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Derek’s day starts the same as every other day. He wakes up in the cave he calls home, hunts game for breakfast, then travels the short distance to the stream nearby to wash the blood from his fur. His ears perk up atop his head as he makes sure there’s no one else around. As a werewolf, he can hear over great distances, a trait that’s even stronger when transformed into his alpha form. He always is nowadays, can’t even recall the last time he shifted back to human, so he’s not concerned about being spotted. He’ll hear anyone before they get too close.
Once the blood is gone from his fur, claws and muzzle, Derek lies down next to the stream and lets the sunlight shining down on him dry him off.
His thoughts come in fragments, in short clumsily-formed sentences and words like warm, full and alone. Derek hasn’t had what one would call a proper human thought in a long time, since his family was murdered by hunters and his life became this. He’d retreated into the wilderness to lick his wounds and plot his revenge, but as time passed and his grief and loneliness swallowed him, he pushed down his human half and the emotions that came with it, letting the wolf take over. It was easier that way, less painful for his heart and better for his sanity. What little sanity he had left, anyway.
Derek doesn’t know for sure how many years he’s been living this empty, animalistic life. The only things he can use to judge the passage of time are the seasons.
It had been warm and bright for a while and the days were long, but now things are changing again. The sun shows up for shorter stretches, and the leaves on the trees are turning from green to a mix of yellow, red and brown. The temperature is dropping too. He may not think like a human anymore, but Derek still knows it’s fall.
As it’s prone to in moments of peace like this, Derek’s mind wanders into dangerous territory. He tries to block out all thought, but flashbacks of blood and fire and smoke assail him. The sound of gunfire fills his ears as his family is cut down one by one around him in the very backyard in which he used to gambol about with his sisters when they were children. Every member of his family gone.
Just like that.
His dad told him to run, grabbed his ankle and begged him to get out of there, to save himself while he bled out on the grass. So Derek ran, leaving everything behind as his pack bond to his dad severed. His last. With no one else left, his mom’s alpha power passed to him, but it doesn’t do him any good.
He remembers a lesson he and his sisters were taught ages ago. An alpha needs betas to survive, and betas need an alpha. It’s a balance, and one cannot exist for long without the other. Derek, as the new Hale Pack alpha, has only existed for however long he has by basically giving in to his madness. If he fought it, held on to his humanity, he’d probably have self-destructed. Instead, he gets this half life. Whether that’s better or not, well…
Derek is about to sweep away the bad memories when a familiar scent reaches his nose. Leaping to his feet, he waits in a crouch as he scans the trees around him.
At first, all he can hear is the babbling of the stream next to him and the usual sounds of wildlife. Then there are voices and the idling engine of a large vehicle. Combined with the scent still invading his nostrils, which makes his hackles rise higher than they’ve ever risen, Derek is certain who the voices belong to: hunters, the same ones who took everything from him. He’d given up on getting vengeance, but with the smell of gunpowder and wolfsbane in his nose, a white-hot rage suffuses through Derek’s entire being.
He roars and races toward the scents, darting between trees until he’s upon the hunters. They don’t stand a chance. He’s caught them unaware on a deserted road that cuts through the woods. They stand around a large black van, two men and two women, and only the older man has a weapon on his person. He’s too slow on the draw, though, and before he can even reach for the gun that’s in the holster attached to his hip, Derek has bitten through his neck. He spits the man’s white-haired head off to the side before pouncing on the next hunter, the other man. He’s a lot younger than the first, his hair short on his head and his eyes a piercing blue, but Derek barely notices.
The man runs but doesn’t get far before he meets a similar fate to the first, his head hitting the asphalt.
“Chris!” one of the women screams, her red hair cropped close.
“Vic, we’ve gotta go!” the other woman enjoins. Her long blonde hair whips around her head as she dashes around the van to the driver’s door, either to drive away or retrieve a weapon.
Derek doesn’t give her the time, nor does he give the redhead a chance to move from where she stands gawping at the blue-eyed hunter’s decapitated corpse. In a flash, both women are dead as well, and Derek raises his muzzle to the sky and howls as loud as he can, until his throat hurts. It’s a sound filled with an awful combination of triumph and anguish. He’s done it—he got vengeance for his family after all these years! But he’s still alone…
Always alone.
When the howl tapers off, Derek detects more heartbeats close by, emanating from the back of the van. He rips open the double doors and discovers five more people inside, all of them lying unconscious on the bed of the vehicle. His anger returns, but it’s short-lived. A sniff tells him that none of these people are hunters, at least not the ones responsible for the murder of his family. Plus, their hands are bound by thick ropes.
Prisoners. The word slips into Derek’s wolf mind. They’re prisoners of the hunters. Not allies. But not enemies. Maybe innocent.
He’s about to make his way back to his cave when his gaze alights on one of them. A boy. Something about him arrests Derek’s attention. He moves closer. The boy is maybe in his late teens. His hair is brown and soft-looking. He wears a red plaid shirt and skinny jeans, and the skin that’s visible is pale and dotted with moles but is otherwise smooth and unblemished. His scent is intoxicating, goes straight to Derek’s head. Cinnamon. That’s the most prominent note in it.
Derek is sent back to the past for the second time that day. More fractured memories from his childhood, different ones now. They’re happy, the times he assisted his mother in baking apple pies while she told him about mates.
That’s it. That’s why he’s inexorably drawn to this boy.
Mate. He is mate.
Not wanting to waste more time, Derek hefts the unconscious boy into his muscular, furry arms—being mindful not to nick him with a claw—then he’s off, leaving the van, the other unconscious prisoners, and the bodies and separated heads of the hunters behind him. He can still taste the hunters’ blood on his rough tongue but doesn’t care. Right now, his only priority is to get his mate safely back to his cave. After that, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do.
When he arrives at the cave, Derek carries his mate near the back of it. It’s darker back here, but there’s still enough light for him to be able to see clearly. He lays his mate on the ground and crouches down over him to stick his nose in his neck, getting more of his scent straight from the source. It’s heady and delectable. It smells like home, a feeling Derek hasn’t had in so long. It also causes a reaction in his body he’s never had while in this form.
Between his legs, his furry black sheath engorges as arousal courses through him. He shows pink, the tapered tip of his cock poking out. This part isn’t unfamiliar to him. It happens daily when he needs to relieve himself, but that’s not the case this time. He doesn’t need to piss. He needs to fuck. To mate and properly stake his claim over the unconscious form beneath him.
His cock keeps growing, sliding out of its sheath until the opening stretches wide over the knot and all of his considerable length is out. He tenses and his blood-red cock smacks against his belly, thin pre-come spurting from the tip. He’s already growing impatient, his mating instincts kicking into overdrive. They’re raw and needy, made worse by the fact that he hasn’t had any company in years.
Now he does. Once he’s claimed his mate, he’ll never be alone again.
Derek gets rid of the boy’s pesky clothing. He grabs the front of his shirt and rips it open, sending buttons skittering across the cave floor. Once that’s gone, leaving the boy’s top half bared, Derek gets to work on the jeans. He’s even less cautious here, rending apart the fabric over the boy’s crotch. He adds one more button to the floor, then yanks the jeans down the boy’s legs.
This jostles his mate a lot, and it must be enough to rouse him from his slumber. He makes a quiet, confused noise, his brow furrows, and the corners of his plump lips turn downward. Derek doesn’t back off but continues to wrestle his mate’s jeans off until he succeeds. Last to go are his mate’s black boxer-briefs, which he literally tears from his slender body, leaving the thin fabric in tatters.
This shocks his mate from sleep.
* * *
Stiles jackknifes upright, his eyes wide and his heart pounding in his chest. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s not in the van anymore, but his new location doesn’t sink in right away. His brain works sluggishly because of whatever soporific those asshole hunters injected him with to put him under, to keep him from interfering or making noise as they took him away from his home. What was left of it.
The memories come back slowly, and none of them are pleasant:
His life was fine and dandy a year ago. Sure, he missed his mom something fierce after she died when he was eight, but he was getting by. He still had his dad and a small but close circle of friends.
Then his best friend, Scott, was bitten by a werewolf. Stiles did his best to help, to keep things under wraps so no one ever found out, but he didn’t know what he was doing, and a couple days ago, Scott got a bit too reckless and ended up on the radar of the wrong sort of people. Those hunters… Stiles doesn’t even know their names, didn’t get a chance to learn who was hunting them down before it was too late. He and his friends were too inexperienced and the hunters were skilled. Stiles shakes as he pictures Scott’s dead body.
Erica, Isaac, Boyd, his dad…
All of them dead.
Stiles draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, and it’s the feeling of his own bare skin that clues him in to the fact that he’s naked. His brain finally catches up, and he registers the huge hulking beast crouched right in front of him, holding pieces of Stiles’ underwear in its big hands. Stiles recoils initially, then comprehends that the beast is a werewolf.
He stares at them with his mouth hanging open. “What the hell…?”
The red colour of their irises denotes that they’re an alpha, and he’s male, as evidenced by the gargantuan red dick hanging out of the sheath between thighs as thick as tree trunks.
“Who— Who are you?”
The werewolf cocks his head and doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move at all, just crouches there with his dick twitching and dripping pre-come all over the floor of the cave.
Stiles licks his lips, then pulls his tongue back into his mouth, mortified by the frisson of arousal that passes through him. He shouldn’t be turned on when he doesn’t know what’s going on and if he’s in danger. With the werewolf in front of him, anyone else would say that yes, he is. But something about the werewolf staves off the panic Stiles should feel.
“Can you understand me?”
The werewolf lowers his head in an imitation of a nod. Progress.
“Okay… How did I get here? What happened?” Stiles can’t say what he was expecting. For this beast to reply verbally, maybe. Obviously, he can’t. “Can you shift back?”
The werewolf shakes his head, the movement travelling down the rest of his body to his cock, sending pre-come flying. Some of it lands on Stiles’ feet.
Stiles tries a different tactic. Yes-or-no questions. “Did you save me from the hunters?”
Another nod, accompanied this time by a low growl that sends shivers down Stiles’ spine.
“You killed them?”
Nod.
Stiles desperately wants to know where they are and surveys his surroundings. He’s in a cave, and there are signs of someone living there. The werewolf, presumably.
He’s about to ask another question when the werewolf looms closer. He drops the scraps of Stiles’ underwear and stalks toward him low to the ground, like he’s intent on devouring him. Stiles is conflicted. He still doesn’t believe the werewolf means to hurt or kill him, and with his naked state and the werewolf’s arousal as undeniable as it is, it’s obvious what the beast wants from him. Stiles doesn’t say anything to deter him, not even when the werewolf grabs his ankles, hauls him beneath his furry body and flips him onto his front.
Not being able to see what’s going on is disconcerting, but as soon as he’s up on his hands and knees, he feels the werewolf’s huge hands spread apart his ass cheeks and something slick and insistent prodding at his hole. Stiles startles, but it’s too late to get away now. The werewolf has a good grip on him, and the feeble struggle he puts up only causes the werewolf to get rougher, sharp claws pricking his skin. Stiles doesn’t know whether or not he’s already drawn blood, but he makes himself stay still so that, if he hasn’t, he won’t.
He’s fast distracted by the tongue wiggling around his hole. There’s no finesse to it. Stiles has seen rimming in porn and was curious, but he didn’t anticipate it feeling like this. It would likely be different were it a human tongue lapping over his rim, but it isn’t. The werewolf’s tongue is long and strong, the slick surface rough. Once the strangeness passes, it feels pretty damn good. Against his better judgment, Stiles starts to enjoy himself.
He sinks into the sensation of being rimmed, making the most of the minimal prep he’s going to get. If his suspicions are correct, very soon he’s going to have the werewolf’s dick in him, and something that massive going inside his ass when he’s only ever had a single finger up there is alarming—and that’s putting it mildly. He pushes back against the werewolf’s muzzle and moans, his fingers digging into the dirty ground beneath him. His own cock has taken a liking to the proceedings too, hanging hard beneath him as he rocks slowly back and forth.
Stiles loses track of how long it lasts, his head bowed as he feels and listens to the obscene slobbering sounds coming from behind him.
When, eventually, he loosens enough for the werewolf’s rough tongue to slip inside, he snaps his head up and mewls, high-pitched. He truncates the sound by biting too hard into his bottom lip, tasting copper, but the pain is overshadowed by pleasure when the werewolf inserts his tongue deeper—damn, it’s strong—and brushes it across Stiles’ prostate. The werewolf’s enthusiasm only ramps up, sliding his long tongue out of his maw and inside Stiles’ hole, filling him, giving him a preview.
Stiles gasps. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. His brain fills with white noise, then, with another brush of the werewolf’s tongue over his prostate, he sprays the ground with come. His limbs nearly give out with the intensity of his orgasm—it’s his first with another person, even if that person is currently in the form of a monstrous beast.
The werewolf retracts his tongue and grips Stiles’ waist instead of keeping his ass cheeks spread wide. He displays more sentience by giving Stiles some time to recover, then, when his limbs aren’t so shaky and he’s able to support himself, the werewolf slithers over him. Stiles is so small in comparison that the werewolf doesn’t even have to put any weight on him. Still, Stiles feels the course hair covering the beast’s front rubbing tantalisingly over his back.
The werewolf plants his hands on the ground in front of Stiles, curls more tightly over him, and Stiles feels it, that lupine cock sliding between his cheeks. He’s still loose and mostly relaxed from the eager rimming he’d been given and his orgasm, so hopefully it won’t be too painful. He still has trouble accepting that he’s doing this, but he gets the impression that fighting it wouldn’t do him any good. Besides, in the privacy of the cave, he can admit to himself that he doesn’t want to fight it.
He wants this. He wants the massive beast on top of him to impale him until his internal organs are rearranged and he’s stretched so wide that he’ll never again be as tight as he was that morning.
It’s such a depraved thought that Stiles rolls his hips back against the werewolf’s cock, encouraging him. He both feels and hears the resulting growl this gets him, but it isn’t an angry noise. It’s akin to a cat’s purr, more vicious-sounding but still conveying the werewolf’s approval. Stiles does it again, and at the same time, the werewolf thrusts forward, his big cock trapped between their bodies, spreading more pre-come up Stiles’ back. It shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.
For another minute, they move together, the werewolf lowering his head to shove his wet nose in Stiles’ hair. Then it’s time for the main event.
The werewolf moves his hips back so the tapered tip of his cock is pointed right at Stiles’ hole, and Stiles works hard to keep himself calm and remind himself of how much he wants this when the werewolf pushes inside. He’s demanding, not stopping once during the entire first tough slide in. Stiles is stretched wider and wider, and tears quickly threaten to fall. He’s sure he hasn’t even taken half of it yet. He breathes through it, his hole burning as the werewolf keeps going.
It’s too much. Stiles’ fear, before lust took over, was well-founded; it’s never going to fit. His body moving of its own accord, Stiles lurches forward to get away, but this elicits another growl from the werewolf above him, this one much less approving. The beast curls one of his hands over Stiles’ shoulder and holds him in place, even drags him back onto his cock at the same time he brings his own hips forward, filling Stiles up faster. It’s a punishment for disobeying. Stiles whimpers, but nothing he does gets him out of it.
By the time the werewolf’s knot is against his hole, Stiles might pass out from the pain. He can feel the werewolf’s cock in his throat, and he’s just thankful that the werewolf didn’t force the knot in yet.
Yet. Fucking hell, Stiles still has that to come, doesn’t he? Fuck.
The werewolf gives him a moment to get used to being so full, then withdraws. Stiles is left feeling empty, like he’s been hollowed out. The pain remains and it’s still not exactly nice, but the sensation of that huge cock stroking over his inner walls is…interesting.
That’s one way of putting it, he thinks wryly.
When the werewolf pushes back inside, it’s more bearable, and with a few more thrusts, the pain lessens more and more until it’s more of a muted ache than anything else. Sooner than Stiles is ready for, the werewolf speeds things up, snapping his hips to fuck the human beneath him as hard as he can. And he can evidently do it hard, reaching a speed only an animal could be capable of. Stiles is only saved from being sent scraping across the cave floor because the werewolf’s hand is still on his shoulder, keeping him in place as his ass is assaulted.
The longer it goes on, the more Stiles likes it. His cock, which had gone soft again after his orgasm, perks back up when, on a particularly rough thrust, the werewolf nails his prostate dead-on. He wails, which in turn just encourages his feral lover to go even faster, growling all the while. Soon enough, Stiles feels the werewolf’s knot battering against his rim. How on earth that’s going to fit is lost on him, but the werewolf fit his cock inside Stiles’ body somehow, so he doesn’t make another escape attempt. He stays where he is, on his hands and knees, and rides the fine line between pleasure and pain.
Every time the werewolf shoves in to the knot, Stiles’ hole stretches that little bit wider, gradually opening even more until, with a final push, the knot sinks home with a pop. Stiles screams so loudly that he knows he’s ruined his throat. The shock of it has him tipping over the edge all over again, adding more come to the splatters he already left on the ground.
He blacks out.
The last thing Stiles feels is something akin to white-hot needles sinking into the meat of his shoulder.
* * *
Mate, mate, mate.
The word runs on a loop through Derek’s head as he lies with the little human. He won’t be human for long. When Derek finally pushed his knot in and tied with him, he also bit him to claim him as his, turning him at the same time. If he was capable of more complex thought, he would feel bad about not getting permission first—his mother taught him better than that—but he just couldn’t control himself. He can’t make himself regret it. He’s content, a feeling he hasn’t experienced since his family was murdered.
Derek licks over the bite to heal it while he waits for his mate to wake up. It takes less time than he thought it would; his knot hasn’t even gone down yet.
“Wha…?” comes the soon-to-be beta werewolf’s voice
Derek rumbles happily and keeps cleaning the wound, his tail thumping against the ground.
“You— What happened? I passed out?”
Derek squeezes the boy tighter in lieu of answering.
“Right. No talking. We really need to fix that, y’know.”
The boy says nothing else until Derek’s knot has gone down, releasing a torrent of come from his hole. It creates a large pool on the cave floor.
“That’s…both hot and disgusting,” the boy opines. He sits up and winces, both from the pain in his ass and his shoulder. He touches the latter and meets Derek’s red gaze. “You bit me?”
Derek once again gives his beastly imitation of a nod.
“Will that turn me?”
Another nod.
“Oh.”
The boy doesn’t sound mad, so Derek figures it will all be okay. He has his mate now and the hunters are dead, so it has to be.
“Shift back. Please?”
Derek contemplates demurring once more, but his mate is officially claimed now, and his inner wolf pokes at his human half because he wants to make his mate happy. With great reluctance, Derek allows his human half to come to the forefront of his mind for the first time in years. The shift is painful because it’s been so long. Bones crack and his fur recedes into his skin, then he kneels on the ground in his human body, naked, his hair and beard wild and untamed.
His mate gapes at him. “Wow. You’re… You’re kinda gorgeous. Even under all that.”
Derek grins, muscle memory. He’s glad his mate likes his appearance.
“Can you speak?”
His grin fading, Derek clears his throat and opens his mouth. All that comes out at first is a dry croaking sound, but he gets there: “Y-yes. Can.”
“How long have you been living out here?”
Derek frowns. “Don’t. Don’t…”
“You don’t know?”
Derek shakes his head and huffs when his hair flops into his eyes.
“Okay. Do you remember who you are? Your name?”
That one is easy. Derek gives it.
“Derek.” His mate says it as if he’s testing out how it feels on his tongue. “I like it. I’m Stiles.”
They talk, sitting across from each other like a face-off. Derek’s words are short and sometimes jumbled, his sentences half-formed and almost childlike in their simplicity, but that’s all the language he can manage after so long with his wolf in control. Stiles is patient with him, and when the sun sets outside the cave, they’ve got a lot of things cleared up and have told each other about their lives, specifically how Derek came to live in the cave and how Stiles ended up in the back of the hunters’ van. The bite on Stiles’ shoulder has also fully healed, a sign that his transformation is complete.
Stiles takes a shaky breath and covers the scar with his hand. “Is it done?”
“Yes.”
“This is a lot to get used to. Mates… I know the concept because Scott and Isaac are—were—mates, but I didn’t think I’d ever have one, much less that I’d be a werewolf too.”
“S-sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’ll have to teach me, but it’s probably for the best. Not that my friends being werewolves helped much when the hunters came, but I’ll feel safer knowing I can defend myself better.”
Derek makes a disapproving sound and moves closer to bring Stiles onto his lap. “No.”
“No?”
“No. No hunters.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m gonna go looking for them, but if I ever have a run-in with them, I’m gonna have to defend myself.”
Derek growls but doesn’t say anything else.
When it gets cold, he shifts back into his alpha form and carries Stiles right to the back of the cave, where it will be warmest through the night. He wraps himself around him.
“Guess I’m staying,” Stiles murmurs, patting Derek’s barrel-like chest. “Not like I’d have much left to go back to anyway.”
Derek rumbles happily. Yes. Stay. Mate. Home.