He forced one foot in front of the other, following the path carved into the snow by hundreds of other people. The sounds of the festival surrounded him, but they seemed distant. Muffled.

The only thing he could hear was Ichigo’s laugh. It echoed through his memory, clear and warm and everything he’d ever wanted to hear and nothing he ever wanted to hear again. It hurt too much when he was laughing for someone else.

Laughing for her. With her.

He hadn’t meant to spy—honestly—he’d left the studio early hoping to pick up two of the ridiculous hot chocolates that Ichigo had become so fond of as a surprise. He thought…. Well, it didn’t matter what he thought.

But Ran?

It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand someone loving her—he’d loved her forever—but… Ran? She was everything Ichigo rolled his eyes at in his sisters, all the over-the-top emotions and the talking and the teasing and the laughing.

Oh my God, the laughing.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. No, that wasn’t true either. He’d laughed over dinner when they hadn’t ordered enough takoyaki and he’d managed to distract Ichigo long enough that he stole the redhead’s out from under his nose without him noticing. He’d laughed at Ichigo’s ridiculous Chappy pajamas—a gift from Rukia—when he’d run out of clean laundry. He’d laughed at the frown on Ichigo’s face when he realized that Gin had taken a picture of him cooing over Orihime’s new pet rabbit.

He supposed it was only fair that Ichigo would prefer the company of someone that could make him laugh, too.

His shuddering exhale surrounded his head in a cloud of fog.

It made sense in other ways. Ran asking for his help would explain why Ichigo’d invested so much time and effort in getting Gin on his feet. Helped him adjust to the human world. Certainly made more sense than him wanting to do it for Gin. They barely knew each other, and what they did know… well, it wouldn’t inspire kindness.

The weight of his thoughts dragged at him, just as the wet fabric of his hakama were dragging at him. His zori were soaked, tabi ruined in the snow, and he was cold. So cold.

And tired.

Maybe if he sat down and rested, just for a few minutes, he would be able to think of something else. Figure out what to do next. Right now, though, he just needed to rest. He just needed to close his eyes and pray he’d stop seeing the only two people he’d ever loved laughing together.

Without him.

***

Ran was crying again.

She was always crying around him.

“Stupid. Stupid. Never thought I’d be so happy that Urahara was a paranoid mad scientist. Never would have found you without the gigai’s tracking signal. Stupid. What were you thinking? Were you thinking? If you didn’t want to date the boy you didn’t have to do something this drastic, and this was drastic even for you.”

The words ran together, like water over stones.

“Kurosaki thinks you hate him. That somehow he pushed you to this. But I know you don’t hate him. I know you don’t hate him. Maybe you hate yourself. Maybe you hate being banished to the human world. But you don’t hate him.”

The only person Gin hated was Aizen, and he was out of the picture, so she was right. He didn’t hate Ichigo. Could never hate him.

“I swear, if you don’t die from reishi loss, I’m going to kill you. Isshin is going to kill you. Gods, that little almost spiritless one, the one with the red hair like Kurosaki? I think she was planning on chopping you up into stew before she remembered this body was just a gigai.”

Yuzu was going to turn him into stew? Why would Yuzu be angry with him? He didn’t do anything.

“He isn’t eating. He isn’t sleeping. All he does is stare at the wall like a zombie. You’ve been unconscious for three days, Gin. Three days. You’ve got to wake up. You’ve just got to wake up.”

A warm hand rested over his. He could feel the too smooth skin of a gigai, no sword callouses on her fingers. So, Urahara was keeping busy. Maybe Ran could keep this one so she could stay in the human world with Ichigo.

“I just got you back; I can’t lose you again, Gin. And Kurosaki,” she sucked in a shuddery breath, “I don’t know what he’s going to do. I just don’t know. He loves you so damn much. I think he might love you more than I do. So why? Why did you do this to him? To us? Why didn’t you just tell him no?”

She was crying again, her hands grasping his hard.

He loves you so damn much. Gin replayed her words, and something lurched in his chest. What did that mean? What did she mean? He forced himself up through the layers of exhaustion and weakness, swimming up through the waves that slapped at his consciousness.

“He loves you.” The words were broken glass in his throat, dry and sharp and everything he never wanted to say, but he got them out. “I saw the two of you at the festival. Laughing.”

His eyes wouldn’t open. Apparently Urahara’s gigais had a built-in sense of self-preservation. He knew he’d never survive looking at her face as he admitted what he knew.

A gasp and choking sound caught somewhere in her throat, whether in shock at his having regained consciousness or at what his first words were.

Then the rant began in earnest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You unbelievable idiot!” Ran leaned over the bed and slapped his face, once, then twice, until finally Gin forced his eyes open a slit to see her tear-streaked, furious, face. “You mean to tell me that all of this, this hell, is because you saw me laughing with Kurosaki?”

Gin turned his face away, unable or unwilling to continue the conversation. Reishi loss or not, he could still feel the pain simmering under his skin and Ran clearly didn’t understand.

“Gin,” Something of his pained expression must have registered. Ran started, stopped and then started again, her voice wavering between tears and angry laughter. “Dear, stupid Gin. He was asking for my blessing. As your family. He wanted…” a hot tear dripped on his chin as she hovered over him, “he wanted everything to be perfect for you, and that meant making sure that I approved. Of him. For you.” The last words were practically spat out and he finally looked at her. “What you saw was him incandescently happy because he loved you, you utter, utter fool.”

Time stopped and Gin’s brain kicked in running through everything Ran had said since he’s first regained consciousness.

Oh no…

“Where is he?” the words shook, along with every cell in his borrowed body as he tried to push himself up. “I need to speak to him. To explain.”

If the pain of seeing him happy with Ran was excruciating, knowing that something he’d done had made him so miserable was infinitely worse.

And Ran… he tried to raise his hand to her face but still didn’t have enough reishi reserves to operate the gigai fully, so he squeezed her hand where it rested on the bed instead.

“Oh Rangiku, I am so sorry. I can’t seem to stop hurting you.”

Ran leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, her breathing not yet steady but getting there.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said, a few final tears meandering down her cheeks. “I’m too busy being happy to have my brother back.”

Gin marveled at her forgiveness and swore to himself again that he would do his damnedest to save her from this kind of pain in the future.

“Now,” Ran said, perching on the side of his bed, still holding his hand. “How are we going to fix this, because I’m not letting Isshin kick your ass. I have my family honor to protect.”

Gin didn’t know. A hundred years with Aizen had done a lot for his ability to manipulate people, but it sure as hell hadn’t taught him how to grovel, and he was afraid there was a lot of groveling in his future.

If it worked, though, it would be worth it. His pride was nothing compared to Ichigo.

***

Ichigo jumped a little as the alarm buzzed in his pocket. It looked like one of those coasters the restaurant hostess gave you while you were waiting for a table to open, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Kisuke had liberated a few and repurposed them to run on reishi rather than reinvent the wheel. It didn’t matter, though. Kisuke could steal all the gadgets in Tokyo and Ichigo wouldn’t care as long as he let Ichigo keep this one.

This one was telling him that Gin was awake.

He let himself slump against the basement wall, the muscles in his legs refusing to hold him up. Gin was awake, the gigai was functional, the worst hadn’t happened. Gin was awake.

It had been a nightmarish couple of days, and he knew people were worried about him. His dad threatened to tie him down to one of the beds in the clinic and hook him up to an IV if he didn’t at least drink some tea and eat the power bar he thrust in his face. Ichigo had, but only because it was easier than fighting. After that, the girls had hugged him and Tessai had checked on him like clockwork, and even Jinta, the little punk, had hovered in the background in case he wanted something.

They figured it out soon enough: all he wanted was Gin.

For twenty-four hours he’d been glued to the bed upstairs, watching for any sign of consciousness—a finger twitch, a breath, anything—but unlike a healing body a gigai was essentially corpse-like in its stillness. Gin’s pale skin was faded to gray, his hair limp and stuck to his head where it had been soaked with snowmelt and dried haphazardly.

He was a gruesome wax doll laid on a bier, a horrible half-ghost waiting to float away, and somehow… somehow, he was still beautiful. The quiet buzz of Gin’s reiatsu echoed through the room, the only thing that mattered, because as long as Ichigo could feel that, there was hope.

The training ground was dark and quiet except for the new buzzing in his hand. He’d taken over the basement on day two, at first determined to stay there until the moment Gin waked up, but he became more hesitant as the silent room loomed and questions ate at his mind.

He still didn’t understand what happened—why Gin had wandered out into the storm instead of meeting him as they’d arranged, and he was struggling with the aftermath.

It had taken him hours to realize Gin wasn’t just late he was missing, and then hours more to find him, finally having Kisuke activate Gin’s gigai’s tracker. When he finally found him, Gin was past shivering, so cold that his body had given up trying to warm itself, and Ichigo could vividly remember the bird-bone weight of him under yards of sodden silk as he scooped him into his arms. It was not the way he’d daydreamed of holding him at all, all the joy leached out of it, and he ripped open a garganta straight to the shōten and Kisuke’s labs, turning his precious cargo over to his mad scientist best friend.

Ichigo sighed and levered himself to his feet, shoving the alarm back into his pocket. It was time. Kisuke had pointed out that Gin might not be up to facing everyone when he woke, and Ichigo was quick enough on the uptake to hear the unspoken you in that message, but it didn’t matter. If Gin was there, then Ichigo would be there, too.

Being Kurosaki Ichigo came with a lot of baggage, not the least of which was people thinking they understood him, but only three or four actually knew that underneath all the shiny hero stuff he was incredibly selfish. He fought for who he loved and what he wanted and what he believed, and if someone else didn’t like it, then screw them. Whether Gin ever shared his feelings was immaterial. The truth was that Gin was his, and he would do whatever he had to to keep it that way. If that meant keeping his feelings to himself, he could do that. If it meant giving the other man space, fine. He’d stand back and watch and wait when he had to, chase and cheat when he could, and if after all of it Gin never came to feel the same way, well, Ichigo would just stay. He’d be a friend. Assist in the studio. Find Gin someone else that he could love and hold and grow old with because he’d been alone too long, and he deserved something more, and because loving someone was just that simple.

But, if Gin ever did something self-destructive like this again, he’d lock him in a room and throw away the key, because loving someone was simple, but losing them was hard, and he couldn’t do that again.

***

Gin shrugged into the clothes Urahara had brought him, grateful for the soft workout pants and the extra pair of socks, but his lip twisted at the yellow hoodie on the top of the pile. It wasn’t his first choice of style, but he was freezing, and the extra layer made sense. After all the trouble he’d put the man to over the past few days, the last thing he was going to do was complain about the color of his generosity.

It was a pity that the silk kimono had been another casualty of his breakdown. He’d daydreamed about the look on Ichigo’s face when he saw it for the first time, fantasized about the temptation that the layers would present to him, but now he could only imagine what kind of memory it would drag along with it. Maybe he would get the chance to try again someday.

Ran had left soon after Gin’s awakening, clearing out so that Urahara could run his diagnostics and he’d only left after he’d satisfied himself that there was no more leaking from Gin’s spirit body. He explained that he’d had to remove the reiatsu limiter from the gigai during his healing because it was interfering with his reishi levels returning to normal and it would feel strange after all the time he’d spent in the other, muffled state.

He was right, but it was a good strange. It was almost like having eyes again after having been blind. Urahara and Tsukabishi kept their reiatsu tamped down tightly, but he could feel the sunburst of power that was Ichigo, at first tucked away in the basement where he’d apparently been for the past two days, but now clearly moving in his direction.

Gin pressed his shaking hands against the soft cotton covering his legs. Hiding wasn’t an option; he wasn’t going to be a coward and run away again. He just didn’t want to see the hurt that he knew he’d caused.

There was a soft knock at the door sooner than he’d expected. Ichigo must want to get their meeting over with as well.

“Come in, Kurosaki-kun,” he answered, his voice thankfully steady.

The door slid open and the sheer power that flooded the room was overwhelming. Ichigo had always had that power, but seeing him like this, without the veil over him, was breath-taking.

The redhead, though, looked almost as stunned by what he saw, awkwardly standing frozen in the doorway.

“I’m sorry.” Gin got right to the groveling. “Kurosaki-kun… Ichigo-kun… I am so sorry.”

He watched Ichigo’s face closely, watched the amber eyes widen and the lips part on a breathy intake.

“I’m just glad you’re alright.” His voice was hoarse, and his eyes took Gin in from his bedhead to his long, narrow rabbit-feet. It didn’t look like he was angry, but he didn’t know everything yet. Angry was still a definite possibility.

“I’m afraid there isn’t anywhere to sit except the bed,” he waved behind him, wishing he’d taken the time to straighten out the messy bedding, but it was too late for that now. “I’d like to explain. Or to try. If you wouldn’t mind.” He felt the muscles of his face try to smile, but there was nothing happy about it.

Ichigo was still just standing there, staring.

“Do I have something on my face?” Gin asked. The words fell a little flat, but he didn’t know what else to say. Ichigo shook his head and brought himself back to something a little more normal.

“No, it’s just that that hoodie is…”

Gin snorted a little laugh. “I know. Not the most attractive thing, but Urahara was gracious enough to loan it to me since my own clothes… well, at least these were warm and dry.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Ichigo shook his head again, but this time with more intent. “I was just going to say that it was mine. I must’ve left it here the last time I stayed.” He swallowed and Gin watched his throat work, a faint hint of red dusting his cheekbones. “It looks good on you.”

Ichigo’s sweatshirt. He was wearing Ichigo’s sweatshirt. That was why Urahara was grinning behind his fan as he left the clothes. The man was a menace.

“I didn’t know,” he said, halfway through an apologetic little bow before Ichigo could step forward, a hand outstretched.

“No, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I like it on you. It…” a battle of thoughts was happening behind those eyes and Gin forced himself stand perfectly still so he didn’t startle the younger man into pulling his hand back, finally breathing again when whatever process Ichigo was working through was finished. He met Gin’s gaze, unblinking. “It makes you look like you’re mine.”

Like you’re mine. The world tilted and suddenly Ichigo’s arms were around him, guiding him back to the bed and settling him on the edge before he could end up in a pile on the floor.

“Take it easy,” he said, chafing Gin’s freezing hands between his warm ones. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Shit. And after pushing you so hard…”

Ichigo’s voice was rough with suppressed emotion, but his hands were incredibly gentle, and Gin couldn’t believe that this was happening.

“Did you talk to Ran?” It was a cheap way to start, hoping that Ran had already shared his shame, so he didn’t have to break that ground fresh.

“Matsumoto? No. Kisuke said something about her having to go back to Soul Society. I think Kyōraku wanted an update or something since she’d been here so long without an assignment.”

“Oh, okay.” Gin had known she had to go back, just as he now knew it was up to him to explain. “I just didn’t want to waste your time on things you already knew.”

Ichigo rubbed the back of his neck with a rueful sound. “Yeah. It’s probably safe to assume I don’t know anything. What happened? I thought…” he stared at Gin and there was a flash of heartbreak in his eyes that Gin would have given years of his life to erase.

“Please,” Gin gripped Ichigo’s hand in his lap, refusing to let it go, leaning forward to almost touch their temples together, “just let me explain. I screwed up—monumentally, according to Ran—not you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ichigo turned his hand palm up, leaving it in Gin’s grip. “Okay. If you say so, I’ll believe you, but something happened, and I’d really like to understand so it doesn’t happen again.”

Gin sucked in a deep breath and tried to slow his heart. He didn’t deserve this much understanding, but Gods he was greedy enough to want it.

“You know me. I’ve never let people close. Ran-chan is the only person I’ve ever cared about. I’m not… temperate in my love. You saw what I did in the name of protecting her. Saw what I became.”

Ichigo nodded but didn’t interrupt, a sad look on his face.

“I don’t know if you realize what it was like for me, following Aizen for so long. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t have relationships. Sex wasn’t common and when it did happen it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t see anyone more than once or twice, and I was okay with that. I didn’t have the room or the resources or the time to actually care about someone.”

He paused and tried to straighten out the tangle of his thoughts. “It wasn’t until the fight with Aizen was over and my wounds had healed that I even began to feel like I had a soul again, and then I was sent to the human world where everyone’s emotions are so close to the surface all the time that you can practically see them. It was like having all my skin rubbed raw, I was feeling again, and I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t know how. I certainly didn’t know what to do with you.”

Ichigo made a noise. “What do you mean you didn’t know what to do with me? You never seemed to have a problem with me.”

“I didn’t have a problem with you, you just weren’t what I expected. Do you know how strange it was to deal with someone like you after a hundred years of Aizen? I watched everything you did for hidden meanings and agendas but every single time you were just exactly what you promised. No lies. No manipulation. No long game.”

The redhead snorted. “Yeah. Kisuke told me once I had all the cunning of a golden retriever, and that he was lucky that I was almost as trainable.”

It was true enough to be funny and they shared a laugh.

“After a while I stopped searching for subtext and just started accepting you at face value. You were the only person I’d trusted in a hundred years, kind and smart and for some reason you valued me. I never had a chance. I fell. Hard.”

Ichigo made a sound deep in his throat, something that sounded wounded and hopeful and confused, and Gin couldn’t look at him or he’d never get the next part of the story out.

“At first I didn’t believe that you could feel the same way. No one would or could. Self-loathing isn’t a pretty thing, and I stewed in it. I told myself I was happy with what I had—not many people could count themselves on the short list of people you’d go to war for, and I was so grateful that you’d put me on that list but it wasn’t enough. I wanted more.”

Ichigo raised his free hand to rest on the back of Gin’s neck, the warm weight of it grounding and comforting, and the blond sighed.

“Then things started to change. You started touching me more, smiling at me more, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. You seemed interested in something more than just being friends, but I still didn’t trust that something like that could ever happen for me. I started to doubt almost as much as I hoped, and then you asked me to meet you at the festival and I told myself that if you did feel like I did, then every moment I put off telling you was a moment lost, so I—how did your Shakespeare put it?—screwed my courage to the sticking point and told myself that it was time to put myself out there and let you decide what you wanted, and I would take whatever you were willing to give me.”

“At the Festival?” Ichigo asked, and Gin nodded.

“It seemed like you had the same idea, so I dressed in my finest, wanting to offer you the best version of myself, and I left the studio early hoping to find you so I could spend every moment I could with you. And then, when I finally found you, you had your arms wrapped around another. Laughing. Allowing her to kiss you.”

Ichigo sat bolt upright and hissed out, “You saw me with Matsumoto.”

Gin nodded, curling in a little on himself with the pain of the memory. “It made a twisted kind of sense. Your family teased you about her, and she visited you often when she didn’t even come to see me. If you cared for her and she’d asked for you to help me, to take me under your wing, it is exactly the kind of thing you’d agree to. You’d go to any lengths for someone you loved, even rehabilitate a villain. And you looked so happy.” He couldn’t keep the wistful tone out of his voice. “It’s ironic that even while I felt like my world was falling apart, I couldn’t begrudge you your happiness. I just couldn’t stay and watch it. So, I left. I didn’t make a conscious decision, I just turned in the opposite direction and started walking. I didn’t stop until my gigai stopped me.”

And that was it. He’d laid it all out, and now it was up to Ichigo.

God, he was tired.

“I didn’t ever intend this.” He waved haphazardly at the room and the mess that his collapse had caused. “And I cannot begin t’ apologize enough for any hurt I caused you.”

Ichigo pulled him forward, hand tight on the back of his neck, and Gin could feel a tremble as it passed through his body. They sat like that in silence, heads together for a long time before Ichigo spoke.

“So, you don’t hate me?” The words were a whisper between them, insecure but hopeful. Gin whispered back. “I could never. I love you; I’ve loved you forever.”

Ichigo pulled back a little, his eyes huge and dark, searching Gin’s face for something he apparently found because he nodded once and leaned a fraction closer. “Good. I love you, too. I’m going to kiss you now.”

***

Gin’s lips were thin and dry, frozen still under his, shocked into immobility but not pulling away. Ichigo pulled back and their breath mingled hot between them, panting as if they’d shunpo’d the breadth of Seireitei.

“Wanted this for so long,” he murmured, leaning in to nip along the edge of Gin’s lower lip, “was so afraid I’d lost you.”

Something in that sparked movement and long fingers suddenly cupped his chin, tilting his head so that Gin could lean back in and slot their mouths together. It was sweetness and heat, lighting up all of Ichigo’s nerves, everything more intense than a simple brush of lips should be.

Gin was the one that pulled back then, fingers sliding up to hold Ichigo’s head where he wanted it, pressing their foreheads together again as they caught their breath.

“God, you’re gorgeous. Can’t believe you’re mine.” Gin’s accent is thicker, his pupils huge, the aquamarine nothing but a gossamer rim, and Ichigo has never seen anything so beautiful. “You’re stuck with me now. Never going t’ let you go.”

The possessiveness of the words sent a shiver through him and Ichigo slid his hands over Gin’s narrow hips, ghosting them along his long, lean flanks. He was thin, but it was all whipcord strength and sinew. Ichigo couldn’t wait until he had time to explore the sharp planes of his body, to dig his thumbs into the bony ridge of Gin’s hipbones, to kiss the dip between the wings of his shoulder blades. Those things would come soon enough, though. For now, with his arms around this man, he had everything he could ask for.

He leaned into his future, breathing hot against Gin’s cheek, recognizing his words for the promise that they were. He would always be there, Ichigo belonging to him as much as Gin belonged to Ichigo. He’d follow Ichigo into the depths of Hell if he had to to pull him back home, because that was what this was. What they were together.

He settled his arms around Gin’s waist, his embrace tight and insistent. “Why would I ever want to leave?” He pressed their lips together again, heart stuttering at how perfect it felt, before pulling back and smiling the way that only Gin could make him smile. “You’re my home.”

#ginichi winterfest 2020 #ginichi #gin ichimaru #ichigo kurosaki #ANGST AND FLUFF #also on ao3 #feelingfredly #panic attack/accidental self-harm #if that's a problem #be good to yourself #bleach

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