jobo-f

i know a thing about contrition,
because i’ve got enough to spare.

“Derek?” Stiles’ voice shook, and no matter of will would stop it from doing so. His palms were sweaty, but his pants were bloody; his shirt worse. There was no hope of drying them.

Derek’s head swung to him, and his lower jaw flopped, flinging further than it should’ve, and even from where he was, Stiles could hear the clattering of broken bones. Spittle coated Derek’s maw, and his tongue fell from his mouth, swaying and the forked tendrils twitching. His eyes zeroed in on Stiles, and a chuckle, bred with a growl, crawled through the air.

He let me. Drool slid down the slick-red coating the maw of Derek’s jaw, turning pink with contact. Stiles wondered whose blood painted Derek’s mouth. His body practically begged me. This boy pants for it like the pretty puppy he is. The tongue curled, reaching up to lick over his face - and more blood smeared into inked fur.

Somewhere, Isaac howled. Derek’s - or, rather, the demon’s - gaze wandered, head cocking, and his enlarged claws dug through the earth. The gouges wrenched something in Stiles’ stomach.

I’m going to eat you. The demon announced, and there was almost something musical about it. And I’m going to make him watch. 

shit happened, so i made it happen to derek, too.