Derek stopped short, backed up a few paces and slowly re-read the book title again.

He swallowed convulsively, trying to figure out if he should just pretend he never saw it, or say something. If so, what?
He cleared his throat.

“So, Stiles, The Jewish-Japanese Sex and Cookbook and How to Raise Wolves – which part of that were you looking for instructions about?”

Stiles looked at him to all intents and purposes like a deer caught in a headlight, fingers clenching and unclenching around the strap of his bag.
Finally, he whispered:

“W… Whichever part you’d want to do first.”




Derek’s world is black and white and red all over. Blood drips from his fight-wounds, paint box colors, scarlet, vermillion, crimson, and Stiles , unnerved, anxious, watches the holes close up like magic (no, it is magic, duh) leaving the red behind (one day the spell won’t work and Derek won’t stop bleeding).

The scuffs and grazes sex leaves on his skin darken as the blood wells up waiting for Derek’s tongue to taste and lick, wet and warm, disturbing, gross (hot).

But the tears Stiles cries, sometimes, just sometimes, when it’s all too fucking much run clear, salt-clean.

For now.




In the daylight, watching a fly buzz helplessly against the window, a teacher’s voice droning, Stiles tells himself werewolves don’t exist and half-believes it.

Then he sees Scott turn to look at that fly, head tilted, eyes glinting gold, and his world does a kaleidoscope shift, settling back into a nightmare, a horror movie he can’t pause.

This is his life now. Even in sunlight, it’s a world tinted red.

And the sun will set and he’ll be standing outside a haunted house, reeking of smoke and death, and he’ll knock and… run?

No.

Derek’s inside.

He's worth screaming for.