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1989dreamer · 7 months

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The Chase: a Grimm Fic

For @kalika999

Thanks to @fandomtrumpshate for running their event again this year.

~ * ~

Part One: The Case

Nick stopped moving, swiveling his head left to right, scanning his surroundings. Nothing appeared out of place, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

“You okay?” Hank asked. He’d kept walking but now came back to stand next to Nick.

“Yeah,” Nick said, half-distracted as he checked and double-checked that they were alone. They were. “No, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Hank looked like he didn’t believe Nick, but he didn’t say anything. He just waved Nick forward, following closely.

They were retracing the steps of their most recent victim, searching for someone that was brazen enough to attack during the day but left virtually no trace.

Thankfully, this bastard hadn’t killed anyone yet, but it was evident he was escalating just from the three women they had interviewed.

Nick paused as he studied the larger print next to the one left by Breanna Williams. It was definitely a few sizes larger than Nick’s own shoe. The back of his neck prickled hotly.

“What’s wrong?”

��Nothing.” Nick searched the woods around them. Still nothing out of place. “Let’s head back.”

Hank narrowed his eyes at him before nodding slowly. “Sure. We can always come back if we need to.”

Nick didn’t respond because the moment they stepped out of the trees, he felt a surge of relief palpable enough that he almost stumbled.

He couldn’t help looking around one last time, but whatever had been there wasn’t anymore.

“Is this something Wesen?” Hank asked, starting the car.

Nick shrugged. He didn’t know. Yeah, there were a few strange marks left on the women, but there was no other evidence. “Maybe,” he finally settled on, buckling up. “But we need more evidence for sure.”

~ * ~

The rest of the day went about as well as could be expected: no new evidence was discovered and no new victims were attacked.

Nick headed home, exhausted to his bones, sure that all he needed was a hot shower and something to eat that wasn’t greasy pizza and shitty coffee.

He dragged himself up the walk, thinking of nothing but how he was going to unwind. Right up until he inserted his key to unlock his door and it was already unlocked.

His stomach dropped as he tried to remember if he’d forgotten to lock it this morning. He hadn’t been in a rush. He had definitely turned his key.

He pulled out his service weapon. On a silent count of three, he threw open the door and edged inside, sweeping the room quickly.

No one jumped out at him, and when he switched on a light, nothing was out of place.

So weird.

He checked the other rooms, but if there had been anyone here, they were long gone.

Nick locked the front door and then made sure that every window and door was secured. Then, he holstered his weapon, put it in the gun safe, and sat down on the couch. The adrenaline had worn off, and now he wasn’t even sure if he could make it up the stairs to shower.

He needed to though. Sleeping on the couch was going to mess up his back, and he still wanted that hot shower.

He managed to stumble up the stairs and into the bathroom.

15 minutes and the hottest shower he could stand later, he wearily brushed his teeth and fell into bed.

Despite the uneasiness of the day, he fell asleep quickly.

~ * ~

The next morning, Juliette called and woke him up. His head was thick, foggy with sleep still, and she had to repeat herself three times before he finally parsed her words.

“Wanna meet for coffee?”

Despite their breakup almost seven months earlier, they were still friendly, and coffee sounded great.

Nick grunted a response.

“Ten minutes, Nick.”

Nick checked the clock. 6:35 a.m. Crap. He rolled out of bed and stretched, back popping as his vertebrae shifted.

He’d picked up morning stretching from Monroe but had yet to graduate to full on pilates.

He breathed in, in, in and then let it out slowly as he straightened.

Pilates with Monroe was daunting but not because Nick didn’t enjoy exercising. He did, but he preferred running over lying on the floor and stretching. What was daunting was the fact that he was more than a little bi for Monroe and didn’t know how to tell him.

Shower first, worry later. Coffee with Juliette couldn’t wait, and maybe she had some advice for him.

Five minutes, and he was on his way.

Juliette only ever drank coffee at one establishment, her little Basic Bitch moment, as she was fond of saying. Nick eyed the Starbucks with more than a little trepidation. He liked coffee, but he was so used to the crappy swill at the Precinct that the prospect of a drink with more sugar than caffeine was not pleasant.

Juliette was already waiting with her drink when he stepped through the door. She raised a second drink, identical to hers, and he accepted it gratefully.

“I thought you might like this one a little more than just a straight frappe.”

“Isn’t coffee supposed to be tepid and a little burned?” he joked, sipping at the cold drink.

While the sugar was cloying, the chocolate and coffee balanced it nicely.

“Isn’t it great not to have your stomach curdle?” Juliette winked knowingly.

Nick answered by taking another sip.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“So, why’d you want to meet?” he asked when their drinks were half gone.

“I wanted to ask if you’d found someone yet.” She stared him down.

“No,” he said slowly. “You?”

“Yeah.” She tilted her head. “You’re lying.”

“Am not,” he shot back automatically.

Juliette snorted. “You forget, I’ve known you for six years. I know when you’re lying. Who do you have a crush on?”

Nick made a face and drank more of his coffee. After a few minutes, he sighed. “Fine, it’s Monroe.”

Juliette let out a little squeal. “You’d make such a cute couple!”

“Yeah, but Monroe doesn’t know. So don’t tell him.”

She mimed zipping her lips. Then said with all the nonchalance of a bull in a china shop, “You know Rosalee, who took over her brother’s shop?”

“Vaguely,” Nick said. Rosalee was helpful in some of his cases, but she was still wary of him as a Grimm.

“Well, she’s a great kisser.”

His head shot up. “You’ve kissed her?” he asked. “Does she know you and I used to date?”

Juliette nodded. “And I know about her. We might be getting serious. We’re talking about exclusivity and other couple-y things. Now, tell me about Monroe and why he doesn’t know you’re crushing on him.”

“Well,” Nick hedged, and then he swallowed more coffee and courage and started talking.

Ten minutes later, Juliette reached across the table and lightly smacked him upside the head. “Shoot your shot,” she said. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

“I don’t need you to play matchmaker,” Nick said. But he knew, there was a ticking clock above his head now. He had a limited window to tell Monroe himself or else Juliette would follow through on her threat.

Looked like he needed to talk to Monroe.

“Fine,” he agreed. “I’ll tell Monroe soon. Today or tomorrow. If I don’t, then you can tell him.”

Inwardly, he cringed. He didn’t need Juliette’s meddling. Nor did he need to tell Monroe about his entirely inappropriate feelings.

“Well, I have to run. It was lovely to see you.” Juliette stood up and hugged him. “Don’t forget to talk to Monroe.”

“I won’t,” Nick promised, stomach twisting. Butterflies, he thought, amused. He hadn’t had butterflies since meeting Juliette. Maybe she was right, maybe he should just talk to Monroe.

Then his phone buzzed. Hank.

“Sorry, it’s work.”

“Yeah, no, I know. I’ve got my own job to get to. We should catch up again soon. Bye, Nick.”

~ * ~

Hank was waiting for him at his desk. “We got a break,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Nick followed him to the Charger.

“We have another victim, but this time, she fought back. Scratched the hell out of our perp. DNA won’t come back for about a week, but preliminary rules out most of our usuals.”

“Wesen?” Nick asked.

“No way to tell yet. We’re talking to the victim–Sherry Esates–at St. Vincent. She is Wesen, so let me talk to her first.”

“Sure.” Since learning that his eyes turned completely black, Nick was more than happy to let Hank take the lead on interviewing Wesen victims. They didn’t need the heart attack a Grimm might give them on top of their trauma.

At St. Vincent Hospital, Nick waited while Hank introduced himself and made sure Sherry was comfortable. Then, he stepped into the room, stayed back, and let Hank ask the questions.

“Did you get a good look at the person who did this to you?”

Sherry shook her head. “He attacked from behind. I managed to scratch him. They took scrapings.”

“And we’ll get DNA on those,” Hank said. “Did you see his arm?”

Sherry looked from Hank to Nick and then down at her feet, bare and bandaged. Quietly, she whispered, “He was a Hässlich. I didn’t think I’d be able to scratch him, but I did.”

“Hässlich?” Nick stepped closer, whispering as well. “You’re sure?”

She looked up, startled, and gasped. “Grimm.”

“I’m here to help. I’m not a Grimm right now. I’m a cop.”

“I’m sure.” She woged, fur sprouting all over her face and body. Fuchsbau, like Rosalee.

“Hank,” Nick said, tugging him out into the hall as something occurred to him. “Were any of the others Wesen, specifically Fuchsbau?”

“Not that I know.” Hank frowned. “I’ll call the Captain and have him bring them in.” He slapped his forehead. “Why didn’t we just have you interview them with your Grimmness?”

“Because we didn’t want to scare or traumatize them any more than they already were,” Nick said. It was probably a mistake to have waited so long, but it had been the Captain’s call, and despite being half-Wesen himself, Renard hadn’t wanted to immediately jump to the conclusion that the crimes were Wesen-related.

Except now they had a Wesen victim and a Wesen attacker. If the rest of the women, Breanna Williams, Yvonne Guerrera, and Nicole Pollis, were Wesen, or even just Fuchsbau, then the case had to be investigated as Wesen-on-Wesen.

Which meant a lot of missing paperwork.

“Let’s finish with Sherry and then work on interviewing the rest of the victims,” Hank said.

~ * ~

That feeling of being watched again came back as Nick and Hank returned to the Precinct.

He looked around, wondering if they were being stalked by their perpetrator. He couldn’t see anything out of place.

“What’s wrong?” Hank scanned their surroundings too. “Can you see something?”

“No, that’s what worries me.”

“Agreed. Let’s get inside. I’ll tell the Captain we might need increased security.”

“You’d think he’d go after the victims and not us, right?”

Hank didn’t answer, and Nick followed him inside.

Renard stood in the doorway of his office and pointed at them.

“Why does it feel like he’s not happy with us?” Nick whispered, and Hank nudged him conspiratorially.

“What happened with Sherry Esates? Why do we need to have Nick play Grimm now?”

“Because there may be a Wesen element,” Hank said. “And who better to see if there really is a connection than our resident Grimm?”

Renard looked at Nick before nodding slowly. “Fine. But don’t mess it up, Burkhardt. I don’t need any complaints right now. We’re still rehabilitating our image after last year’s fiasco.”

Nick bit back the urge to say something stupid, like ‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ choosing, wisely, to nod instead.

“Also, Nick’s senses have been going haywire lately.”

Nick whipped his head around to glare at Hank, betrayed.

“Nick, is this true?”

He turned back to Renard. “Maybe,” he hedged. “I mean, there’s definitely, like, a sensation of being watched, but I don’t know how it relates to the case, or if it does at all.”

“Are you being stalked?”

“No.” Hank elbowed him. “I don’t think so?”

Renard sighed. “Keep an eye on him, Hank. If it’s anything like last year, I don’t want to lose a good detective.”

“I’ll keep as close an eye on him as he lets me,” Hank promised.

Renard dismissed them, and they walked back to their desk.

“Sorry, but you know your safety trumps any investigating you might want to do under the Captain’s nose.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s just the case getting to me.”

“You hope it’s just that,” Hank corrected.

Nick smiled and grabbed a file, getting to work.

~ * ~

Nicole Pollis was the first interview. Hank went in first, whispered to her that Nick was a Grimm and a good one too.

“No such thing,” Nicole said. “Grimms killed my family.”

“Not this Grimm,” Hank insisted. “Detective Burkhardt just wants to find out what happened to you.”

“And him being a Grimm is going to do it?”

“No, but it might help us figure out why you were attacked,” Nick said. He kept his eyes averted as she woged. Mauzhertz.

“Why won’t you look at me, Grimm?” Nicole said. “Are you afraid of a little mouse?”

“No.” Nick let his eyes find hers, and she recoiled. “Did you see any part of your attacker?”

“No, but he smelled like a Hässlich. They have a distinct oily smell.”

“I’m familiar,” Nick said. He could remember all too well the thick stink of a Hässlich during his short but furious battle with one last year.

Why hadn’t they searched for the Wesen connection before now? They probably could have had this case solved in moments.

“I think I’m done with questions,” Nick said, stepping back. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Pollis.”

She scurried away, keeping her distance from him. It wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to. Being a Grimm could be lonely sometimes. Thank goodness for Hank, Juliette, and Monroe.

Monroe who pretended not to want to be his friend.

There went those butterflies again. Nick pressed a hand against his stomach.

“What is it?” Hank asked. “Is something wrong?”

“No, just a bit hungry, that’s all,” Nick lied. “Are either Yvonne or Breanna here yet?”

“Not for a while. We’ve got time to grab some lunch.”

“Let’s do that.”

~ * ~

Hank chose a food cart that sold sandwiches, with no disagreement from Nick. They got their food and sat at a bench nearby.

The back of Nick’s neck prickled, and he glanced around. Nothing out of place. No one paying much attention to them at all.

“What’s wrong?” Hank asked, halfway done with his sandwich already.

“Nothing,” Nick said. He made himself ignore the sensation and focused on eating his lunch. They needed to solve the case they already were on instead of borrowing trouble. It was likely nothing, just his senses going haywire, as Hank had said. Every time he’d felt watched, no one was there.

And he could chalk up his unlocked door last night to just forgetting to lock it.

Not everything was a big mystery.

Still, something wasn’t right either. Nick forcibly shook himself, wadding up the wrapper from his sandwich. He took Hank’s too and tossed them away.

“We should really get back now.”

Hank checked his phone. “Wu hasn’t texted yet.”

“Better to be early and prepared?”

Hank smiled. “Nice to see I’m rubbing off on you finally.”

Nick shoved him gently. “Who says I got it from you? You’re not the most responsible person I know.”

“No,” Hank agreed. “That would be Monroe.”

Nick’s stomach flipped. “Yeah.” Maybe he should text Monroe, hang out tonight. After all, he still had to talk to him before Juliette did.

Hank’s phone chimed. “That’s Wu. We need to get back now.”

~ * ~

Wu was waiting for them when they walked in.

“I put Yvonne Guerrera in Room Two,” Wu said. “Breanna Williams is in Room Three.”

“Ready for this?” Hank asked.

Nick nodded. It wouldn’t be a pleasant experience for either woman to realize that they’d had dealings with a Grimm, but it was unavoidable. Unless they weren’t Wesen.

“Two or Three first?” he asked. Hank shrugged. “Two then.”

Yvonne Guerrera snapped a compact closed when Hank knocked on the door and stepped in.

A few moments later, he signaled Nick to enter too.

The change was immediate. She woged and his eyes darkened.

“Grimm,” she hissed around elongated teeth. Coyotl, Nick thought.

“Cop first,” he said. “I’m not here to do anything except find whoever attacked you.”

“He was a Hässlich.” She shuddered, and her woge retreated. “I could smell him.”

“Did you see any part of him?”

“No. If I had, I would have told you earlier.” She looked from Hank to him and back. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No, thank you,” Hank said. “You’ve been very helpful already. I wish we had more news to give you.”

Yvonne shot a glance at Nick. “You’re not really going to go Grimm on me?”

“No. Like I said, cop first. Grimm second. Besides, I don’t ‘go Grimm’ on anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

She stuck out her hand, and he shook it. “I hope you do catch that bastard. And maybe go Grimm on him. For me and the rest of his survivors.” She hefted her purse and marched out.

“Room Three,” Hank said.

Breanna Williams was already in her woge when Hank opened the door. Before he could close it, she glanced up and saw Nick.

“Grimm,” she whimpered. She was some kind of sheep-like Wesen he hadn’t encountered before.

“He’s not going to hurt you,” Hank said, soothingly. “He’s a good Grimm, hard as that is to believe.”

“Grimm,” she said. “Is he the one who attacked me?”

“No.”

Nick stepped into the room. “Do you remember anything about the man who attacked you? Anything at all?”

She whimpered again, shaking her head. “He stunk, like rancid oil.”

Hässlich, Nick thought triumphantly. Three out of four of the women knew what he was and the last could identify him by smell. They almost had him.

“Thank you for coming in,” Nick said. “We really do appreciate you taking the time to talk to us again.”

“Do you know who attacked me?” Her large eyes filled with tears. “Are you going to kill him?”

“We don’t know yet, and we’re not above the law. We’ll do our best to make sure that he is punished for what he did.”

She nodded, gathered her things, and slipped out the door, giving Nick a wide berth.

“So, we’re looking for a Hässlich who likes to assault Wesen women,” Hank said. “Sick bastard.”

“I’m going to talk to Monroe,” Nick decided. “Maybe he knows a Hässlich.”

“You do that. I’m going to debrief the Captain on the newest developments.” He glanced around conspiratorially. “Mind telling me what each of them are?”

“Nicole is a Mauzhertz, Yvonne is a Coyotl, and Sherry’s a Fuchsbau. I don’t know what Breanna is, but she looked similar to a sheep. I’ll ask Monroe about that too.”

“Good luck. Have fun Grimming it up with your buddy.” Hank clapped him hard on the shoulder and shoved him toward the door.

Nick frowned at him. Just what was that supposed to mean? Was Hank in cahoots with Juliette? Did he have to worry about someone else threatening to tell Monroe about his crush?

Was he too obvious with his crush?

Nick sighed. Despite the leaps they’d made with the case, he was so done with today.

~ * ~

“You look rough,” Monroe commented thirty minutes later when Nick knocked on his door.

“I feel it,” he said.

Monroe stepped back and let him in. “I think it’s too early for a beer,” he said. “How about some strudel?”

Nick made a face. “I’d prefer the beer, but I’m not here for a social visit.”

“When are you ever?” Monroe laughed.

“I need to know if you know of any Hässlichen in Portland.”

Monroe narrowed his eyes at him, studying him intensely. “Is this related to those attacks?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, I know a couple. They run the junkyard on 111th street. They run with some Skalengecks too.”

Nick shot a text to Hank about the information. He got a reply of ‘On it,’ a few minutes later.

“Are you off work yet?”

“Not quite. Got a lead to follow and then maybe.” Nick sighed. Juliette’s threat pounded in his head. “Maybe I can come back later?”

“Sure.”

Something felt off, like a clue staring him in the face that he just couldn’t see, but his phone buzzed, Hank again, and he hurried out to his Land Cruiser. It would have to wait.

~ * ~

The Captain rode with Hank and Nick out to the junkyard where a man, long scratches down both arms, took one look at their badges and started running.

Hank sighed and got back into the car while Nick chased the man, keeping up easily in spite of his head start.

The man glanced back, seemingly shocked to find Nick nearly on his heels. His face twisted in a grotesque mask of fear and anger before he woged.

“Grimm,” he gasped, turning and running right at Nick. Caught off guard, Nick froze for a precious moment, allowing the Hässlich to barrel into him.

They grappled and the Hässlich threw several punches that glanced off Nick’s skull. A lucky shot caught him on the chin, and dazed, he fell to the ground, the Hässlich on top of him.

“Freeze!” Hank yelled right as the Hässlich’s teeth clamped down on Nick’s throat.

“One move and I tear his throat out.”

“Try it and I’ll blow your brains out,” Renard returned coolly. He stood, gun to the back of the Hässlich’s head. “Get off him now.”

“This isn’t over, Grimm,” the Hässlich hissed. “I’ll see you dead before I go to prison.”

“I said get off him now,” Renard repeated.

Raising his hands, the Hässlich climbed off Nick. He was cuffed by Hank and handed off to Wu to put into the reinforced squad car they used for Wesen arrests.

“You all right?” Renard asked.

Nick nodded. “It wasn’t going as bad as it could have.” Renard stared at him, incredulous. “I mean,” Nick added quickly, “you have great aim, sir.”

Renard sighed. “Go home, Burkhardt. Write your report first. Then don’t come back for two days. You too, Green.”

“What about me?” Wu asked. “Do I get some of this spontaneous vacation?”

“Don’t you have a suspect to transport?” Renard sighed again. “I’ll take care of the interview. Go, get your reports in, and then don’t come back unless it’s an emergency.” He marched away and Wu hurried after him.

“You heard the Captain,” Hank said, throwing an arm around Nick’s shoulders, using the other to brush off some of the dirt and debris he’d gained from the tussle. “Let’s get those reports in and then take our mandated vacation.”

“What do I write instead of ‘attacked and almost bitten by a Hässlich’?”

“Attacked and almost bitten by a suspect.”

“Har-har. How’d you know where we were going to be?”

“It’s a junkyard. One entrance and one exit. I just went to the exit and backtracked. You chased him for almost ten minutes.”

“That was ten minutes?”

“And then you two almost beat each other to a pulp for another ten minutes.”

“That was ten minutes?!”

“I almost had enough time to order a pizza too,” Hank joked.

Nick shoved him off and pretended to sulk. In reality, he was worried. He’d been losing track of time ever since almost dying last year. And he didn’t like it.

Monroe might know what was going on or would at least make him feel better about it.

Nick wrote his report on the way back to the Precinct, handed it to Hank, and said, “My mandatory vacation starts now.”

Then he drove home to shower and freshen up for his return to Monroe’s.

~ * ~

Part Two: The Chase

Monroe’s door was open wide when Nick pulled up to his house.

Worry spiked, twisting his stomach into tight knots.

He grabbed his backup pistol and slowly made his way up to the door. Nothing looked out of place, but still, he stepped in, sweeping the foyer and living room beyond that.

“Monroe?” he called, voice trembling just the slightest bit.

No answer.

He checked the kitchen, the dining room, and the downstairs bathroom.

“Monroe?” he called again, climbing the stairs, keeping his back to the wall and his gun up.

Nothing.

No one upstairs, nothing out of place.

Nick pulled out his phone and dialed Monroe’s.

The ringtone blared from under the bed.

He fished it out, checked it over, and set the pristine phone down on the nightstand.

He sank onto the bed. “Where are you, Monroe?”

There was no answer, and Nick sighed, standing up.

“I’m locking up,” he said and headed downstairs. He made sure the front door latched behind him, and that the door was fully locked before he put his gun away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement.

Jerking his head up, he scanned the forest across from Monroe’s house.

Nick locked his Land Cruiser. He thought about the gun he’d just put away and shook his head.

It was probably nothing. Monroe had probably just gone to run an errand and forgotten his phone.

And the movement in the woods wasn’t anything nefarious.

Nick was just letting the case get to him.

He sighed. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw that there was nothing there for himself.

As soon as he entered the woods, he felt eyes on him, but no matter which way he turned, he didn’t see anyone.

“Hello?” He stepped over a fallen tree limb. “Anyone here?”

He paused by a white oak, leaning against it so that he at least had his back protected.

Hot breath hissed over his ear. “Run.”

Nick spun around.

His neck prickled. Behind him. There was a threat behind him.

“Run.”

He ran.

Someone chased him.

Nick dodged under low branches, scrambling over rocks, trying to put as much distance between him and his pursuer.

He made it halfway up a hill before claws sank into his ankle and pulled him prone.

He kicked hard, connecting with flesh. The claws slipped a bit before regaining purchase. Nick yelped as he was dragged across rough ground.

He was hefted up and then tossed over a log.

“—Teasing me,” huffed a man. “Especially wearing this.”

He tore at Nick’s sweatshirt, ripping it to shreds.

“Red,” the man breathed, pressing his nose against the back of Nick’s neck and inhaling. “Had to wear red.”

“Monroe?” Nick tried turning over and got a cuff upside the head for it.

“Ready or not, here I come.”

Nick threw his elbow, smashing it into the man’s face. He popped up and started running again.

If it was Monroe–it probably was, Nick was almost certain he recognized his voice–then Monroe would catch him easily.

Unless Nick played dirty.

He doubled back, ducking under the swinging claws of–yep–Monroe, and headed toward Monroe’s house.

He was regretting locking the door now. Maybe he could get to his vehicle and hide in there until Monroe wasn’t mad anymore.

Nick patted his pockets as he ran. And then he stopped in shock when he realized he’d dropped his keys earlier when Monroe had first caught him.

He swore and turned around only to have Monroe barrel into him, knocking them both to the ground.

“The chase is always sweeter when done together,” Monroe said, lifting Nick with him. “Either you run or submit.”

Nick frowned at him. “The chase?”

Monroe’s tongue flicked out, licking his lips like he was facing a delicious meal. His eyes blazed red, staring at Nick’s chest..

Nick followed his gaze down, and oh, shit, that’s why Monroe had tried ripping off his sweatshirt. Nick had accidentally put on his red one.

He looked up. “The chase,” he said and ran.

Monroe caught him against that damned log. He tore off the rest of the tattered shirt, claws making short work of Nick’s jeans too.

Nick kicked, trying to make it harder for Monroe to disrobe him entirely. For his effort, he was rewarded with a nip to the back of his neck.

He shivered under Monroe’s teeth, gasping with the shock of arousal that streaked through his belly, traveling down and settling in his groin.

Perhaps sensing it, Monroe curled a clawed hand around him and stroked. Nick’s knees buckled, sending him sprawling more firmly over the log.

“Gonna taste you,” Monroe growled. “Gonna make you beg for it.”

“Are you going to bite me again?”

Monroe didn’t reply, just shredded Nick’s boxers. Cool air rushed over his skin before the warmth of breath heralded the first lick.

Nick jerked at the sensation. He wasn’t ticklish, but he also hadn’t ever been licked on the asshole before. It was interesting and hotter than it had any right to be.

Monroe spread his legs wider, beard rasping against sensitive skin as he licked and bit his way around Nick’s hole.

“So beautiful. All mine.”

Nick jumped when Monroe’s tongue speared into him, thrusting in, in, in, far deeper than he felt a tongue should.

“Such a pretty hole, just waiting for me.”

A thumb replaced the tongue.

“Lube?” Nick rasped, throat dry from anticipation.

“Always.” Monroe shifted over him, grabbing something from under the log, and Nick pressed out a laugh at the idea that Monroe was so prepared he’d even hidden lube in the woods.

Monroe poured what felt like half the bottle on Nick’s ass, pushing some into his hole.

“Cold! Cold!”

Monroe hummed, rubbing the lube in circles before sinking his thumb in again and again, rotating it and spreading the warming liquid inside.

“Better?”

Nick raised himself enough that he could help a bit with the preparation. Also, now his dick wasn’t in contact with the wood and he wouldn’t get rubbed raw on it.

“We could take this inside, to a bed,” he suggested. Monroe huffed, sliding two fingers into him and using the thumb of the other hand to pull at his rim.

“No. If you’re uncomfortable, let me know. Otherwise, this is part of the chase, and the chase ends when we both come.”

“How sexy.”

Monroe applied more pressure and popped in another finger. “You talk too much for someone getting fingered.”

“So shut me up,” Nick fired back.

“Oh, I intend to.”

That was all the warning he got before Monroe removed his fingers and replaced them with his dick.

Almost immediately, he set a punishing pace, thrusting roughly.

“Can. Still. Talk,” Nick teased. Monroe growled, one arm wrapping around Nick’s waist to keep him angled while he used the other hand to push down on Nick’s shoulder blades. He thrust impossibly deeper, and Nick felt his breath punched out.

“Gonna knot you. Gonna mark you as mine. Ruin you for anyone else.”

“Knot?” Nick asked, not sure he’d heard correctly.

“Oh, no knotting?”

“You can knot? Like actually knot?”

“Too late.”

Something banged painfully into Nick’s hole, and Monroe paused in his thrusting to grind against him.

“Relax,” he soothed, hand stroking down to grab Nick’s dick and tug gently.

“How am I supposed to relax?”

But, invariably, the gentle handjob worked, and Nick began rocking in Monroe’s grasp, fucking his hand while the swollen lump of Monroe’s dick began its slow and steady entrance.

Halfway in, the tip of Monroe’s dick caught Nick’s prostate, and he keened, rocking back too quickly as his dick weeped precum. The sharp spike of pain brought a sharper pulse of pleasure, and he jerked forward and back again harder, just to feel it again.

“Nearly there,” Monroe gasped, fingers flexing where he still held Nick. “Just.”

Nick screamed, vision going white as the last of Monroe’s knot popped in and his dick stabbed his prostate.

It took a moment for him to regain his senses, and when he did, Monroe was gingerly thrusting into him, rubbing against his prostate continually, knot still getting bigger.

“Shh, it’s okay. Almost done.”

The pain was growing with the knot, but so was the pleasure, and Nick rocked back to meet Monroe’s thrusts, urging him faster.

“My little slut,” Monroe said, fondly, using both hands, large, warm, perfect, to press Nick over the log and fuck into him with intent.

Nick’s second orgasm started in his spine and traveled up and down his body, concentrating in his hole contracting around Monroe’s dick tight enough that he thought there would be permanent damage.

Monroe howled when he came, and the hot spurts of ejaculate sent Nick over the edge again, too.

“Oh, oh,” he moaned when Monroe shifted inside him, still coming. “Too full.”

Too sensitive too. His dick burned where the bark had rubbed him, and his hole was still spasming as Monroe moved back, back, back until his knot was stretching his hole wide before he thrust back in, settling against Nick’s back, humping him.

“Nearly there,” Monroe said sweetly before he jabbed in too hard, and Nick’s vision whited out again with his third or fourth orgasm. He came dry, sobbing as Monroe finally withdrew.

Come dripped from his hole, and Monroe used his thumb to push it back in.

“Get you a plug. Keep it all inside. See how far I can take you,” he said, reverently before kissing Nick’s hole and letting all his come splash out.

“Nngh,” was the only reply Nick could make.

Monroe laughed, the asshole.

“’m gonna sleep now,” Nick threatened. Monroe laughed again.

He draped something over Nick’s naked body, lifted him, and carried him back to his house.

“My keys!” Nick remembered as they passed his Land Cruiser.

“Already picked them up.”

Inside, Monroe set Nick on the couch, on a protective cover. With the way he still had fluid leaking down his legs, there’s no way Monroe hadn’t planned everything.

“Where’re you going?” he asked, struggling to sit up. Pain cramped his insides, and he flopped back with a groan.

“Going to run you a bath,” Monroe said soothingly. “Get you cleaned up before you take that nap.”

“Nah,” Nick yawned wide enough that his jaw cracked, “gonna get fucked again. Was nice, yeah?”

Monroe laughed where he was rustling through something. “You just took my knot. I don’t think we’re having sex again for a little bit at least. Greedy.”

“I love you.”

Monroe paused before marching over to the couch. He leaned down, grabbing Nick’s face and pulling him into a deep kiss.

“I love you too. And we will fuck again. But first, let me take care of you.”

“It’s part of the chase?”

“No,” Monroe shook his head, “it’s part of the mating.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is, but there’ll be time to talk later. For now, let’s get you into that bath.”

Nick drifted off as Monroe picked him up again. A bath sounded nice.

~ * ~

When he woke up, he was tucked against Monroe’s chest, under his blanket, on his bed.

Monroe was sleeping until Nick threw off the blanket.

“What’s that?” He sat up. “Oh. What are you doing?”

“Talking,” Nick said, grinning as he made his way down Monroe’s body, until he was facing Monroe’s still-clothed dick.

“That’s not talking,” Monroe said, but he did lift his hips when Nick pulled his boxer shorts down.

“You tasted me. It’s only fair that I do the same for you.”

“You’re going to rim me?” Monroe didn’t have to raise his eyebrows like that, making Nick feel inadequate.

“Well, no,” he admitted. “I was going to blow you.”

“Oh, is that talking?”

“No, but you did say I talked too much during sex.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Nick grinned again, leaning down to lick a stripe up Monroe’s dick. “I know you didn’t. Wanna try and shut me up again?”

He opened his mouth and swallowed. Monroe hissed as he took him in fully, deep enough that the head of his dick was in his throat. Nick counted to five and then slowly pulled off.

Monroe moaned, making an aborted thrust as his dick popped out obscenely. “C’mere.”

“Nuh uh. Not done yet.”

Nick began sucking in earnest, choking himself on Monroe’s dick for as long as he dared. Just as precum started flowing, Monroe hauled him up, lining him up so he could kiss him. He grabbed a bottle of lube off the side table, pouring a generous amount onto his fingers. He reached down and worked two and then three fingers in, scissoring them until he was satisfied that Nick was stretched enough.

They both groaned as Monroe breached Nick again.

“Are we still going to talk?” Nick asked, sitting up and letting his weight bear him down onto Monroe’s dick.

“First, come here.” Nick leaned back down and was rewarded with a kiss. “Second, there are things I like to do with sexual partners, and there are things I like to do with mates. You, Nick, are my mate.”

“And what do you like to do with mates?”

“This.”

Monroe planted his feet and began thrusting up as hard as he could, bouncing Nick, and bottoming out on each stroke.

Almost too soon, Nick felt Monroe’s knot expand and bang into his hole. “Are you going to knot me again?”

“Mates,” Monroe growled, eyes distinctly red. He pulled Nick down on a particularly hard thrust and his knot popped in.

Nick cried out, grinding against it, chasing that pain-pleasure spike all the way to his orgasm. Monroe rolled them then, hiking Nick’s legs over his shoulders and really railing him.

“Mine.”

“Yours,” Nick agreed, he shifted just slightly so that Monroe’s dick glanced off his prostrate on every stroke. “Yours.”

They came together, Nick going limp while Monroe roared as he kept thrusting even as his orgasm crested and waned.

Monroe collapsed over Nick, knot tugging painfully at his rim. “Mine.”

“Yours.”

“Yours,” Monroe whispered, turning his head just enough to nuzzle against Nick’s neck. “I’m yours and you are mine.”

“I guess that counts as talking?”

Monroe huffed a laugh, breathing deeply as his nose pressed into Nick’s neck. “I guess so.”

“Good, ‘cause I really like how you talk.”

“And I really like you.”

“Love you.” Nick wriggled around until they were on their sides, his back pressed to Monroe’s chest. He grabbed Monroe’s hand and curled their fingers together.

“Love you too,” Monroe said. “Now rest. We’ve got some actual talking to do when you wake up again.”

Nick drifted off feeling secure, loved, and very fucked out.

~ End ~

#FandomTrumpsHate 2023 #FTH 2023 #Kalika_999 #My Story/My Writing #Grimm #Nick/Monroe #NSFW

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1989dreamer · 1 year

Text

Chapter 26 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

LfaPtCH Tag

~ * ~

Derek can barely keep his eyes open as they eat, still leaning on Stiles. He keeps expecting to be shrugged off, but Stiles smells content and actually loops an arm around Derek to keep him upright when he lists a little too far and starts tipping over.

Isaac made far too many waffles even for five werewolves and three humans, and even Laura and Cora reach their limits after a fourth helping each.

Derek manages three bites of his third serving before his stomach slips and he rushes to the bathroom, barely able to hold off on expelling the food he’s just eaten before his head is over the toilet bowl.

Someone brushes their hand down his back, offering a bit of comfort as he dry heaves, saliva dripping from his mouth.

Slowly, Derek becomes aware of the person speaking. He isn’t too surprised to find that it’s Stiles rubbing his back, talking quietly as he keeps a steady, grounding pressure on Derek’s back.

“You’re okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

Derek doesn’t believe him. How can everything be okay when Derek can’t eat enough to put on weight and Laura is going back to her captors to rescue the child they forced her to have? How can Stiles lie so easily when Derek knows he has seen so many bad things as a deputy?

Stiles helps him stand when he finally stops retching. He wets a washcloth and gently wipes snot and saliva from Derek’s face.

“How are you feeling now?”

Derek shakes his head. He still feels queasy even if there’s nothing left in his stomach. He doesn’t know if the sensation will pass shortly or if he’ll have to stay in the bathroom in case his body decides to eject more.

Peter knocks on the door frame. “Is everyone okay?” he asks, eyeing Stiles with unbridled suspicion.

“Is there any ginger tea?” Stiles pats Derek’s back lightly before rubbing a soothing circle between his shoulder blades. “My mom swore by it whenever my dad or I felt a little under the weather.”

“Just ginger tea?” Peter asks, mischievous. “Not something stronger? She was knowledgeable about a lot of different plants, after all.”

“She was also the Hale emissary before she died.” Stiles sounds hard, like Peter pushed too hard and now he’s trying to hide any hurt behind a shield of anger.

“And your dad became our emissary after,” Peter says with forced lightness. “We—I am so grateful to your parents for the support and kindness they showed my family. I’m sure we can find some ginger tea if you think it will help.”

“What do you say, bud?” Stiles pats Derek’s back gently. “Think ginger tea sounds good?”

Derek nods. He has a faint memory of being sick as a very young child and being given something warm and spicy to drink, but he doesn’t know if that was ginger tea nor does he remember who gave it to him.

He lets Stiles heft him up into his arms and carry him into the kitchen. He could walk but his stomach hurts and he’s tired. Besides, Stiles has a nice scent. Derek buries his nose against Stiles’ shirt and inhales deeply. This smell must be why Peter likes him so much.

Stiles’ heartbeat quickens as Peter trails them back to the table where Erica already has a mug steeping.

“Thanks for supper,” John says, “but it’s way past time to be going to bed.” He yawns widely as if to make his point. “I’ll be back around 4:00. Be ready to go.” He leaves but Stiles stays at the table, watching as Derek takes careful sips from the mug. It definitely is the spicy drink he remembers, and with more life experience, he can definitely taste the ginger in it.

Peter hovers behind Stiles for a few minutes, something distinctly indecisive about his scent.

As soon as Derek finishes drinking the tea, Peter takes the mug and puts it in the sink. Then, he sits next to Stiles, who barely spares him a glance.

“Do I make you nervous?” Peter asks.

Stiles’ scent goes sour. “No,” he replies stiffly. “Why? Are you trying to make me nervous?”

Peter smells sad, as if Stiles said the wrong thing. But how could he? He’s telling the truth as far as his heartbeat and sweat response betray.

And then Derek remembers something about his uncle: he shows his teeth when he’s flirting. Mom used to explain to the men Peter brought home that if they were patient then they would get past the teeth. Not many had enough patience, and the ones that did were meaner than Peter.

Derek looks between his miserable uncle and his equally miserable crush and rolls his eyes at them. Neither of them notice because they’re too busy ignoring each other.

“Peter likes you,” he announces, making them both jump. Peter flushes under Stiles’ sudden stare. “And Stiles likes you too, Peter.”

Stiles blushes hotly too. “I do not,” he protests as his heartbeat blips wildly.

“You do,” Peter says, amazement in his tone. “Even though you think I’m a murderer?”

“I know you’re a murderer,” Stiles corrects, “but I’m not so sure that you’ll keep murdering people aside from the trip you’re about to take.”

Peter lowers his head and closes his eyes. Then, slowly, he lifts his head and opens his eyes. Stiles doesn’t react to Peter’s blazing blue eyes.

“I know the people in New York have hurt your family,” Stiles says softly. “And I know law enforcement has failed you before, but I don’t trust you to come back unscathed. You have to understand; that’s my dad. My only living relative. I can’t lose him.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Peter’s eyes flicker back to human blue, “but I can tell you he’ll have better odds if I go too.”

Derek leaves them at the table and goes to his room. Isaac is sitting at the desk, writing a letter. Derek ignores him and crawls under the bed. He isn’t hiding exactly, but he doesn’t want to be found.

He doesn’t want his sister to go to New York but he does want them to find her daughter.

He also doesn’t want to listen to his uncle awkwardly try to flirt with Stiles. He’d be happy to call Stiles “Uncle” but it’s a little too soon to know if he and Peter even want to date each other.

Attraction doesn’t mean love.

Kate and the hunters have taught Derek that. He remembers things, sights, sounds, smells, and he curls into a tight ball, hands pressed against his ears, trying to block everything out.

“Are you comfortable under there?” Isaac asks, breaking into Derek’s spiraling thoughts. “I mean, I’m sure you are, but don’t you want to be on top of the bed?”

Derek slides out from under the bed and climbs under the covers. Isaac stacks his papers, clicks his pen a few times, and turns off the light.

The bed dips when Isaac gets in, and a few minutes later, he’s settled and drifting off to sleep.

Derek listens to his slowing breathing for fifteen minutes before he’s positive Isaac is asleep. Then he slips out of bed and tiptoes back to the kitchen where Peter and Stiles are still sitting.

“I don’t care what advantage it would give me,” Stiles is saying, low and vehement. “I don’t want the bite.”

“Just think of all the cases you could solve if you had my senses.” Peter sounds passionate, like he truly believes he’s offering the best thing in the world to Stiles and Stiles is too dumb to realize it.

But Derek knows, as does Peter, that not everyone survives the bite. And sometimes, they don’t turn into werewolves at all.

Peter should tell Stiles about all the risks and not just the benefits.

Stiles responds with something biting but Derek doesn’t hear it because Peter suddenly grabs him and drags him into the kitchen by his collar.

“Little pups have big ears,” he says, pulling out a chair and pushing Derek to sit in it.

Stiles glares at Peter. “You shouldn’t be so rough with the people you claim to love.”

“Claim?” Peter snorts. “There is no ‘claim,’ Deputy. I love my family beyond life itself. I don’t need you to tell me how to show it.”

“Then you need to not grab or drag people around like they’re bags waiting for you to move them.” Stiles and Peter glare at each other, and Derek holds his breath, certain that Peter will lash out and Stiles, human Stiles, will get hurt.

Instead, Peter breaks eye contact first. “I’m sorry, Derek,” he says gruffly, sincerely. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Derek stays quiet. Peter absolutely meant to scare him. What he probably didn’t mean to do was hurt him. There was no reason to grab Derek like that, and he’s glad Stiles pointed it out.

Peter hugs him, smacking a kiss onto the top of his head.

“It’s past time for you to be in bed if you’re going to New York.” Stiles’ tone is icy. He’s still mad.

“Will you stay?” Peter asks. “I’m sure we can find room for you somewhere.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’d better head out.” He narrows his eyes at Peter as if telling him to behave. “I’ll stop back tomorrow to make sure everything is going okay.” He gives Derek a one-armed hug. “Call me if you need anything.” He presses a card into Derek’s hand. “My cell phone is always on, no matter the time. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

Then he gets up, grabs his keys, and leaves. Derek doesn’t wait for Peter to apologize again. He crawls back under the covers in his bed, listening to Isaac’s quiet snores, to Boyd’s deeper ones, his sisters’ gentle whimpers, Erica’s deep breaths, and doesn’t sleep at all.

~ * ~

When Stiles gets back to his apartment, he finds Kincaid and Ramirez sitting on his front step.

“No offense,” he tells them before they can say anything, “but I’m really not in the mood.”

It may not be terribly late—only just past 8:00 p.m.—but Stiles is exhausted. Maybe it’s the conversation he just had with Peter Hale. Maybe it’s the overtime he’s pulled the last few days. Whatever the cause, he can feel it in his bones, and he does not want to be dragged into whatever the rookie officers have come to consult him on.

“We just wanted to let you know that the preliminary autopsy on Alan Deaton didn’t find any wounds,” Ramirez says. “Apparently, he just drove into the lake on his own.”

“Or he swerved to avoid an animal,” Kincaid adds.

“I don’t care,” Stiles says. He still believes Peter had something to do with it, but at least he was sort of telling the truth when he said he hadn’t killed Deaton.

“Just thought you should know, sir.”

“If it’s any consolation, we think the FBI agent investigating the connection between the murders and the Hale house fire is a giant douchebag.”

Stiles stifles a laugh. Ramirez is going to be a great officer if she keeps her wits about her and doesn’t let the politics of law enforcement twist her morals. And as long as Kincaid follows Ramirez, and as long as he remains uncorrupted, he’ll be just fine too.

“Anything else?” he asks, key in his lock.

Kincaid blushes while Ramirez makes direct eye contact with him, challenging him to something he doesn’t realize until she follows it with, “We’re together, Thomas and I. We won’t let it affect our work, but we also won’t let it keep us apart.”

“Congratulations,” Stiles says dryly. “But I’m not your supervisor. If you want to make it official, you’ll have to take it up with Sheriff Parrish.”

Ramirez and Kincaid exchange a look of relief.

“Thank you, sir,” Kincaid says. “We’ll let you get back to your evening now. Have a nice night.” He takes Ramirez’s hand and leads her to a powder blue Toyota Corolla that has seen better days parked in front of Mrs. Henderson’s house.

Stiles waves them off and then heads inside. He hangs up his keys, locks the door, and grabs a beer from the fridge.

He doesn’t drink often, too afraid he’ll end up like his dad did right after his mom passed. It had taken almost three years before Dad sobered up enough to pay attention to Stiles again. By that time, it was almost too late to salvage their relationship.

Stiles has been very careful and only consumes alcohol in moderation, but tonight he just really needs a drink to help him digest everything.

He picks up a bottle opener and heads out to his back steps. He flicks off the cap and takes a long swallow.

Peter killed Kate Argent. Of that there’s no doubt. Although, Stiles doesn’t think he’d be any more likely to abstain if he’d found out she was the one who burned his family alive and kidnapped his nieces and nephew.

Peter’s involvement in the deaths of Deaton and Myers is less certain.

And to complicate things even more, Peter keeps flirting with Stiles.

There must be some kind of neon sign stuck to him that attracts crazy—no, Stiles corrects himself quickly, not crazy. Supernatural.

He sighs, finishing the bottle and setting it by his feet. It’s disgusting to him, but that’s why he drinks it. He won’t ever be tempted to empty his fridge if all he has is this cheap swill.

Nudging at the bottle with the toe of his shoe, Stiles idly wonders what effect alcohol has on werewolves. Would they get drunk and recover faster? Or would it not affect them at all?

He could ask Peter, but he doesn’t think that’s the best idea. Peter might just try to bite him.

Why, though? What’s wrong with being human? And more pressingly, would Stiles survive the bite? Mom was a spark, according to Dad. And something else, like Mom or Deaton’s sister, made them unable to be a werewolf at the same time. Talia Hale hadn’t bitten Mom because it wouldn’t have helped.

What if Stiles has inherited the spark from his mom?

Could he accept the bite knowing that it could—would probably—kill him?

No, Stiles decides. Human is what he’ll have to stay. He doesn’t need enhanced senses to know when someone is lying to him. He doesn’t need extra strength to take down perpetrators.

He doesn’t need to be a werewolf.

Stiles yawns widely, jaw creaking with it. He doesn’t need supernatural abilities, but he does need a good night’s rest. Especially if his plans to see his dad and his “team” off to the airport.

It’s a little suspect that everyone trusts this half-baked scheme. Stiles knows they can’t just be going back to New York for a gun competition, but he hopes they don’t end up murdering more people or worse.

Although, if Peter tags along, it seems likely that there might be just a touch of maiming.

Stiles takes his bottle inside to rinse and put with the other recyclable glass.

He brushes his teeth and takes a quick shower to wash off the day.

He sets an alarm, sets up his coffee pot for a few minutes before the alarm, and then lies down on his bed, listening to the building settle.

His upstairs neighbor, usually awake at this time and moving around is absent, so it should be easy to fall asleep, right?

Wrong.

Stiles’ mind is buzzing too much for his eyes to stay shut despite the lethargy pulling at his limbs.

And what is making his mind race? Peter Fucking Hale.

Peter, who flirted like it was a battle that he was going to win by sheer surprise.

Peter, who killed to avenge his family and to protect them.

Peter, who Stiles wonders what he would taste like if he kissed him.

It’s been a long time since Stiles has felt attraction. Just his luck that it’s the local murder-wolf.

Stiles sighs. He’s not getting any sleep tonight. He might as well get up and do something productive, like…like?

Like write out a list of pros and cons for dating Peter Hale.

Con: Peter is a murderer.

Pro: Peter only murders people who hurt his family.

Con: Peter confessed to killing Kate and will likely be arrested and prosecuted over it.

Pro: Peter looks like a good kisser and Stiles hasn’t been kissed in literal years.

Pro: Stiles is bi and Peter is easy on the eyes.

Pro: Stiles is ready for a relationship.

Con: With Peter?

Stiles drops his pen and buries his head in his arms.

Why does he make life so difficult on himself? Why did he have to get suspended—forced vacation, his ass—and why did he have to go back to Erica and Boyd’s house? Why is he even entertaining the idea of dating Peter Hale when there’s overwhelming evidence—and a confession to boot—that Peter Hale kills people?

He doesn’t have an answer. Not even close. He crumples up his list and throws it away.

Then he lies down on his couch and turns the TV to a late night infomercial channel, mutes it, and stares at the screen until his vision blurs enough that he can finally drift off to sleep.

He dreams of teeth and claws sharp enough to tear him apart and used gently to explore more of his body than he’s showed his last three partners.

And if Stiles wakes up with a crick in his neck and an uncomfortable hard on in his pants? At least there are no werewolf noses around to detect the shame on his skin before he washes it away with a cold shower.

On his way out the door, he grabs the pros and cons list out of the trash. He scribbles a large “X” over the page, flips it over, and writes one pro: loyal. He crumples the paper again, shoves it deep in the trash can, and then drives to the Boyds’ house.

He’s not going to stop Peter or his dad from going, but he also doesn’t want anger to be the last emotion he shares with them, especially if things go badly. And what the hell, he might as well find out if Peter kisses as good as he looks like he does.

~ * ~

#Teen Wolf fanfiction #Derek Hale #Stiles Stilinski #LfaPtCH #My Story/My Writing

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