[narrator's voice] Derek is not human, despite what Stiles thinks. Derek also knows something that Stiles doesn't - that Stiles is pregnant
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Cold blood slithered down his forearms to his elbows and dripped on the floor. His hands were slick with it, oily with all the fat that saturated the flesh.
His sharpened teeth dug into the meat and tore chunks of it out. He swallowed it almost without chewing, so hungry he was. The sounds felt too loud in the silence of the night, the whirring of the fridge the only accompaniment to his long-awaited feast.
It didn’t matter that he was used to the hot flesh. No, this was good, too, even with the faint notes of grass throughout—
“Stiles?”
Stiles froze.
Suddenly, he saw everything — the opened fridge, the dim light from inside; he felt the cold kitchen tiles under his bare feet, the chill that stuck to his skin. Something cold and soft and slick in his hands.
Stiles let it go.
The half-eaten steak smacked onto the floor right between his feet.
No. No, no, no.
Stiles didn’t want to turn, deathly afraid of what might happen after. He just stood there, staring at the meat, waiting for Derek to shout, to yell, to call him insane and kick him out—
Strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and turned his body away from the fridge. Familiar hands cupped his undoubtedly pale and bloody face and turned up.
Derek’s wide eyes were full to the brim with concern.
He will leave, he will leave, he will leave.
“Baby, listen to me, it’s okay.”
Stiles opened his mouth to talk, but the taste chose this exact moment to remind him about what he had just done. Everything tasted like meat, like blood.
Whatever expression he had on his face made Derek frown even harder. The man shook him a little.
“Focus on me, Stiles. It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m here. It was probably a dream, that’s all.”
That was no dream.
Stiles didn’t remember waking up or walking to the kitchen. If Derek didn’t snap him out of it, he could’ve… could’ve…
“Come here, sweetheart.” Gently, oh so gently, Derek took his wrists and led him to the sink. He washed Stiles’ hands himself, holding them as if they were more fragile and thinner than crystal.
Stiles watched his hands move and barely had any feeling in his own. He was only vaguely aware of the wall of heat that was Derek’s body in front of him, of his muscles flexing under his movements, of the edge of his clenched jaw.
What had he done?
“That’s it,” said Derek, turning off the water. He dried his hands, then led him to the bar stool, helping him up. “Come on, arms up.”
Stiles lifted his arms as if in a trance. He didn’t understand why Derek asked him that at first, but then felt the cold seep into his skin as the man took off his shirt.
Oh. Right. It was probably covered in blood, too.
Derek’s shadow disappeared then returned a couple of seconds later. Something warm and wet touched his face — his own t-shirt, Stiles realized. Derek was cleaning his face. From chunks of meat, fat, and blood.
Stiles lifted his eyes.
Derek met his gaze for a fraction of a second, then returned to cleaning.
“Derek.”
“Shh.”
Stiles shut up. His eyes stung, and his whole body was breaking out in shivers.
Derek noticed, of course, always weirdly attuned to Stiles’ body. Putting the t-shirt aside, he hopped over into the living room and came back with a blanket in his hands, which he then promptly put around Stiles.
God, he probably thought Stiles was such a fucking freak. Derek was probably in shock himself.
“On a scale of one to ten,” said Stiles in a shaking voice, “how much do you want me to leave and never come back?”
He was probably going to be told to pack his things in three, two—
Stiles didn’t expect Derek to step between his spread legs and sweep him into a tight hug.
Fuck, he didn’t need to add tears to the horror scene, not now.
“Never joke about it,” said Derek into his ear, grabbing his waist harder. “Never.”
“But—”
“I swear to god, if I have to lock you inside, I would.”
Stiles wanted to curl into himself from the heaviness of his voice. He dug his fingers into Derek’s shoulders and sagged against him with his chin against the man’s shoulder.
“So we’re going to, like, pretend nothing happened? Is that what you mean?” he asked.
“No. No, of course, not. Look at yourself, you’re trembling like a leaf.” Derek rubbed his back as if it would help. As if anything would help. “I told you, it’s okay. You’ve just had a very intense dream and sleepwalked.”
Oh, Derek. Stiles was honestly flattered and a little bit horrified by the lengths Derek was willing to go to delude himself into thinking Stiles was normal.
Fuck, Derek was such a naive human. Stiles couldn’t let him think that. It was simply dangerous.
“Derek, sleepwalking or not, you cannot tell me it wasn’t freaky.”
“It’s not.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”
“And it’s my fault anyway.”
“How the fuck was that—”
“How are you feeling?” Not listening to a word he said, Derek put his palm against Stiles’ stomach, rubbing the skin with his thumb. “Nausea? Pain?”
“N-no?”
“Do you still want to eat?”
Now Stiles really looked at him. What was he supposed to say? Wasn’t that kind of a strange question? Stiles was, like, fifty percent sure that when humans got food poisoning they were put on a diet of chicken broth and crackers. Did Derek think he had just got poisoned?
What was he supposed to say?
“Uhh,” Stiles blinked at him. Well, maybe if he went for the truth… Derek was human after all, he had to know what to do. “Kind of?”
“Okay, that is fine.” Derek nodded at him as if talking to an idiot. “Sit here, baby, okay? Just relax. I’m going to cook something for you.”
After pressing a light apologetic kiss on Stiles’ forehead, Derek left him sitting alone. Stiles watched in confusion (mixed with something shaking, warm, and aching) as he marched to the fridge, took something out, then plopped the pan right on the stove.
He always loved watching Derek cook. He did it with a strange grace, his movements quick but precise. The muscles on his back and shoulders played delicately in the low warm light; his grey pants rode low on his hips. Derek was cooking for him.
For him.
Stiles crossed his arms on the table and laid his forehead on his hands.
Breathing, listening. Trying not to fall apart completely.
He didn’t deserve this man. Never did and never will.
Something hissed and sizzled. Fat or oil bubbled on the hot surface, sputtering droplets everywhere. Soon, the kitchen filled with a delicious smell of…
Grilled meat?
Stiles looked up.
Derek stood by the stove, leaning with one hand on the counter, and holding the steak with tongs in another. He remained silent as he cooked, turning the meat and pressing it on all sides. Shoved it in the oven, then stared with a blank faraway gaze at the stove as it cooked. Took it out after a few minutes, back into the pan, basting it with butter, garlic, and some herbs.
Not a single word, until…
“Here.”
…a plate with a perfectly grilled juicy rare steak was put in front of him.
Stiles stared at the bronzed buttered surface of the meat, then swallowed the spit that instantly filled his mouth.
He licked his lips, cleared his throat, then turned a hesitant gaze up at Derek, who was watching him like a hawk.
“I can eat it?”
Derek’s eyes drilled into his.
“I cooked it for you.”
Stiles wiggled in his seat. “Yeah, no, I meant…” he had to keep his act as a human so Derek would have to bear stupid questions. “Can I eat it so soon after?..”
Derek was… yep, still staring. “Kitten,” he started with a strange smile on his lips that didn’t match his wild gaze, “you bet your pretty ass you can eat anything I put in front of you. I’ll always give you the best. That steak you ate? “Premium” doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m also quite sure that your stomach can handle it. You’re human, yes, but you’re still a predator.”
Stiles’ whole body went still as a statue.
Does he kn—
No. No, stupid, how would he fucking know? If Derek knew what kind of predator Stiles really was, he would run away instead of trying to soothe him with a treat.
“I know what you need, Stiles,” Derek added, a touch softer than before. “Eat.”
Derek had no idea what Stiles needed. However, this time, he guessed right.
Stiles licked his lips discreetly, pushed the plate towards himself, and began eating.
He ate the whole thing under Derek’s heavy stare. When Stiles offered him the bite, he only stretched his lips in this secretive smile of his, this time full of… pride? Satisfaction? Pleasure? Whatever it was, Derek refused.
If only Stiles allowed himself to dream, it would be of this. Of Derek accepting him for who he was. A predator.
Yet, usually, the human-eating predators didn’t have the same respect as others. And no matter how much it was romanticized, Stiles did not want to die from his lover’s hand.
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