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It’s a pretty typical day. Stiles gets up at 7:15 AM, texts Derek good morning, hops in the shower, eats a bowl full of Cheerios, packs the homework he did last night and heads out to school.
What’s not so typical is the cloth pressed over his mouth and nose moments before he reaches his jeep.
His last thought is “Hey, does this smell like chloroform to you?” which is horrible, and Stiles kind of thinks he deserves to black out after that.
When he wakes up, he’s in some sort of prison cell, except Stiles have turned the entire sheriff’s station upside down when he was younger, and there were never any cells like this one.
It’s cold and clammy in the cell, complete with a moldy, tumbledown ceiling, walls that have moisture dripping down them, and a floor that seems to be made out of compressed clay. In the right corner there’s a small bundle of dirty hay; Stiles crawls a little closer to it, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The hay isn’t just dirty; it’s shit-stained, and the more Stiles’ consciousness returns to him, the more he wishes he hadn’t woken up at all.
He wrenches himself away from the shit-corner, and almost smacks head first into the thick, steel bars that enclose the cell. Stiles follows the bars with his eyes, and realizes that they’re around the whole cell.
And that’s when it hits him; he’s not in a cell. He’s in a cage.
Suddenly, the room fills with a bright, white light, followed by the sound of footsteps. Blinded, Stiles desperately tries to make out how many people have just descended into his prison. From the vague sounds he can make out, three people just entered.
A door shuts, and the bright light cuts out and is replaced with a softer, more yellow illumination, probably from a fluorescence lamp.
Stiles dares to open his eyes. Since he’s sitting down on the floor, and whoever just came in is standing up, Stiles is now staring at someone’s quirky, jeans-clad knees.
“Uhm. Hi?”
The knees bend, and now Stiles is face to face with his abductor.
The man is nice looking; he’s probably somewhere in his forties or the beginning of his fifties, judging by the grey streaks in his hair. He has smile wrinkles around his eyes, but the eyes themselves are cold and calculating.
“Hi,” the man says, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Something about this guy just screams ‘watch out I am a psychopath’, what with the creepy, cold smile and the dead eyes, and Stiles finds himself trying to scooch backwards discreetly.
If the widening of psycho-grandpa’s smile is anything to go by, Stiles fails.
“Don’t worry. We’re not here to hurt you,” he says, his tone sickeningly sweet.
Stiles glares at him. “Then what do you want with me?” he asks.
His captors’ laughter echoes around the room. “Oh, we don’t want anything from you, sweetheart,” a woman’s voice giggle. “You are simply bait for a much bigger fish.”
Stiles’ eyes widen in realization. “You’re after the Alpha. You want Scott McCall.”
“Hey, have you heard from Stiles?”
Derek tears his eyes away from the book he was currently reading to send Scott a suffering look.
“And I would have heard from him, why exactly?” he asks, and he sort of expects Scott to back down after that, but instead he watches in mild horror as Scott’s face adopts a devious grin. It’s the kind of grin that says “I know what you did last night”, and Derek doesn’t like it, not one bit.
“Well I just thought, since you two have been on a few dates, exchanged sweet kisses on the Stilinski porch, and write each other lovesick “I miss you” texts basically every moment of every day that you might have heard from him. Stiles. Your boyfriend.”
Derek can feel the tips of his ears getting warm and silently curses himself for walking right into Scott’s trap. The kid has obviously known what was going on between him and Stiles all along, and that honestly shouldn’t even come as a surprise to Derek. Stiles and Scott are best friends who talk about everything. God knows that if Laura was alive, Derek would be blabbering to her about The Thing between him and Stiles too.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Derek grumbles, and it’s true. They haven’t had a talk about what they are yet, but the thought of officially calling Stiles his boyfriend makes his belly feel all bottomless and tingly.
Scott wrinkles his nose. “Oh gross. You’re having cute thoughts about Stiles aren’t you? That’s weird, Derek, this is weird. You aren’t cute, stop that, stop smiling at me!”
It’s not like it’s on purpose; the thought of Stiles makes him happy, and Scott is almost a freaking adult, he should be able to cope with usual grumpy people being less grumpy because they’re in love with Scott’s best friend.
What Derek says is, “I haven’t heard from Stiles since this morning. Didn’t you just see him at school?”
“No,” Scott answers, looking thoughtful.
Derek pulls out his phone and types out “Hi Stiles, where are you?” Because he is an adult, and adults use proper grammar, deal with it Scott.
Derek watches the minutes tick by, his inbox remaining empty, and a horrible feeling of dread begins to uncoil in his stomach.
The unmistakable tunes to Disney’s “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf” wakes Stiles up. For a blissful few seconds, he thinks he’s back home, lying in bed being woken up by Derek calling him to have one of their talks. But then reality kicks in, and Stiles sits up with a jolt.
Kidnapped. Cage. Bait. Derek. The idiot shouldn’t be calling, shouldn’t be looking for Stiles, even though he supposes he would be offended and more than a little hurt if Derek wasn’t out there looking for him.
How long has he been in here anyways? Hours? Days? The room has no windows, and the lack of food, water and fresh air makes Stiles constantly sleepy and disorientated. Which is probably what his captors want anyways, fucking racist bastards.
As far as Stiles has been able to tell (by pretending to be asleep, and then almost falling asleep) his captors are a group of hunters, seeking revenge for Kate and Gerard Argent’s deaths. How people have not figured out that the world is a 100 % better place without those two is beyond Stiles.
“Yo, Little Red,” the guard calls, and Stiles sighs. The nickname had been a little too obvious and tacky for Stiles’ taste, but the ever shifting guards seemed to be having a ton of fun with it.
“What?” Stiles snap.
The guard grins, mouth wide open, revealing his disgusting yellow and cracked teeth. “Your Big Bad called again. That’s the twentieth time today. Followed closely by ‘Scott’ and ‘Lydia’. They disgusting half-human mongrels too? How long do you figure it’ll take them to track your signal and come looking for you here, huh? ” the guard cackles at Stiles’ horrified expression.
“Don’t worry Little Red. I heard a thing or two about your pack. They’ll figure it out soon enough. And then it’ll all be over.”
“I’ve got it!” Lydia shouts, breaking the crushing silence that has been dominating Derek’s flat ever since they figured out that Stiles was missing.
It is 1 AM. No one has seen Stiles since 7:30 the previous morning, when the Sheriff had said goodbye to his son before going off to a three day training seminar in Leicester.
That’s seventeen and a half hours.
Derek is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
When Stiles didn’t answer his phone the eleventh time Derek called, Derek promptly stalked out of his flat and ran into the woods, where he proceeded to wolf out on anything and everything. It hadn’t helped at all. As a matter of fact, it had only made things worse. Because Stiles hated it when Derek bottled up his feelings and used aggression as a way of voicing his pain.
Stiles, his sweet, nerdy crush, who made him stumble over his words, but whom he always felt safe and comfortable with.
Stiles, who ate way too many curly fries, and was far too loyal for his own good.
Stiles, the guy he might never be able to call boyfriend after all.
When Derek had returned to the loft, Lydia, Isaac and Allison were there.
They’d all tried calling Stiles a couple of more times, but eventually they’d surrendered to the silence and its devastating whispers of Stiles’ ill fate.
Until Lydia shouts about getting something. She starts talking really fast about knowing how to find Stiles; Derek hopes to hell that it isn’t a banshee thing. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle that right now.
Lydia seems agitated. “His phone, Scott! It hasn’t been turned off! We know that, it rings every time we try it. That means that his GPS is still active, and we can track that!”
Scott looks about as unconvinced as Derek feels. “We can? Not for nothing, Lydia, but none of us are computer-geniuses. That’s more Stiles’ thing.”
Allison takes in a sharp breath. Her eyes lock with Lydia’s and the two seem to have a silent conversation.
Lydia turns towards the rest of the pack. “I know we normally don’t involve other people in our problems, but… But this is Stiles. He’d go through fire and hell to find any of us, and we need to do the same for him now. Besides, I don’t really think the person in question will have anything against helping us.”
Scott’s eyebrows crinkle. “Who exactly are we talking about here?”
Allison and Lydia share a look. “Danny,” they respond simultaneously.
Stiles has spent what seems like every waking moment in tense anticipation for the inevitable rescue attempt.
Which is why it’s a bit of a downer that he isn’t even awake for it.
When he wakes up, he’s in a hospital bed. There is a tube in his arm and one in his nose, and Stiles has a moment of panic before a hand grasps his own, and a very familiar voice tells him to relax, it’s okay, he’s safe now.
Stiles relaxes and falls back into unconsciousness.
For their third date, they went to a fancy restaurant located a thirty minutes’ drive away from Beacon Hills. Stiles had ordered an Italian spaghetti dish with mushrooms and smoked ham, and Derek had ordered a steak, which had earned him a raised eyebrow and a chuckle from Stiles.
After dinner they’d walked around the local park for a while, talking about everything and nothing in particular. Derek had bought Stiles two scoops of Double Mint Chocolate Chip flavored ice cream, which Stiles had gladly shared.
By the time Derek pulled up in front of the Stilinski house, Stiles had been pretty annoyed.
The night had been perfect. In fact, every date they’d had so far had been perfect. And still, Derek hadn’t even so much as hinted that he wanted to kiss Stiles. It was maddening.
Derek looked at him from under his lashes, and smiled that adorable half smile of his, the one that was reserved only for these moments that he shared only with Stiles.
“So, I guess this is good night,” Derek had said.
“Why won’t you kiss me?” Stiles had said.
“I’m sorry, what?” Derek had said, so obviously and endearingly confused, and Stiles had pounced.
The kiss had been short, a brief meeting of lips, but Stiles had felt giddy after, because he finally knew what Derek Hale’s lips felt like! (Dry and a little chapped, but puffy and incredibly warm, in case you were wondering.)
Derek had made a choked off sound in the back of his throat, and then Stiles had been pulled back in, lips battling lips furiously. Stiles had gasped out of shock, and Derek had taken that as permission to gently sneak his tongue into Stiles’ mouth.
Not that Stiles minded. Like at all.
When they had finally broken it off, twenty minutes and some severely swollen and sore lips later, Derek had said “I want to take it slow,” and Stiles almost hadn’t registered the meaning of the words because of their deliverance. Derek’s voice was low and raspy, like he… Well like he just spent twenty minutes making out with someone in a car. It had made butterflies flutter in Stiles’ belly, because he’d done that.
And then he had realized what Derek had said. “Why?” he’d asked, and Derek had blushed and looked down at his jeans.
“Because I want to do this right,” Derek had said in a low voice, letting Stiles know that he was being serious.
Stiles had thought about it for a moment before answering.
“I don’t mind that,” he’d said in the end, making Derek look up from his jeans with a shy smile.
Stiles hadn’t been able to stop himself from leaning in and kissing him again.
The next time he wakes up, he’s surrounded by sleeping people. On the right side of his bed, looking very uncomfortable in a tiny hospital chair, is Isaac. His head is propped against his shoulder, and he’s breathing lightly, though his mouth is wide open. Stiles thinks he can see a bit of drool, and it makes him smile.
Behind Isaac is Scott and Allison curled together on the couch. Allison’s body lined up next to Scott’s, her head is resting on his chest, her hand placed right above his heart. Stiles’ smile softens. To think that there was a time when those two weren’t together, making everyone around them puke with their cuteness.
On the left side of the bed, at the foot, is Lydia. The redhead’s upper half is resting on the bed, her red hair sprawled all over the covers. Her lower half is placed on a chair, and Stiles suspects that she’s going to have pins and needles in both her legs when she wakes up.
And then, right next to his head, is Derek. Stiles takes his time studying the other man’s features. Derek looks tired; he has dark circles under his eyes and his skin is matte. Stiles is determined to let him sleep, but Derek has always been known to defy him. He wakes up.
“Hi,” Stiles whispers.
Derek rubs his eyes and gives Stiles a tired smile. “Hi, yourself,” he replies.
Stiles’ fingers land in Derek’s hair of their own accord, playing with the thick strands of soft, black hair. “You’re real,” Stiles murmurs.
“Be my boyfriend,” Derek says, and okay, that wasn’t what Stiles expected him to say at all.
“What?” he croaks out after a minute has passed in complete silence, Lydia’s soft snoring the only sound to be heard.
“Be my boyfriend,” Derek repeats. It’s not even a question, it’s like a statement, like a command.
Stiles says as much, and Derek growls at him. “Stiles,” he says. And then gentler, “Be my boyfriend?”
And Stiles can only nod, and then they’re kissing, and Stiles feels lighter than he can ever remember feeling.
“They were going to take you away from me,” he says when they come up for air.
“Never,” Derek smiles.
It had taken Danny five hours to hack into Stiles’ phone. Apparently the teen didn’t want anyone snooping around his private stuff, if Danny’s mumbles of “paranoid little son of a Sheriff” was anything to go by.
Five hours was a lot of time to think. First, Derek had been excited, the thought of finding Stiles and bringing him home a beacon of hope. But then, as the hours ticked by, a suspicion began to grow inside of him.
“It’s too easy,” he’d mumbled to himself, but Danny had heard him. The teen thought about it for a moment before letting out a deep sigh, covering his eyes with his hand.
“Shit. Derek is right. These guys are professionals; they had everything planned out. I don’t think it was a coincidence that Stiles got kidnapped the exact same day that his father, the Sheriff, leaves town for three days. Leaving your victim’s cellphone turned on for anyone to track? That’s a rookie mistake. Meaning…”
“It’s a trap,” Derek finished for him.
Danny nodded. “It’s a trap.
“A trap for what though?” Allison speculated out loud. “It can’t have been for his father, they wouldn’t have chosen a time when he was away if it was. Then what? What could Stiles possibly have that…” she broke off in the middle of her sentence, and all color drained from her face in the blink of an eye. “Oh my god,” she whispered horrified.
“Allison?” Scott hurried to her side, holding her arm as she shakily sat down on Derek’s couch.
“Oh my god,” she repeated with a little more force. Her eyes snapped to Derek’s. “They’re hunters.”
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Derek felt like every drop of blood in his veins had been replaced with ice.
“Stiles isn’t the target,” he whispered. “We are.”
Stiles is released from the hospital fifteen hours and thirty-three minutes after he’s been brought in. Mrs. McCall tells Derek to keep an eye on Stiles, to make sure that he eats and drinks something at least every three hours.
They all collectively agree to not tell the Sheriff about the whole kidnapped thing when Stiles requests it. In a way it makes sense; Stiles would probably never be allowed to leave the house without an armed guard again if they did.
Derek takes him back to his loft, and not even Scott protests. The shaggy haired teen just gives Stiles a bear-hug and dramatically whispers “Wear protection”, which both Stiles and Derek resolutely ignore.
The ride to Derek’s place is unusually quiet. It isn’t until they’re standing in the middle of the loft that Stiles turns around and smiles at him, sly and full of promises.
“So,” he drawls, and moves closer to Derek until he’s almost plastered to the older man’s front. Stiles look up into Derek’s eyes, his arms coming up to lay on each of Derek’s shoulders.
“Boyfriend,” Stiles leers. Derek’s eyes follow Stiles’ pink tongue as it journeys out to wet those plush lips. “Wanna do some boyfriend-y stuff?”
Derek smirks, and lifts Stiles off the ground faster than you can say “quidditch”.
Years down the road, Stiles will still claim that he did not, in fact, squeal like a ten-year-old girl, he merely yelped. Like a man. It was a manly yelp. And years down the road, Derek will smirk and sweep his gorgeous boyfriend off of his feet, just to hear him squeal again.
As it is, Stiles’ eyes go almost completely black with lust, and he wets his lips again. “Not fair,” he whispers, and Derek kisses him. It feels like coming home.
Derek carries Stiles to his bed, where he unceremoniously dumps him. Before the younger man can start to protest, Derek crawls onto the bed, until he’s hovering above Stiles.
Stiles’ hands immediately reach for Derek, the teen obviously begging to be touched, but Derek has other plans. He catches Stiles’ hands before they reach their intended goal and traps them over Stiles’ head. Stiles pupils dilate even further, and a tiny whine escapes him as he experimentally trash against his boyfriend’s hold. It doesn’t come as a shock when Derek’s grip doesn’t budge even an inch, but the rush of arousal that comes at the thought of being completely at Derek’s mercy certainly does.
“You know,” Stiles start almost conversationally, “You’d think that after being held captive for the better part of three days, I’d hate the restraint you’re putting on me here. But apparently, bondage is a thing for me. We should explore that sometime.”
And Stiles had totally expected Derek to react in some way, but more like in a “sexy-time” fashion, as opposed to the slouched, haunted, sad puppy he’s now faced with.
“What’s wrong? I was joking, we don’t have to try bondage, why are you upset?”
Derek takes a deep breath, and when he lets it out it’s shaky. He lets go of Stiles’ wrists and climbs off of Stiles, so he can sit next to him on the bed. Stiles, sensing that they’re about to have a serious conversation, sits up with a worried look on his face.
“Derek?” he inquires, gently touching the beta’s arm.
“We found your location that first day you went missing,” Derek whispers. Stiles doesn’t say anything, and Derek doesn’t dare look him in the eyes at the moment, so he just continues.
“Danny helped us hack your phone to get you location. And it just seemed too easy, like…”
“Like they wanted you to find me,” Stiles finishes for him, and Derek nod. “That’s because they did. It was a trap,” Stiles continues, and when Derek finally looks at him, he has a soft expression on his face.
Stiles takes his hand. “Are you seriously feeling guilty that you didn’t just barge into a trap with no plan whatsoever? Derek, that’s ridiculous. When have I ever encouraged you to act rash and impulsively?”
Derek lets out a snort, and Stiles’ smile widen.
“Exactly. Never,” Stiles laughs, and the sound of it makes Derek finally crack a smile.
Stiles climbs onto his boyfriend’s (and being able to use that term seriously makes him giddy) lap, forcing Derek to look at him. “You listen to me now, Derek Hale. I would never want for you to put yourself in danger for me. I know you feel guilty for “leaving me” for two more days, but it was necessary, and you know that too. I actually really appreciate the fact that you took the time to plan my rescue, because if anything happened to you, I would die.”
Stiles somehow manages to look both firm and confident, and shy and insecure all at once, and it hits Derek like a ton of bricks. I love this man. Stiles, the most wonderful, caring, fragile human being, is absolutely everything that Derek could have ever wanted, and more.
He nudges Stiles’ cheek with his nose, making the younger man look up at him with a soft smile.
“I love you,” he tells him, and Stiles gasp. He searches Derek’s face, as if looking for something, and apparently he finds it, because he lets out a choked off sound and kisses him.
It’s nothing like the kiss at the hospital. It’s not gentle. It’s not chaste. Stiles is forceful with his kiss, forcing Derek’s head back so the younger man can take what he wants. It’s a heady feeling, like Stiles is in control, which is funny, because Derek usually hates not being in control. It’s not really surprising that Stiles is the one to change all the rules for him.
And then the man in question does something downright sinful with his tongue; a sort of twisting motion at the same time as he applies extra sucking with his lips, and all thoughts leave Derek’s mind.
Everything becomes a heated blur after that. Derek’s hips buckle up, his dick coming into contact with Stiles’, and Stiles is hard, Derek can feel it even through two layers of denim. The mere thought of it makes the butterflies in his stomach flutter; he’s nervous, because what if he does something wrong? Or worse, what if he does something that Stiles doesn’t like? When Derek had been with Kate, she’d been the one running the show. She was older and more experienced, and Derek had felt stupid trying to slow her down when she obviously wanted him. So he’d done things that he wasn’t really ready for, and just the thought of Stiles doing the same thing with him makes him nauseous.
“You don’t have to,” he whispers breathily. Stiles moan softly, and starts kissing down Derek’s throat. It’s just little warm pecks, no tongue or teeth, but the action fills Derek with a deeper kind of lust than he’s ever experienced before. Being aroused is easy, can hit you at any time of the day, but that’s just physical; almost like an impulse. What Stiles evokes is far beyond that; Derek can feel it in his bones, can feel it running through his veins, until he’s aching with it.
Stiles stops kissing his neck and looks up at him, his big chocolate eyes heady and clouded. “I love you too,” he whispers tenderly. “So much. And I know that we’re taking it slow, but…”
Derek buckle his hips again, rudely interrupting whatever Stiles was about to say. “Fuck slow,” he growls, all his earlier nervousness evaporating like smoke in the wind.
Stiles makes these little whimpering noises when a kiss gets particularly heated, which makes Derek lose control of his hip-movement, making him grind their erections together harder and harder, which in turn only makes Stiles whimper and moan more.
Derek’s hands come up to grab at Stiles’ ass, pulling the teen down onto him with more force. Stiles breaks their kiss with a loud groan. “Derek,” he moans, his breath coming in small huffs. “Derek, I’m gonna…”
It feels like lightning, crackling and sizzling through his body. He wants it; wants to see Stiles come undone on top of him, wants to feel his body convulse around him.
He can’t put any of that into words though, so he settles for nodding furiously, pulling roughly on Stiles’ ass to make them grind together harder.
That seems to be the last straw for Stiles; his body freezes above Derek, who can only watch through hooded eyes how the younger man’s eyes squeeze shut and his mouth fall open, wordlessly telling Derek of his pleasure.
The feeling of power that Derek feels rushing through him is so completely unlike what he feels when he shifts into beta-form. I did this, he thinks. His cock throbs from where it lies neglected trapped between his and Stiles’ bodies. Stiles must have some sort of spider-senses, because it’s that exact moment he chooses to look up at Derek.
Derek moans. Stiles looks ravished; his hair is in complete disarray and there’s blotchy red spots on his cheeks. A love bite is starting to bloom on his neck. His body is lax with satisfaction, but his lips are curled in a smirk, and his eyes tells of devious things yet to come.
“Want me to take care of that?” he asks, and Derek nods eagerly.
But they never get to that point; as Stiles shifts body to gain access to Derek’s throat, the smell of his pleasure hits Derek. It smells like salt and warmth and something sweet, and before Derek knows any better, he’s coming in his pants like… well like the teenager on top of him.
“Did you just…?”
Derek buries his head in Stiles’ neck.
The teen chuckles. “I didn’t even do anything,” he says. Derek would tell him to fuck off, but then Stiles’ fingers start combing through his hair, and he decides that he can’t really be bothered.
“I could smell you,” he mumbles. Stiles makes an undignified sound, which makes Derek smirk and continue. “Actually, I still can. It’s pretty hot.”
He can feel Stiles shake his head. “You’re such a werewolf right now, I can’t even…”
Derek lifts his head from Stiles shoulders and smiles at him, bright and sunny. “Yep,” he says. “And you’re stuck with me. Boyfriend.”
That elects a laugh from Stiles. “That I am,” he answers. “Lucky me.”