Fic: The Woods are Lovely Dark and Deep, 1/? (Teen Wolf, R, Derek/Stiles)
Title: The Woods are Lovely Dark and Deep
Part: 1/?
Author: dancinbutterfly
Pairing: Derek/Stiles (Allison/Scott)
Words: 1700
Rated: R
Warning: Graphic violence, mentions of historical torture and non-con, spoilers through S2E8.
Beta: Thanks for the quick and dirty beta by sly_fuck
Notes: written for the prompt at the comment ficathon: Derek/Stiles, They took his mate, hurt his mate, and they're all going to bleed for it. Also, I havent posted a WIP in ages but Teen Wolf seems to play by different rules
Summary: Stiles is taken as a message to the Hale pack. Derek and the rest are searching for him but with his captors in possession of a true monster on a leash, their efforts may not be enough.
Chapter 1 - Way Leads to Way
Stiles has been missing for a little more than a week when Chris Argent shows up at Derek's. The betas have been looking for days but every time Erica or Isaac thought they found a scent, it was either old or wolfsbane covered it up so thickly that there's no trail to follow.
Scott is spending most of his time with the Sheriff. He's no Stiles, which fuck, is the problem, but the FBI got called when they realized that this was an actual kidnapping. So someone has to at least try and misdirect them away from the actual problem so Derek can try to get his- To get Stiles back.
Derek can't dwell on what Stiles is to him, hasn’t had the chance to become. If he does he won't be able to think. Right now, Derek's ability to keep a clear head is the only thing holding the pack together.
With Stiles missing, Lydia and Allison are on research duty. Boyd is terrifying the shit out of the locals looking for something, anything. Aside from Stiles' blood on the broken glass left in the window and scraps of duct tape on the floor there's nothing left to go on. Nothing but a dribble of Stile's blood out in the grass spelling out Hale pack.
Derek got there first, heard Stiles muffled shouts and elevated heartbeat across town. By the time he arrived, Stiles was gone. Wolfsbane coated over everything so thick he could barely breathe. The scent of the blood in the grass was the only thing that cut through it and was so far their only clue. It was also one of the many things they couldn’t share with Stiles' father and the feds.
Seventy-two hours is the maximum time standard with an expected result of survival in a case like this. Every time Scott checks in which, seems like it's every fifteen minutes but is really every few hours, he brings this grim fact up. Scott then demands to be handed over to Allison, who murmurs to him about how it's okay when Scott tells her about how scared Stiles' dad is, tells her how scared he is and starts to cry like the innocent boy he's managed to hold onto. Derek pretends he can't hear any of this but he does and it cuts through him like a silver knife.
What Derek can't bring himself to tell Scott is that he happens to know that the timeline is different with supernatural situations. He could be dead already, he could be bait in a trap for him and the pack, or he could be a long-term prey being held by something older and nastier than they can think of, the sort of thing that'd be in the back of the Argents' bestiary.
If that's the case, Derek hopes to God that Stiles is just dead. Creatures like that tend to make their victims linger for months or years as a mix of food and plaything. Stiles is the best of them and Derek wants- He just- He deserves better than that. Even Kate would've deserved better than that.
Derek is actually grateful when Chris shows up. He thinks it might just be to drag Allison home by the hair but to feel this tense and scared over something other than the idea of what's happening to Stiles, so far out of his reach. "What the hell do you want, hunter?" Derek growls, fury pouring out of his throat.
Allison is pack. His wife is technically one of Derek's betas now, even if she ran off to wherever hunters go to get purged or die or whatever. At this point the man is almost an ally but Derek's loosing the thread. This is the best he can manage.
"I want you to know what we found." He throws a phone at Derek. "The Ezüstells have an ogre."
Bull. Fucking. Shit. Derek can't help the rush of cold that floods his veins but he doesn’t let it show. He just rolls his eyes. "When you say they have I'm assuming you mean dead in a trailer hooked to the back of one of their trucks, heading off to the taxidermist or something."
"No." Chris' pale blue eyes spark in the low light of the refurbished house he grew up in that's become his den. "They've had it in chains up in a cave in their northwest territory since the late eighties." He clears his throat. "They've been using it to punish particularly nasty violators of the code over the last twenty five years. " Chris swallows and it’s a horrible clicking sound. Coupled with the steady honest beat of his heart Derek feels ill."Apparently they've given it enough- enough prey over the years to keep it actually happy."
"They have an ogre." Derek repeats. "An actual fucking ogre. Are you hunters out of your goddamn minds?"
"The Ezüstells are not my people, Derek. The non-humans living from Seattle northwards are out of our jurisdiction. Argents believe in limits, even for those that break the code. We wouldn't give any living creature to an ogre. Even my father wouldn't have approved this and you know it."
Derek stares at Chris Argent, imagining what a real ogre must be like. Between eight and ten feet tall, ugly with skin thicker than most Kevlar, they're one of the few other beings that Derek knows for a fact exist. Or at least they used to. They were hunted by both weres and hunters alike almost to extinction for a reason. Their love of humanoid flesh is infamous, as is their cruelty and instinct deep perversion. They took the people they captured apart one piece at a time over long years, only venturing out of their caves when their living meat finally died.
Derek remembers a story that one of his older cousins from a pack in Virginia told him one summer growing up. Four hundred years ago, before they came to America, the Hale pack found an ogre in one of the caves of northern Scotland. It took the entire pack to bring the ogre down and took out a quarter of the pack before they killed it.
According to the story, when the battle was over, the alpha and his lieutenants found a woman in the back of the cavern, curled up in a filthy blanket caked in her own blood. She had been missing both legs, one at the ankle and the other above the knee, her left arm at the shoulder, half her scalp, an eye and both ears. Derek's cousin had told him about her mutilated and bleeding breasts and stomach with loving detail that had kept Derek up with nightmares for weeks.
The story said that she'd been the prisoner of the ogre. At his hands she'd been raped, toyed with, and eaten one bite at a time over the course of nearly five years. The alpha of the pack had offered her the bite to heal her wounds. Women like her had no place in the human world then, but packs made room for their wounded if they were willing to contribute in some way. She'd have been cared for, protected, her one strong hand and one good eye with wolf senses would make up for her other losses within the pack.
In the story, the woman had instead cried and begged for death and the alpha had agreed. When he changed into his wolf form, the ogre's captive had pet the alpha between the ears with her one good hand until he ripped her throat out, unafraid. Because, Derek's cousin had said, what was so scary about a sweet little wolf after so long trapped in that kind of nightmare?
Derek asked his dad about the story when his cousins went back east. "It's just a story right is it?" He'd asked and his father had grit his teeth so hard his jaw twitched.
"Sometimes people have to make hard choices for themselves," his father had said. "Sometimes you have to do the harder thing and let them." Derek couldn't help but notice how that wasn't a no. How his father had never once implied that it wasn't the gospel truth.
"Dad?"
"Derek," His father and squeezed the back of his neck. "On the rare chance that you ever see an ogre, run. Run far, run fast, and don’t stop until you're with your with your pack. Then tell them what you saw, where, and let your alpha decide what to do."
Derek's father had been so completely devoid of humor, so different from his usual laughing smiling self. Derek hadn't had time to learn much about the other things that existed in the supernatural realm with his kind, but ogres were never a joke. They were always a real threat, like the risk of a stranger attacking you in an alley or a plane crash.
"What their connection to you is doesn’t really matter because the Ezüstells have one. Alive."
"Somewhere in the wild lands between Seattle and Vancouver." Chris licks his lips and his heartbeat speeds up. Not in a lie, just in anxiety, fear and shame. "I don’t know if you're old enough to know this, but your mother killed their leader Brigit in fair contest in '85."
Derek raises an eyebrow at him asking "and your point is?"
"And it's not unreasonable to assume that her husband Heinreich found out one of her line is still alive. He may have figured a mate for a mate plus interest is fair vengeance for what he's lost over these last decades."
Derek doesn't buckle. His knees don't give out. He doesn't sway or faint. He does the more dignified thing and vomits on Chris Argent's combat boots. It's not his shining moment but Stiles. Oh, God, Stiles.
Chris puts a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. "We're with you on this one, Hale. Don't get used to it but this? This is wrong. For anyone or anything."
Derek nods and sags into the steadying grip. He closes his eyes and just breathes for a few minutes. He needs to be a person, terrified and desperate, for just a second before he goes back to being the alpha. Chris gives his shoulder a squeeze and understands.
Part: 1/?
Author: dancinbutterfly
Pairing: Derek/Stiles (Allison/Scott)
Words: 1700
Rated: R
Warning: Graphic violence, mentions of historical torture and non-con, spoilers through S2E8.
Beta: Thanks for the quick and dirty beta by sly_fuck
Notes: written for the prompt at the comment ficathon: Derek/Stiles, They took his mate, hurt his mate, and they're all going to bleed for it. Also, I havent posted a WIP in ages but Teen Wolf seems to play by different rules
Summary: Stiles is taken as a message to the Hale pack. Derek and the rest are searching for him but with his captors in possession of a true monster on a leash, their efforts may not be enough.
Chapter 1 - Way Leads to Way
Stiles has been missing for a little more than a week when Chris Argent shows up at Derek's. The betas have been looking for days but every time Erica or Isaac thought they found a scent, it was either old or wolfsbane covered it up so thickly that there's no trail to follow.
Scott is spending most of his time with the Sheriff. He's no Stiles, which fuck, is the problem, but the FBI got called when they realized that this was an actual kidnapping. So someone has to at least try and misdirect them away from the actual problem so Derek can try to get his- To get Stiles back.
Derek can't dwell on what Stiles is to him, hasn’t had the chance to become. If he does he won't be able to think. Right now, Derek's ability to keep a clear head is the only thing holding the pack together.
With Stiles missing, Lydia and Allison are on research duty. Boyd is terrifying the shit out of the locals looking for something, anything. Aside from Stiles' blood on the broken glass left in the window and scraps of duct tape on the floor there's nothing left to go on. Nothing but a dribble of Stile's blood out in the grass spelling out Hale pack.
Derek got there first, heard Stiles muffled shouts and elevated heartbeat across town. By the time he arrived, Stiles was gone. Wolfsbane coated over everything so thick he could barely breathe. The scent of the blood in the grass was the only thing that cut through it and was so far their only clue. It was also one of the many things they couldn’t share with Stiles' father and the feds.
Seventy-two hours is the maximum time standard with an expected result of survival in a case like this. Every time Scott checks in which, seems like it's every fifteen minutes but is really every few hours, he brings this grim fact up. Scott then demands to be handed over to Allison, who murmurs to him about how it's okay when Scott tells her about how scared Stiles' dad is, tells her how scared he is and starts to cry like the innocent boy he's managed to hold onto. Derek pretends he can't hear any of this but he does and it cuts through him like a silver knife.
What Derek can't bring himself to tell Scott is that he happens to know that the timeline is different with supernatural situations. He could be dead already, he could be bait in a trap for him and the pack, or he could be a long-term prey being held by something older and nastier than they can think of, the sort of thing that'd be in the back of the Argents' bestiary.
If that's the case, Derek hopes to God that Stiles is just dead. Creatures like that tend to make their victims linger for months or years as a mix of food and plaything. Stiles is the best of them and Derek wants- He just- He deserves better than that. Even Kate would've deserved better than that.
Derek is actually grateful when Chris shows up. He thinks it might just be to drag Allison home by the hair but to feel this tense and scared over something other than the idea of what's happening to Stiles, so far out of his reach. "What the hell do you want, hunter?" Derek growls, fury pouring out of his throat.
Allison is pack. His wife is technically one of Derek's betas now, even if she ran off to wherever hunters go to get purged or die or whatever. At this point the man is almost an ally but Derek's loosing the thread. This is the best he can manage.
"I want you to know what we found." He throws a phone at Derek. "The Ezüstells have an ogre."
Bull. Fucking. Shit. Derek can't help the rush of cold that floods his veins but he doesn’t let it show. He just rolls his eyes. "When you say they have I'm assuming you mean dead in a trailer hooked to the back of one of their trucks, heading off to the taxidermist or something."
"No." Chris' pale blue eyes spark in the low light of the refurbished house he grew up in that's become his den. "They've had it in chains up in a cave in their northwest territory since the late eighties." He clears his throat. "They've been using it to punish particularly nasty violators of the code over the last twenty five years. " Chris swallows and it’s a horrible clicking sound. Coupled with the steady honest beat of his heart Derek feels ill."Apparently they've given it enough- enough prey over the years to keep it actually happy."
"They have an ogre." Derek repeats. "An actual fucking ogre. Are you hunters out of your goddamn minds?"
"The Ezüstells are not my people, Derek. The non-humans living from Seattle northwards are out of our jurisdiction. Argents believe in limits, even for those that break the code. We wouldn't give any living creature to an ogre. Even my father wouldn't have approved this and you know it."
Derek stares at Chris Argent, imagining what a real ogre must be like. Between eight and ten feet tall, ugly with skin thicker than most Kevlar, they're one of the few other beings that Derek knows for a fact exist. Or at least they used to. They were hunted by both weres and hunters alike almost to extinction for a reason. Their love of humanoid flesh is infamous, as is their cruelty and instinct deep perversion. They took the people they captured apart one piece at a time over long years, only venturing out of their caves when their living meat finally died.
Derek remembers a story that one of his older cousins from a pack in Virginia told him one summer growing up. Four hundred years ago, before they came to America, the Hale pack found an ogre in one of the caves of northern Scotland. It took the entire pack to bring the ogre down and took out a quarter of the pack before they killed it.
According to the story, when the battle was over, the alpha and his lieutenants found a woman in the back of the cavern, curled up in a filthy blanket caked in her own blood. She had been missing both legs, one at the ankle and the other above the knee, her left arm at the shoulder, half her scalp, an eye and both ears. Derek's cousin had told him about her mutilated and bleeding breasts and stomach with loving detail that had kept Derek up with nightmares for weeks.
The story said that she'd been the prisoner of the ogre. At his hands she'd been raped, toyed with, and eaten one bite at a time over the course of nearly five years. The alpha of the pack had offered her the bite to heal her wounds. Women like her had no place in the human world then, but packs made room for their wounded if they were willing to contribute in some way. She'd have been cared for, protected, her one strong hand and one good eye with wolf senses would make up for her other losses within the pack.
In the story, the woman had instead cried and begged for death and the alpha had agreed. When he changed into his wolf form, the ogre's captive had pet the alpha between the ears with her one good hand until he ripped her throat out, unafraid. Because, Derek's cousin had said, what was so scary about a sweet little wolf after so long trapped in that kind of nightmare?
Derek asked his dad about the story when his cousins went back east. "It's just a story right is it?" He'd asked and his father had grit his teeth so hard his jaw twitched.
"Sometimes people have to make hard choices for themselves," his father had said. "Sometimes you have to do the harder thing and let them." Derek couldn't help but notice how that wasn't a no. How his father had never once implied that it wasn't the gospel truth.
"Dad?"
"Derek," His father and squeezed the back of his neck. "On the rare chance that you ever see an ogre, run. Run far, run fast, and don’t stop until you're with your with your pack. Then tell them what you saw, where, and let your alpha decide what to do."
Derek's father had been so completely devoid of humor, so different from his usual laughing smiling self. Derek hadn't had time to learn much about the other things that existed in the supernatural realm with his kind, but ogres were never a joke. They were always a real threat, like the risk of a stranger attacking you in an alley or a plane crash.
"What their connection to you is doesn’t really matter because the Ezüstells have one. Alive."
"Somewhere in the wild lands between Seattle and Vancouver." Chris licks his lips and his heartbeat speeds up. Not in a lie, just in anxiety, fear and shame. "I don’t know if you're old enough to know this, but your mother killed their leader Brigit in fair contest in '85."
Derek raises an eyebrow at him asking "and your point is?"
"And it's not unreasonable to assume that her husband Heinreich found out one of her line is still alive. He may have figured a mate for a mate plus interest is fair vengeance for what he's lost over these last decades."
Derek doesn't buckle. His knees don't give out. He doesn't sway or faint. He does the more dignified thing and vomits on Chris Argent's combat boots. It's not his shining moment but Stiles. Oh, God, Stiles.
Chris puts a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. "We're with you on this one, Hale. Don't get used to it but this? This is wrong. For anyone or anything."
Derek nods and sags into the steadying grip. He closes his eyes and just breathes for a few minutes. He needs to be a person, terrified and desperate, for just a second before he goes back to being the alpha. Chris gives his shoulder a squeeze and understands.