Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1758579.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Sheriff_Stilinski, Alan
      Deaton, Marin_Morrell
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Emissary_Stiles_Stilinski, Magical
      Stiles_Stilinski, Scent_Marking, Nightmares, Magic, post_3b,
      bastardization_of_urban_legends_and_lore, BAMF_Stiles, Blood_Magic, Blood
      and_Gore, Intercrural_Sex, Tarot, Hospitalization, accidental_suicide
      attempt, Minor_Character_Death, Explicit_Sexual_Content
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-06-08 Completed: 2014-06-11 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 31346
****** In Sanguinem Scriptum Est ******
by secondstar
Summary
     In order to stop a new onslaught of nightmares from plaguing him,
     Stiles decides to become an emissary. No longer defenseless, he
     begins to realize that not everything is as it seems.
Notes
     see end notes for list of nightmares and potential triggers that
     would come with them.
     beta'd by lauren, bk, mel, beth, and laura.
     art work by reborngp!
     date: please do not REPOST this fic anywhere else without my consent.
     Please do not put it on GoodReads that is a site for PUBLISHED works,
     not fic.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****

        [https://24.media.tumblr.com/612f7159668733d7137bff88a4f475a8/
                      tumblr_n6va4fOZQw1skn64jo1_500.jpg]
                              artwork by reborngp
Stiles opened his eyes to complete darkness that took the breath out of his
lungs as he inhaled. Empty and confining, the black engulfed him. He could hear
himself breathing, as if he were trapped inside his own head once more. With a
shaky breath, Stiles reached out into the darkness, his fingers brushing
against something hard, rough like wood, above him. Panicked, he used both
hands to feel around him: he was trapped, encased in the dank, dark abyss.
His lip trembled as he tried to remember to breathe through his trepidation. He
closed his eyes, though it looked the same as when they were open, in order to
think. He didn’t know how long he had been wherever he was, but he did know
that he would have a limited supply of oxygen. Stiles pressed his cheek against
the wall, trying to see if he could hear anything.
Only the sound of his beating heart in his chest, along with his staggered,
scared breaths could be heard. But the distinct smell of earth caught his
attention.
“No,” Stiles muttered to himself as the panic within him rose. “No.” He
scratched his nails against the inside of the wooden coffin: he had been buried
alive. Tears stung his eyes as he gasped for air, feeling the walls close in on
him though in reality nothing moved around him. He was alone in every sense of
the word.
He lay there, his back against the wall as he concentrated on breathing in an
out, conserving energy. The box was made of wood, rough and unrefined by the
touch of it. He wondered how thick it was, if he could break it. He had to get
out, escape, or at least try before he was too weak to attempt it because of
the lack of oxygen to breathe.
He didn’t have much headroom as he adjusted himself, taking off his long-
sleeved plaid shirt and wrapping it around his head. Taking a deep breath, he
kicked upward, splintering the wood. He heard it creak in the darkness as the
dirt above him started to crumble through the broken wood. There wouldn’t be
much time between it collapsing in on him and his loss of air completely. He
kicked again, then again in quick succession. It hurt, stung as he drug his leg
over splintered wood. The dirt was wet, loose, and smelled of rot as he forced
himself upward into it, crawling through it as he held his breath as best he
could.
It felt like forever as he climbed up through the dirt, pushing up with his
legs. When his fingers hit the surface, Stiles sucked in air that was mostly
dirt and grime, though his shirt covered his mouth and nose. He stilled,
gasping as someone grabbed hold of his hand, hoisting him up out of the grave,
ripping his shirt off his head as he coughed, his lungs burning.
He grasped at their pant leg, curling in on himself as he felt a hand on the
back of his head. When Stiles looked up, he saw himself looking down on him
with a feral grin, eyes dark and lifeless.
Stiles woke up screaming, his body drenched in sweat as he convulsed on the
bed, pushing at his father who held him close. He couldn’t breathe through his
shouts, he realized as his heartbeat sped up.
“Stiles, breathe, you have to breathe with me son.” His dad had a hand over
Stiles’ heart, holding him tight as Stiles tried to take deep, long breaths but
all he thought about was dirt and darkness, of his own feral grin, of the
blackened eyes.
He was supposed to be past all this, it was supposed to be over now. No more
possession, no more nogitsune. Tears cascaded down Stiles’ cheeks, warm and
salty to the taste as he licked his lips, the darkness finally allowing him to
fill his lungs.
“There you go, you got it.” Stiles shut his eyes as he concentrated on his
father’s voice. “You scared me there, you stopped breathing altogether before
you started screaming.” He knew his dad started watching him sleep, to make
sure he was okay, after the nogitsune was trapped in mountain ash. Stiles had
been adamant that it could still overtake him, that it wasn’t over.
That was months ago, though. This new onslaught of nightmares were of a
different vein, less about possession and more about Stiles attempting to get
out of situations alone, always ending up finding himself with dead eyes and a
grin. He couldn’t remember a time before nightmares, before he could barely
function on a lack of sleep.
 
Stiles sat up, taking a glass of water that his father offered him, drinking it
down to wet his parched mouth and throat. It was sore from screaming, his lips
cracked and chapped. Eventually his father left him to use the bathroom. Under
the harsh light, Stiles saw the signs of sleep deprivation: pale skin, sallow
and gaunt, along with dark circles under his eyes. He was growing, still, as
his too-short sleep pants told him, his shirts tighter around the shoulders,
though his waist was slim, his ribs shown through taut skin that was dotted
with moles.
“No,” Stiles said as he looked down at the counter where he gripped the sink
tight. There, under his nails, was dirt.
-
“I’m telling you, Scotty, I really thought I was buried alive,” Stiles said as
they walked down the hallway. “I could smell the dirt, the wood was rough
against my fingers. It didn’t feel like a dream.”
“Maybe you were really, really asleep?” Scott asked, unsure.
“There was dirt, Scott.”
“I have dirt under my nails right now, from lacrosse,” Scott said, showing
Stiles. “Maybe it was from that.”
“Dude, I bite my nails,” Stiles said, looking at his fingers, at the nails and
how short they were. Too short to have dirt beneath them. The tips of his
fingers were red, as if he had been scratching at something, raw. Stiles
shivered. “What if something else is in my mind?”
“You closed the door, the three of us--” Scott stopped himself from continuing
as his eyes glazed over, his face falling into a frown that Stiles knew well.
He put a hand on Scott’s shoulder for comfort. “I think you’re having
nightmares, regular ones.”
“Let’s hope,” Stiles said as they entered English together.
After lacrosse practice, Stiles followed Scott over to the animal clinic.
Deaton’s eyebrows rose as he glanced at Stiles from behind the counter.
“Mr. Stilinski, to what do we owe this pleasure?” Deaton asked with a warm
smile.
“Uh, can we talk?” Stiles asked him, shoving his hands into his pockets. “In
private.” Deaton and Scott exchanged glances, but then Deaton nodded his head.
“Of course. Scott, if you could prep the examination rooms for me? I’ll talk to
Stiles in my office.”
“Sure,” Scott said, giving Stiles a look of encouragement before heading off to
start work. Deaton led Stiles down a hallway that he never really noticed
before. Then again, they always met in examination rooms, or the front desk.
The door to Deaton’s office was wood, like the front desk. It was obviously
mountain ash. As Stiles passed through it, his dream came back to him, the
smell of the coffin. It, too, had been mountain ash.
“So, Stiles, what did you want to talk about?” Deaton asked as Stiles looked
around the room. It didn’t fit in with the decor of the rest of the clinic,
which was sanitary with fluorescent lighting and grey walls. The office had the
encompassing feeling of warmth, with lamps and bookshelves full to the brim and
a desk with leather bound books that gave off the distinctive smell of ‘old as
shit’.
Stiles sighed, catching Deaton’s eye.
“I want to become an emissary,” Stiles said. “I want to learn to use my spark,
to control my own mind. I want to know what else is out there, what else goes
bump in the night. I’m done with being left with more questions than answers.”
Deaton watched Stiles in silence for a while when he was through, his hand on
the book before him, open to a page written in Latin, the print all but faded.
“I think you’re finally ready,” Deaton said as he sat down, pushing the book
towards Stiles. It was already turned towards him. Stiles looked down to find
that what he thought was Latin wasn’t at all, but English.
“What happened,” Stiles murmured. “This was just Latin--”
“The first thing you have to remember, or realize about being an emissary that
it is, for all intents and purposes, in your mind. It’s about believing in what
you can accomplish. You won’t get far if you don’t think you’re ready or that
you can’t do the things I am going to ask of you.”
“Are you telling me that in order to be an emissary I have to think I’m
awesome?” Stiles asked with a smirk. Deaton gave him one back as he folded his
hands in his lap, his head tilted to one side.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“No problem, I’m good at faking that.”
“No faking, Stiles. You have to think back to when you used mountain ash around
the rave. You have to believe in yourself, fully, for the spark to ignite.”
“Okay,” Stiles said slowly, his brow furrowing. “So work on self-esteem is a
must, what else?” Deaton tapped at the book. “Reading, I’m good at reading,”
Stiles said as he leaned over, his eyes casting over the text. Rituals, a rite
of passage with water and a lake. “You’re going to baptize me?” Stiles asked.
“Not quite,” Deaton answered vaguely. “I want you to meet with me during the
evenings, after I close the clinic, around eight, for a few hours every night.
Can you do that?”
“Every night?”
“Think of it as a crash course in being an emissary,” Deaton said. “You have a
lot of catching up to do.”
“How old were you when you had your rite of passage?” Stiles asked.
“Fourteen,” Deaton said. “And I had been studying since I was twelve. But it
was a family trade, then. You will meet with me Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays, with Marin Tuesdays and Thursdays, then the both of us on the
weekends.”
“Okay,” Stiles said, the weight of the responsibility of what he was about to
do settling deep within him.
“First, you need to read these,” Deaton said, standing up so he could grab
books from the shelf. All of them were leather bound with delicate pages. He
gave Stiles four on top of the open one on Deaton’s desk. Stiles looked at the
clock, it was a little past six. He had time to read them, since he wasn’t
planning on sleeping that night.
“Tomorrow, then?” Stiles asked.
“Tomorrow,” Deaton said with a simple nod of his head. As Stiles walked out
with the books, his eyes caught a glimpse of one of the shelves, lined in glass
mason jars with symbols on them, much like Deaton showed them in the past. One
stuck out in particular, the symbol unknown to Stiles, but he knew what was in
it. He felt it calling to him, in a way, as he walked out of the room. The jar
had grave dirt in it, Stiles was certain of it.
-
Even though it was January, Stiles had his window cracked open as he sat on his
bed reading. He had a hoodie on, up over his head as he bit at his almost
nonexistent nails, his concentration on the book in his lap. Wind blew into his
room, rattling his window as he read about magical properties of stones such as
jade and amethysts. One of the books he was given was an herb grimoire. Unlike
when he crammed for school, he found every word in the books fascinating, he
soaked them in as the room around him cooled.
The moon was a cheshire cat grin, taunting him in a way that itched his skin.
One of the books was a dream dictionary of sorts, the name faded and lost with
time. He flipped through it, looking for entries on being buried alive, or the
smell of grave dirt that still filled his nostrils if he thought about it hard
enough.
When he found one line in particular, he held his breath.
“If one sees himself being buried alive and if he recognizes the one burying
him in the dream, it means that the latter will assault him, oppress him,
imprison him or cause him injustice.”
“What the fuck,” Stiles said as he read over it one more time. “So I am going
to do something? To myself? This doesn’t make sense,” he said as he pushed the
book away from him. The wind howled outside, making him shiver where he sat,
his hands holding tight to himself. “This is bullshit.”
He got out of bed, shutting the window with finality, locking it before turning
off the light. Shadows danced around his room as he lay awake in bed, his eyes
open wide as the glass creaked against the window panes, tree limbs bending by
the force of the wind. When he finally closed his eyes, exhaustion washed over
him, sending him into a deep sleep.
-
Barefoot, Stiles stood on the edge of a building, his arms spread wide as the
wind whipped around him, his shirt billowing as it circled him. He looked down
into the darkness and didn’t even scream as he took a step out into the
nothingness, letting it consume him.
With a jolt, he woke up, feeling like he dropped onto the bed straight from the
building’s edge. He was alone in his room as he sat up, wiping at his sweat-
soaked brow. His eye caught sight of the window, cracked open, letting the
sound of the wind in. He glanced around his room as he threw the blankets off
of himself, turning on the light so he could see better. There was no one
there, his books lay untouched on his desk in a stack.
He grabbed a book, about rituals, then went into the hallway. With his back to
his father’s bedroom door, he read until the sun rose.
-
“I think what might help you with your nightmares is anise,” Deaton said as
they sat on the floor of his office with their legs crossed. They had been
meditating for what felt like hours, though the clock on the wall that Stiles
kept peeking at said it wasn’t more than twenty minutes before Deaton spoke
aloud.
“What’s that?” Stiles asked, his voice hushed because it felt right. He
originally thought that he wouldn’t be able to sit still, but the incense that
Deaton burned calmed him, let his body rest. He had his hands on his knees, his
eyes closed as they spoke to each other.
“It’s an herb found in your grimoire, I have a few sprigs of it. It is a
protective herb,” Deaton said, his voice low as he spoke between calming
breaths. “It wards off evil, helpful in preventing disturbing dreams.”
“Would have been nice to have that before,” Stiles muttered, breaking his
trance by opening his eyes. Deaton had one eye open, his eyebrow lifted in
warning. “I know it wouldn’t have helped in the possession. I have to vent
somehow,” Stiles said, allowing his arms to flail around.
“No venting in meditation,” Deaton said. Stiles grumbled as he shook out his
frustrations, hoping to get back into the groove he was in. “I will give you
anise, to see if that helps.”
“How did you know I have been having nightmares?”
“You look like shit,” Deaton said simply, making Stiles smile as he tried to
clear his mind once more.
After spending his Sunday morning with Deaton meditating and going over
different herbs, of making mountain ash together, he met up with Marin Morrell
by the preserve. In his car was a bag of mountain ash, a sprig of anise, and
benzoin to burn as he studied later on.
His room was going to smell of herbs and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell
his dad quite yet that he was on his way to becoming an emissary, Scott’s
emissary. He trudged through the woods, following Marin until they got to a
clearing that had a circle of mushrooms in the center of it. Marin stepped over
them, stopping in the center as she turned to watch Stiles do the same.
When he joined her, she waited in silence for a while.
“Did you feel it?” She asked cryptically. Stiles nodded, because he had felt
it, a sort of energy that cast over his skin, leaving the hairs on his arms and
the back of his neck on edge. “Do you know what this is?”
“A fairy ring,” Stiles said, looking around them. Marin nodded, smiling at him
for getting it right.
“In French they’re called Ronds de Sorciers--”
“Sorcerer’s Rings,” Stiles mumbled under his breath. Marin smirked.
“Très bon,” she replied. “In German, this is also called a Hexenring, a witch’s
ring. All are folklore based, but none completely correct.”
“They are emissary based?” Stiles asked.
“Emissaries have always been misnomered as sorcerers or witches, when we are in
fact neither,” Marin said, looking at the grass around them. “In my research,
what I have found we are closest to, besides druids of course, are hedge mages.
We use nature but have little spark within ourselves. We are protectors of
packs, of information, and use our power neutrally, in theory.”
“Unless you go dark side like Jennifer Blake.”
“Revenge has a strong pull when tragedy is the cause,” Marin said. “I don’t
think you quite understand our power, our neutrality yet, Stiles.”
“Don’t start talking about a greater good, please, because that’s all a little
too Hot Fuzz for me.”
“Power balance is important,” Marin stated. “If the scale tips, the world would
be chaos.”
“It already is,” Stiles said as they both sat, their legs crossed.
“We’re off topic,” Marin said as she sighed, closing her eyes. “My favorite
term is Hexenring,” she said with a Germanic tinge to her accent. “It sounds
gritty,” she said with a smirk. Stiles agreed, though he liked ‘fairy ring’
better. It felt lighter on the tip of his tongue.
“Hexenring,” Stiles whispered to himself, feeling the grass with his hands. He
could hear the animals of the woods, the feel of the wind against his back and
hair, the feel of the cool winter sun beating down on them.
“Most folklore state that Hexenringe shouldn’t be entered, lest someone get
cursed. This is the exact opposite for us, as emissaries. Most superstitions
can be twisted around to find the real meanings behind them. If you’re ever in
need of a power boost, a way to enhance your spark for a spell or incantation,
find a Hexenring. It will help you when you’re in need.”
“When I’m in need,” Stiles said, his eyes remaining closed as he lost himself
to the sounds and smells of the woods.
-
On Monday, after lacrosse practice, Stiles made his way into the preserve
alone. He had a few hours before he had to meet Deaton for their lesson, and he
wanted to find the fairy ring on his own.
He slept well for the first time in ages with the anise hung on his headboard.
In the back of his mind he wanted to say that it was a coincidence, but he knew
that he had to believe it was the anise in order for it to really work. That
was the only way his powers would ever work, Deaton said. He only had to
believe.
A twig snapped not too far from where Stiles walked, and the woods quieted
around him as he stilled, his backpack digging into his lower back as he
carried the heavy leather-bound books. He had a water bottle in his hand, his
only weapon.
“Scott?” Stiles asked, knowing that Scott was at work. He held his breath as he
reached in the side pocket of his pack, grabbing his bag of mountain ash.
Stiles kept his eyes peeled, searching around him as he took out a handful of
it. He was about to throw it into the air in order to make a circle around him
when he saw Derek walk into his view. Stiles’ shoulders slumped as he let out
the breath he had been holding. “Dude, warn a guy. I almost wasted mountain ash
on you.”
“What are you doing out here?” Derek asked as he walked forward with his hands
in his leather jacket. Stiles put the mountain ash back into the bag, storing
it back in the side pocket.
“Looking for a fairy ring Ms. Morrell and I used the other day.”
“Fairy ring?” Derek asked, his brow drawn together. “Do you mean the circle of
mushrooms?”
“Yeah, do you know where that is?” Stiles asked, hopeful.
“You went East, you should have gone West. I found your Jeep two miles that
way,” Derek said, pointing in a direction he hadn’t been coming from. Stiles
frowned. He thought he headed straight from where they parked the day before.
“I’ve been looking for you for an hour.”
“What? What time is it?” Stiles asked, pulling out his phone. “How is it that
late? I seriously just got out of my Jeep, like, fifteen minutes ago.”
“Are you okay?” Derek asked, reaching out and touching Stiles’ shoulder. He
yanked his hand back as if Stiles zapped him, or electrocuted him. “You feel
different.”
“Feel different?” Stiles scoffed. “Well, I’m training to become an emissary,
maybe that’s it.”
“Maybe,” Derek said, sounding unsure. “Come on, the fairy ring is this way.”
“I don’t know if I have time before I have to be at Deaton’s. I wanted to try
something.”
“It isn’t too far,” Derek assured him. “But I can take you back to your Jeep.
It would be faster if we went to my car, though, it’s at the house.”
“What were you doing there?” Stiles asked as they walked.
“I come out here to run,” Derek said, his voice quiet. “To be free.”
“I feel that,” Stiles said with a shrug. “I could dig it, if I was a werewolf.
Open space, awesome smells, things to hunt.”
“Yeah,” Derek said, giving Stiles a sidelong glance. “Exactly.”
They walked in silence for a while before coming upon the remains of the old
Hale house. The Camaro stood out against the house, sleek and black next to the
charred exterior.
“So, emissary, huh?” Derek asked as they drove.
“Yeah, I’m learning stuff, spark-like things, you know.”
“Stuff with fairy rings,” Derek said with a smirk.
“Don’t knock the Hexenring, okay,” Stiles said, sounding not as awesome with
his accent as Marin had. He’d work on it. Derek laughed, making Stiles smile.
He decided he liked when Derek laughed.
“Well next time you want to go to the Hexenring, let me know and I’ll take you.
Maybe we could make markers for you to get there.”
“Wow, first, do you speak German? Because you made that word sound so badass.
Second, yes, markers sound great because how the fuck did I end up where I
was?”
“I do,” Derek said. “I’m a polyglot, which is--”
“I know what a polyglot is, wow. It’s like I don’t even know you right now.
You’ve been holding out.”
Derek snorted as he pulled up to the Jeep.
“Also, you found me, so kudos. I didn’t know you cared that much,” Stiles said,
faux-touched as he put his hand over his heart. Derek rolled his eyes as Stiles
got out of the car.
“I can track you like I can track everyone else in the pack. It’s a pack
thing.”
“Can Scott and Isaac do that too?” Stiles asked.
“If they trained more at it, yeah,” Derek said. And that definitely sounded
more like the Derek Stiles knew well. “Do you need to follow me out?”
“I got it from here,” Stiles said as he hopped into his Jeep, stowing his bag
beside him.
In the end, he made it to Deaton’s ten minutes late. As punishment, Stiles had
to write out all the symbols for the ingredients they used in a calligraphy pen
until Deaton was pleased with his penmanship. It took forever because Stiles’
handwriting was basically chicken scratch, and apparently calligraphy was hard.
Who fucking knew?
When he was done, Deaton surprised him by placing empty jars in front of him.
“You made labels for your own jars, Stiles. Congratulations.”
“Holy shit,” Stiles said, his eyes wide. He would have his own ingredients, not
just mountain ash. He knew the labels well, now, had been memorizing them over
the weekend.
“You made your own mountain ash, and today we’re going to grind mistletoe and
belladonna. Then I want you to pick up your own grave dirt.” Blood drained from
Stiles’ face at the mention of it. If Deaton noticed, he made no mention of it.
“Wolfsbane is dangerous, just like the rest of these ingredients. You aren’t
ready to grind that down yet, so I can give you a sampling of mine, but know
that any ingredient is more powerful if you’re the one that readies it.”
“Huh, I didn’t know that,” Stiles said as he looked at his labels, his fingers
tracing over the symbols. “I can’t wait to get far enough that I can grind down
wolfsbane,” Stiles said, realizing he meant it. More power meant that he’d be
closer to his rite of passage, to becoming an emissary. Deaton smiled at him in
understanding.
“Come on, let’s teach you how to prepare mistletoe and belladonna.”
-
After a long shower, Stiles curled up in bed with a book of spells Deaton
handed him at the end of their session. He spent an extra hour with him that
night, talking about different things he could try out in the fairy ring while
alone, without Deaton or Marin there to oversee him. At first, Deaton had been
wary, but Stiles assured him he wanted to dabble, nothing more, nothing too
extreme. Like practicing at throwing mountain ash into the air and making a
circle with it as it fell, like they did the second session.
Stiles did a lot of cleanup that day, and had mountain ash in his hair for two
days afterwards. Scott hadn’t been able to touch him, let alone pass by him if
Stiles stood in the doorway. Stiles thought it was good to know, that if he was
covered in it he could act as a blockade of sorts.
He was exhausted, both mentally and physically as his eyes cast over the page
to which the book was open. His jars were set out in a row on a bookshelf he
had cleared for his emissary paraphernalia, books, and ingredients.
Stiles felt himself drifting off until the door to his bedroom opened and his
dad walked in, his eyes casting a glance at the shelf.
“I feel like I’m missing something here,” he said, his hands on his hips.
Stiles closed the book in his lap, sitting up straight.
“Yeah, well, about that,” Stiles said as he scratched the back of his neck. “So
you know about that chessboard--”
“You aren’t on that chess board,” the sheriff said, his eyebrows skyrocketing
as he pointed at the spot on Stiles’ desk it had been before he stored it away
under his bed. “You’re not allowed to be on it.” Stiles winced, understanding
what his dad meant by that.
“Well, I sort of am, but in a very, very human way,” Stiles added, his hands in
front of him, placating his father. “I promise, I’m one-hundred-percent human.”
“Then how are you on that chessboard, Stiles?” He asked.
“I’m training to become an emissary,” Stiles said, his face pinched as he
waited for some sort of outburst that didn’t come.
“Like Deaton?”
“Yeah, like Deaton,” Stiles said. “Neutral, bookkeeper really, sort of like a
scholar, but have like... some powers.”
“Powers? Like magic?”
“The beginning stages of it, really. Like being able to make a mountain ash
circle by throwing it into the air, controlling my nightmares by hanging anise
by my bed and having it actually work,” Stiles explained as he pointed out the
sprig of it tied to his headboard. “It’s pretty cool, Dad, and soon I’m going
to be able to grind my own wolfsbane and I can make you bullets to protect
yourself with, and they’ll be powerful because we’re bonded by blood. I’ve been
reading about it.”
“Wow,” the sheriff said, his eyes wide.
“I’m learning to protect myself.”
“I’m proud of you, son,” he said as he walked forward, hugging Stiles. “So
proud of you.”
-
Stiles lost himself in studying. When he got home from lacrosse, he rushed
through his school work in order to get to Deaton’s on time. After he came
home, he read until he fell asleep, the anise doing its job in keeping his
nightmares at bay.
After a few months, Deaton sat Stiles down in his office with the door shut, so
not even Scott could hear them talking.
“I’ve talked with Marin, and we both believe that you are ready to complete the
ritual.” Stiles beamed, glad it didn’t take him the two years that it took
Deaton to get as far as he had. “It has to be done on a new moon, which is--”
“In three days,” Stiles said. He circled the new moons in his calendar, knowing
that they were important to emissaries, like the full moon was to werewolves.
“Correct,” Deaton said. “Do you want to do it alone, or do you want your pack
there with you?” He asked. Stiles bit his lip as he thought about it.
“I want them there.”
“Then it’s settled. At sundown we’ll meet at the lake. You bring who you want
with you. Make sure you memorize the incantation.”
“I already have,” Stiles said with a grin.
For the ritual, Stiles wore a plain white tunic that Deaton gave him. He was
barefoot, shivering in the cold March night. The darkness reminded Stiles of
his dream, of being buried alive. He looked around, at all his friends who
stood there watching as he stepped into the bitter cold lake where both Deaton
and Marin waited for him to join them in open arms.
His head buzzed, his body numb as he said the incantation as memorized. He held
his breath as he gripped the twigs of mountain ash and the sprig of mistletoe
close to his body. Deaton and Marin both dunked his head under the water where
they were only waist deep. With open eyes, Stiles watched them look down at him
as the seconds ticked by. He thought of the Nemeton, of the sacrifice they did
that opened the door in his mind to let the nogitsune in, of Marin in her
office quoting Churchill at him, of Matt and the kanima, of him and Derek in
the pool.
His lungs stung as he neared the end of his breath, his eyes closing tight as
he fought to hold on, to let his body relax so he could float to the surface.
He couldn’t fail now, he had to complete the ritual. Stiles’ body went limp as
he opened his mouth, letting in the darkness.
As his body drifted to the surface, he felt himself breathe in air, the sounds
above the water filtered by his head bobbing up and down as Marin cupped his
face in her hands.
“Stiles,” he heard her say, though muffled. “Open your eyes.” He did as she
asked, blinking multiple times until she came into view. “Your friends were
worried.”
“How long have I been meditating?” Stiles asked, knowing that was what he had
been doing.
“Twenty minutes.” He realized that he was cold, freezing in fact. He made to
stand up, but his legs gave out. The water around them splashed as Scott and
Derek rushed forward, helping him out of the water while his father stood by
with a towel for him.
“Did I do it?” Stiles asked, his teeth chattering. “Am I an emissary?”
“You are. Now go get warm and we will see you tomorrow for your real training,”
Deaton said as he and Marin took their own towels from a pile at the sheriff’s
feet. It wasn’t until Stiles was in his dad’s car with the heat on full blast
that he realized that Deaton and Marin hadn’t been shivering at all.
Stiles waited in the car, watching as his dad talked with Scott and Derek, the
discussion clearly heated by the motions his father made with his hands, and by
how Scott had his arms crossed, Derek giving Stiles furtive glances every few
seconds. Stiles slumped down in his seat, messing with the heat settings.
He didn’t feel any different.
-
The rite of passage was just that: a rite. It didn’t suddenly give him tangible
powers that he didn’t already possess, it only served as a ritual for him to go
through in order to be taught more in depth, to become one of them.
Perhaps he didn’t believe enough, or that his spark wasn’t strong enough to
pull in more power. Stiles poured his energy into studying, into igniting the
spark within him. Obsession was a strong word, but a word that he thought rang
true deep in his core. He soaked in knowledge, burning the benzoin incense
every night as he read until he passed out.
If Stiles thought the Argent bestiary had been the be-all and end-all of
knowledge of the supernatural, he had been wrong. The emissary’s bestiary,
though not digital, dwarfed the Argents’. It, too, was in Latin, but Marin
suggested that the three of them attempt to translate it, perhaps with the help
of Lydia, to update it for easier reading.
Lydia had to be persuaded, of course.
“This can’t be put on my college resume, you know. Helping friends translate a
bestiary doesn’t quite fit under ‘volunteer work’.”
“If you want,” Marin said as she sat at her desk at school, where they met
before lacrosse practice. “You can use me as a reference. Translation does look
good on a resume.” Lydia beamed. That’s all it took, really.
Stiles, of course, not knowing Latin, would take the longest in translating his
sections, so he decided to be resourceful. That meant knocking on Derek’s door
after his session with Deaton.
“You smell of mistletoe,” Derek said, blocking the doorway to his loft so that
Stiles couldn’t enter.
“Do you speak Latin?” Stiles asked, ignoring Derek’s tone. Derek eyed him.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t and we’re trying to translate an entire bestiary, and I need
to look over like, four spells before I meet with Ms. Morrell tomorrow after
practice. And because I’m so sore I can barely function, thanks to Coach’s
suicides.” Derek let him in, then.
“Let me see it,” Derek said, sticking his hand out as Stiles plopped down on
the couch. Stiles handed him the pages that Deaton photocopied for him. “I can
translate it, if you want.”
“Oh god, you’re awesome. My other option was going to be Google translate.”
“Do notuse that,” Derek said as he sat down on the couch next to Stiles. Stiles
stretched, trying to get rid of his sore muscles. When he got home, he would
look through his herb grimoire to look for something to help soothe the pain.
“Are you okay?” Derek asked.
“Sore, told you, Coach is a dick,” Stiles grunted, leaning on the couch in a
way that made him most comfortable. It just so happened to position his feet
against Derek’s thigh. Stiles wasn’t sure how Derek would react but putting his
hand on Stiles’ ankle wasn’t one of them. Stiles felt the pain being sucked
from his body by Derek, unable to hold back a moan as he pushed his foot
against Derek’s thigh. “Shit, that is-- fuck.”
Derek chuckled as his hand slid higher up Stiles’ calf, then back down again.
Stiles watched as black veins drew up Derek’s arms. “Ah,” Stiles sighed,
closing his eyes in hopes that Derek wouldn’t be able to smell his arousal.
After all, it wasn’t every day that Stiles got touched by someone else. Rare,
even, barely ever. Instead of pulling away, Derek’s hand slid higher, this time
his fingers ghosting beneath the hemline of Stiles’ spare lacrosse shorts
before going back down to his ankle. Instinctively, Stiles opened his legs,
welcoming the feeling.
He could feel the blood pumping through his veins as Derek’s hand made its way
back up Stiles’ leg. Stiles bit his lip, his head tilting back as he rolled his
hips, his hand gripping tight to the couch cushion.
“Stiles,” Derek said, pulling Stiles back to the present, where Derek’s pupils
were blown as he sat beside Stiles. “You have to tell me this is what you
want.”
“Fuck,” Stiles said as he stretched his leg, putting his foot in Derek’s lap,
rubbing it against Derek’s own erection. “Yeah, I mean, yes. Do-- do you want
to? Touch me?” Derek’s nostrils flared as he breathed in Stiles’ scent, his
eyes closing momentarily as Stiles watched.
“Yes, I do,” Derek said, his hand moving upwards once more, slipping beneath
the fabric of Stiles’ shorts completely as his fingers dragged back down
Stiles’ leg, catching against the hair on his upper thighs as he rolled his
hips once more. So close and yet so unbelievably far away. Stiles moved his
foot, rubbing it over the bulge in Derek’s jeans, making Derek grunt. Stiles
licked his lips as he took it upon himself to cup his erection, his fingers
sliding over the fabric, outlining his cock for Derek to see.
“So then touch me, Derek,” Stiles goaded. He let out a moan as Derek shifted on
the couch, hovering over him, knees between Stiles’ legs as both his hands slid
up his legs, pushing the fabric up his thighs, his thumbs teasing at his balls.
Stiles gasped, his hands reaching out for Derek’s shoulders as his fingers
wrapped around Stiles’ cock for a second before leaving it again, pulling the
pain from his thighs. Stiles arched his back, his mouth open wide as he bucked
his hips upward, wanting nothing more than to be touched. “Fuck.”
“What other noises do you make?” Derek asked, his voice rougher than Stiles had
ever heard it, as he himself whined as Derek tugged at his shorts, pushing them
down his thighs to reveal his cock. He didn’t have time to feel embarrassed at
how hard he already was, or tell Derek no one else but him had ever had the
privilege of jacking him off before Derek’s lips were on his, his full body
weight engulfing him as he rutted against Stiles. Stiles moaned into the kiss,
their first kiss, open-mouthed as he held on to the back of Derek’s neck with
both his hands, keeping him in place. Stiles moved against him, gasping each
time Derek’s cock rocked against his ass.
When the kiss ended, Derek situated his body so that he could get to Stiles’
cock, his own erection forgotten about as he mouthed at Stiles’ neck, his teeth
raking across the sensitive skin there, nipping at Stiles’ earlobe.
“I’ll make whatever noise you want me to if you promise not to stop moving your
hand,” Stiles muttered, fucking up into Derek’s fist. “Fuck me.”
“What?” Derek said, stopping in order to look Stiles in the eye.
“That was-- that was a heat of the moment like, thing. I didn’t mean-- not if
you don’t want to, or right now even, because this? This is good,” Stiles said,
gulping as he rambled. “Please continue.” Derek rolled his eyes as he bent
over, kissing Stiles once more. “You are a lot less naked than I am.”
“You could help, you know,” Derek said as he licked his own palm, then went
back to jacking Stiles off. Stiles’ brain short-circuited at the sight, his
hands hovering over Derek’s belt buckle as his jaw dropped. “Stiles.”
“Going, moving, oh my god,” Stiles said as he unzipped Derek’s jeans. “Could
these be any tighter?”
“Probably,” Derek said, his mouth finding a sensitive spot on Stiles’ neck to
suck on as Stiles managed to shove Derek’s jeans far enough down his thighs so
he could wrap his hand around Derek’s cock. Stiles got a good pace going, happy
to find Derek uncut, making it easier without lube. “Fuck,” Derek said, his
hips moving against Stiles’ fist. “Hold on,” Derek said as he moved again,
letting go of Stiles’ cock and taking hold of his shorts, discarding them
completely by tossing them across the room. Stiles watched them go as Derek
spread his legs, sliding between Stiles’ legs in one fluid motion, his hands
sliding up Stiles’ torso as he fucked against him, their cocks touching as they
both moved.
“This is way better than masturbating, Jesus,” Stiles practically shouted.
Derek laughed as he chased Stiles’ mouth with his own. The pressure of Derek
bearing down on him, along with the feel of Derek’s cock sliding against his
own, was almost too much for Stiles to handle. “I’m gonna come,” Stiles said,
his teeth clacking against Derek’s as he yanked at Derek’s shirt. Derek slid
his hand up Stiles’ getting it out of the way as a thumb teased at his nipple,
both their movements becoming more erratic as their climaxes neared. Stiles
stilled as he came, his back arching as he moaned into Derek’s open mouth.
Derek continued to move against him, letting out small, almost silent gasps as
he added his mess to Stiles’ stomach, his cock sliding across their mess.
“That was pretty fucking phenomenal,” Stiles said, out of breath. “I think I
need a shower, though. And a new shirt. My shorts are pretty soaked, too.”
“I’ll get you something to wear,” Derek said, though he didn’t move. He had his
face buried against Stiles’ neck.
“You’re heavy there, bud,” Stiles said, patting Derek’s bicep. “Moving would be
good.” Derek grunted as he moved, helping Stiles to his feet. Derek’s gaze was
on Stiles’ stomach, on the mess. “What does it smell like to you?” Stiles asked
as he grabbed his shorts, slipping them on for the moment. He felt exposed and
he didn’t care for it.
“Us,” Derek said simply, clearing his throat. “I, uh, didn’t intend--”
“Do you regret getting off?” Stiles asked, his eyebrows rose in question. Derek
shook his head.
“Good, because neither do I. And by the way, werewolf pain voodoo? Amazing
shit. 10/10, would recommend again.”
“Good to know,” Derek said with a smirk.
“I didn’t even know I had a chance with you,” Stiles said honestly. “It didn’t
even like, occur to me. I thought you liked girls.”
“It’s called being bi,” Derek said.
“I’m beginning to realize that's a real thing,” Stiles said, thinking back to
Caitlin. “I never really thought about sexuality like that, like I didn’t have
to choose?”
“Well, you don’t,” Derek said with a shrug. “Come on, I’ll turn the water on
for you so you can wash up.”
“So chivalrous,” Stiles cooed as they walked up the spiral stairs together,
with Stiles falling behind Derek.
“Don’t ruin it,” Derek joked.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Stiles said before he got in the shower.
As he washed their come off of himself, he thought about Derek, about how he
jumped from point A to point B within the blink of an eye, or had they been
leading up to this for some time? It was hard to tell, what with Darachs,
Kanimas, and Nogitsunes being in the way before now. Maybe they would have
gotten to this point sooner if they had the chance to, if there had been a
moment to breathe, to think.
When Stiles got out of the shower, he found a pair of sweatpants and an old
faded BHHS swim team shirt waiting for him to change into. The shirt fit him
perfectly, and must have been Derek’s in high school. The thought made Stiles
smile as he walked out into Derek’s room where he sat on the bed, shirtless, in
a clean pair of plaid pajama bottoms, with the pages of the bestiary in his
lap.
“Wow,” Stiles said, looking Derek over.
“What?” Derek asked, taking the pen out of his mouth where it had been moments
before.
“Nothing, just, uh, did you want to wash up too?”
“I used the half bath downstairs,” Derek said.
“You have a half bathroom downstairs?”
“Yeah, where the hole in the wall was? I finally got to finish remodeling it.”
“Huh,” Stiles said as he sat down on the bed. “I didn’t realize what that was.”
“What? You thought that I really wanted to live with a hole in the wall?”
“This coming from the guy who lived in a broken down subway--”
“I was framed for murder and still-- I’m not explaining why. You know why.”
Tension filled the air, which, yeah, Stiles completely understood why.
“Got it,” Stiles said, pulling his feet up to his chest. “Should I go? I can
go--”
“You don’t have to,” Derek said as he looked back down at the pages. “You can
stay as long as you want.”
“Now I’ll never leave,” Stiles half-joked. It made Derek smile. “I’ll go get my
book--”
“Here,” Derek said, getting Stiles’ spellbook from the nightstand. “I brought
it up for you.”
“Thanks,” Stiles said, settling in against Derek like it was no big deal, like
it was something he did all the time. Derek’s body gave off warmth as Stiles
pressed against him. He could smell him, more so than he normally could. It was
intoxicating, the scent of him mixed with Derek. He wished he knew what it
smelled like to Derek, if he had the same reaction. Stiles rubbed his cheek
against Derek’s shoulder.
“Stop,” Derek said. “You’re distracting me.”
“Oh?” Stiles said, coy. “How so?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“I will as soon as you tell me,” Stiles said into Derek’s ear.
“Do you want this translated?” Derek asked, turning towards Stiles. He captured
Derek’s lips with his own, breathing him in. Their mouths opened for each
other, their tongues darting in and out as Stiles fought himself from climbing
into Derek’s lap.
His self-control lasted all of thirty seconds before Derek cast aside the
papers, taking hold of Stiles’ waist as he guided him to straddle Derek’s legs
as the kiss deepened.
“This is-- why haven’t we been doing this?” Stiles asked.
“People trying to kill us,” Derek said between kisses. Stiles grunted as Derek
gripped his ass. “You smell so fucking good right now.” Stiles grinned in
response against Derek’s mouth, glad that their scents mixed together affected
Derek. “I want to-- can I scent you?”
“Is that a thing? A real thing?” Stiles asked. Derek nodded, his nose rubbing
across Stiles’ chin, then ghosted down Stiles’ neck. “Yeah, do it. Scent me.”
Derek closed his mouth over Stiles’ neck, sucking on it as his hands slid the
shirt up Stiles’ torso, his mouth leaving Stiles’ in order to get it over his
head. Derek rolled Stiles over onto his back, as Stiles wrapped his legs around
Derek’s body. They kissed as Derek’s hands roaming over Stiles’ body. He could
get used to this, really used to it.
Eventually, Derek’s mouth moved down Stiles’ body, marking his neck, his
shoulder, spending time on each of his nipples, tweaking them with his fingers
before he lapped at them, making Stiles squirm beneath him. Stiles was about to
ask what Derek meant by scenting, but then Derek pinned Stiles’ arms above his
head, holding them there with one hand as he nosed at an armpit.
“Oh god,” Stiles said, arching into the touch as Derek licked up his side all
the way to his bicep over and over again on each side. “Shit, I’m going to come
in your pants if you don’t shove them-- Derek shove them down,” Stiles called
out as Derek dragged his stubbled cheek over Stiles’ nipples, through his
armpit hair. “Jesus Christ.” Derek shoved Stiles’ pants down, palming at his
erection before continuing to scent Stiles, dragging his cheek over Stiles’
marked neck. Stiles’ chest heaved as precome smeared across his stomach. “So
much for that shower--”
Stiles yelped in surprise as Derek went from his neck down to his cock, taking
Stiles into his mouth, sucking him down, breathing in his scent when he got to
the base of Stiles’ cock.
“You-- fuck me,” Stiles shuddered, not lasting as he came down Derek’s throat.
When Derek pulled off him, he wiped his mouth, his lips red and swollen.
“Shit.”
“You smell like me,” Derek said, his voice hoarse. Stiles bit his lip, running
a finger over Derek’s lips.
“That was so fucking hot,” Stiles muttered. “Like, I am going to have shit to
jerk off to to last a lifetime, so thanks.”
“My door is always open,” Derek said with a smirk. Stiles’ stomach flipped at
the implication.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Derek said.
“Want me to reciprocate?” Stiles asked, running his fingers over Derek’s
crotch.
“No, I’m good,” Derek said. Stiles arched an eyebrow. “The scenting was
enough.”
“Werewolves are weird,” Stiles said as he pulled his pants up. Derek rolled his
eyes, bending over to pick up the papers he threw off the bed as Stiles found
the shirt he was wearing before. “Can I, uh, crash here?” Stiles asked as he
yawned.
“Yeah, sure,” Derek said. “You tired now?”
“I just came, like, twice, yeah I’m tired,” Stiles said as he got under the
covers, stealing one of Derek’s pillows. “You tired?”
“I’m going to translate some of this first,” Derek said, getting under the
covers as well but remaining sitting up. Stiles watched him for awhile,
wondering how he went from never being more than kissed to suddenly having two
orgasms that would trump anything else he could ever think of himself.
He decided, as his eyelids got heavier, that life was like that. One moment
you’re one thing, then the next, your life is changed forever.
-
Stiles held a knife in his hand, dripping with blood. He looked down at the
ground, at his bare feet, where he stood in it. Red coated his tunic, sticky
against his skin as he tried to stay standing. Tears streamed down his face as
he dropped the knife.
A familiar scent engulfed him as dread made his stomach drop. With shaking
knees, he fell to the ground before a body, pushing it over so he could cup the
lifeless face with his hands.
“Derek, I’m so sorry!” Stiles screamed between sobs. “I’m so--”
“Stiles, wake up!” Derek shouted, echoing off the white walls that surrounded
him. Stiles stopped crying, looking around the emptiness. White should feel
warmer than darkness, but in the end, it only made Stiles wish for the abyss.
“Stiles,” Derek said, though he was lifeless in Stiles’ arms, blood pooling
around them
“Stiles.”
Stiles blinked awake to find Derek hovering over him, his hands cupping Stiles’
face. “You weren’t breathing.”
Stiles took a deep breath, his chapped lips parting. He hadn’t dreamt in
months, he realized. He fell asleep without the anise, so the nightmares had
returned.
“Did I scream at all?” Stiles asked as he sat up.
“No, you stopped breathing, and I couldn’t wake you up.” Stiles rubbed at his
eyes, frowning as he looked at the clock. It was close to three in the morning.
Stiles doubted that he would be able to get back to sleep now, at least not
without any anise nearby.
"I do that sometimes," Stiles said. "Some form of sleep apnea. I don't even
know I'm doing it."
"Your heartbeat slowed down, like you were in some sort of coma."
"Maybe my body just does that," Stiles said, shrugging it off as he got out of
bed. "I should go home, let you sleep. I don't think me sleeping here is a good
idea."
"Are you okay to drive?" Derek asked as he got out of bed as well, following
Stiles down the stairs. Stiles made sure he had his book as he put on his
shoes. He'd pick everything else up later.
"Yeah, totally. It was just a dream."
-
The lights were off, the cruiser parked out front, when Stiles pulled up. He
climbed the stairs carefully, skipping the step that creaked. He went straight
into the bathroom, where he stripped out of Derek’s clothes, putting them in a
pile at his feet as he turned on the shower.
He wasn’t going back to sleep, he couldn’t. He scrubbed at his body, soaping up
multiple times. Not quite ready for Scott to give him the ‘why do you smell
like Derek?’ rundown, since he wasn’t sure what was happening there, Stiles
decided to be safer than sorry later. He didn’t even ask if the scenting would
linger or not, he had been so into it the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.
Stiles washed his hands over and over until they were red and raw. When he
closed his eyes, he could see the blood on his hands still, Derek’s blood. He
swallowed as he tried to push the nightmare down, to not think about it.
He carried Derek’s clothes into his room with a towel wrapped around his waist.
A knock on his door right as he sat down at his desk, still in his towel, made
him jump, his heartbeat skyrocketing as his dad opened the door.
“Is this going to be the new thing, scaring the shit out of me?” He asked, his
eyes barely open as he stood in Stiles’ doorway in a t-shirt and boxers. Stiles
put his hand on his neck, covering the hickey he knew was there and shrugged.
“Sorry, I didn’t know I was going to be out.”
“You know you have a curfew, right? Nogistunes and banshees aside, there isn’t
really a reason for you to be out at four am.”
“I was having something translated and I fell asleep,” Stiles said, which was
mostly true. He leaned on his desk, his elbow on it so he had a reason to have
his hand on his neck. The sheriff lifted an eyebrow, shaking his head as he
turned to walk out of the room.
“You have another hickey on the other side, kiddo,” he said as he shut the door
after him. Stiles blanched, looking around his room for a mirror that wasn’t
there, his shoulders slumping.
It was weird, Stiles knew, but he really wanted to put Derek’s clothes back on.
The shirt was comfortable, as were the sweats, but he knew that was asking for
another shower in the morning. Or, well, in a few hours. Instead, he pulled on
a pair of briefs and a long-sleeved sleep shirt that used to be his dad’s that
had some faded town barbeque on it that couldn’t really be read anymore. Stiles
grabbed the book Deaton gave him, then sat on his bed with the bedside lamp on,
flipping through it aimlessly.
He wasn’t memorizing spells or anything, most of them were too advanced for him
anyway, but having a vague inclination about what spells were out there could
help, Deaton said, if he ever needed to counter something.
Stiles didn’t buy it, but he looked through it all the same. One spell caught
his eye, though, as he flipped towards the back of the book. Meminit
praeteritorum in somnis, Stiles read, his lips miming, saying it aloud. Beneath
it, the translation “Recall the past in dreams,” he said aloud. He read the
description, his eyes narrowing as he finished, just before he got to the
ingredients and the steps it would need to perform it. It sounded like a
mixture between the Mirror of Erised and the Pensieve from Harry Potter.
Immediately, Stiles thought of his mother. What he wouldn’t give to go back, to
see her smile once more, to hear her sing as she tucked him in to bed, to see
his father laugh as he hugged her. Stiles’ heart sank as his fingers traced
over the words, his gut clenched. All the spells in the book before him were
out of his league, since he wasn’t anything but a novice, still.
Stiles thought about the fairy ring, about how it could enhance his powers,
give him an extra push. His mind basically made up about attempting the spell,
Stiles looked down at the rest of the page, his eyes stopping at the word
blood. He looked up from the book, shoving it off his lap, kicking it off the
bed with a thunk.
Blood magic. Deaton gave him a book with blood magic in it, dark magic.
Jennifer Blake flashed before his eyes as he shut them tight, his chest
constricting. He thought about the nogitsune, about watching helplessly as it
overtook his body. He was responsible for murders, for destruction. Stiles
started to hyperventilate, the room spinning around him as his mind reeled.
He felt a draft as he curled up in his bed, his arms covering his head, then
his bed dipping down as someone sat on it. Stiles sighed, relaxing as a hand
rest on his shoulder, thinking it was his father. When he turned his head, he
found Derek Hale sitting on his bed.
“Did you break into my house?” Stiles asked, his voice broken. At least his
heartbeat slowed down to a normal pace.
“You going to have me arrested?” Derek asked, which had Stiles let out a laugh
despite how shitty he felt.
“I think I’m over that phase,” Stiles said, turning so that he was facing Derek
instead of away from him. “What are you doing here?”
“You left, and something felt off, I was coming to see if you got to sleep.”
“Not sleeping,” Stiles said with a sigh. He contemplated telling Derek about
the spell, but thought better of it. Instead, he bit his lip as he played at
the fabric of Derek’s jeans. He got dressed and came all the way into Beacon
Hills to check on him. “Hey, so, I know we, uh, started whatever, but I was
wondering if that was a one time thing.”
“I hadn’t really-- If you want it to be more, I wouldn’t say no.” Stiles
narrowed his eyes at Derek, his hand reaching out to grasp his shirt, pulling
him down so he could kiss him again. Derek moved without a fuss, which sent
Stiles reeling because he knew that Derek could have easily not, could have
held his ground. He let Stiles drag his lips over Derek’s own, let Stiles slip
his tongue into his mouth and deepen the kiss.
“Definitely want more than one time with you,” Stiles found himself saying as
he practically pulled Derek down on top of him. This time, Derek braced
himself, putting his hands to either side of Stiles, stopping him.
“I came here to check on you,” Derek said, looking down at Stiles. “Your dad
isn’t asleep.” Stiles groaned as he licked his lips. “But we can always
continue this later.”
“Later,” Stiles mimicked as he he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Derek’s lips
as he brushed his fingers over Derek’s stubble. “I can do that.”
“I should go,” Derek said, though he didn’t move.
“You should,” Stiles said, but didn’t let go of his shirt.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Derek asked. “Your breathing was--”
“You’re a little obsessed with my breathing patterns,” Stiles said with a
smirk.
“You smell of panic and worry,” Derek said. Stiles shifted again, his legs
falling open, distracting Derek.
“Minor freak out, they happen,” Stiles said, playing it off. “It’s bound to
happen sometimes when I think about what I did.”
“That wasn’t you,” Derek said. “You didn’t do those things.”
“I wasn’t strong enough,” Stiles said as he looked away from Derek, staring at
his wall. “I’m learning, though.”
“I can help you, if you want.”
“How?” Stiles asked quietly.
“Weight lifting. You may be human but I’ve seen your muscles. You could tone,
get stronger. That couldn’t hurt.”
“You just want to see me without my shirt on,” Stiles said. “You could fuck me
to get me naked,” he said plainly, his cheeks reddening when he realized what
he said. Derek’s face was stoic as Stiles finally turned his head to look back
up at him from where he lay on his bed, his side pressed against Derek’s thigh,
with his hands on either side of him.
“If you want to learn how to protect yourself, then I can help you.”
“Okay,” Stiles said. “I want to be able to protect myself.” Derek leaned down,
then, and kissed Stiles chastely on the lips. He closed his eyes, seeing
Derek’s limp body in his arms. When he opened them again, Derek’s eyes were
glowing blue.
“I can feel that, you know,” Derek said as he sat up straighter. Stiles shook
his head because he didn’t know, didn’t realize he did anything.
“Feel what?” Stiles asked.
“Your emotions shifting. You thought of something bad, it tastes sour.”
“Tastes?”
“Scents and tastes mingle sometimes if they are strong, since we were kissing--
”
“Hey, speaking of that,” Stiles said as he sat up, changing the subject away
from dark feelings and dreams. “You scenting me earlier, does a shower get rid
of that? What about your clothes, how much does your scent hang off of things?
Because like, I know when Lydia was with Ethan, at first Scott and I didn’t
know about it because Scott didn’t smell anything, but maybe he didn’t know
Ethan’s scent well enough. I don’t know enough about it to be sure.”
“The shower dulled some of it,” Derek said as he leaned forward, smelling
Stiles’ neck. “But I’m still there. It’s the pheromones.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” Stiles asked.
“It means that Scott will be able to smell it.” So much for Scott not finding
out yet. Stiles groaned, but leaned forward to capture Derek’s lips once more.
“I think I’m going to like kissing you,” Stiles said against Derek’s lips. “A
lot. I like this new, less grumpy you. Zen Derek.”
“I’m not zen.”
“You’re pretty damn zen, dude,” Stiles said as he continued kissing him. “I bet
you do yoga naked and meditate and shit.” He distracted Derek enough that he
was able to climb into his lap, wrapping his arms around him before Derek’s
hands slid up Stiles’ shirt.
“I do yoga,” Derek said as he mouthed at Stiles’ neck, his breathing becoming
heavier. “For strength.”
“Uh-huh,” Stiles said as he rocked his hips against Derek, moaning as Derek bit
down on his shoulder. Derek covered Stiles’ mouth with his hand as his other
hand slid down to the curve of Stiles’ ass, his fingers teasing at the hem of
his briefs. “Jesus,” Stiles said through Derek’s hand as Derek dropped him back
on the bed, taking a step away from him as he got off the bed himself.
Without a word, Derek got into the closet just as Stiles’ door opened. His
father was there, dressed in his uniform. Stiles barely had time to reach off
the bed for the discarded spell book, hiding his erection by laying on his
stomach as he flipped it open to a random page as he looked at it on the
ground, his arms hanging off the bed as if it was on purpose.
“Not sleeping well?” He asked Stiles.
“I napped earlier,” Stiles said as he looked up. “I’m going to stay up for
school. No use in going to bed now.”
“Thirty minute nap would be better than nothing,” the sheriff said. “I’ll be
home for dinner, I expect you to be, too.”
“Sure thing, Dad,” Stiles said with a smile. As soon as the door closed behind
him, Derek emerged, looking a bit paler than he had moments before. “Dude, that
was close.” He sat up better, bringing the book with him. He wasn’t at all
surprised to find the memory dream spell to be where it opened to. Stiles shut
it, pushing it away from him as Derek walked towards the window. “Hey, don’t
go, he’s gone.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” Derek said. “You’re seventeen.”
“Hey, that’s a bullshit reason,” Stiles pointed out. “I had a thousand-year-old
demon in me, okay? I died by drowning to save my dad, hell, I helped kill your
uncle that one time. I think normal human years don’t really count.”
“Will your father think that way?” Derek asked. Stiles swallowed as he tapped
his fingers against his bare legs.
“I think so, yeah. He knows what I’ve been through, what you’ve been through.
We’re out of the normal teenage problems territory. I’m not going out and
getting high at parties and getting like, gangbanged here. This is you we’re
talking about.” The way that Derek looked at him made Stiles’ breath catch in
his throat. “You’re not some stranger who is older. I trust you.”
“That’s a heavy statement,” Derek said, sounding more like himself.
“Stay,” Stiles said. “I have an hour before my alarm goes off. We can nap.”
“Are you sure?” Derek hesitated before toeing off his shoes. Stiles nodded,
pushing down his covers, the spell book falling to the floor once more. He
scooted across the mattress, pressing his back against the wall to make room
for Derek in his bed. Together, they barely fit on it properly, their chests
pressed together as Stiles situated himself, putting an arm under Derek’s head,
another on his waist. They fit together rather well, Stiles thought as he
closed his eyes, the feeling of Derek’s breath against his neck comforting him.
Derek put a hand on Stiles’ waist, pushing his shirt up out of the way to get
skin on skin contact. Stiles sighed happily as he drifted off to sleep, Derek’s
warm hand on him giving him a sense of security he lacked beforehand.
-
“Dude, where were you in first period?” Scott asked at Stiles’ locker.
“I, uh, slept through my alarm. And my second alarm,” Stiles said, putting his
books into his locker, along with the spell book from the night before. He had
a lot of questions to ask Deaton in regard to it. Scott looked skeptical but
let it slide as they walked down the hall together. Getting out of bed when he
had Derek asleep in it beside him had been more difficult than he originally
anticipated.
“So are you going to say it, or am I?” Scott asked. Apparently Scott wasn’t
going to let the whole smelling like Derek thing slide. Considering Stiles
didn’t have time to shower before school, he probably reeked of him.
“Did you know Derek speaks Latin?” Stiles asked. “Because I didn’t.”
“Dude,” Scott said, giving him a look.
Stiles flailed his arms around. “I just-- It happened, okay,” Stiles shrugged.
“It was weird, not weird. I mean I asked him to translate some stuff and then
suddenly there was pain leeching and boners and then making out.”
“Ew,” Scott said, making a face. “I think that’s enough information from you.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said, wincing as he rubbed at his neck. “I bet that was. Sorry,
man.”
“Hey, maybe we could double date,” Scott said with a grin. Stiles pushed him.
-
Stiles set the book down on Deaton’s desk, where he sat looking up at Stiles.
“Why did you hand this to me?” Stiles asked, crossing his arms.
“To look over,” Deaton stated, is usual air of vagueness surrounding him. “To
learn.”
“This book? Has blood magic in it,” Stiles said, pointing at it. “I don’t want
to become some dark emissary. I don’t have any intention of being a darach.”
`
“Stiles, I wouldn’t give you something that would send you on that route. Not
all blood magic is bad.” Stiles quieted, though his mind sent off warning
bells. “Some spells require it, it’s how things are. What Jennifer did you
won’t find in any of the books in this room.” Stiles shifted back and forth on
his feet as he hugged his arms against himself. “What spell were you reading
about?”
“Meminit praeteritorum in somnis,” Stiles mumbled. “Recalls memories in a
dreamlike state.”
“I know it,” Deaton said, steepling his fingers as he watched Stiles intently.
“It’s a powerful spell, to be used sparingly, but it won’t cause you inherent
harm.” Stiles bit his lip, looking down at the book. “Don’t be scared of the
magic, Stiles. You control your spark and you alone. The only thing you need to
worry about at your level is if a spell says ‘blood of a virgin’.”
“Why? Because I am one?” He asked, scoffing.
“No, because you’ve never used blood magic before. ‘Blood of a virgin’ simply
means blood that hasn’t been used for magic before. It has nothing to do with
sex.”
“Huh,” Stiles said, scratching at his face, his eyes casting down to the opened
page of the book to the spell in question.
“Are you interested in this spell?” Deaton asked.
“I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Is the anise not working?” Deaton asked, worried.
“It was, but I fell asleep in someone else’s bed and the nightmare was
gruesome. I wonder if I can control them, maybe the nightmares would stop,”
Stiles muttered, taking the book back.
“That could help,” Deaton said. “The spell is advanced but only in the fact
that it has to do with blood. You have to be careful.”
“I can be careful,” Stiles said.
“I know you can.”
Stiles spent his session with Deaton going over old treaties where emissaries
mediated. Deaton’s signature were on some of them, along with Talia Hale’s
curved handwriting. Stiles traced his finger over hers as he bit his lip,
wondering if he could help Derek to recall his own memories. Maybe he was
powerful enough.
Hours later, just after sundown since Stiles hadn’t had lacrosse practice, he
drove home with the spell book in the passenger seat. When he pulled up, his
father had left a light on for him. The house smelled of spaghetti sauce and
garlic bread when he entered it, dumping his things on the couch as he walked
into the kitchen.
“You’re just in time,” his dad said as he poured noodles into a strainer in the
sink. “Set the table.”
It was rare that his father cooked, or that they had a home cooked meal in
general since his own cooking skills consisted of things that came out of a box
or were on speed dial on the landline. Actually sitting down at their kitchen
table when there wasn’t a case file or two spread across it was even more rare.
Stiles even got out the good plates, the ones that were higher up in the
cupboard that his mom took out for holidays and guests.
His dad paused when he saw the pattern on the plate, white and simple.
“I thought it would be nice,” Stiles said, his voice catching in his throat. He
didn’t even know the last time they used the plates, so he rinsed them off
before he got his pasta.
“We should use them more,” his dad said, following behind Stiles in making his
own plate.
After dinner, they settled in to watch a movie, one of the Die Hards, as Stiles
did his homework on the floor, using the coffee table as a desk. His attention
was only half on his homework as he watched the movie, but his mind was on the
spell. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to try it.
When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he assumed it was Scott, but when Stiles
pulled it out of his pocket he was surprised to see that it was Derek.
‘I finished translating the pages you gave me.’ Stiles grinned, his ears
turning red as he thought about Derek sitting at a desk, maybe on a stool at
his kitchen counter as he translated the pages.
‘That was fast, want a prize?’
‘Want me to drop them off, or do you want to pick them up?’ Apparently Derek
was immune to Stiles’ not so subtle attempt at offering a blowjob. Stiles
shifted on the ground as he thought about going over to Derek’s again, but he
doubted his dad would approve of him disappearing at night again.
‘Drop them off?’
‘When?’
‘Whenever you want,’ Stiles texted, not wanting to sound needy by saying
‘tonight, so I can jump you.’ He wasn’t sure exactly where they were, really,
and if he could do that or not. He didn’t want it to be weird. No weirdness.
He put his phone down when there was no other word from Derek, continuing with
his trigonometry homework as his dad snored in his chair nearby, sleeping
through the movie. Less than an hour later, there was a knock at the door.
Stiles got up, checking the peephole before he opened the door.
Derek stood there, papers in hand, looking just as good as he had the night
before, only this time he had his jacket on. Stiles grinned as he leaned
against the doorframe.
“Decided to use the door?” Stiles asked. Derek lifted an eyebrow, looking
inside to see the sheriff asleep.
“I knew you were down here.”
“Of course you did,” Stiles said, taking the papers and looking them over.
“Holy shit, Derek, this is like, five pages written out.” Derek shrugged like
it was nothing. “You want to come in?” He asked.
“I don’t know if I should--”
“Derek?” The sheriff asked, getting up off his chair to meet them at the door.
“What brings you here?”
“I was dropping off a translation I did for Stiles,” Derek said as Stiles
blushed, his father looking between them.
“Uh-huh,” the sheriff said. “So you were with Stiles last night, then?” Stiles
looked at the ground as Derek put his hands in his the front pockets of his
jeans.
“Yeah, he fell asleep on accident.”
“Well, at least he was with you, then,” his father said in an exhale. Stiles
was pretty sure that was as much of an approval as he was going to get, but it
was an approval all the same. “I’m going to bed. Good night, fellas.”
“Night, Dad.”
“Night, Sir.”
Stiles stood there, staring at Derek as his father walked up the stairs,
leaving them alone.
“Shut the door, Stiles,” his dad called out from the top of the stairs. Stiles
reached forward, pulling Derek into the small foyer, then shut the door behind
him. Derek stood close to him, his hands hovering over Stiles’ body as if he
wanted to touch but didn’t know if he should or not. “Yeah, let’s do this,”
Stiles said as he cupped Derek’s face in his hands, kissing him. It set off a
chain reaction as Stiles’ tongue slipped into Derek’s mouth. Derek grabbed hold
of him, hoisting Stiles into the air almost too easily, as if he weighed
nothing. Stiles clung to him, climbing him until Derek hooked his hands beneath
Stiles’ thighs, holding him up as the kiss deepened. The translation fell to
the ground as Derek walked them closer to the couch.
They fell onto it unceremoniously, both of them grunting as their mouths
crashed together. Stiles’ skin felt like it was on fire as Derek drug his
stubble across his cheek, his fingers digging into Stiles’ hips. Stiles
breathed heavily into Derek’s mouth where he hovered.
“He knows, about last night.”
“Not that you napped, just that I had a hickey from ‘translating’,” Stiles
panted as he clawed at Derek’s jacket, shoving it down his arms. “Him going
upstairs was like a green light.”
“You sure?” Derek asked.
“Basically.”
Derek kissed him again, which was addicting in and of itself, but his mouth on
Stiles’ neck was even better. Stiles moved beneath him, seeking friction as
Derek licked a line up his neck. This, Stiles thought, was what high school was
supposed to be about. Make outs and sneaking around, quietly stripping their
clothes off while parents slept upstairs. High school wasn’t supposed to be
about magic and werewolves and things trying to kill them.
“Fuck,” Stiles gasped as Derek ground his hips against Stiles’. “Fuck that
feels good.” Derek hummed in agreement, his hands sliding up Stiles’ shirt.
“We should stop.”
“That’s bullshit,” Stiles all but shouted as Derek teased at a nipple. Derek
glared at him, covering Stiles’ mouth with his other hand. “Bullshit,” Stiles
said against it, his eyes rolling back into his head as Derek licked at his
nipple, his shirt shoved up against his arms. Stiles licked Derek’s hand,
moving his head so he could take two fingers into his mouth. Derek moaned as
Stiles sucked, pressing his tongue against them, panting as Derek groped at his
crotch. Stiles arched his back as he felt his erection throb between his legs.
“God, just-- we need to go upstairs.”
“Upstairs? Really? Closer to your father?” Derek asked, his voice shot as he
knelt between Stiles’ spread legs on the couch, his hand on Stiles crotch,
thumb pressing against it, outlining his erection.
“Or not, I’m not really thinking,” Stiles said as he swallowed, Derek’s wet
fingers brushing against his lips. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that you’re dangerous to be around if we can’t stop ourselves
from grinding together each time we’re alone.”
 
“It’s not so bad,” Stiles grinned. Derek scoffed, pressing his nose against
Stiles’ neck, breathing him in. “Or we can cool down, no problem,” Stiles said,
his fingers carding through Derek’s hair as they lay there, unmoving. Derek’s
hand moved away from his crotch, which disappointed Stiles more than he thought
it should. “Next time: your place.”
“Privacy,” Derek added as his lips caught against Stiles’ neck.
“Not big on exhibitionism?” Stiles teased, punch-drunk on all the attention
Derek was giving him. Derek laughed, pushing himself off Stiles.
“Not quite.”
“You’d think, as a werewolf, you would be, what with the nakedness when you
shift fully, like alphas. I don’t know.”
“By that theory,” Derek said with an amused tone. “That would mean that anyone
who did sports should be fine with exhibitionism because they get naked in a
locker room together.”
“Point taken,” Stiles said as they both sat up properly on the couch. Stiles
scratched at his head idly as he looked at Derek’s lips. The kiss that followed
was chaste, short, but made Stiles’ breath catch.
He couldn’t believe this was his life, basically.
“I’m going to try this spell tonight,” Stiles confessed. Derek sat back against
the couch, an arm on the back of it as Stiles rested his head against it. It
felt good, sitting with Derek’s thigh pressed against his, though his boner
didn’t appreciate being ignored, but that wasn’t new. He could handle it. It
was nothing compared to middle school, after all. “It’s advanced, but Deaton
thinks I can handle it.”
“What is it?” Derek asked, his brow furrowed. Stiles picked at his jeans, his
lip catching on his teeth as he looked away from Derek.
“It’s this thing where,” Stiles cleared his throat. “Where I can control my
dreams, where I can go into my own memories and sort of relive them.”
“Wow,” Derek said, his eyes glazing over. “I can see why you’d want that.”
Stiles nodded his head, but remained silent. “Why is it advanced?”
Stiles clicked his tongue, shrugging it off like it was nothing.
“It requires the usage of blood.”
“Stiles, no,” Derek said, his voice darkening immediately.
“I talked with Deaton, he said it wouldn’t send me darkside or anything. That
he doesn’t have anything that deep. We’re supposed to trust him, right? He was
your family’s emissary wasn’t he?” Derek tensed, but ended up nodding his head.
“He was, but blood magic doesn’t sound like something an emissary would deal
with.”
“It’s only a few drops,” Stiles mumbled as he crossed his arms. “I shouldn’t
have said anything.”
“Yes, you should have,” Derek said with a sigh. “Are you sure it’s not dark
magic?” Stiles shrugged, thinking back to his initial reaction the night
before, how he kicked it off the bed.
“I don’t know, but Deaton seemed to think I could handle it.” Derek’s silence
told Stiles exactly how Derek felt about the whole thing, about how tense he
was, his jaw clenched tight. “But hey, I am just a novice, I don’t know what
I’m doing yet. I have the anise, I don’t need it.”
“I can feel how powerful you are, Stiles, novice or not,” Derek said as he put
his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck. “But blood magic isn’t as simple as ‘just
a few drops’.”
“I know,” Stiles whispered.
“Don’t do the spell tonight,” Derek suggested. “Wait a while.”
“Okay,” Stiles said, shrugging. Derek gave him a look, his head tipping back
slightly. “What?”
“That was easier than I thought it would be.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Stiles said, poking Derek in the side. Derek pushed
at him playfully, arching away from him. “Oh my god, are you ticklish?” Stiles
asked, poking him again, his fingers ghosting over Derek’s side.
“Don’t,” Derek said, his face pained. Stiles bit his lip, hiding a smile as he
stopped. He hated when people didn’t stop tickling him when he asked, and he
wasn’t an asshole. “Laura used to be relentless,” he said, his voice quieting
after he realized what he said. Stiles couldn’t think of any other time that
Derek had casually dropped her name.
“I won’t do it, then,” Stiles said, inching away from Derek. They were still
sitting really close together on the couch, Derek’s warmth soaking into him.
Stiles had a hand on Derek’s thigh, resting there like it belonged on him.
Stiles closed his eyes as Derek’s thumb caressed the curve of his neck, his
palm against the nape of it. Stiles swallowed, his lips parting.
“I should go,” Derek said, his voice barely audible.
“We keep saying that,” Stiles said. “It’s not too late,” Stiles said, casting a
glance at the clock on the cable box: 10:31, so still early.
“But if I stay then we’ll start something.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Stiles said as his hand slid up Derek’s thigh. Derek
sucked in air as he leaned forward, capturing Stiles’ lips with his own in an
open-mouthed kiss, his hold on Stiles’ neck keeping him in place as Stiles
cupped Derek’s groin.
The kiss ended when the stair creaked.
“Time to head on home, Derek,” the sheriff said.
“Yes, sir,” Derek said as he stood up, leaving Stiles on the couch with wide
eyes and reddened cheeks. “I’ll see you, Stiles.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said, frozen in place on the couch. After Derek shut the door
behind him, he stood up, running his fingers through his hair.
“Make sure you lock up and turn everything off before coming up,” his dad said
before Stiles heard his bedroom door shut.
“Sure thing,” Stiles called out as he moved to lock the door. It didn’t take
him long to turn everything off, grabbing his things before he made his way up
the stairs. Once in his room, he changed into pajamas. Well, he changed into
Derek’s clothes, his fingers rubbing at the soft fabric as he climbed into bed
with the spell book.
He flipped to the page, his chest constricting as he read over the ingredients
once more. He needed sandalwood, poppy seeds, valerian and spearmint. The
ingredients, other than the blood, seemed to mostly be for protection, and to
augment sleep. It didn’t seem sinister, now that Stiles read through it
thoroughly.
Before he turned out his light, he decided that he’d start gathering what he
needed after school.
-
“What do you need valerian for?” Deaton asked, his eyebrow raised as he looked
at the list of ingredients Stiles wrote down. “That’s mainly used in dream
spells.”
“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, shrugging. “It said valerian or grave dirt, and I
have an aversion to grave dirt,” Stiles looked down at his feet.
“These aren’t the ingredients to the recollection spell you were asking about,
are they?”
“They are,” Stiles said. “I want to try it.”
“Are you sure?” Deaton asked.
“Certain,” Stiles said. “I came to you for the ingredients because we haven’t
studied how to prepare valerian yet, and I wasn’t sure about the sandalwood,
though it’s only going to be burned.”
“I see,” Deaton said, setting the piece of paper down.
“Valerian used as a substitute could work, if the spell said it could be used.”
“I wouldn’t have known otherwise,” Stiles said. “Grave dirt would be stronger,
though. I want to try it and see.”
“We can prepare the spell together, how about that?” Deaton asked, placing his
hand over the paper. “I will oversee you doing it. Blood magic, even in its
simplest form, can be dangerous.” Stiles relaxed, his worries, along with
Derek’s, forgotten for a moment.
“That would be great.”
He spent most of his evening session with Deaton preparing valerian, which
Deaton had in a jar, dried and uncut. Deaton presented Stiles with a mortar and
pestle, as well as a mountain ash box for him to keep them in, along with a
small grinder.
“Only use this grinder for ingredients,” Deaton said as Stiles looked down at
the etchings on it. “No drugs.”
“Weed isn’t really my thing,” Stiles said with a smirk. The grinder had symbols
on it for strengthening, for binding. “These are awesome,” Stiles said looking
at everything.
“They are a responsibility,” Deaton pointed out. “Passed down for generations.
Don’t make me regret giving them to you.”
“You won’t,” Stiles said.
“You’re going to have to tell your dad what you’re doing, what the spell is
before you do it,” Deaton said. Stiles frowned. “If I’m going to oversee, I
suggest here. He has to know where you are.”
“Okay.”
“I suggest this weekend.” The weekend seemed so far away, still. Stiles wanted
to try it sooner. With his things packed into the wooden box, along with his
ingredients, Stiles walked out to his Jeep, surprised to see Scott waiting for
him.
“Scotty!” Stiles said with a grin. “What’s up, man?”
“Kira and I were going to go grab some pizza, want to come?” Scott asked, his
helmet in his hand as he opened the back of the Jeep so Stiles could put his
things in it.
“Yeah, that sounds awesome. I’m starving,” Stiles said. “Want to hop in, or
want me to follow you?”
“I can hop in,” Scott said, walking around to the passenger side as Stiles
opened his door. “How’s emissary shit coming?” Scott asked him.
“It’s all reading and cutting up herbs and memorizing boring symbols and shit,”
Stiles said, shrugging. “But it’s better than having time to think about
everything that’s happened. I want to be able to help, you know? I don’t want
to be defenseless.”
“You weren’t defenseless; it could have been any of us.” Stiles shrugged as he
tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “But I’m glad you’ve got
something to concentrate on.”
“It’s weird, you know? After like, a year of nonstop shit happening to us, that
now there is this lull in supernatural shit. I feel like we should be on the
lookout, like something else is coming. Deaton said that the Nemeton would
attract other stuff, but nothing else has happened yet.”
“He said it might,” Scott said, sighing. “I don’t know, but I’m glad we get a
chance to, like, sleep? You know, go on dates and-- so are you and Derek, like,
dating?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles said, his eyes on the road. “We didn’t really talk about
that, we were a bit busy--”
“TMI.” Stiles snorted at Scott’s look of horror. “That’s great that you’re
getting off though.”
“Way better than my own hand,” Stiles said, wiggling his fingers at Scott, who
smacked it away.
“Dude.”
“Whatever, you love me,” Stiles said as they pulled up to the only pizza place
in town that was open past nine. “Let’s go eat like, four pizzas.”
“Done.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     heed the tags!
     thanks for reading. I really enjoyed writing this fic, since I rarely
     write canon based fic!
Stiles blinked awake, rubbing at his eyes as his vision cleared. He was
surrounded by darkness, but it had a warmth to it, a flickering light in the
distance. The stench that hung in the stagnant air had him gagging: graveyard
dirt, rotting and dank. Stiles tried to cough, but he couldn’t open his mouth.
The only way he could breathe was through his nose, and it made his eyes water.
He grasped at the ground, his fingers digging into soft dirt, as he got to his
feet, placing his hands along the walls. Cool, wet stone, dripping with water
lined the walls as he walked towards the flickering light, his bare feet
squishing against the dirt pathway. He tried opening his mouth again, to no
avail, his fingers ghosting across his lips. He stopped dead in his tracks as
he felt it, his eyes teared up as bile rose in his throat with nowhere to go:
thread in an X pattern, his mouth sewn shut.
Screaming, Stiles tried to pry his mouth open. The thread tugged, but Stiles
couldn’t even part his lips. His chest heaving, he leaned against the wet
walls, banging his head against the stone. His back was soaked, his feet
covered in damp grave dirt as he tried to calm down enough to keep going. He
swallowed before continuing, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.
Alone, he had to keep on moving. He felt within him a great need to get to the
light, his mind hazy as he continued forward. The flickering light became
stronger as he turned the corner, a single lantern hung above him, showing him
a door, wooden with an iron knocker on it. Stiles didn’t hesitate to use it,
noting that the knocker itself was that of a howling wolf.
The door opened on its own, the smell of burnt herbs filling his nostrils,
replacing the acrid smell of the dirt. Stiles walked inside to find dried herbs
hung upside down by a cauldron, its fire lit as something brewed. He was alone
in the sparse room, no furnishings except the cauldron and a mirror. Stiles
hesitated before stepping forward towards it.
It was old, black surrounding its edges. At the body length mirror, he looked
to his feet first, then made his way up his body, his stomach clenching with
fear as he looked himself in the eye.
Dried blood covered his mouth, drips of it went down his neck, staining his
shirt. The thread itself was black, thicker than normal thread. He leaned
forward, touching it with his dirtied fingertips. It was then that he realized
his irises were gone, that his eyes were completely black, devoid of any color
at all.
Stiles fell to his knees, grasping at his throat as his eyes flickered back to
normal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move. He closed his eyes,
wishing to be somewhere else, anywhere else. A snap of the fire had him opening
his eyes to reveal himself, standing behind where he knelt in front of the
fire.
It was him, the other him who buried him alive, with a wicked grin and
blackened eyes. Stiles shook out of fear, not because of the reminder of the
nogitsune, but because he knew this was different. As the other him, the darker
him, put his hands down on Stiles’ shoulders, he felt his eyes roll back into
his head, his body dropping to the floor.
Stiles opened his mouth, licking his parched lips, his mouth stale and dry as
he opened his eyes, blinking away the sunlight. He sat up straight, his eyes
wide as he felt around his mouth, moving his jaw freely.
“Shit,” he croaked, his throat raw as he shoved his sheets out of the way,
expecting to see grave dirt in his bed. “That shouldn’t have happened,” he said
to himself as he looked at his headboard, the anise shriveled up and black
where it hung. “That should definitely not have happened.” He touched it,
taking his hand back against his body as it crumbled before his eyes. “That’s
not good.”
He gathered the anise dust up into a jar before showering for school, storing
the glass in his bookbag to take to Ms. Morrell. He stood in the shower,
staring down at his feet as the water cascaded down his body. When he closed
his eyes, he could imagine the dirt rolling off his skin, his hands dirty
still, blackened as the grave dirt stuck to him. He still felt unclean, even
after he stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his body. After
staring at himself in the mirror, half expecting to see puncture wounds around
his mouth from the thread, he got dressed, pushing down the nauseated feeling
that plagued him.
When he got to school, he went straight to her office, not surprised to find
that she wasn’t alone. He sat down outside, waiting for whoever she had in her
office with her, talking about their own problems. Stiles held onto his
backpack, his leg bouncing idly as he worried at his bottom lip.
“Dude, there you are,” Scott said as he walked towards him. “What are you doing
here?” Scott sat next to Stiles, his face set in a frown.
“Gotta talk to Ms. Morrell about something,” Stiles said. “Freaky dream shit.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Scott asked. Stiles didn’t even know how to tell him
about what he saw, so he shook his head. “More buried alive stuff?”
“No, but there was grave dirt involved,” Stiles mumbled as the door to Ms.
Morrell’s office opened. Stiles stilled as Malia stepped out of the office,
giving Stiles a smile as she passed by.
“Stiles,” Marin said, gesturing for Stiles to join her in her office.
“See you, man,” Stiles said, clapping Scott on the shoulder. Stiles thought
that maybe he should feel something for Malia, considering everything that
happened, but he didn’t. Not a thing. Maybe that was for the best, especially
if things with Derek were going to continue. He didn’t want to think that one
make out session meant anything more than that.
“To what do I owe this early pleasure?” Marin asked as she crossed her arms.
Stiles took the jar out of his bag, holding it out for her to take a look at.
“That’s anise, the sprig of it that was over my bed. I had a nightmare last
night, and when I woke up it was shriveled up. When I touched it, that’s what
happened.”
“Interesting,” Marin said, turning the jar around in her hand.
“What do I do?” Stiles asked. “I can’t have these nightmares every night, I
can’t function with them. I feel like I could pass out on the ground right
here.”
“What kind of a nightmare was it?” Marin asked. Stiles told her everything he
could remember about the dirt, his mouth sewn shut, and the other him that he
saw in the mirror, about passing out in his dream. “Alan tells me you’re
thinking about doing the memory spell,” she said after Stiles was done.
“I thought it could be an alternative.”
“That spell is to be used sparingly, for obvious reasons,” Marin said as she
went around her desk, sitting at it as she placed the jar in front of her. “The
anise shriveled because of the constant use. You’ve been using the same sprig
for months and if nightmares have been attempting to plague you, then the
strain was too much. Even herbs have an expiration date. Burn incense before
bed, augment the anise. Don’t use the memory spell as a replacement.”
“But I could use it.”
“You could,” Marin said. “It’s good to get experience with that sort of magic,
that level of power. As long as you’re supervised.”
“What do you suggest I burn, then?” Stiles asked. Marin raised an eyebrow at
him.
“What do you think you should burn, Stiles? This is your protection, you should
build your own spell. Use the grimoire. If it’s yours, it will be more
powerful. These spell books are just that, you know, other emissary’s personal
grimoires of spells they’ve put together. You can make your own.”
“I didn’t think of it that way,” Stiles said. “Maybe making my own would help
me feel better.”
“It’s all about what you believe.”
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
-
Stiles walked through the woods, following tie markers on the trees that Derek
must have set up for him sometime during the week. He found the fairy circle
easily enough, setting his things down inside of it as he sat down, crossing
his legs. It was a chilly day, despite the time of the year. Spring was a
fickle time, it seemed, but Stiles wasn’t swayed by clouds and the threat of
rain. Not when he had a spell to make.
He took out the dried leaves he had gathered and prepared, along with his
grinder and a cloth pouch he made haphazardly for a gris-gris bag. Sewing
wasn’t his forte. He took acacia, angelica, anise, and ground them together. He
put them in the pouch, then took a bay leaf and a pen, writing on it ‘peaceful
dreams’. When he finished, he put it in the pouch. He held it in his hand,
closing his eyes as he pictured himself putting it around his neck as he slept,
of a night’s rest without nightmares plaguing him.
Stiles hoped that putting it together in the fairy ring would strengthen it,
maybe. After all, that’s what Marin said it was for.
“What are you doing out here?” Derek asked, breaking Stiles’ concentration.
Stiles opened his eyes to see Derek standing there, his brow furrowed. “That
isn’t--”
“No, it’s not the blood spell,” Stiles said as he began packing everything up,
blowing on the grinder to get rid of any extra ground leaves. “It’s something I
made myself, to help with the nightmares.”
“I thought that was what the anise did,” Derek said as he walked around the
circle. Stiles tilted his head, wondering if Derek couldn’t enter it, or maybe
he didn’t want to.
“It does, but mine shriveled up. Hey, how did you know I was out here?” Stiles
asked as he stood up, putting his bookbag over his shoulder.
“I felt it,” Derek said vaguely. Stiles lifted an eyebrow as he stepped over
the line of mushrooms, meeting Derek for a kiss. He smelled of the forest, of
aftershave, and tasted like bliss as he opened his mouth for Stiles. Stiles’
mind flashed to forest sex, of him pinned down against the ground, moans
echoing as Derek fucked him. “Hey,” Derek said, breaking the kiss. “Those are
some heavy thoughts you just had.”
“Oh, you felt that, huh?” Stiles laughed.
“Yeah,” Derek said, his fingers hooking around Stiles’ belt loops.
“I’ve got the evening off, Deaton has a surgery to do, and Scott’s helping
him.” Stiles tilted his head, watching Derek’s reaction. “I could come over.”
“You could,” Derek said, smirking as he kissed Stiles again, bringing Stiles’
hips against his own.
“Yeah, that’s happening. We’re going to your place,” Stiles panted as Derek
mouthed at his neck. “I don’t want to come in the woods.”
“No?” Derek asked. “You sure?”
“Don’t even,” Stiles said, pushing back from Derek. “You’re the one who doesn’t
like exhibitionism.”
Stiles followed Derek out of the woods, his Camaro parked next to Stiles’ Jeep
at the edge of the trail. The drive to Derek’s was heavy, his mind felt full of
cotton, his dick hard, trapped in his jeans. Derek leaned against his car as
Stiles hopped down from the Jeep, leaving his bag inside as he pressed up
against Derek, his hands circling Derek’s waist, slipping beneath his jacket.
“You’re warm,” Stiles said against Derek’s lips. Derek hummed, his eyes closing
as Stiles’ fingers dipped beneath Derek’s shirt, pressing his palms against
heated skin.
“You’re fingers are freezing,” Derek mumbled as he held Stiles against him.
They were out in the open, though the parking lot was practically empty. Stiles
grinned; Derek didn’t mind being seen with him in public. He wasn’t ashamed of
him or afraid to be seen. Stiles brushed his erection against Derek’s thigh,
moaning into Derek’s mouth. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Whatever you say,” Stiles said. With their fingers linked, Stiles followed
Derek upstairs. Instead of stopping at the couch, they made their way up the
spiral staircase, the intention clear. As soon as they were up, though, Derek
turned to Stiles, his eyes searching.
“Is this okay?” Derek asked.
“What? Your room? I mean, it could use some more personal touches, but it’s
okay.” Derek rolled his eyes. “Yes, dude, yes to everything. Blanket statement
of yes.”
“No blanket statements,” Derek said as he kissed Stiles, walking him towards
the bed as he worked at undoing Stiles’ jeans.
“Got it,” Stiles said as he attempted to do the same. His mouth hung open as he
looked down, watching as Derek pushed Stiles’ jeans down his thighs, his hand
trailing up Stiles’ chest, his neck, until he captured Stiles’ lips once more,
a hand to the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles moaned as Derek’s hand wrapped
around his dick. Stiles whined as he shoved down Derek’s jeans and briefs, the
soft fabric catching on his erection. Derek laughed, helping Stiles by
unhooking the fabric where it caught. “I want to blow you,” Stiles said as he
sat down on the bed, leaving Derek standing.
“If you want,” Derek said, his voice lower than normal. Stiles pushed his jeans
the rest of the way down his legs, until Derek stepped out of them. Only then
did Stiles grip Derek’s cock, his tongue lapping at the head before he sucked
at it lightly as he jacked him off. Derek’s hand went to the back of Stiles’
head, but didn’t push down. Stiles savored the taste of him, salty on his
tongue as precome coated Stiles’ mouth. He closed his eyes as he took Derek
farther into his mouth, his head bobbing as he sucked. When he pulled back,
Derek groaned, his grip on Stiles’ hair tightening.
“Like that?” Stiles asked, stroking him before taking Derek back into his
mouth.
“Yeah, fucking perfect,” Derek moaned. Stiles’ mouth quirked upwards before he
tried the same movement again, taking Derek’s balls into his hand, fondling
them as he pressed his tongue against the underside of Derek’s dick, the head
hitting the back of Stiles’ throat. “Fuck, Stiles.”
It was a stretch, his mouth open wide, as he took Derek down, his nose brushing
against the hairs at the base of Derek’s cock. When Stiles felt his eyes
watering, he pulled back, gasping for breath. He lay back against the bed,
letting Derek take over as he tried not to think about his mouth being sewn
shut, about his eyes watering from the smell of grave dirt.
Derek’s face fell as he straddled Stiles, cupping his face with worry.
“Are you--”
“I’m fine,” Stiles rasped. “Just thought of something shitty. Kiss me,” Stiles
asked. Derek rubbed a thumb across Stiles’ red, swollen lips before kissing
him, rocking his hips against Stiles’ erection. Stiles moaned as he raked his
fingers down Derek’s back, fucking up against him.
“About that sex thing,” Stiles said.
“You want to have sex?” Derek asked, his eyebrows raising.
“At some point, yeah,” Stiles said, reaching between them, wrapping his hand
around both of them. His head fell back against the bed. “I’m a bit impatient
right now, though,” he gasped, his pace quickening. Derek grunted in agreement
as he buried his face against Stiles’ neck, fucking into Stiles’ fist. Stiles
imagined what it would be like to be fucked with the same intensity, making him
come in his own hand.
This time, Derek climbed off of him, mouthing at Stiles’ chest and stomach,
cleaning up the mess, even sucking at Stiles’ sensitive head.
“Fuck, fuck,” Stiles said, moving against Derek’s ministrations. “Let me get my
mouth on you again,” Stiles begged, pushing Derek onto the bed. Derek moved
without a fuss, rolling over onto his back, his legs splayed out, his cock
heavy against his stomach, smeared with precome and spit. Stiles ran his hand
over Derek’s chest, down his stomach, the trail of hair leading down to his
dick, breathing against his length before taking him back into his mouth. Derek
groaned, his back arching against the bed as Stiles sucked, his tongue swirling
over his head.
He knew he had no finesse, never having done it before, but by Derek’s
reactions to him, Stiles didn’t think he was half bad at it. Derek’s hand on
the back of Stiles’ neck, along with the fact that Derek’s stomach muscles
contracted under Stiles’ hand prepared him for the bitter taste of come in his
mouth. He swallowed it down, his tongue pressing against Derek’s slit, teasing
it.
“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek said as he went limp beneath Stiles, his body relaxing.
Stiles put his head on Derek’s chest, turning to face him as he lay there.
“It’s amazing, you know,” Stiles said, grabbing Derek’s attention.
“What is?”
“How easy this feels,” Stiles watched as Derek craned his neck, tilting it so
he could look at him. “All it took was nothing attacking us.”
“I think there’s more to it than that,” Derek said, pulling Stiles up his body
easily, Stiles moved like a ragdoll, not underestimating Derek’s strength.
“Not on my end,” Stiles sighed, burrowing against Derek’s, shoulder, draping a
leg over him.
“I’m glad, then.”
“You can’t say there is more to it but then not explain,” Stiles said, poking
at him. Derek grabbed hold of his wrist, stopping him from doing it more than
once. Derek sighed.
“I didn’t want to drag you into my life like this,” Derek admitted. “I don’t
have the best track record.”
“Well, maybe I’m what you needed,” Stiles mumbled, not wanting to give himself
that much credit.
“Maybe,” Derek said, sounding like he was thinking about something, perhaps his
past. “It wasn’t only Kate and Jennifer, there were others.”
“Were they all completely batshit?” Stiles asked, sitting up. Derek pulled him
back, kissing him lightly.
“No. Not anyone from New York.” Stiles realized again that he barely knew Derek
at all, didn’t know about anything besides the little he deemed worthy to share
before now.
“Like, how many?” Stiles asked.
“I don’t know,” Derek said, his fingers tracing over Stiles’ back. “After Kate,
I-- I slept with a lot of people. I thought it would negate what happened.”
“How do I compare, then?” Stiles asked, joking. He didn’t do well with serious
talks, and this was up there in seriousness for him. He felt young and
inexperienced, obviously his real age.
“You don’t even compare,” Derek said. “Because I actually care about you.”
“Sap,” Stiles said with a grin, though he couldn’t help but hug Derek tighter,
kissing him.
-
Stiles pulled off the blindfold that was over his eyes, to find himself
surrounded by darkness. He was barefoot again, his feet cold against the metal-
like surface. He took a step forward, his heart lurching when he took a step
down, his hands going to either side for something to hold on to. There was
nothing.
No breeze, no sound, nothing for Stiles to hold on to as he stepped down again
and again. He kept walking, his eyes wide as he tried to see. It was no use,
though, he couldn’t even see five inches in front of his face. All he could
hear was the sound of himself breathing as he walked on. He walked and walked
for what felt like hours, though he knew it was probably shorter.
He ran into a wall, face first, letting out a pained moan as he held his face.
He felt around for an edge but found none. He had to choose a way to turn. With
his heart beating in his throat, he turned left. He stepped down into water, or
something that felt like it. It sloshed as he stepped forward, down another
step, then another until he was waist-deep. It wasn’t until that point that
Stiles felt how thick it was, how it had a distinct smell to it. He covered his
mouth as he realized what he walked into: blood.
It wasn’t warm, didn’t have any sort of current; it was stagnant. Stiles backed
up, trying to find the steps he had just come down. They were gone.
“Help,” he said, his voice wavering as he took another step back, turning his
body completely as he began to panic. There was no way out of the mess. There
wasn’t a wall, or stairs that he could find in the abyss. Stiles shut his eyes,
covering them with his hands as he thought about light. He thought about
matches, about fire, about light bulbs and flashlights. He thought of the sun,
its warmth when he stood outside.
The thought of Scott, his own grin as they played lacrosse together a lifetime
ago, before the alpha pack attacked.
When Stiles opened his eyes, his hands were glowing. Well, a small orb glowed,
hovering in the palm of his hand. His lip trembling, he looked down at his
blood-soaked shirt, his waist disappearing into the dark fluid. He wiped his
mouth with his hand as he held back a sob. Stepping forward, he squinted his
eyes as they adjusted.
“I need a way out,” he said, his voice echoing through the nothingness. “I just
need a way out.” He took a step forward, falling into the blood completely,
going under, his hands reaching up for the globe of light as he was pulled
downward, something holding on to his ankle. He screamed, letting blood fill
his mouth as he fought against it with all his might.
He gasped for breath as he sat up in bed, completely soaked with sweat with the
gris-gris bag around his neck. He took it off, throwing it across his room as
his chest heaved. He felt like he was covered in blood, his mouth tasting of
iron as he made his way to the bathroom. The light blinded him as he flipped
the switch, then turned on the faucet, splashing his face over and over. He
gargled mouthwash, then washed his hands.
He stripped out of his clothes, feeling disgusting as he looked in the mirror.
It was the weekend, at least. The spell could be done, finally. When he went
back into his room to get new clothes, he saw that it wasn’t even eight in the
morning yet. After pulling on Derek’s sweatpants, which he still held captive,
he fell back into bed, wishing he could fall back asleep.
Instead, he rolled onto his side, grabbing his cellphone.
‘You up?’ Stiles texted to Derek. He waited for a response, putting his phone
on his bare chest as the seconds ticked by. When his phone buzzed, he picked it
up.
‘Yeah, at the preserve waiting for Scott, Isaac, and Kira to train. Want to
come?’
‘I don’t want to crash were bonding time,’ Stiles responded, sighing as he
dropped his phone on the bed beside him, staring up at the ceiling. It
surprised him when his phone buzzed differently, letting him know there was an
incoming call.
“It wouldn’t be crashing,” Derek said as soon as Stiles hit send.
“I’d slow the training process down.”
“No,” Derek said. “You said you wanted to get stronger.”
“I said that, yeah, but I thought maybe that would be a private thing. The last
thing I need is Isaac laughing because I can’t bench press fifty pounds.”
“I think you could bench press more than that,” Derek said seriously. “Come
out, blow some steam off.”
“I’d rather blow--”
“Stiles,” Derek warned. “I’ll see you soon.” With that, he hung up. Stiles
groaned as he got out of bed. He might as well, since his normal Saturday
session with Deaton and Morrell was canceled since they were doing the night
spell.
His dad wasn’t happy about him using blood magic, especially since his own
dream spell hadn’t worked. Stiles needed something to fall back on. He got
dressed in a rush, brushing his teeth quickly before heading out the door.
When he got to the preserve, he found he was the last to arrive. He wore
lacrosse shorts, along with a t-shirt and zipped-up hoodie, his hands shoved
into the pockets. They were wolfed out, well, the werewolves were, as Kira
attacked with her katana.
Stiles didn’t know what he was doing there, really. He didn’t have strength, or
werewolf healing. All he had was a stupid spark that didn’t work right,
apparently. He scraped his foot across the ground, waving lazily at them as he
walked around the fight.
“I’m going to go for a walk,” he called out, cupping his mouth with a hand even
though he didn’t need to. He pointed towards the trail. Scott nodded his head
before he lunged at Isaac.
Stiles walked, his mind on other things as he veered off the trail. It wasn’t
wise, but he knew they were in earshot of him, especially if he screamed. Not
that he had anything to scream about or anything. He was a grown-ass man and
all that jazz. He only screamed in his dreams nowadays.
When he came across a clearing he didn’t recognize, Stiles stopped walking. He
looked around him, taking his hood down so he could get a better look. There
weren’t many clearings in the middle of the woods, that much he knew, but what
caught his attention wasn’t the clearing itself, but the fact that in the
center of it, in the middle of a patch of grass, was a circle. Inside it, the
grass was deadened, brown, dirt replacing most of it.
He took a couple of steps towards it, his head tilting as he noticed stones
surrounding it. In the center of it, Stiles thought he saw steam, or something
like it. He blinked, rubbing at his eyes so he could refocus them. The air
seemed thicker within it, like the air above asphalt on a hot day. He didn’t
have an explanation for it as he got closer, stopping on the edge of it.
“Stiles, stop,” Derek said, grabbing Stiles’ attention. He turned back towards
the tree line, where Derek stood bare-chested, his hand out towards Stiles.
“I wasn’t going in it,” Stiles said, then looked down, his feet inside the
circle. “What the fuck.”
“Don’t move,” Derek said.
“I didn’t, I was on the outside,” Stiles said, looking around him. “I swear I
stopped outside it.”
“It’s a devil’s circle.”
“Yeah I got that, thanks,” Stiles said, his voice rising. “Get Scott.” Derek
took a step forward again, and Stiles could see how worried he was. “I’m going
to step out of it.”
“Stiles, don’t--”
Stiles took a step but found himself in the middle of the circle instead of the
outside.
“So much for a fucking easy Saturday,” Stiles said, laughing to keep from
freaking the fuck out. Stiles saw Scott run up to Derek, his eyes wide.
“Dude, I’m calling Deaton,” Scott called out, his voice muffled. Stiles
narrowed his eyes, walking towards the edge of the circle, placing a hand
against the air. Scott sounded like he was far away, like he was on the other
side of the treeline.
“I can’t hear you,” Stiles shouted. He wished he brought his backpack, that he
hadn’t just waltzed out into the woods unarmed. He thought he was safe, with
Derek and Scott so close. He didn’t think he needed anything.
He could see Derek and Scott talking, almost fighting, their eyes flashing.
“Guys! Hey, fucking stop for a second--” Stiles ran for the edge of the circle,
finding himself even farther away. They were small, now, farther and farther
away as he tried to reach them. Stiles bent over, holding onto his knees; he
was out of breath. “What the fuck is this thing?”
“Stiles!” Stiles looked up to see Derek running towards him, inside the circle.
“What are you doing in here?” Stiles asked, angry as Derek reached him. Stiles
shoved at him. “Did you really step over it after I did? After you saw what it
did?” He was pissed as Derek grabbed hold of his wrists. He shoved at him
again, though he didn’t even budge. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
“I’m not leaving you alone in here. Stiles, something’s wrong with it.”
“No shit, Sherlock!” Stiles said, yanking his hand away. “This isn’t the time
to be self-sacrificial, Derek. Every time I try to get closer to the edge, it
makes it farther--” Stiles looked to the edge of the circle, mere steps away
now. “This has to be a mind trick, I ran for like, a while. I couldn’t hear you
or Scott.
“I heard you scream.”
“I didn’t scream,” Stiles scoffed, taking hold of Derek’s wrist as he look a
step towards the edge of the circle. It seemed just out of reach, despite his
moving towards it. Scott stood back, far enough that he wouldn’t get trapped in
as well, with his arms crossed. “I didn’t scream, Derek,” Stiles said, turning
towards him. “What do you mean you heard me scream?”
“You sounded like you were hurt,” Derek said, his voice catching. “I couldn’t
stand there.”
“Is that what you were arguing about?” Stiles asked, looking at Scott. “Who was
going to jump in here with me?”
“He wanted to, but I told him to wait.”
“How did you get him to agree?” Stiles asked, his grip tightening on Derek’s
wrist. “Scott wouldn’t--”
“I told him to wait, in case something happened. I don’t have anyone. He’s the
alpha.” Stiles’ gut sank as he turned towards Derek, his face hardening.
“That is such shit,” Stiles sneered. “You can’t throw yourself into things--”
“And you can? What do you call this?” Derek asked, his brow furrowed as he
placed a finger on Stiles’ shoulder.
“I didn’t step into the circle,” Stiles said, leaning forwards, his nostrils
flaring as he seethed. “I was outside it. I wouldn’t step into something like
this without fucking knowing what it was. It sucked me in.”
“Sucked you in,” Derek said.
“Yeah, or something. Fuck you.”
“Stiles!” Scott shouted, grabbing his attention. Stiles and Derek both turned
to find Deaton and the sheriff standing there.
“Shit, he called my dad,” Stiles said, dropping Derek’s wrist finally, taking
Derek’s hand instead, their fingers linking. Derek looked down at it, then at
Stiles. “In case it wants to separate us,” Stiles said. He thought it sounded
legit. Fake it ‘til you make it. Derek squeezed it in reassurance as they
stepped forward.
Stiles shivered, goosebumps covering his body, the feeling of drowning taking
over him. It was disorienting, considering he also felt like the ground was
solid beneath him.
“Do you feel that?” Stiles asked.
“No,” Derek said. “Stiles stay with me, Deaton’s doing something.” Stiles tried
to concentrate, but his eyes rolled in the back of his head, his body going
limp. As he fell, Derek caught him, kneeling on the ground as he held on to
him. Stiles could feel Derek’s hands on him, but all he saw was darkness, like
it was one of his dreams.
Only this was real.
“Stiles, god damn it, fucking wake up.” Stiles tried to talk, but he couldn’t
get his mouth to move. Derek held his head up, as well as checking his pulse.
“Your heartbeat is slowing, Stiles you gotta try to wake up.” Stiles felt
himself sinking further and further, Derek’s voice sounding distant until--
“Stiles,” Deaton said, snapping his fingers in front of Stiles’ face. Stiles
opened his eyes. Deaton hovered over him, his face set in a frown. “How many
fingers am I holding up?” Stiles turned his head from side to side, searching
for Derek.
“Stiles,” Deaton said again.
“Four, four fingers,” Stiles said as he sat up, his heart pounding. “Where’s
Derek?”
“He’s okay,” Deaton said, placing a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, forcing him back
down onto the examination table. They were at the animal clinic. “He’s
outside.”
“What the fuck happened?” Stiles asked as Deaton slipped a blood pressure cuff
around Stiles’ arm.
“A devil’s circle, a powerful one, trapped you.”
“I didn’t step in it, it like, teleported me.”
“Like I said,” Deaton stated, giving Stiles a look. “A powerful one. If Scott
hadn’t called me, you’d be dead.”
“What?” Stiles said, paling.
“It would have kept sapping you of your powers until there was nothing left. It
trapped you in it, stealing your energy.” Stiles felt it then, how weak he was.
He had a headache, a deep ache that pounded against the bright lights of the
room.
“What was it doing there?” Stiles asked.
“A witch,” Deaton said. “There were etchings on the rocks surrounding it.”
“How come you didn’t get sucked in?” Stiles asked, remaining on the table as
Deaton undid the cuff, not saying anything about the reading.
“I have protection,” Deaton said, showing Stiles a tattoo, an intricate symbol
on his forearm.
“Would Derek have died?” Stiles asked. “Would it--”
“No,” Deaton said. “Just you.” Stiles swallowed, his head banging against the
table as he looked away. Only then did he notice the IV hanging above him,
feeding into his arm. “It’s going to take a few days for you to get your energy
back up.”
“But the spell,” Stiles pouted as he tried to move. His limbs felt like lead,
his head throbbed. He shut his eyes. “I need the spell, my dream spell didn’t
work. I dreamt of blood. I drowned in it.” Stiles licked his lips, wishing for
water.
“I’ll get you more anise,” Deaton said as the door opened. Stiles could hear
footsteps approaching, but the lights were too bright.
“Hey, kiddo,” his dad said, putting a comforting hand on Stiles’ forehead. “You
scared us back there.”
“Scared me, too,” Stiles said. “Moral of the story: no creepy circles.” He
attempted to smile, but he knew his dad wasn’t amused.
“I don’t like him getting mixed up in this,” the sheriff said. Stiles groaned,
turning his head towards his dad, his eye peaking open.
“Dad,” Stiles croaked. “I didn’t step in it. I wasn’t going to, I swear.”
Fingers through his hair quieted him.
“He should sleep as soon as you get him home.”
“Sleep, I don’t want to sleep,” Stiles complained, his heart rate picking up as
anxiety flooded him.
“Nothing strenuous. You might want to talk to Finstock about him missing a few
days of lacrosse practice.”
“Ugh,” Stiles grunted, not able to do much more. Everyone quieted after that,
leaving Stiles alone for a while. When he opened his eyes, he found Derek
asleep in a chair nearby, his head tilted to one side. Stiles shifted, pushing
himself up by his elbows.
“Derek,” Stiles said, barely audible. His throat was completely dry, needing
water. Derek opened his eyes, though, blinking a few times before getting up
and walking over to him. “Where’s my dad?”
“He’s on duty, we promised to look after you.” Stiles tried to swallow, but
there was nothing to help him with it, so he winced. “Here,” Derek said,
putting a cup of water against Stiles’ lips, a hand beneath it to catch any
spillage. Stiles drank it down greedily, pushing himself up more so he could
drink more easily. “Deaton said you could go home soon.”
“Good, this table is not comfortable,” Stiles joked, his hands slapping against
the metal table. Derek gave him a small smile.
Within thirty minutes, Derek had Stiles in the passenger seat of the Camaro.
Apparently Scott had driven the Jeep to Stiles’ house and was already back at
work.
“Scott said he’d be by tomorrow to play video games with you,” Derek said as he
drove. Stiles looked out the window, his mind fuzzy as he hummed an
acknowledgement. He didn’t know what he was going to do about sleeping.
Becoming desperate, he needed that spell. He knew, though, that he was in no
shape to do it because of the power sapping.
Stiles looked at his hands, wondering why the fuck he thought becoming an
emissary would be a good idea.
“I’m a dumbass,” Stiles stated, looking to Derek. “All I wanted was to be able
to protect myself and the pack. All I have to show for it is a witch sapping
the shit out of my stupid, useless powers.”
“Your powers aren’t useless,” Derek said, giving Stiles a look.
“They feel pretty useless. I couldn’t even make the dream spell work. I didn’t
believe enough.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe you’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”
“Everything is too quiet, it’s fucking me up,” Stiles said as he scooted down
farther in his seat. “There should be like, a wereliger or something.”
“A liger, really?” Derek asked incredulously.
“Yeah, like a lion and a tiger? How fucking badass-- yeah okay, I see that
look.” Stiles shrugged to himself, watching the trees pass them by as Derek
drove.
Once he was home, Stiles fell into bed as Derek hovered by the door.
“You aren’t leaving, are you?” Stiles asked as he shimmied out of his track
shorts, then his hoodie.
“I’m staying until your dad gets home.”
“Good, come here,” Stiles said as he made room for Derek on his bed. Derek
hesitated, though. “Dude, come on, you’re not gonna hurt me. I require
cuddles.” Derek lifted an eyebrow as he crossed his arms, though he walked
forward.
“You think I’m a cuddler?”
“I think that I want you in bed with me with my arms around you so I can use
you as a body pillow,” Stiles said, making a grabbing gesture at him. Derek
snorted, then took his shoes off as he climbed into bed. Stiles draped a leg
over him, as well as an arm, burrowing his face against Derek’s chest. Derek
sighed, but moved his head, making himself comfortable against Stiles.
“Stiles--”
“No serious talk,” Stiles mumbled against Derek, squeezing him.
“You almost died,” Derek said, pained. “In my arms.” Stiles frowned, looking up
at Derek. “Scott shifted into his alpha form, you know.”
“He what?” Stiles asked, sitting up, pressing his hand against Derek’s chest.
“Your heart was so faint, outside the circle they thought it stopped.” Stiles
didn’t realize he was crying until he saw the tears fall, wetting Derek’s
shirt. He wiped at his face, looking to the ceiling in an attempt to stop.
“Deaton managed to get us out.”
“Deaton told me you could have walked out easily,” Stiles said, his fingers
linking with Derek’s. “He said you weren’t in danger.”
“I know that now.”
“But you didn’t then.”
“What are you trying to say?” Derek asked as he pulled Stiles back down onto
the bed.
“I don’t want you to die because of me.”
Derek didn’t say anything, leaning in kissing Stiles on his forehead as he
pulled him closer. Stiles shut his eyes, relaxing against him, drifting off to
sleep as his hand clutched at Derek’s shirt.
The room was cast in a warm, late afternoon light when Stiles opened his eyes.
Beside him, Derek lay with his eyes closed, his breathing steady as he slept.
Stiles took the time to really look at him up close. He looked peaceful, his
face set in a soft frown, his eyelashes longer than Stiles ever noticed before.
His hair was flattened by Stiles’ pillow, fluffy from a shower and no gel in
it. Stiles ran a finger down Derek’s cheek, the feel of his stubble rough
against his skin.
Stiles leaned in, capturing Derek’s lips with his own, kissing him as he closed
his eyes. He felt Derek wake up, his arm over Stiles tightening as he pulled
him in, his mouth opening as he deepened the kiss. Stiles melted against him,
his hand slipping beneath the fabric of Derek’s shirt, palm resting on Derek’s
lower back.
Derek rolled Stiles onto his back, a leg slipping between Stiles’ as they
continued kissing. Stiles could kiss Derek all day, he decided. He roamed his
hands over Derek’s back, stopping right above his ass. They weren’t kissing to
get off, Stiles realized. There was a difference, which he hadn’t known before.
They were kissing to kiss, to be close, to taste and feel.
Stiles opened his mouth, his tongue delving into Derek’s mouth as Derek moved
his head, his hands cupping Stiles’ face. He could feel himself getting hard,
but it wasn’t an urgent thing; he liked having Derek over him, touching him. It
was an honest reaction. As Derek bit down on Stiles’ lip, Stiles moaned,
finally rolling his hips against Derek’s body. He opened his eyes as Derek
mouthed at his neck, sliding his hands down Stiles’ body.
He gasped, his body paralyzed in fear. Over Derek was the other him, the dark
one with blackened eyes, a knife glinting in the sunlight. Stiles opened his
mouth to scream, but nothing came out. He watched as Derek was stabbed, blood
seeping through his shirt, dripping down onto Stiles as he lay there helplessly
as Derek fell against his chest, dead weight.
“No!” Stiles screamed, closing his eyes and pushing with all his might. Hands
grabbed hold of his wrists, pinning him down against the bed as he thrashed
around. “He’s dead!” he shouted.
“Stiles, you’re awake now, open your eyes,” Derek said, panicked. Stiles opened
his eyes, his body going limp beneath Derek’s hold. Stiles looked around the
room, looked at Derek’s shirt. There was no other him, no blood. Stiles tried
to curl in on himself, pushing himself against the wall as Derek let go of his
hands. He could feel the bruises forming on his wrists where Derek had to hold
him down. “You’re okay.”
“I killed you,” Stiles trembled, though that wasn’t completely true. He knew it
wasn’t really him, but the fact remained that he, once more, didn’t feel safe
in his own mind.
“No, you didn’t,” Derek said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Stiles felt
completely drained, worse than after the devil’s circle.
“Was I sleeping the whole time?” Stiles asked.
“What do you mean?”
“All my other nightmares were obviously, you know, not real afterward. But this
time, I really thought what was going on was real. We were here, in bed,”
Stiles said with a shaky breath. “We were making out and suddenly you were
stabbed and there was blood, so much blood.”
“You were sleeping the whole time,” Derek said. “Your dad is due home soon.”
“Don’t go,” Stiles said.
“I won’t,” Derek promised.
Stiles ended up showering. Well, he ended up sitting in the shower, not really
moving as the spray beat down against his back. His dad bought dinner, pizza,
because it was Stiles’ favorite. He didn’t comment on Derek staying, eating
dinner, and watching TV with them.
He felt better after eating, but there was an emptiness he felt within him, his
spark diminished, suffocated by the devil’s circle. It made his body ache.
Though the couch seated three people, Stiles plastered himself against Derek’s
side, his head tilted back against the back of the couch.
As they watched, Stiles managed to put his hand on Derek’s thigh, palm up.
Derek looked down at it, the corner of his mouth curving upward as he put
fingers against Stiles’ curling them around Stiles’ limply. Stiles closed his
eyes, happy with the contact. It didn’t take long before he felt the signs of
Derek leeching his pain away.
Though the pain was a dull ache, he could feel it being pulled away from him,
his body reacting from the first time Derek did it to him. Stiles leaned in
closer, pushing himself against Derek, wanting more contact from him.
“Boys,” the sheriff said, his eyebrow raised as he looked at the two of them
from his chair. “Don’t make me separate you two.” Stiles could feel his face
heating up as Derek pulled his hand away, clearing his throat.
“We weren’t doing anything,” Stiles said, but leaned away from Derek, sitting
straight up on the couch. He felt like ass.
“I know exactly what you were doing.”
Stiles decided to lie down, his head on the armrest of the couch, his legs
spread out all the way to Derek’s lap, where they rest with Derek’s hands on
them, unmoving. Stiles drifted off to the feel of Derek taking his pain away,
the TV on low in the background.
-
Stiles spent his Sunday inside, with Scott, playing Black Ops and shooting the
shit out of people. They made nachos, and got to finally hang out for the first
time in forever. Stiles was happy, he thought, with how quiet things were on
the supernatural front, his stupidity about the circle notwithstanding.
They played all afternoon without talking about the day before, but Stiles knew
one of them would cave, he didn’t think it would been him.
“Derek said you shifted fully yesterday,” Stiles said while he waited for
himself to spawn after dying. Scott shrugged, then shot someone.
“Yeah, I thought, you know, that you died. I sort of just-- let go.”
“What did you look like?” Stiles asked.
“A wolf,” Scott said. “It was weird feeling.”
“That’s so awesome, dude,” Stiles said, wanting to know more. “What else?”
Scott rolled his eyes.
“Don’t you get it? I shifted because I thought you died. All you want to talk
about is how it felt or smelled like.”
“I don’t want to talk about death,” Stiles admitted. “I just don’t.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk about shifting.”
“Okay, so tell me what’s up with you and Kira.” Stiles knew the best way to get
Scott to talk was about who he liked. He tried not to think about the fact that
he knew that because of Allison.
“We’re taking it slow, you know, because of everything,” Scott said, getting
out of the game. Stiles didn’t feel much like playing, either. “Do you ever
think about what we’d be doing right now if I never got turned? If there were
no werewolves?”
“No,” Stiles admitted. “Because that would mean we’d still be on the bench,
well, you’d be on the bench. Jackson would still be a douche, not that he isn’t
now or anything, and Derek wouldn’t be here.”
“But look how many people have died,” Scott said, distressed.
“We’re doing the best we can, Scotty,” Stiles said. “And we can’t go back, we
can’t change what’s already happened.” Something resonated within Stiles, his
own words echoing around in his mind. “What we can do is try to fight. Which is
why I’m going to be your emissary, so we can kick ass together.” Scott gave him
a half-hearted smile.
“So, about you and Derek,” Scott said, giving Stiles a smirk.
“I don’t even know, dude,” Stiles admitted. “We sort of clicked or something,
like everything fell into place somehow. I blame no monsters or whatever,” he
said with a wave of his hand.
“Yeah, well, I think it’s awesome, now that he isn’t being creepy.” Stiles
laughed, his head thrown back as he held his stomach. It had been a while since
he laughed like that, without faking it.
-
“Okay Stiles, I need you to concentrate,” Deaton said as Stiles sighed out of
frustration. They were in Deaton’s office, on the floor with their legs crossed
and eyes closed. While meditating, Stiles attempted to feel his spark, but
there wasn’t anything there to feel.
“It’s not there,” Stiles grumbled. “We’ve been concentrating for an hour.”
Stiles opened his eyes, giving up.
“You won’t find it if you don’t--”
“Believe me, I know,” Stiles complained. “It feels like it isn’t there.”
“Maybe I can try something,” Deaton suggested. “But it isn’t a guaranteed
thing. Sometimes all we need is a push.”
“What kind of push?” Stiles asked, wary. He watched as Deaton pulled out a
small box. Inside it was an orb, a ball that glowed faintly, orange in the
center. Stiles didn’t ask what it was when he saw what else was inside, what
Deaton took out of the box: a thick needle. Stiles’ back stiffened as he
recalled his mouth being sewn shut.
“It’s simple, really. I use this globe, and this needle, to draw out your
powers, only a little. It should rekindle it.”
“Should,” Stiles said as Deaton took hold of his arm. “I don’t do well with
needles,” Stiles said, tugging at his arm. “Or blood.”
“This will barely feel like a pin prick,” Deaton said, his grip on Stiles
biting. Stiles shut his eyes in an attempt to push the fear down. He had to
believe it would work, that Deaton was helping him, not hurting him. “Relax.”
Stiles let his arms go limp, his head falling forward so his chin rested
against his chest. He barely flinched as the needle drew blood. He felt Deaton
scrape it over his skin, drawing a symbol on his arm with his blood. He chanced
a glimpse, looking down at his arm, the blood catching in the light. His
nostrils flared as he caught a whiff of iron in the air; the smell of his
blood.
He gagged on it, looking away from his arm, to the box where the orb lay, the
orange glow faded slightly as warmth spread throughout his body. Deaton’s lips
moved, an incantation said under his breath as Stiles’ energy returned. He felt
awake for the first time in days, the spark within him ignited. He inhaled, his
mouth parting as the orange glow turned into a dull grey.
With a snap of the box, Deaton closed it, then placed a piece of gauze over the
puncture wound. With an alcohol swab, he cleaned up Stiles’ arm, wiping away
the remnants of the spell. Stiles bent his arm, applying pressure to the cut so
that it would clog.
“I guess no ‘blood of a virgin’ spells for me,” Stiles said, hoping for humor.
Deaton gave him a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I can feel it, it
worked.”
“I’m glad,” Deaton said as he stood. “Let’s hope you don’t walk into any more
traps.”
“Who do you think the witch is?” Stiles asked as he stood as well. “It has to
be someone, right?”
“It’s hard to tell,” Deaton said, putting the box away on his shelf. “Witches
rarely wish to be found.”
“Well, they're on Derek’s property--”
“The devil’s circle was in the preserve, which is owned by the State, not the
Hale’s. It is in their territory, though.”
“Is it still their territory even though a Hale isn’t the alpha?” Stiles asked.
“The treaty that was signed by Talia stated that as long as a Hale was alive,
the territory would be theirs. Scott is merely an alpha living in Hale
territory at this point. It was in the treaty I gave you.”
“Yeah, sorry, mind is a bit full of info at the moment,” Stiles said, his
attention on a gris-gris bag in Deaton’s hand. “What’s that?” He asked.
“This is for you,” Deaton said, handing it to Stiles. “My own attempt at a
dream spell for you, to tide you over until you can make your own.” Stiles
opened the bag, smelling what was inside. He couldn’t tell what it was made of.
“It goes in your pillowcase, not around your neck.”
“Thanks,” Stiles said. “I’ll try it tonight.”
-
Stiles paced around his room as he waited. Derek said he would stop by, but
that had been hours ago now. Stiles was ready for bed, almost to the point of
exhaustion. He refused to call Derek again, though.
Maybe he should go to sleep. His father was already in bed, had turned the hall
light off over an hour before. Stiles had his window cracked open, so Derek
could get in. It would be impossible otherwise, after Stiles took mountain ash
and mixed it with chalk and lined his windows with it.
Stiles was pretty proud of himself because when he tested it with Derek, he
couldn’t even budge the window. Derek hadn’t been amused, mostly because he
didn’t know he had been Stiles’ guinea pig at the time. Now, though, Stiles
stared at the window wishing for Derek to slip through.
It wasn’t until quarter after midnight that Derek came through the window.
Stiles was in bed with a spell book in his lap, his eyes closed, head held up
by his elbows. He jolted awake as soon as the window opened.
“Where were you?” Stiles asked.
“Hunter trouble,” Derek grumbled. “They decided the best way to get ahold of me
was to slash my tires.”
“What the fuck, was it Argent?” Stiles asked. Derek shook his head as he
shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over Stiles’ desk chair before he walked
forward, stepping out of his shoes as he made his way to Stiles’ bed.
“No, I didn’t know them. I called Chris, though. He’s dealing with them. “
“Does Scott know?”
“Yeah, he was with me,” Derek said. “We were in the preserve. Your devil’s
circle is gone.”
“Gone?” Stiles asked. “How can it be gone? It was a circle of dead grass.”
“Yeah, well, that grass is green now. No sign of it at all.”
“Something weird is happening,” Stiles said. “Things don’t just disappear, and
hunters don’t just show up for no reason.”
“Why do you smell like blood?” Derek asked, searching Stiles for injuries. He
found the band-aid on Stiles’ arm easily enough, his brow furrowed. “What’s
this? Did you do blood magic?” His tone biting, his anger apparent. Stiles
yanked his arm away, cradling it against his chest.
“I didn’t, but Deaton did. I couldn’t find my spark. He helped.”
“With blood magic,” Derek stated.
“When you say it like that it sounds a lot worse than it was.”
“Stiles--”
“I got my spark back!” Stiles shouted without meaning to. Derek closed his
mouth, sucking in a deep breath, his face set in a seemingly permanent frown.
“I don’t want to fight.”
“We’re not fighting.”
“Well I was about to... It was a prick,” Stiles said, his stomach churning. He
wasn’t sure even he believed his own words.
“Can I?” Derek asked, his hand hovering over Stiles’ arm. Stiles nodded his
head, offering his arm to Derek. Carefully, Derek took Stiles’ arm in his hand,
taking the band-aid off. He brushed his thumb over it, watching Stiles wince.
“You said you got your spark back?”
“Yeah,” Stiles let out with a breath, his body reacting to Derek’s touch, his
cheeks heated. “It was too faint for me to bring out on my own.”
Derek bent over, placing his mouth over the cut, licking at it. Stiles
shivered, moaning as Derek sucked, and despite the fact that the wound had
closed hours before, it was already healing.
“You know,” Stiles said, half laughing, “I don’t think I’m supposed to have
that sort of reaction.” Derek’s hands slid up Stiles’ arms, grasping at his
neck as Derek’s lips met his. Stiles reached forward, cupping Derek’s groin in
his hand loosely. Apparently he wasn’t the only one with some sort of Pavlovian
reaction. Derek moved against him, rolling his hips against Stiles’ hand.
“It’s the adrenaline,” Derek said, his mouth open against Stiles’. Stiles
moaned into the kiss, not caring if it was adrenaline or himself that got Derek
hard, not at that moment, anyway. “It’s late.”
“Don’t care,” Stiles said, rubbing a hand over Derek’s jeans. “We haven’t seen
each other in days.” Stiles pawed at Derek’s shirt, lifting it up until Derek
took his shirt off, breaking their kiss. Stiles, too, rid himself of his, his
hands returning to Derek’s skin, ghosting over his chest before he began to
unbutton Derek’s jeans.
Derek pulled Stiles closer as he lay down onto his back, Stiles straddling him
as they kissed with their tongues, Stiles pressing his palms against Derek’s
chest. Derek grabbed hold of Stiles’ hips, thrusting against him. Stiles moved
with him, his pajama pants riding low on his hips. He groped himself, rubbing
at the fabric where his erection became apparent. His hand slipped down,
revealing the head of his cock as he continued rocking against Derek, the feel
of his erection against Stiles’ ass making him moan.
“Shh,” Derek said as Stiles swept his tongue into Derek’s mouth, whining deep
in his throat as he wrapped a hand around his own cock. Derek’s hands slid down
to Stiles’ ass, gripping it tight as he fucked up against him. “Don’t wake--”
“Don’t talk about him, not when I’m on top of you,” Stiles hissed, pushing back
against Derek’s cock. Derek closed his eyes, spreading Stiles’ cheeks with his
hands as he lifted them both up off of the bed.
“Do you have lube?” Derek asked as he managed to get a hand between Stiles and
himself, shoving his jeans down his thighs. Stiles nodded, leaning over towards
the nightstand, bringing out the mostly full bottle. He hadn’t really had the
chance to explore himself sexually yet. Not the way he would have if his life
hadn’t been plagued with supernatural creatures. Still, it came in handy that
one Saturday he got to sleep in and finger himself experimentally.
Now, though, with Derek coating his cock with it, Stiles was glad he bought it.
Stiles braced himself as Derek slid his cock between Stiles’ thighs, the head
tucked between Stiles’ ass cheeks.
“Jesus,” Stiles said as he clenched his ass. Derek groaned, his hands returning
to Stiles’ ass, pushing them together as he fucked up against him. Stiles
jacked himself off as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Derek’s.
He didn’t know it would feel so good, the slide of Derek between his legs,
teasing at his hole. “Oh god.”
“Come on,” Derek said, exposing his neck for Stiles. “Move.” Stiles nodded his
head as he captured Derek’s lips, rolling his hips awkwardly at first, unsure
of the movement until Derek moaned into the kiss. Stiles reached behind
himself, feeling Derek’s cock slide in and out. Stiles ghosted his fingers over
his own hole, teasing it.
Stiles could feel his climax approaching, his stomach clenching as his toes
curled, his head thrown back as Derek came, his come on Stiles’ hand and ass.
Derek kept moving, riding out his climax as Stiles touched his fingers to his
lips, tasting Derek on his tongue.
“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Derek said, his body shuddering beneath him. Stiles
sucked on his fingers until his own climax hit him, coating Derek’s chest.
“Fuck,” Stiles said as he dropped his hand to the bed, right next to Derek’s
head. He bent over, licking up come that caught in Derek’s stubble before
kissing him again. “I can’t even, like, mind is, wow,” Stiles said, lying on
top of Derek. “Showers are annoying, you know?”
“Your mind jumped, and I can’t deal,” Derek mumbled, come-drunk. Stiles hummed
as he grinned. He liked incoherent Derek. “Showers feel good.”
“Showers are out in the hall.”
“Your dad is out there, too.”
“My point,” Stiles groaned. “Wait,” he said, getting up and walking over to his
desk. He refused to feel self-conscious about the fact that he was completely
naked, mostly because he was still riding his endorphin high. He opened his
desk drawer, shoving things around until he found a couple of packets of wet
wipes from the wing joint downtown. He tossed one to Derek. “Here.”
“Resourceful.”
“I try,” Stiles said as they both cleaned up. Stiles grabbed his pajama pants
and pulled them back on as Derek stood up, doing his jeans back up. “You
leaving?” Stiles asked.
“I don’t know how your dad would feel about me sleeping over,” he said
honestly.
“You can stay,” Stiles said. “I want you to.” Apparently that was all it took,
because Derek pushed his jeans back down, keeping his black boxer briefs on. He
sat on the bed, bending over in order to take his socks off before climbing
into bed with Stiles, turning the light off first.
His eyes glowed blue in the dark, which made Stiles smile.
“Deaton gave me a dream spell. He made it, so it should work.”
“Should?”
“It will work, I believe it,” Stiles said as Derek pulled him close.
 
-
Stiles sat in front of Deaton, his eyes hollowed and black, the glowing orange
orb hanging above their heads, shining brighter than it had when it was in the
box. Transfixed, Stiles couldn’t look away from it where he sat with his legs
crossed. Deaton, sightless, put a deck of worn, old cards down, then began
shuffling them. Distantly, Stiles knew them to be tarot cards, but in the
present he felt nothing, thought nothing as he looked at the orb above them.
Deaton said nothing as he held the deck out for him.
Ask a question. Stiles’ head throbbed, his body buzzed as he gazed at the deck
in Deaton’s hand. As Stiles reached out, he noted that his hands were dirty. He
stopped just before he touched the cards, his headache intensifying. Ask.
“Is there a witch after me?” Stiles asked, his voice hollow, echoing into the
nothingness that surrounded them. Deaton smiled as he held out the deck for
Stiles again. Stiles took the top card, flipping it so that it lay face up on
the table; the significator card. IV- The Emperor.
Deaton’s smile widened, but he said nothing. A shiver went down Stiles’ spine
as he glanced at Deaton, whose gaze he had been avoiding. It wasn’t that Deaton
wasn’t talking, it was that he couldn’t. His mouth was sewn shut, the same as
Stiles’ had. Stiles clasped his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming, at
the same time checking to make sure he could move his lips freely.
The Emperor, mind over heart. Stiles’ heart beat steadily as Deaton began
putting the cards down in a spread before them. He no longer wanted to play
this game, to be subject to a tarot reading. When Stiles tried to move, he
couldn’t. His legs were bound in rope, biting more and more as he struggled.
Deaton waited.
Eventually, Stiles tapped four of the cards, in the order he wanted them
flipped. His mind slowed down as he watched Deaton turn each card over: The
Hanged Man, The Moon, Hierophant Reversed, and The Devil Reversed. Stiles
looked down at the cards, shaking as he tried to move. It didn’t matter, his
reading had already taken place.
You are at a crossroads, not all is what it seems. Stiles could feel his chest
constricting, as if he held his breath to keep from drowning, his eyes watering
as he looked at the orb. The answers are within you to do the right thing.
Stiles gasped for air, his fists clenched as Deaton turned to smoke before him,
leaving ash on the table, the orb gone, leaving him in darkness.
It’s an illusion.
Stiles woke up, grasping at his legs as he tried to get free. He couldn’t move,
trapped by heavy limbs that draped over him. Derek was asleep beside him and he
couldn’t get up.
“Derek,” Stiles begged. “Derek, get off me, I can’t breathe,” he said as he
pushed. Derek jolted awake, getting off the bed as if he’d been slapped. Stiles
held a hand to his heart as he gazed at Derek. “What do you know about tarot
cards?”
“Nothing,” Derek admitted. “Why?”
“Because I need to find someone who does, and they need to be someone we can
trust.”
“Deaton and Morrell?” Derek asked as he rubbed at his eyes, looking younger
than Stiles had seen him in a long, long time. A pit formed in Stiles’ stomach
as he shook his head.
“I’d rather not,” Stiles whispered. When he went to stand, he fell back against
his bed, his body weak. “What the fuck,” Stiles said, his head against the
mattress. “Derek, something’s wrong.” Derek stepped forward, helping Stiles to
his feet. Once there, he put Stiles’ arm around him for support. “I’m so
tired,” Stiles told him. “I can barely walk.”
“We need to take you to Deaton,” Derek said as he sat Stiles back down. Stiles
nodded his head as he closed his eyes. Derek got out a shirt and a pair of
pants for Stiles, dressing him awkwardly as Stiles attempted to help. He ended
up wearing flip-flops, despite the cool temperature, because it was easier.
On their way to Deaton’s, Derek called Scott.
“Scott, something’s wrong with Stiles. We’re taking him to Deaton’s.” Stiles’
head lulled to the side, his eyelids flickering open and shut as he tried to
stay conscious. “Stiles, Stiles stay awake,” Derek said, grabbing Stiles’ hand
and squeezing it. “Scott’s coming, he’s going to meet us there, okay?”
“Yeah, great,” Stiles slurred. All he wanted to do was sleep, just sleep. It
would be so easy, to give in to it. Just--
-
There was only darkness. No movement, no breathing, no sounds. No being. Stiles
let the darkness wrap around him, suffocating him, giving him peace.
-
The incessant beeping brought Stiles out of his murky slumber. Angry that he
had been disturbed, Stiles groaned.
“He’s up,” a voice said beside him.
“Scott,” Stiles croaked, opening his eyes enough to see Scott, along with the
fact that he was in a hospital. “I hate hospitals.”
“I know you do,” Scott said, his hand on Stiles’ arm. “You were dehydrated and
like, sleep deprived.”
“I’ve been sleeping,” Stiles said with a huff, rolling his eyes. He felt better
than he had before, at least. It was probably due to the IV. The beeping came
from his heart monitor, which was attached to his finger. “I want to go home.”
“Soon,” his father said as he walked into the room with Melissa McCall. “You’re
staying overnight, just in case.”
“Ugh, Dad,” Stiles sighed. Stiles looked around, confused. “Where’s--”
“Only two guests at a time,” Melissa said. Stiles noticed that she was wearing
work scrubs, so she didn’t really count as a guest. “Derek’s in the waiting
room.” Stiles tried to sit up, but he couldn’t manage it. Melissa put a hand on
his shoulder, forcing him back down against the bed. “Rest.”
Some time later, after his father and Scott left, Derek came in alone and sat
in a chair nearby, his hand in Stiles’ as he dozed in and out. It wasn’t until
Deaton came in, hours later, that Stiles felt fully awake.
“I brought you this,” Deaton said, holding up the dream spell he made. “So you
can sleep.”
“It didn’t work,” Stiles croaked, his throat dry. “I don’t want it.” He thought
about Deaton’s hollowed eyes, his mouth sewn shut. Stiles winced, looking away
from him.
“You need something.”
“Maybe,” Stiles said, sighing. “Maybe we do the recollection spell.”
“Stiles, no--”
One look from Deaton and Derek shut up, but didn’t move from his spot near
Stiles. Stiles looked to Derek, squeezing his hand.
“I just need to sleep.”
“You’re too weak,” Derek pressed.
“It’s only a few drops.”
“I wouldn’t suggest it otherwise,” Deaton said, mostly to Derek. “He won’t get
better if he can’t sleep properly.”
“Fine,” Derek said, releasing Stiles’ hand so he could cross his arms. “But I’m
staying here.”
“I never said you had to leave,” Deaton said as he took out ingredients. “Can
you shut the door for me?” Derek didn’t say a word as he got up, shutting the
door.
Stiles watched as Deaton burned sandalwood, wafting it around Stiles then
putting it out before the sensors thought the building was on fire. The scent
permeated through the air as Deaton took out a vial of liquid, a mixture of
poppyseeds, valerian, and spearmint, from what Stiles recalled the spell had
indicated.
“I don’t remember it being a liquid,” Stiles said as Deaton handed it to him.
“Liquid or a paste,” Deaton said with a shrug. “I thought the liquid would be
better, a few drops on the back of your tongue should do it.”
“And then the blood magic?” Stiles asked, twisting the vial in his hands as he
looked to Derek for reassurance.
“Yes.”
Stiles nodded, then took the stopper from the vial, dripping three drops of it
onto the back of his tongue. It tasted good, Stiles thought. He blamed the
spearmint for that, as he swallowed it down, lying back against his pillows.
“You need to say the incantation as I draw the blood,” Deaton said, the needle
he used before appearing by Stiles’ arm. Stiles nodded, closing his eyes as he
spoke the words, his mind thinking of his mother, believing it would work. He
jolted when he felt the prick of the needle, but did nothing more. Deaton drew
across his arm with the blood, which was the last thing Stiles felt before
sleep overtook him.
-
The world was hazy, dipped in white light and wispy fog as Stiles walked up to
his house. It looked the same, but different, with flowers by the mailbox and
in the flowerbeds instead of the dirt he knew was there now.
It was surreal, like a lucid dream as Stiles opened the door. The house smelled
of freshly made icing, of open windows and freshly cut grass. Laughter echoed
from the kitchen, where Stiles made a beeline, his feet practically tripping to
get a view of his mother.
There she was, rocking back and forth as she hummed, icing a cake. She was
barefoot, her hair down in brown curls. Stiles walked up to her, noticing the
moles on her face, much like his own, the curve of her lips.
“Mom,” Stiles croaked as she looked straight at him, through him.
“Stiles, come down and lick the spoon!” She called out, taking her finger and
ridding it of most of the icing before Stiles, a younger Stiles, came rushing
down the stairs. Only, there were two pairs of feet. Suddenly, Stiles was
bombarded with not only a younger him, but Scott too, with his two front teeth
missing, the two of them running around the kitchen. “Settle down,” she said,
holding the spoon in the air, just out of reach. Stiles clung to his mother’s
leg, reaching into the air on his tip toes for it.
“Please, please, please,” he said, his voice sounding nothing like it did now,
his ears too big for his head and his hair buzzed short already. Stiles ran his
fingers through his hair, remembering why his mom always kept it short: Stiles
got gum in it -- four times.
“Since you said the magic word,” she smiled, handing the spoon to the two of
them, who took turns taking licks off of it. Stiles gasped when his mom
seemingly looked up at him again, her eyes catching his. He was taller than
her, bigger. It seemed wrong.
It was such an inconsequential day, one that Stiles didn’t even remember while
awake, but it had to be in his mind somewhere if he was there, reliving it now.
He was too busy staring at her to realize when she was growing fuzzier, his
vision darkening, then glowing bright orange before complete darkness left him
falling.
Stiles opened his eyes to find his father sitting in the chair Derek had
previously occupied. Stiles sat up, feeling surprisingly awake.
“How are you feeling?” His dad asked, worried.
“Better,” Stiles said truthfully. “I feel like I finally slept.”
“That’s good to hear,” his dad said, standing up and putting a hand on Stiles’
shoulder, patting him before going to find a nurse. Stiles looked down at his
arm, cleaned off from the spell, only a small puncture remained. He rubbed a
finger over it, thinking about his mom.
He wanted to do the spell again.
-
Stiles tried sleeping with the bag under his pillow, tried going back to using
anise, and tried making his own dream spell again, but none of it seemed to
work. He tried sleeping at Scott’s but ended up accidentally snuggling him as
if he were Derek during the night.
Awkward boners were a thing, he supposed, but he and Scott both decided that
they wouldn’t try that again. He ended up asking Marin about the tarot cards,
about what he saw, but he couldn’t remember the question to save his life.
“The question is just as important as the answers,” she told him. “Meditate on
it.”
So now Stiles sat in his room, hunched over his computer searching the internet
about the cards’ meaning. Everything he could find was vague, and everything
was subject to interpretation. Everything went back to the question.
“This fucking sucks,” Stiles groaned, shoving his computer away from him as he
turned towards Scott who sat on his bed, shuffling the deck of tarot cards
Stiles ordered online. “You know, since you’re shuffling them that means their
your cards now.”
“What?” Scott asked. “I was just playing--”
“Well, Ms. Morrell wouldn’t let me borrow hers because they were her deck. You
can’t share decks. So let’s do this thing.” Stiles got onto the floor, then
waited for Scott to join him.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Scott said as Stiles grabbed the top card. He
shut his eyes, leaving his mind blank. Maybe, just maybe-- “Dude, didn’t you
say you got number four before?” Stiles opened his eyes to find The Emperor in
his hand. He dropped it like he’d been stung, the dream coming to the forefront
of his mind.
“I think I’m done with magic shit,” Stiles mumbled as he sucked in a breath.
“Now put the cards down in four rows of four,” Stiles said, signaling which way
to place them. He watched as Scott put the cards down, then he pointed to the
four, the same spots as he pointed to in his dream. “Flip them in the order I
just pointed to.”
Scott flipped the cards over. Stiles wanted to vomit. All four cards were the
same, even the way they were turned.
“How is this possible?” Stiles asked. He looked down at the book that he
borrowed from Marin, at The Hanged Man. “You are at a crossroads, in or out, up
or down. A decision must be made.”
“Sounds normal enough,” Scott said with a shrug as Stiles’ eyes widened.
“I think I already crossed it,” Stiles said, biting his lip. “About the blood
magic. I chose the path.”
“But then why would it be saying the same thing now.”
“Maybe I haven’t started walking down that path yet or something,” Stiles waved
his hands around. Stiles flipped through the book, finding The Moon, his eyes
scanning over the page.
“If you feel like you can’t trust someone, you probably shouldn’t.” The words
popped out at him, the words stale on his tongue. “Huh.”
“Who do you think you can’t trust?” Scott asked. Stiles’ mind shouted ‘Deaton’
loudly, but he bit his tongue. Deaton helped them so much in the past, with
everything, hadn’t he? He was Stiles’ mentor, Marin’s brother, the Hales’
emissary. Scott’s boss. Stiles’ stomach churned.
“I’m not sure,” Stiles said, pushing the thought away for now, turning to the
next card: The Hierophant Reversed.
“It’s about doing the right thing, about the answer being within me,” Stiles
grumbled. “Which is bullshit because I don’t know what is going on at all.”
“What’s the last one?” Scott asked.
“The Devil Reversed,” Stiles said.
“That sounds creepy.”
“It’s not really,” Stiles said. “That one I remember from the dream. ‘Your trap
is an illusion’. There are always options, help is available.”
“Maybe Deaton’s the help,” Scott supplied, frowning.
“Maybe,” Stiles said, picking up the cards.
-
Stiles thought long and hard about what he planned to do. He had sandalwood and
incense burning in his room with the window cracked open to let the smoke out.
In his hand he held the vial, along with a small blade.
He hadn’t slept in days, plagued by more nightmares that left him too weak to
go to school. Something was wrong with his spark, and the only thing that let
him recharge was the spell. He had to do it again.
Stiles dropped three doses onto the back of his tongue, then swallowed. He took
the blade and made a knick in his arm. He didn’t have a needle like Deaton, and
had to make a larger cut in order to draw enough blood.
It stung, but he felt numb as he drug his fingers through it, writing on his
arm as he whispered the incantation. He smiled as his eyes closed, his body
going limp and falling to the ground.
-
Stiles walked behind his mother, who carried a younger him, maybe three or four
years old, up to the Hale house. He knew it by its surroundings, not by the way
it looked. The Hale house he knew was a burnt-out husk. This was beautiful,
pristine even.
“Claudia, glad you could make it.”
“What is it?” Claudia, his mother, asked Talia Hale. Stiles held his breath as
he took her in: tall, imposing, yet had an air about her that only mothers
could. She had Derek’s eyes.
“I need to show you something,” Talia said, ushering Claudia and the sleeping
Stiles inside. “Poor thing, he looks exhausted.”
“He played outside all day,” Claudia said, rubbing Stiles’ back. Stiles frowned
because once more he couldn’t remember this at all, since he seemed to be
sleeping.
“We’ll get Laura to take him. Laura, come down here!” Stiles had no idea he had
known the Hales, or that he ever met Laura. The young girl, a teen, came down
the stairs, and took Stiles from his mother.
“You’re getting huge,” Laura said, faking that Stiles weighed more than she
could carry. Of course, being a werewolf, it was a lie.
“Every day getting bigger,” Claudia said, running her fingers over Stiles’
buzzed hair. Stiles wished he could hug her, or at least talk to her. For a
minute, he wondered if he had to follow himself, or if he could stay with his
mother. He decided to keep close to her as long as he could.
Once Laura and the younger Stiles were upstairs, Talia brought Claudia into a
study. Stiles couldn’t help but look around the house, at the family pictures,
especially at Derek, awkward and lanky in family photos. Stiles grinned.
“I found these when looking through old family records,” Talia said, handing
papers to Claudia. “I think you’ll find it interesting.
“Deaton’s name is in these,” Claudia whispered. “These are from the 1800’s.”
“Exactly,” Talia said. “He isn’t what he seems to be.”
“How so? It could be an ancestor--”
“Claudia, you know as well as I do that it isn’t. I found pictures.” Stiles
stepped forward, looking over his mother’s shoulder. There he was, Deaton, with
a pack. He was an emissary but an old one. “You and I both know Stiles has a
spark. Don’t let him mentor Stiles.”
“This isn’t good,” Claudia said, frowning.
“Why?” Talia asked. “What’s happened?”
“I took Stiles to see him because he showed signs. I thought Deaton could be
trusted.”
“I thought so too, but what is it?” Talia asked, putting a hand on Claudia’s
shoulder. Dread washed over Stiles, his heartbeat slowing. He shook his head,
holding it as everything grew hazy, fog rolling in around him.
“He set an orb in front of Stiles, and it glowed orange. He said it was his
life force. It was crystal clear at first, then it just... Talia--”
“It’s okay, Claudia,” Talia said, though he voice sounded distant. “Make sure
Stiles doesn’t come into contact with him again. We’ll keep him safe.”
Darkness overtook Stiles as he reached out for his mother, for Talia. He knew
it was no use as he fell into the abyss.
-
Stiles could feel his heartbeat all over his body as blood pumped through his
veins. His limbs felt heavy, his eyelids even more so as he tried to open them.
Before, he felt better after the spell. This time, he felt even worse. When he
turned his head and saw the orb, glowing bright orange, he blanched.
His life force.
Deaton was taking it from him. Stiles opened his mouth to talk, but he
couldn’t. His dream flashed before his eyes, panic flooding through him, until
finally his mouth opened. His lips were chapped, stuck together.
Derek appeared at his side, his eyes wild.
“You’re awake,” Derek said, his hand on Stiles’ forehead. Stiles’ eyelids
fluttered at the touch, wanting more as he tried to talk. He shut his mouth
again as soon as Deaton walked into the room.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Deaton said with his neutral smile. Stiles shuddered,
looking instead to Derek, wishing he could read minds. “You gave us a scare,
doing that spell alone. You should be glad Derek found you when he did. You
lost quite a bit of blood.” Stiles looked down at his arm, groaning when he saw
the bandage.
“Not enough to warrant a transfusion, though. Still, we have you here now,
we’ll take care of you.” There was another IV drip, along with the orb nearby,
pulsing every few seconds or so. Stiles wanted to push it away, to break it.
“Don’t move, or expel needless energy while the magic does its work.”
“Okay,” Stiles managed to say as he grabbed hold of Derek’s wrist. Deaton gave
them both a look, his face set in a frown.
“Derek, it’s time to let him rest.”
“Can I have a moment?” Stiles asked, his voice hoarse. If Deaton wanted to keep
up his pretense of helping, he’d leave them alone.
“Of course,” he said, giving them privacy by shutting the door. As soon as he
was gone, Stiles pulled Derek close to him by the collar of his shirt.
“You have to get me out of here, now,” Stiles hissed.
“What?” Derek asked. “You need to rest--”
“I’m going to die if you don’t get me away from Deaton,” Stiles whispered
harshly. “Now. I don’t care if you have to carry me, I need you to get me out
of here.”
“What’s going on?” Derek asked. “Deaton’s on our side.”
“Deaton’s on his own side. You have to trust me.”
“I do, but Stiles--” Stiles ripped the IV out of his arm, forcing himself to
sit up. “Stiles, stop--”
“Grab the orb, we have to go,” Stiles said as he stood up, uneasy on his legs.
Derek grabbed it, but then made to pick up Stiles as well, hoisting him into
the air. Stiles didn’t even try to get back down; he knew he could barely walk.
They went out an emergency exit, running into his father on the way, who was
just getting out of the cruiser.
“What are you doing with him?” He asked, running over to them. “He needs to go
back in there.”
“I need to go somewhere safe,” Stiles said, as he cradled the orb in his lap as
Derek held him under his knees and his back. He was too big to be carried like
this, but Derek had him.
“Put him in my car, then,” the sheriff said, looking around. Derek did just
that, putting Stiles in the back seat. “I’ll take him to the McCalls’. Melissa
is home.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Derek said, kissing Stiles before he shut the door.
His dad put the sirens on as they sped through town, Stiles barely awake in the
back seat.
“Call Scott, get him out of there. Deaton’s bad.”
“Bad? Son, your mom and he--”
“I saw Mom. She and Talia knew.” The Sheriff clenched his fists around the
steering wheel, his knuckles going white. “I did this spell--”
“We’ll talk about that later,” he said. “Let’s get you to Melissa’s.”
His dad had a harder time getting him inside, but he had Melissa to help. Scott
and Derek were missing, but Stiles had other things to think about, like
getting his energy siphoned back into himself without the help of Deaton or
Morrell.
“We need to take him to the hospital,” Melissa said as she took Stiles’ pulse
the old-fashioned way, with her fingers against his neck, her eyes on her
watch.
“It isn’t safe,” Stiles said. “I need to be somewhere I can protect myself.”
“Protect how?” His father asked, his hands on his hips. “You need to explain
what’s going on here, son, because you’re making it sound like Deaton is the
bad guy.”
“He is, sort of. He’s neutral, but I did this spell to help me sleep but it
does more than that, it takes me back in my own memories. I saw Mom, Dad, and
she was with Talia Hale and they knew he wasn’t really looking out for the the
good of the pack. He’s in it for himself. He’s over three-hundred years old. He
siphons other peoples’ energy. He’s been taking mine with this,” Stiles said,
opening his hands to show them the orb. “It’s orange because that’s the color
of my aura. He used it before, when he ‘miraculously’ got me to ignite my spark
again after the devil’s circle. I saw the orb dim to a grey after that. He just
gave me my power back, then, that was all. He gave back what he took from me.
Now it’s so bright... I think he almost killed me.”
“Jesus Christ,” his dad said, rubbing his face with his hands.
“What can we do to help?” Melissa asked. “If we aren’t going to the hospital, I
suggest you eat.”
“Okay,” Stiles said, nodding his head. “But first I need you to get me a
needle.”
“Stiles, no,” his father said. “No more magic. I’ve had enough--”
“I need to,” Stiles said, his voice rising. “I need to get my energy from this
orb back into my own body, Dad. I watched him do it before, I can mimic it.”
“There has to be another way.”
“Do you have a spare emissary around? Because I don’t know of anyone else. I’m
not going to Ms. Morrell, she’s his sister.”
“You’re sure you can do it?” His dad asked.
“Yeah, I mean, my problem before was I didn’t have anyone to stop the bleeding,
right? He has this needle, it was sort of like a pen, I think, I don’t know
because I shut my eyes when he used it. But he drew blood from me, then wrote
with it on my arm. When I did the spell, I used a blade and my fingers because
I didn’t have the needle.”
“He used a hollow needle?” Melissa asked. Stiles nodded.
“It was thick, but I think if I cut, then draw with a needle, it would take
less blood and as long as you, you know, stop me from bleeding too much that I
should be okay?” Melissa and his dad exchanged looks, slightly deciding between
them if they trusted Stiles’ plan or not. “Time is key here, guys. Deaton could
be on his way and I don’t know where Derek or Scott are.”
A knock at the door made the three of them jump, with Melissa holding her hand
over her heart.
“Should we answer it?” Melissa asked. the sheriff put his hand on his gun,
gesturing that he’d handle it.
“Dad, be careful--”
“I got it,” he said as he approached the front door. The knocking resumed,
quick and short.
“Mrs. McCall, let me in! It’s Kira!”
“Oh thank god, let her in,” Melissa said, not leaving Stiles’ side, her hand on
his back. Kira burst in with her katana, her eyes wide.
“Scott called and told me to run over, are you guys okay?”
“We’re waiting for him to get here, when did you talk to him?” The sheriff
asked immediately.
Melissa made her way upstairs to find a needle for Stiles to write with while
the sheriff and Kira talked, filling each other in.
Apparently Scott hung up on Kira in the middle of explaining.
“They must have run into trouble,” Stiles said with a worried sigh.
“So how do we ward against an emissary?” Kira asked. Stiles bit his lip,
shaking his head.
“Completely human, can’t. Best I could do is... well... all my ingredients are
at my house. I guess here wasn’t the best place to go, but I figured he’d go to
my house first.”
“You would be correct in assuming that, Stiles,” Deaton said as he stepped
inside. Stiles’ dad had his gun aimed at him within seconds, Kira with her
katana unsheathed as she stood between Deaton and Stiles. “But I know you
rather well at this point, I think.”
“Step back,” the sheriff said.
“As soon as your son gives me what’s mine,” Deaton said, pointing at the orb.
Stiles clung to it.
“Fuck off, it’s mine.”
“I don’t think so,” Deaton said calmly. “That orb is mine, and has been for
generations.” Stiles shook as the orb flickered, Deaton’s fist tightening as he
pulled it towards himself. He was siphoning Stiles’ energy even now.
“Dad, shoot him!”
“Sheriff, don’t shoot. If you do I’ll kill your son right now.”
“Dad, just shoot him!” Deja vu of months back, when Stiles shouted for himself
to be shot echoed in Stiles’ mind. He shut his eyes, trying to force himself to
stay awake. He felt his consciousness slipping.
Stiles opened his eyes, his mouth hanging open as he thought about the spell
Deaton used to give him back his power, how Deaton said the orb had been his
for generations. The orb wasn’t Stiles’ energy, what was inside it was.
Stiles stood up, moving Kira aside as he walked towards Deaton.
“Dad, wait,” Stiles said, tilting his head to the side. His dad kept his gun
pointed at Deaton, his finger on the trigger. “Will you leave Beacon Hills, if
you get this back?” Stiles asked, holding it in his hands as it flickered.
Deaton smirked, his head nodding.
“Where are Scott and Derek?”
“Trapped in a circle of mountain ash, paralyzed.”
“When did you have time to gather that Kanima venom, by the way?” Stiles asked.
“You seem to have an awful lot of it.” Deaton’s smirk widened.
“You’re smart, Stiles. Admiringly so. It’s too bad we won’t get to see that
potential grow.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Stiles said, his chest heaving as he lifted the
orb in the air. “I’m not going anywhere.” He threw the orb to the ground,
smashing it at his feet. Deaton screamed as he lunged for it.
“What have you done!” Deaton shouted, scrambling to put the pieces together as
orange smoke began swirling around Stiles, faster and faster as it went up his
body. “You don’t know what you’ve done!”
Stiles felt his spark reignite within him tenfold as his life force entered his
body. Deaton convulsed on the ground, shriveling up, becoming the age he would
be without the magic of the orb keeping him alive.
Stiles bent down, tilting his head as he looked at Deaton, his eyes hollowed
and black, staring up at him as he clung to life.
“You’re done hiding here. Beacon Hills doesn’t need your protection anymore.
I’ll be the one protecting it now,” Stiles said calmly. Deaton took one last
breath, then his body caved in on itself, too old to keep going. Stiles looked
up to find his father, Kira, and Melissa looking at him, wide-eyed.
He felt good, more than good. He felt powerful.
“Let’s go get Scott and Derek. I have a feeling this isn’t over yet.”
-
They found Marin by the nemeton, with Scott and Derek both tied together,
wrapped in a rope of wolfsbane, surrounded by mountain ash.
“Where is he?” Marin asked Stiles as he approached, his father and Kira with
him.
“He’s dead,” Stiles said, his voice devoid of emotion. “I killed him by
smashing the orb.”
Marin’s mouth was a thin line, her face unreadable.
“Impossible, you were drained.”
“Not quite,” Stiles said. “What was the point of training me if I was going to
be drained.”
“You were so powerful,” Marin said, sounding proud. “We had to find a way to
feed that power before siphoning it.”
“So you were in on it,” Stiles said, sighing. “I was hoping you weren’t.”
“You can’t kill me,” Marin said, her chin lifting. “And if you don’t come with
me right now, I’ll kill both of them.” Stiles’ eyes flicked to Scott and Derek.
His blood boiled. There was no way he would allow that to happen.
“I don’t think so,” Stiles said. “You know, it took me a couple of minutes to
think about where you would keep your orb,” he told her as he walked forward,
shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, the wind picking up behind him.
“I also thought about the dreams I’ve been having, how there was a pattern, a
common element besides the blood and the freaky shit. Do you know what it was?”
Stiles asked.
Marin narrowed her eyes at him.
“Graveyard dirt,” Stiles murmured when he was close enough, his eyes meeting
hers.
“You have no idea--”
“Where to look?” Stiles asked, rolling his eyes. “Please. Beacon Hills is old,
Marin. Old enough that you could use your real names again. Marin Deaton?”
Marin laughed at Stiles, grabbing him by the throat.
“You’re in over your head,” Marin said.
“It’s an illusion,” Stiles said, wheezing a bit, his gaze falling on Derek and
Scott. Marin growled as she moved her hand. Derek and Scott disappeared, making
Kira and his dad gasp in shock.
“You’re mine now,” Marin growled as her eyes glowed orange. He felt his spark
diminishing as she sucked it from him directly, his knees buckling.
Suddenly, she was choking as she dropped him. He fell to the ground, groaning
as she clutched at her throat, kneeling beside him, her face hollowing out the
same as Deaton’s had. Stiles scrambled away from her, kicking with his feet as
he did so.
“She found it,” Stiles said, relief flooding him as Marin screamed one more
time before her body caved in. The sheriff’s phone rang, making the three of
them jump.
“Melissa?” He asked, looking down at Stiles and nodding his head. “Yeah, she’s
dead, you broke the right thing. Did you find the boys?” Stiles held his
breath, hoping that he had Marin pegged right.
“She’s got them, they’re okay, just a bit stiff.” Stiles laughed, covering his
mouth. He was so relieved he guessed that Marin would use her old gravestone to
keep her orb safe, that she’d use the graveyard. It had been a stretch, but he
didn’t have anything else to go on.
No wonder he hated grave dirt.
-
They met Melissa in the graveyard, because she couldn’t move Derek and Scott.
She did unwrap the wolfsbane, which left them with small burn marks where the
rope touched their skin. She also broke the mountain ash line.
Stiles ran from the car towards them, hugging both of them at once.
“Jesus Christ, you guys scared me,” he said, cupping Scott’s face with his
hands, squishing his cheeks together before doing the same to Derek, only
adding a kiss to Derek’s forehead.
“We scared you?” Scott said, his eyes wide. “You almost died, like four times!”
“Twice,” Stiles pointed out, then rolled his eyes. “Okay, like, three times.”
“Still,” his dad said, pulling Stiles into a hug. “We’re glad you’re alright.”
Stiles clung to his dad, burying his face against his dad’s shoulder.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Aw, group hug!” Kira said as she practically jumped on Stiles and his dad.
Somehow they did it, leaning over and holding on to Scott and Derek.
“I guess that makes me badass extraordinaire around here, being the only
emissary and all.”
“Are you going to keep doing it?” His father asked. “You don’t have any mentor,
I don’t know--”
“Yeah, Dad, I am. Someone has to be. I’ll just... swipe all Deaton’s shit. He
has an awesome library.”
“Where are you going to put it?” His dad asked, crossing his arms. Stiles
looked to Derek, who rolled his eyes.
“You can put it all at the loft,” Derek offered. Stiles beamed at him, turning
back towards his dad as he ran his fingers through Derek’s hair in thanks.
“I have a headquarters, now. This is going to be fucking awesome.”
-
Stiles walked into the laundry room, stripping off his shirt as he did so,
tossing it into the washing machine before undoing his jeans. Derek walked in
behind him, adding his own clothes to the pile. They were covered in dirt from
burying both Marin and Alan in their graves, their real graves from the 1800’s.
They found empty wooden caskets, much like the one that Stiles dreamed of
months prior, that were made of mountain ash.
“Thank god that’s over,” Stiles said as he poured detergent into the washing
machine. He looked at Derek, who had dirt smudged across his face. “You know, I
think it’s good that I’m the only emissary in Beacon Hills. At least I know I
can trust myself with all that knowledge.” Derek smiled, pulling Stiles close
as Stiles started the small load of laundry.
“You’re going to be a great protector,” Derek said as he kissed him, his hands
low on Stiles’ back. He pressed Stiles against the washing machine, then lifted
him so he sat on it. Stiles hummed against Derek’s lips, his hands on Derek’s
chest, the feel of the washing machine moving beneath him making him shiver
with anticipation.
“This territory is ours, yours, mine, and Scott’s. We’re not going to let
anyone fuck with us.” Stiles raked his teeth across Derek’s collar bone, his
hands cupping his ass as they rutted against each other. Stiles hooked an ankle
around Derek’s leg, pinning him close as he found Derek’s mouth once more.
“I can see it now,” Derek said, cupping Stiles’ face with his hands.
“See what?” Stiles asked, his lips red and wet as he looked into Derek’s eyes.
“Your aura, it’s bright. Brighter than before.”
“Deaton had it, at least some of it, since I was little,” Stiles told him. “For
the first time since I became an emissary, I can actually feel the difference.
I know I can do magic now, that any spell I do will work. I can feel it.”
Derek smiled, running a finger over Stiles’ lips. Stiles closed his eyes,
leaning forward to rest his forehead against Derek’s.
“All I have to do is believe.”

        [https://24.media.tumblr.com/9039ab4b9e50f6eaf49d1aae76551701/
                      tumblr_n715ghV4Yx1skn64jo1_500.jpg]
                              artwork by reborngp
extra: Derek's tarot_card
End Notes
     potential warnings about the nightmares include but aren't limited
     to: being buried alive, brief feelings of suffocation and
     claustrophobic conditions, dreams of jumping off a building,
     drowning, visions of death, and blood
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