Stiles tries to ignore the clenching in his stomach as he walks down the stairs into the darkness. The smell of charred wood and dust makes his nose twitch, and it brings back the scent of blood and rangy, musky wolf.
They came in and cleaned up, though. The hunters, Chris Argent and the bunch of young guys that seem half-way between apprentice and soldier, they cleaned it like Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction and Stiles knows he shouldn't still smell the blood but he can.
"You okay?" Derek's voice drifts up out of the darkness.
"Yeah." Stiles makes his voice sound cheerful, makes himself skip down the stairs like nothing's wrong. "Savoring the moment. Taking back the night." He steps off the bottom stair.
Derek is a shadowy outline in the middle of the room. He can probably see everything.
"You didn't think to bring a flashlight, did you?" Stiles says. He pulls out his phone, lights the screen. Sections of the room appear like flashes from his dreams and he quickly turns the screen off.
Derek presses against his back, wraps arms around his waist. "We can go."
"I said I'm fine." Stiles leans into Derek's warmth anyway. He's not fooling Derek, he knows that, even Stiles can hear his heart beating, too fast, too loud. "You want to fix this place up. I'm going to have get used to it sometime."
Derek inhales, lets it out slow. "My whole family died down here," he says. "I almost lost you down here."
"Right." Stiles chews on his lower lip. "Way bigger issues than mine."
"That's not what I'm saying. This is my home. I grew up here. I'm not going to let anyone scare me away from the place."
Stiles lets himself sink deeper into Derek's embrace. Derek takes comfort from him, too, he knows. "Take back the night," he whispers.
Derek makes a sound that means yes. It vibrates through him, into Stiles, and Stiles grins into the darkness.
His eyes are starting to adjust. He can see the walls now, can pinpoint the place he was on the floor when his arm was broken, where he lay in a pool of his own blood. He can see the werewolves pacing the room, waiting for Derek to come.
"I've been wondering something," he says.
Derek makes another sound, this one's a question.
"How come you didn't turn all the way, that night?" All the Alphas Stiles has known have turned into something more than the betas can. Peter. All of the Alpha Pack. He's never seen Derek do it.
Silence fills the room. Long moments pass. Stiles shifts his feet, picks at the cuff of Derek's jacket.
"I didn't want you to see it."
"But you would have been stronger, like that?"
"That bad, huh?"
Stiles thinks of Peter, before they knew it was Peter, outside the school. He thinks of Greyback, the leader of the Alpha Pack, and he barely suppresses a shudder, but Derek's going to know anyway. Thing is, other than Derek, the only Alphas Stiles has known have been insane with power or vengeance. Derek's not like that. "Show me."
Stiles pushes away, turns to face Derek. "I'm serious. There's no reason to be afraid of this house, right? This house didn't do bad things to people. Neither did you. I've got no reason to freak out, whatever form you take."
Stiles can see well enough now to know that Derek's wearing his angry eyebrows again. Stiles glares back at him, he's not backing down and he thinks Derek needs this just as much as he does right now.
Finally, Derek shrugs off his jacket, throws it away. He peels off his shirt and unbuttons his jeans.
Stiles lifts his eyebrows. "You're taking off your clothes."
"Do you have any idea how much these jeans cost?" Derek snaps, but there's no bite in his words.
"Busted out of a few pairs, have you?"
Derek drops his jeans, kicks them away. "Yeah." He pushes his boxer briefs down, steps out of them.
Stiles takes a good hard look. Naked Derek is something he's never going to get sick of and he can't help getting hard. He thinks sex here in this basement would have been another way of scrubbing the memory of getting tortured out of his mind, but he's not backing out now.
If he's not too freaked out.
"Okay," Stiles says, and he waves his hands around a bit. "Go. Change. Turn. Shift. Whatever. Do the thing."
Derek drops his gaze to the floor.
Stiles knows he's hiding the moment his eyes flash red and he rolls his eyes. "I've seen this before."
When Derek lifts his head he's all hair and teeth and glowing eyes and lumpy brow. Stiles opens his mouth to speak, to say something about how he's fine and he's seen it already but the words get stuck in his throat.
Derek's getting taller. Bigger. Hairier. His skin's getting darker, his face is changing shape. Stiles caught a couple glimpses of Peter, saw Greyback in the woods, but Derek's standing right in front of him and he just keeps getting larger. Stiles has to tip his head back just to keep looking into his eyes. He knows there has got to be a horrified look on his face, but he can't shift it. "Holy crap," he breathes when Derek finally stops changing and all that is left is a hulking monster looming over him.
Derek doesn't look anything like a wolf. A wolf would be a cuddly puppy next to this. Derek's so dark he blends into the night, the glowing red eyes a point of reference, easily seven feet above the floor, maybe more. There's hair—fur—but it doesn't cover him. It covers the back of his head, his cheeks, his neck and throat and shoulders. It covers the backs of his arms, all the way down to his hands...paws? No, definitely hands, long fingers tipped with lethal claws. There's more low on his belly, long fur that surrounds his—
"Holy god." Stiles stares, mouth hanging open, at the cock hanging between Derek's massive thighs. It's not hard, and why shouldn't it get bigger with the rest of him, but Stiles is halfway between horrified and aroused. He's not sure what to do with that.
At least it looks...vaguely human. He was worried there might have been a sheath of some kind involved and—
"Oh crap," he says, and turns around. "I'm thinking about sex."
The monster behind him drops to all fours. The house shakes. Stiles jumps when something touches his hip. It's Derek, he tells himself, and he looks down. Red eyes flick up and Derek circles in front of him, dragging his muzzle—oh my god, Derek has a muzzle—across the front of his jeans.
Derek's back is covered in hair. Thick, long, black fur. Stiles drops his hand onto Derek's back, between his shoulder blades. The fur is thick and coarse, the skin beneath hard, like leather, the muscle shifts under his fingers as Derek moves. "You would have kicked their asses," Stiles says, remembering the fight that brought Derek down, could have killed him. "You're an idiot. I'm not afraid of you."
Somehow, the monster Derek turned into manages to raise an eyebrow.
"Freaked out, maybe. I'm not afraid."
Derek rises up on his hind legs again. Stiles isn't sure if that's the right term, considering his arms are still arms, hairy, huge, thick veins roping over bulging muscle, but still arms. Derek looms over him, lifts his lip in a silent snarl baring long, razor sharp teeth that drip with saliva.
Stiles' heart is pounding, but he tips his head up, bares his neck to prove his point."Not afraid."
Derek shifts his weight from one foot to another. He lifts one arm, slow, like he's doing it carefully, and he wraps his hand around Stiles' throat. Long fingers meet at the back of his neck, claws clicking together. A low rumbling growl rolls through Derek and Stiles shivers, but it's not fear. That's the same sound Derek makes when he's inside Stiles, and it reinforces the connection between the monster and the man in Stiles subconscious.
"I'm thinking about sex again," Stiles admits. His hands are free, and he rests his hand on Derek's arm, the one holding him. Stiles presses his other palm against Derek's chest and slides it downward.
Those are Derek's abs, Stiles would know them anywhere. The skin is rougher, the muscle thicker, but it's Derek under there. He runs his fingers through the thick fur, brushes against the base of Derek's monster cock and gets a warning growl in response.
"Come on," Stiles says. "I'm not molesting Lassie here. It's still you. What difference does it make what you look like?"
"You'll get hurt."
Stiles double-takes. It's Derek's voice, but deeper, rougher, with a resonance that shakes right into his bones. "You can talk? Oh my god, you can talk."
And that, Stiles thinks, is a patented Derek stare of disapproval. He doesn't care. The fact that he speaks in this form just proves that there's no difference between this monster and his mate. Stiles slides his palms over Derek's thighs, thick as tree trunks, hard as steel and quivering, muscle twitching underneath his fingers. He traces the path of a prominent vein, feels blood pumping through it. "I don't care what you look like," he says, and looks up. Stiles feels small, thinks he should feel weak, the way Derek looks down at him, hot breath puffing out of open jaws, teeth glistening with saliva. Stiles doesn't feel weak.
He's still thinking about sex. Eyes still on Derek's, Stiles wraps his hand around Derek's cock. He can't close his fist. Derek growls but he makes no move to stop Stiles. Could he take it, Stiles wonders. He can take the knot, the girth is about the same, but he can't imagine Derek trying to force it inside him while it was already swollen.
He tries to imagine being that full, and he moans, his cock jerks inside his jeans, oozing precome. He slips his jacket off, pulls his T-shirt off over his head, unbuttons his jeans.
Derek steps back. "I won't fuck you like this," he growls.
Stiles' spine tingles. "Whatever. Plenty more we can do." His jeans hit the floor, and he steps out of them, walks toward Derek, backs him up against the wall.
Stiles backs a seven foot horror movie monster werewolf against the wall. He grins, then drops to his knees.
Yeah, this is Derek's cock. Stiles would recognise it anywhere. It's thicker, longer, a whole hell of a lot heavier in his hand, but it's Derek's cock. He tongues the tip, pushes back the foreskin with his lips to get at the slit. His reward is a gush of thick, sweet precome, and he moans and sucks more of the head into his mouth, stretching his lips wide to get it in.
Derek's hand comes down on the back of Stiles' head, claws scratch his scalp and neck. Stiles can feel the barely restrained energy, the slight shift in pressure that means Derek wants him to take it deeper. He can't get much more than the head in. He makes up for it by twisting his hand over the length, spreading his saliva down the shaft. His free hand splays out over Derek's shaking thigh. Muscle shifts under tough skin, Stiles digs his fingernails in and pushes down on Derek's cock until he gags.
Stiles' head fits in Derek's hand, Derek pulls him back like that, pulls him right off his cock.
Stiles whimpers. "Let me, please?" His lips tingle from being stretched so wide, but it feels good, and he thinks maybe he could have a thing for giant cock.
Derek eases him down onto his back, gently lowering Stiles' head onto the floorboards. Charred wood crumbles under Derek's claws as he puts his hands flat, either side of Stiles' head, then Derek lowers his own, sniffing at Stiles' face, licking at his throat, lethal teeth grazing his windpipe.
A slip and Stiles could be dead. He still tips back his head, baring his throat. Stiles doesn't think of it as submission. He wants Derek to know he trusts him, and maybe Derek sees it another way, but it doesn't matter. Stiles does trust him, and if Derek wants to fuck him like this, Stiles will let him.
In fact, Stiles will probably beg for it.
Derek's cock grazes Stiles' leg, smearing wetness in a line that cools when the touch is gone. Stiles spreads his thighs, raises his knees, a conscious signal. Derek lifts his head, stares down, but the problem with glowing red eyes in the darkness is that you can't see any emotion in them.
"I'll tear you apart," Derek growls.
Anything Derek says like this will sound like a growl, Stiles realizes, and he doesn't quite believe that this is anything more than uncertainty. "See, I don't think you will," he whispers. He reaches out to the side, snags his jacket with two fingers. From the inside pocket he pulls out the tube of lube he's taking to carrying around. He's terrified his dad will find it on him one day, especially in the absence of condoms, but he can't really explain to his dad both the lack of necessity and the fact they'd probably break anyway.
Maybe he should carry a condom with the lube. Just in case.
Derek sits back on his haunches, watching as Stiles lubes up his fingers and slides two of them over his hole. Derek usually does this for him, and he does it slow, one finger, then two, he's only just stopped giving him three before his cock. Just to make his point, Stiles pushes two of his own fingers inside himself at once.
Derek growls, walks his hands over Stiles, planting one either side of Stiles' waist. With his head hanging down, Derek licks a long stripe up Stiles' length with a tongue that's as big as the cock he's tasting.
"Whoa." Stiles lifts his head, watching the monster his boyfriend turned into lap at his cock and balls. "A little lower," he suggests, and when Derek licks around his fingers where they disappear inside himself he arches and moans. A cold, wet snout nudges at his balls, a warm, wet, rough tongue drags at them and he cries out, shudders at the feel of sharp teeth grazing his sensitive skin. Hard, bony fingers wrap around his wrist, drag his hand away, his fingers out of his body.
"Yeah," Stiles says. "You're going to fuck me?" He braces himself, waits for Derek to move up his body.
Derek barks a harsh, "No," against the inside of Stiles thigh. "Gonna make you come." He presses something against Stiles ass, like a finger, and Stiles thinks it's a finger at first, maybe two, but it can't be.
Derek's fingers are tipped with wicked claws right now. "What the hell?" Stiles lifts his head, but all he can see is the top of Derek's head, tufted ears, the shine of sharp white teeth, and a long tongue on his cock. Whatever it is presses further inside him, thicker the further it slides in, and Stiles looks at Derek's other hand on his knee.
Long bony fingers, thick knuckles. "Oh my god." Derek's fucking him with his knuckle. "Whatever works, huh?"
Derek thrusts the bent finger into Stiles hard, pulls it out, and he must add another because it burns when he pushes again, stretching Stiles open. "If you're not going to fuck me, why—"
Derek lifts his head and growls, lips pulling back, exposing his teeth.
Stiles drops his head back down onto the floor. "Shutting up." He closes his eyes, puts his hands out flat on the charred floor, spreads his legs wider. Derek fucks him slowly with his fingers—Stiles can feel the backs of Derek's claws on his rim—and drags his tongue the length of Stiles' cock.
Stiles opens his eyes, lifts his head. "Put my cock in your mouth," he says.
Derek lifts his head, stares into Stiles' eyes, and he wraps his free hand around the base of Stiles' cock. Stiles moans when he sees Derek's claw tipped fingers wrap around him, his cock looks small in Derek's hand and he thinks it should make him feel uncomfortable, but it doesn't. Derek opens his mouth, his long jaws, lined with teeth, and he closes them gently over Stiles' cock.
"Oh, fuck," Stiles says. The ridged palate rubs over the head of his cock, Derek's rough tongue wraps around the underside, and sharp teeth prick at the base. Stiles shakes with the effort of keeping still because one slip and— "When did I lose my mind? Exactly when?"
Derek pulls his mouth off and Stiles isn't sure, but he thinks he smiles. He goes back to licking Stiles' dick, spreading slick saliva everywhere and pushing what must be the equivalent of four fingers past Stiles' rim.
"You can fuck me, you know," Stiles says. He arches his back, moves his hips, trying to get more of Derek's fingers inside him. They're stretching him, but not going deep enough. "You can pull out before we're tied. Come inside me but..." He moans, thinking about it, how full he'd be, how stretched. "Derek, please."
Derek pushes his knuckles hard into Stiles, twists them. "Stiles..." he growls.
"God, Derek." Stiles reaches between his legs, wraps his fingers around Derek's ropey, veiny wrist. He tries, but he can't move him. "You're killing me here. I need you inside me, I have to feel you filling me up. Change back if you have to, god, but just fuck me, Derek, please."
Perhaps it's the begging that does it. Derek stops twisting his knuckles into Stiles, he lifts his head, rises up on his knees, and he puts his hands on Stiles hips, lifts Stiles onto his lap so he's practically hanging upside down. Derek's thighs quiver against Stiles' back, Derek's cock presses against his ass.
Stiles gropes around, finds the lube, passes it over. He laughs, because commercial lubricant in the hand of a monster seems ridiculous. Derek doesn't seem to care. He spreads the stuff over his enormous dick, knuckles more into Stiles' ass.
"Like this, or should I shift?" Derek's voice bounces off the walls, echoes around the room.
Stiles gasps for breath. "Like this. Oh my god. Like this."
When Stiles sees Derek's hand around his dick he decides he's going to have to ask Derek to jerk off for him like this one day. Right now though, he tips his pelvis up, spreads his legs as far as they'll go, while Derek lines his cock up. When Derek holds him by the hips and pulls, Stiles watches Derek's face. The pressure on his hole increases, Derek's brow gets heavier, his eyes get narrower, Stiles cries out more in need and frustration than anything else as he's slowly opened up.
Then he can't think. He's never been stretched this much. Sparks of pain flash up his spine as the head of Derek's cock pushes against him, trying to get inside. Stiles twitches and writhes, fingers, hands grasping, holding on to Derek's arms, nails scratching at the thick hair, the leathery skin underneath. He cries out wordlessly, and Derek whimpers, whines, like he doesn't know what to do.
Stiles digs his fingernails in, tries to drag Derek to him. "Don't stop," Stiles grunts. "Just get in me."
Derek's hips jerk forward.
It's enough. Stiles screams as lightning strikes him—that's what it feels like—but it fades almost immediately and the sound lingers in the room long enough that Stiles can hear it for himself. With the head of Derek's cock inside him, the worst is over. His rim feels hot, stretched to endurance, but it'll ease. "Give me a sec," he gasps, rubbing his palms up and down Derek's forearms.
Derek whines again, hands moving over Stiles' skin, sliding over his belly, up his chest, down his arms.
"I'm okay," Stiles says. He breathes, closes his eyes, relaxes into the feeling of Derek's hands on him, rough, claws scratching, but still Derek. "Okay," he says, and opens his eyes.
Derek pushes in, slow, but the friction on Stiles' rim makes him groan and shake. Inside, he's spread wider than he ever has been before, the ache goes deep, consumes him completely. Derek pulls him onto his cock and doesn't stop until Stiles feels fur against his ass, hard muscle against the back of his thighs.
Stiles digs his fingernails into Derek's wrists. He can't speak. Every time he opens his mouth he moans, deep primal sound comes out of him. He looks down, thinks he should see the outline of Derek's cock through his stomach, he feels so full, but there's nothing there.
Derek shakes, hands clenching on Stiles' hips. Stiles looks up, sees the monster Derek turns into. He's being fucked by a monster, and his ass is filled with monster cock. "There's something seriously wrong with me," he laughs. "Move. Fuck me."
Derek shifts, his cock moves inside Stiles.
Stiles moans, tries to duplicate the feeling by writhing on Derek's cock, he can't move. "Please."
Derek slides one massive hand under Stiles, pulls him up. Stiles' own weight pushes Derek's cock deeper, he wraps his arms around Derek's neck, desperate to hold onto something, ground himself somehow because he feels like he's losing his mind. His body hums, sparks, flashes with pain or pleasure or both. He can't distinguish between the two. Derek's not moving. His breath is hot on Stiles face, sharp teeth and lupine muzzle and glowing eyes. His chest heaves, fur and hard, dark skin and bulging muscle.
Stiles plants his feet flat on the ground and rocks his hips, grinding himself down on Derek's cock. He gasps, pushes himself up, Derek's cock slides out an inch, and he drops himself back down.
Derek grunts, hands tightening on Stiles' waist. Stiles reels, bites down hard on his lip, muffling his moan as he does it again, rising higher this time, thrusting down harder. "Fuck," he breathes, hoarse and deep, and his thighs shake as he pushes himself back up.
Derek starts to guide him, taking his weight, lifting him by the waist, but Stiles sets the pace. Sweat runs down the back of his neck, slicks his thighs, he gasps and pants and moans and curses as he rides Derek's cock. Derek says nothing but he breathes hard, pants and growls and grunts and licks the sweat off Stiles' throat and shoulders.
Exhausted, Stiles sinks down on Derek's cock one last time and presses his palms against Derek's furry chest. "I can't..."
Derek takes control. Holding Stiles in place, he pushes up into him, hard quick thrusts that Stiles knows are meant to end this once and for all. Stiles grabs his own cock and starts stroking, bites his lip. "Pull out," he gasps. "I can't take more. Pull out, just enough." His throat hurts, burns from breathing and screaming and moaning. "I still want you to come in me."
Derek grunts and jerks up into Stiles one last time. He pulls back, sliding his cock halfway out. Stiles still feels stuffed full though he feels the knot growing outside of him. Derek whines, shakes, Stiles feels him throbbing, pulsing inside. Heat floods into him, he pulls on his own cock, grinds down against the knot, and when he comes it's like a wave washing over him, robbing him of breath, disorienting him, drowning him.
He registers Derek lying him down, pulling out, trailing come over his thigh, pumping more out against his hip as he curls up around him. A rough tongue licks at his face, becomes kisses from soft lips. Stiles recognises the rasp of stubble, reaches out to run his hands over soft smooth skin over strong muscle, slides his hand down an arm and links his fingers with Derek's. "Hey, you," he whispers, then opens his eyes.
Derek looks like he's on the verge of tears. "You're such an idiot, Stiles."
Stiles closes his eyes, smiles. "I love you, too."
"I might have hurt you."
Stiles stretches. Everything aches, his ass most of all. He feels loose and open and Derek's come is still leaking out of him, but he's not injured. "I'm fine." He opens his eyes. "I trust you. You wouldn't have hurt me. You wouldn't have given in if you thought I was really in danger."
He looks around at the room they're in. Derek's basement. "Fix up the walls, lay some carpet, it'll be completely different in here. You'd never know."
"What happened down here?"
"I think we need to remember."
Stiles arches his back, winces at the ache in his ass. "I don't think I'm going to forget in a hurry."
"I'm not talking about the completely idiotic sex, Stiles."
Stiles rolls over, pulls himself up on his elbows. "Neither am I." He's lying on the patch of floor where he lay bleeding only a few months before. A dozen people died in this room seven years before that. "And it wasn't idiotic. Twisted. Entirely fucked up. I might need therapy." He looks up at Derek and grins.
Derek bites the inside of his cheek. "We're not doing it again."
"Not right away. Admit it. You had fun."
Derek sucks both cheeks in but he can't hold it. He cracks a smile. "You were so tight. God."
Stiles snorts and pulls a face. "Not any more".