FIC: Teen Wolf -- Hungry Like the Wolf

[the_deep_magic]

Title: Mating Games Week 6: Hungry Like the Wolf (Director's Cut)
Author: the_deep_magic
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,573
Warnings: dark dystopian AU, canon-typical violence, blood, implied threat of rape (not carried out)
Disclaimer: my sandbox, not my toys
Summary: "Someone's coming."
A/N: The prompt this week was a piece of (were)wolf related text of our choosing, which is beneath the cut.  This is pretty different from what I normally write -- namely, it's a lot darker.  Of course, I usually write rainbow-farting unicorns, so it's all relative.  Heed the warnings (Trek people: think mirror-verse) and you should be okay.

“…my right hand is the wolf.” ~Margaret Atwood, “The Puppet of the Wolf”

“Stiles, get up.  Someone’s coming.”

It was only through long years of conditioning towards self-preservation that Stiles managed to stifle a groan.  He’d been sleeping deeply – much more so than he should have been in this long-abandoned house.  “I told you we shouldn’t have stayed here for the night,” he hissed at Derek.  Houses, no matter how dilapidated they looked, were never safe, but truthfully, Stiles had wanted to sleep on an actual mattress as much as Derek had.

Derek ignored him and peered in the direction of the front of the house.

“How many of them?” Stiles asked, quickly lacing up his boots.  At least neither of them had been foolish enough to undress to sleep.

“Five,” Derek said.  “They know we’re here.  We must’ve left footprints.  Jesus, I should’ve smelled them a mile off.”

He shifted into beta form as Stiles picked up his rusty machete.  He wished he had something better, but he’d run out of ammo three days ago and without it, a rifle was dead weight.  The likelihood of running across a cache of bullets was even lower than the likelihood of finding a pantry still full of canned food.  But the machete was just light enough for Stiles to be able to swing easily and just heavy enough to do real damage.

Derek gave Stiles a quick nod and they both moved out of the bedroom, down the hall, unwilling to be cornered in the back of the house.  The former owners had lasted long enough to put heavy bars on the windows, but the front door jamb had long since been broken.  There were advantages to staying somewhere with a single entry and exit point, but not when you allowed yourself to be cut off from that point.  They left the bags containing their few possessions behind; either they’d be alive to come back and get them, or they wouldn’t.

They met up with the group in the living room, and Stiles immediately had a sawed-off shotgun pointed at his chest.  “Drop the knife, boy,” the man with the shotgun grunted.

Stiles almost laughed.  This was certainly no group of hunters.  Three of them were armed only with makeshift clubs – splintered chunks of wood and a golf club – and the only other one with a firearm – a kid, not much more than a teenager – was holding the gun sideways, for god’s sake.  Stiles wondered if he’d ever even fired it.

Stiles didn’t know how these people had even stayed alive this long.  Probably they were remnants of other groups – castoffs or sole survivors – who had recently banded together.  An omega pack, Stiles thought, trying not to crack a smile.  They all looked to the man with the shotgun as their leader.  He’d probably convinced them they could be a pack of raiders, looking for food and warm bodies that wouldn’t fight back too much.  Despite their number, it was likely they wouldn’t know how to fight in any kind of organized way, and there was almost certainly no wolfsbane or mountain ash in their weapons.  Still, a chest full of buckshot would slow Derek down as his body healed around it, and Stiles would have to spend long hours afterward digging each piece of shrapnel out.

Derek put himself between Stiles and the gun, and the man holding it snorted derisively.  “There doesn’t have to be violence, son.  Call off your pet werewolf here and we’ll talk.”

Derek’s control stayed perfectly intact – well, aside from flexing his clawed hands impatiently – and Stiles stepped up beside him.  He couldn’t help but notice that the man’s eyes and gun remained trained on Derek.  He didn’t look frightened, which meant he had either lost his mind or he truly had no idea what Derek was capable of.  “I’m sorry,” Stiles said.  “Pet werewolf?”

The man nodded, still not looking at Stiles.  “Smart move, scrawny guy like you pickin’ up an attack dog.  But if you don’t tell him to back off, I’m gonna have to put him down before you and me can… talk.”

At that, he turned his eyes back to Stiles, looking him up and down in a way that made Stiles nauseated.

“What’s there to talk about?” Stiles asked, buying time to figure out an angle of attack.

“Oh, I’m sure you and me and my boys can come to some kind of… arrangement if you want to stay alive.  Can’t say what kind of shape you’ll be in after, but—”

Derek had apparently had enough.  He let out an almost subvocal growl, which startled the others but gave Stiles his cue.  Derek bore right as Stiles bore left – but not before swinging the machete up into the forearm of the man with the shotgun.

The whole thing lasted a matter of seconds, Derek easily slashing the leader’s throat before pouncing on two of the raiders armed with clubs.  The boy with the handgun fired on Stiles, his shot going wide even at the short distance since his grip couldn’t handle the kickback.  He dropped the gun altogether as Stiles slashed once across his stomach and, in the same smooth motion, brought the machete down on the back of his neck as the boy crumpled forward.

When Stiles looked up, the last man was already halfway out the front door, and neither Derek nor Stiles bothered to chase him.  He was no longer a threat and he had nothing they needed.

Stiles’ heart was pounding and he was breathing hard, even though this was far from their hardest or ugliest fight.  But the way his blood rushed whenever they survived another one…  “Derek, get over here.”

As he always did afterwards, Derek got right up in Stiles’ space, sniffing for any injuries.  He’d been nicked in the arm by the bullet, but even though it was barely bleeding, Derek licked at it, soothing his packmate’s wound.

Stiles only gave him a few moments before fisting his hands in Derek’s shirt and yanking him up.  “Hey, I got better places for you to lick.”

Derek had shifted back to human form, but his eyes were still burning red.  “You giving your pet werewolf commands now?” he growled, pressing Stiles into the nearest wall with the entire hot, hard length of his body.

Stiles didn’t even bother with a comeback – the adrenaline was still pumping fast in his veins as he crushed his mouth against Derek’s and hiked a leg up to his waist.  Derek didn’t hesitate, just looped an arm around Stiles’ back and lifted him until Stiles could wind both legs around Derek’s hips.

Wiping a stray splatter of blood from Derek’s cheek, Stiles leaned in to bite at Derek’s lips.  “How fucked up is it that I kind of get off on you taking down three guys in less than thirty seconds?”

Derek laughed darkly, grinding his hips into Stiles’ until Stiles forgot to breath.  “No more fucked up than how hot it is when you swing that machete,” he muttered against Stiles’ throat, then continued sucking what would become a bright, livid bruise into his skin.

Stiles pulled his arms tighter around Derek’s neck, desperate to get enough leverage to thrust back.  But Derek was too strong, using his grip on Stiles’ ass to rut against him at his own pace.

“Fuck,” Stiles groaned as Derek found the right angle, slotting their erections together and getting just the right pressure on Stiles’ cock through the fabric of his jeans.  Their clothes were ruined with blood anyway, might as well go all the way with it.  Wouldn’t be the first time.  With any luck, it wouldn’t be the last, either.  “Faster.”

Derek grunted and Stiles leaned back to let the wall take some of his weight and give Derek more room to move.  “He wanted to put his filthy hands all over you,” Derek growled, and Stiles could feel the tips of his claws pressing against his ass.  “Should’ve cut them off.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes and grinned.  “Still can.”

Derek roared, hips stuttering until he buried his face against Stiles’ neck and started up a brutal pace that had Stiles sliding a little from the blood spray on the wall.  Stiles laughed, feeling the tension build low in his gut that meant he was close.  “C’mon, you sick bastard,” he moaned, bucking in Derek’s hold.  “Make me come.”

After Derek bit down on Stiles’ lip hard enough for him to taste blood, it only took a few more thrusts before Stiles was arching his back and shaking with release.  Even after Stiles finished, Derek continued rutting messily against his hip, Stiles hissing with the friction on his oversensitive cock but not willing to loosen his hold on Derek until he came, shoving Stiles into the wall so hard that it nearly knocked the breath out of him.  Stiles took Derek’s face in both hands and kissed him, wet and dirty and all tongue, until Derek was panting as hard as Stiles was.

After a few long minutes, Derek loosened his grip enough for Stiles to put his unsteady legs on the ground.  Wordlessly, they set about the task of digging through the dead men’s rucksacks and pockets, looking for anything of value.

Stiles heard a soft gurgle to his left: the boy Stiles had taken down was barely clinging to life.  Derek leaned over and, with a single claw, mercifully slit his throat.