Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To absquatulate: to decamp, to leave quickly, to flee

Derek slammed into the entryway door, his legs shaking like a baby deer as he tried to grope for the handle, his vision warped and blurred in strange kaleidoscopic fractals. He slowly crept his way into the doorway, panting. He wobbled to the sink, propping his weight up against the cool cupboard. He growled in pain as he sensed a presence. He realized Stiles had been quietly watching him from across the room; he couldn't tell if his face was twisted in fear or confusion, but he could feel it. He didn't want to turn to face him, ashamed of what his face looked like, not that he could actually see it, though. "I think. I think I love you. I'm sorry that I do. I wish Beacon Hill were safer for both of us. You know that Stiles" Derek said, leaning his head towards his hands, arms bracing against the counter, his back muscles flexed in a strained manner, as though they were trying to pierce through his skin, Letting air through his nose sharply as he picked pieces of glass out of his hand and shoulder, letting them sadly clink against the inside basin of the Loft's sink. He hated feeling Stiles's eyes pierce through his spine as though he was trying to telepathically rip his heart from his body, but he also couldn't bring himself to turn around. To let Stiles see his messed-up face. His eye was blacked, he knew that for sure as the pain from his eye socket spiraled and scattered around his head, his lip was busted, and he had no way to explain it. He woke up on a park bench with a Hunter's knife wedged cleanly in his stomach, and large gashes ran up his arms. He should have been dead, but He had bested death many times. Both recently, and when he moved to Beacon Hill. "Hale, listen to me, alright? We just killed something larger than an alpha or some stupid Ghost. And you won't just turn around and let me look at you? You trust me that little?" Stiles castigated. His usually raspy voice broke in sections as he tried to force out a sentence; his Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to repress his own emotions. He knew why Derek wouldn't turn to face him. Or simply put his guard down to let him help clean up. Because that would be showing weakness. Innate fear and vulnerability that He didn't think he could show anyone. Even the man who let him inside his own house, who was folding towels at their kitchen island in the wee hours of the morning, was waiting for his return. Stiles quietly snuck up to Derek as he cleaned out his knuckle of debris, the last pocket of shrapnel from his mysterious nightly escapades that became more frequent. Longer. Not stumbling through their back door till about sunrise, he placed his hands on his stomach, feeling the wet, warm patch on the front of his pullover. He pulled his hands away in shock, realizing they were coated in a thick coating of blood. The smell seemed to fill the kitchen as Stiles backed away, his flank hitting the opposite counter as he tried to get away, noticing that Derek's face had become twisted and almost disfigured, his body began convulsing as if he was being shaken by invisible sets of hands around his shoulders and waist. He weakly sank to his knees and then to his back as sharp, almost dog-like teeth hung lower in his mouth, his body hair seemed to be standing on end, the skin on his nail beds seemed to retract, and worst of all, his eyes had changed. Their normal Stoney blue was transposed with a stormy hue, like hot, pearlescent ink droplets hitting cold water. His line of sight was impregnable, fixed on the spot behind Stiles's face, as he uncontrollably shook, still on the floor of the Loft's kitchen, his aphotic, sticky blood dribbled from his abdomen onto the tile, his hands aimlessly searched for something to grab as it met Stiles's knees, who had taken to applying pressure to his stomach, a thin white and blue decorative towel being the only shield that he has from putting his slender now shaking fingers into the wound. Who could he call? They'd call hunters if they saw him like this. Without thinking, he tugged his phone from his jeans as he left one hand still on Derek's stomach, which produced a hearty groan as he lay his head back and shut his eyes tight. Stiles dialed, still pinching his tan, freckled abdominal skin closed. His gooy blood lightly sprinkled the tile as it dripped from his arms. Wordlessly, he started praying. To what or who he didn't know. Just something to ease his mind or Derek's pain. Lydia picked up, her groggy voice crackled against the receiver, sounding as though she had been disturbed from a deep sleep. Hearing the frantic tone that Stiles was choking the situation out in, Lydia threw on a ratty team sweatshirt that smelled like Stiles, indicating he had left it at her home, over the wife-beater she had picked up off her floor. Her Converse sneakers made a mild thump sound against the sidewalk as she ran to the Stilinski house, pulling her phone from her pocket as she sprinted the half-mile and up into their driveway. Realizing that the sheriff was working late, she sprinted back up the way towards the station, dialing his number, the little icon glowing in the unusually cold late summer air. She never expected that she'd still be answering calls from her ex-boyfriend that late, although she always had. They had been friends for more than a decade, so of course she would. Ex or not, He was one of the strongest friendships she had created in Beacon Hills, and she wouldn't be throwing that away, especially when He needed her. Even if it hurts.Even if she didn't want to stay.

Chapter Text

"Drowning is the process of experiencing respiratory impairment from submersion/immersion in liquid."

Stiles knew what he did. In his heart, there was an aching suspicion. He knew Derek was too whipped to be cheating. A pro of courting this introvert was that it became a way less likely option, but he wasn't taking care of his urges like he had been holding him accountable for days. He made a habit of coming home pale and sickly, almost malnourished. covered in unaccounted-for scratches and bruises. Stiles loved his boyfriend, but sometimes it felt like he was becoming room and board for a street dog, and less like he had an actual living, semi-breathing boyfriend. His father's booming voice echoed against the cupboards as he inspected the wounds, his response kit laying out on the floor between them, Stiles held his head against Derek's upper chest, near his throat, eventually shifting to put his knees under his head, running his hands through his sweat matted hair as his shallow breathing tried matching Stiles's, his eyes fluttered open and slammed shut again as the sheriff stitched up his stomach. The suture needle dipped in and out of his fragile skin like a kingfisher hunting for its meal on a crystal blue lake. Luckily, the blade had missed anything important because of the angle at which it went in. Lydia steadied a flashlight above them, letting Derek's large, almost hockey glove-like hand squeeze hers. She used to fix cars with her dad; she would hold the flashlight as he worked. She couldn't have imagined doing the same to save a life. If she could even do anything in that moment other than stare at her friend's oozing torso. The bottom of her stomach ached seeing Stiles this upset. "Who in Beacon Hill has such a hatred for you that they drag their sorry ass to a park in the middle of the early morning and stab you? Why were you even there?" Noah questioned, trying to avoid eye contact with his son or Lydia, he busied himself with the final stitch, applied his dressings, and washed his hands, still not making eye contact with anyone. He knew who it may have been. Or why. But he pushed it into the back of his mind. They're worried enough to set him off. Maybe one of his uncle's cronies, someone who wanted another Hale dead. A lot of people wanted the Hales dead. It didn't dwell in his mind for very long. Being a police officer, he needed his mind on the current, not flashing back to his son's partner splayed out half dead in their kitchen, hoarsely whispering for a woman that no one knew. Paige. He wanted to make amends, but he couldn't. Braden? She moved. They loved each other, but it just wouldn't work. They remained friends, though; she always understood his quirks. Noah tried to keep his hands steady and focused. It's not like He didn't like Derek, hell, he loved him. His son-in-law was a good man, just complex and rather secretive. He reflexively covered his lower stomach whenever someone came into his office, and his hands jittered as he wrote reports and did paperwork. He was lucky that the station was well-staffed, so he didn't go out into the field that day; it would have been rather dangerous to make him drive while sleep-deprived, and more importantly, Angry. Really angry. And terrified. Derek didn't deserve what had happened to him in the past, and his son certainly didn't deserve to witness his guts nearly spilling out onto the tile. Would he be next? Was Peter trying to kill his mate? How does that even work? Each question stacked like a Cairn on a hill.

Chapter Text

"heal·ing
/ˈhēliNG/
noun
the process of making or becoming sound or healthy again.".

"How could you be so hard-headed? You know I can take Care of you, Der-bear. I mean, last night should be a great example of my abilities to nurse you back to health," Stiles crooned, using the nickname Derek pretended to hate as he helped him limp towards their bed, making him rest most of his weight on his body. Letting him shift his body weight onto the side of the bed, he redressed his wound, his groans of pain muffled by the skin of his shoulder as he bit down. The tattooed skin of his shoulder started turning irritated pink, but he didn't mind. "Sometimes it's a pain, loving you," Derek chuckled, wiping the pearling saliva off of his lips and Stiles's shoulder, running his fingers across the ice-breaking edge of his jaw. He had finally gotten what he wanted. At 28 and 21, they finally got to "grow old together". He slid under the sheets, his large arms encircling Stiles's waist as he drifted off. He knew that he couldn't keep lying. He couldn't keep running from loving him. From being queer. It's an aspect of man that is punished even in the werewolf community he grew up in, being groomed to eventually lead, like Talia had. Like Peter did now. Even if that love meant that he didn't need to know everything about him. Where did he go at night? But that didn't mean he would be able to keep a secret for long. Werewolves, at least in the region of Beacon Hills, California, their main packs having migrated there in the 60s from New York, engaged in the arranged marriage of their young. It made life easier, it made the connections of power stronger, and made their offspring better, their genetics "purer". While most throughout the years had agreed to this system of unwilling and unchosen matrimony, Derek had chosen to run from it. He had been arranged to marry a woman years ago, but legally, they couldn't force him to sign papers. Sure, they could threaten him, kick him out, beat him, or cut his access to their money, but only for so long. Until he turned 18. With the passing of his mother and the up-in-the-air state of his father, he inherited the Hale vault and with that, their bank account and income. While it didn't make him as wealthy as it would have decades ago, it helped him live a semi-quiet, almost hermetic life. His siblings didn't come back to Beacon after college. They couldn't. Their uncle would have done the same to them as he pretty routinely did to Derek. He didn't want them back in Beacon Hills until he was dead. But that didn't mean that he came out of this unscathed. Months earlier, he had unwittingly met the woman who would be his assigned wife. The bar outside of town, on the edge of the preserve, was a fly trap. All the good-for-nothing dropouts of Beacon hung out there, and many of them at some point have given up being anywhere else but that sticky, linoleum-covered, vice-dripping roadhouse. It felt like home. Before Stiles asked him to be his partner. He was everything. There was that bar. The place where his father took him to eat and talk on their court-ordered visits while he remained in the US when he was a teenager. So he went there to drink away every thought that circled like vultures in his brain, that seemed to peck at the stems of his eyes. In that bar, he met a woman. Tall, muscular, dark-haired, with light green eyes, and a raspy, Russian American accent, and she was also a Lycan. Being a Female, she dwarfed him in stature. He could smell it. Her scent made his hackles rise, but he tried his best to ignore it because he wasn't alone. Whatever he had drunk was working its way through his system, and his inhibitors were dull. Not screaming like they should have been. That night, it was full of people who graduated high school the same year he did, while not being best friends with any of them, he had become a beloved addition to their later lives in this town wrapped with a lush green high wall of trees. She had graduated with him as well. But that didn't soothe him. It made him nervous. As though she had a fake familiarity with him that he had grown dull to since leaving the daily contact he had previously had with her. His parents always told him that his life was to happen this way, but with every birthday seeming to happen earlier every year, the idea completely unnerved him. Her siren-like charms won him over, though, and he eventually gave in to her demands of buying him a drink or two so they could talk. Which led to kissing, her way more eager to interact than he was. His hands felt heavy and painful as he walked, his vision becoming little more than fractals of shape and sudden sounds as he followed her home. His soul felt like it was poured of lead and aluminum. That walk led to him waking up with her on top of him, her achingly sweet voice crackling in his fuzzy, sleepy, drug-addled brain, getting close to his face as her hot, boozy breath swirled around his nose and mouth. Her sharp fangs hooked into his neck as He felt her relax. shuddering and leaning her full body weight on him. Trying to shove her off of him, he realized in horror that his body had betrayed him. He could move very little as she rode what was little more than a corpse. He tried looking anywhere but her face, The deed was done and he didn't even know about it until he realized his own emissions were probably already deposited. She eventually got up from his lap, nonchalantly lighting a cigarette and sitting at the foot of the pullout bed, her dark hair only being illuminated by the glow from the ember of the filter and an open window. He couldn't think; his brain was rushing between extremes when she finally spoke. The coldness of her voice startled him, missing the depth it had had only minutes prior. "It's what our parents wanted. Do you think I wanted to do any of this? No. I saw how you look at that Stilinski boy, Fag. It's disgusting and pitiful. I was just doing what I was told. Don't be mad at me. Be mad at your uncle or someone who cares. you pansy Bitch. I just needed a donation. Your dad hired me to ride the queer out of you. So you'd be useful to your pack. I mean, besides, you came anyway, maybe you're not as useless as I thought you would be, maybe you even liked it," she chirped, her smoke almost creating a shadow around her face as she flicked the ashes into the carpet. His blood ran to his toes as all of this information set in, he tucked his feet and knees into his chest in her bed, nothing more than a rickety couch, looking for his keys or even his pants, he came up with nothing. His throat felt like sandpaper as he realized he didn't even know where he was, how he got there, or why he even went with her. His head was pounding, and he hadn't had the strength to buck her off of himself. Why did his throat hurt? Why did it taste like blood and salt? All he knew was that he needed to get the hell out of there. He sat in stunned silence for a few seconds, but it was interrupted by a pair of large denim jeans being flung at his face, his keys whacking him in the mouth, busting the blood vessels in his lip and his eye. "When I come back, you better not be here. I just need your help in creating an heir, I'm not above disposing of you after I've finished" she said, sending a pang of fear to Derek's core as he rushed to pull his boxers up, hike his pants and shirt back on, Patting around his pockets, he noticed his wallet and keys were still there, so there was no hope that she had just robbed him. He would have rather just been robbed. He stumbled out of her apartment around 11 am, gripping onto the wall to support his muscular body. As he walked out of her apartment complex, he tumbled to the ground, his head spinning in circles as his senses blazed into his periphery again. His forehead touched the sidewalk as he silently prayed to die on the spot, the skin was scraped raw. His mouth tasted of mildew, cigarette smoke, and almost like blood. Metallic. His sinuses felt like they were going to explode, heaving. He felt like vomiting, but he couldn't lift his head, resting his head into the vomit that had collected under him. A man passing by kneeled to ask for his information, or even his name, which he could not remember. Rolling him over and propping his head up against his chest while he waited for an ambulance, sitting so his upper back was on his knees, He noticed the deep Laceration on the flesh of his upper shoulder at the base of his neck, the blood leaking from somewhere in his lower body that splattered the front of his jeans. It sent a swell of fear and sympathy up his neck for this total stranger as he assumed it was from a dog attack or something else like that. Not that it was from the Maw of a womanly beast. He'd seen many men blackout drunk, but this was not new either. All too familiar, actually. He has seen the effects of many party drugs and this wasn't it either. Maybe after-party drugs, that is. Frequenting Beacon Hills, the only queer nightlife spot, meant he was no stranger to the effects of items like GHB or Rohypnals, and with that, nausea, heavy perspiration, and shaking that Derek was presenting. But knowing the situation he could put him in by saying where he thought he had been, He opted to tell the first responders that he thought he had been attacked by an animal and was in shock when they arrived. He lifted his hand that had been holding his wounds closed and was shocked at the amount of blood that had permeated through his layers of clothing, his legs jittered against the ground, his hands were hauntingly cold. The man lightly slapped the side of his face, his kind eyes filled with sharp, hot tears as he assisted this somewhat stranger in doing something as simple as keeping his eyes open and focused. "You alright, dude? C'mon. Keep your eyes open, and you can sleep later. I just need your eyes open right now, man. C'mon. You're gonna be fine. I've got you. Stay awake, please don't fade on me, kid. Derek. Derek, is that your name? I've seen you before. You're still friends with Stilinski, aren't you? Stay with me, friend. I've got you. Stiles can't do this without you. You've changed his whole world. And I don't think I can forgive myself if you pass away before he sees you. Before you two get out of Beacon," he uttered, lightly shaking him, cursing the roads of Beacon Hill for being so crappy and unpaved, the traffic for being constant and dense. The larger man's eyes lolled to the back of his head as he tried to meet his eyes; his pupils were covering most of his Iris. Every action seemed to be strenuous. His breathing became labored as they waited. Placing his head on the pavement, the stranger began resuscitating him, his sternum crunched in a horrid manner as he pounded down on the soft area below his pectoral muscles with one hand cupped in the other, like in the first aid slide show they were forced to review every year. Sweat rolled down his face and onto Derek's body as he twitched against the hot pavement, working his hands against the sharp edges of his ribs as he felt a faint exhale against his hand. His saving grace was the sounds of the sirens wrung out closer. "Sir, is this your son?" The Ems responder asked, both hands occupied with strapping Derek onto a stretcher, his weak hand gripped onto the side of the stretcher as though he was going to fall over the side. "No, sir, a former student. He walked out of that building; he must've been attacked by an animal while drunk or high or something. He's not doing so well. Please. " He said, standing in the back of the ambulance, its doors were still wide open. "If he trusts you, which it looks like he does, do you mind riding in the back with him? What's your name so we can add you to the report?" The responder asked, his notepad at the ready as they loaded Derek in the back, his weak gaze fixed onto the responder who had begun attaching nodes and a blood pressure cuff onto his bicep, an oxygen mask resting ill-fitted against his unshaved, almost disfigured face. "Coach Robert Finstock, coach of the Beacon Hills lacrosse and cross country teams, respectively. Is he going to be alright?" Bobby said, pointing towards the stretcher as he climbed into the truck, struggling to pull himself up from the ground because his hands and arms shook. Normally stoic, his muscles seemed to have braced themselves for things to go badly. Quickly. Texting Stiles on the way there, Scott had driven him to the hospital, rushing through the visitor's entrance, they frantically made their way to the ICU, where Derek was getting stitched up after getting his stomach pumped earlier in that hour. Stiles tucked his head into Derek's bust, wailing tears of relief into his hospital gown. Sensing the change in the room, the hospital staff hurriedly finished stitching and left, giving Bobby a weird look as they left. Not because Stiles was showing emotions, but because of the gaping lack of skin that was prominently shown on his neck, near his groin, and shoulder. Scott hung back, leaning against the door of Derek's hospital room, his face was ghostly white. Whether out of fear or disgust at the carnage, the coach could not tell. He knew what that bite meant; the stringy, shredded muscle made him want to faint. He knew what taking a chunk like that felt like. He could smell her. He excused himself to call the rest of the pack that wasn't currently in his hospital room. Just because he didn't like Derek doesn't mean he didn't want to murder whoever did this to him. It's against human and werewolf nature. Seeing Stiles cry into his brittle, bandaged limbs was heartbreaking. And Stiles was his person. Even if they fought, seeing him so crushed made his chest tighten. "I'm sorry I worried you, Stiles. Really. I. I love you. Ok? That's it. I need you to know that. Right now. " Derek said, his uninjured arm came up to caress Stiles, his eyes teared up, betraying him again. He hated crying. Especially in front of them. "Why are you saying this? You're gonna be fine, alright. Please. You're going to be fine. We're going to take you home soon. Just. Please, Derek. I can't lose you. Not now. I love you too, Stiles cried, his forehead brushing against Derek's, his lips brushing Derek's. He kissed him, but his mouth still tasted slightly like blood. He didn't care. His body carefully cradled his injuries as they both sobbed, not entirely sure if it was because of adrenaline or relief or a little bit of both. He ended up falling asleep in the visitor's chair, which they normally did not allow, but they decided to make the exception, seeing as the coach needed to check on his house and continue life as usual. He ended up staying in the hospital for 4 weeks. The doctors knew that it wasn't "just a dog bite", but they knew what happened in Beacon, so they tried to ignore it and offer him the best care they could, like anyone else. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Derek shot up in fear as that memory dropped into his recollection, waking Stiles, who was sleeping at his side with a jolt. He felt ill and pale as he straightened up in bed, his heart sat stone-like in his throat. He knew he wasn't back in the mildewed apartment but it felt all too real still. Like his own kind of purgatory that hung over his head like an anvil whenever he drifted off to sleep. Stiles stroked his chest, subduing his anxiety slightly as they held each other. Derek's body shook, still feeling a phantom sting on his skin as Stiles ran his hands down his body, his calloused fingers tracing every skin imperfection he had, lovingly memorized like the map of constellations. He knew it was that day again. It was always remembering that day again. That week after his attack. He knew what happened that night. But that didn't change his devotion to him; it just made it more complex. Stronger. Even the deep gouge scars that danced across his pelvic area and throat. "She's going to kill me, Stiles. Fuck. It hurts, " Derek whimpered, his eyes dashed around the room like a deer being chased by a hunter. "Who, baby. Who, who is here, my love?" He said, anxiously increasing the pace at which he had been rubbing his back, interrupted with a loud, whispery shout from his partner, "her". He said, trying to hide the shame on his face, he was in turn interrupted in thought by the man currently perched almost on his shoulder, his muscular arms bordering his field of view. "She's not here, baby. You're ok. I've got you. I love you. You're at home. In the loft. We're sitting in bed. You're not there, sweetheart. You're at home. Even if she were here, I wouldn't let her get anywhere near you, my love. I don't know what you saw or how awful you feel, but I'm here." Stiles whispered, his face buried in Derek's hair, with the larger man curled into his arms like a scared dog, tightly clutching his shirt fabric. He hated seeing him this way. He secretly hated that their first kiss was that day. He wanted it to be a good thing that happened at the right time. But he couldn't change what had happened, and hell, it had led to now. To the man who was acting like a terrified child in his arms. But it didn't stop him. He managed to coax his partner to the edge of the bed, helping him change his clothing, sweaty and cold, peppering kisses against his body. Every scar was laced with kisses as he worked to pull a sweater over his still tender midsection. Every sorrow was slightly shushed by his efforts. His affection wouldn't fix it all, but it did help. He slowly taught this old dog new tricks. Like forgiveness and trust. That it was ok to be vulnerable because his boundaries would be respected and praised. That his scars didn't define him, just explained what filled the bigger-than-life hot air balloon of a personality that he has created for himself. That meant no.

Chapter Text

Resuscitate
re·sus·ci·tate
[rəˈsəsəˌtāt]
VERB
revive (someone) from unconsciousness or apparent death

Derek's eyes lingered over his cup of coffee, the dark liquid danced around the entire inner surface of the mug, and its surface reflected his sad eyes, almost mockingly. The birds sang an almost mournful aubade, and a choir of ghostly whistles and caws filled his head alongside drudged-up memories. He couldn't bother to add sugar or even grab food. He just crumpled into the first chair he saw. Stiles draped his arms around his own. The warmth of those strong arms made him shiver, unaware that he had been staring off into the abyss. "How are you, my love?" He said, nuzzling his face into his hair, taking it in. Being that he was shorter than his boyfriend by a few inches, this didn't happen often. Lightly tracing his wound over the bandage, he sighed, content with just the two of them. They had both taken a week's break from work to celebrate his graduation, so these quiet days were a lifesaver. Scratching the side of Derek's head lightly with his well-manicured and dark-painted nails, he hummed, noticing that Derek's foot thumped absent-mindedly under the kitchen table like a content dog. He enjoyed their intimate connection as partners; throughout his life, he had been a loner. A goose without a flock. So to have even one person who felt like a piece of his soul was everything to him. His eyes shifted towards Derek's hands, clasped on the table, which were normally vascular and large in appearance, nervously drumming an almost erratic pattern, somehow shrunken and pitted like the rest of his body in sorrow and depression. The rhythm was like a mosquito in boggy air, Ring finger, thumb, middle. Pinky, ring, thumb, middle- he grasped his hands, Stiles's t-shirt making goosebumps ridge on Derek's bare back. He hadn't realized that he was even doing that. He mildly hated that Stiles could so accurately get inside his head, but with a sheriff as a father, it was to be expected. But it wasn't just because he was born to be a detective; Derek was less complex than he liked to think when it came to his emotions, which always rolled across his face like a summer thunderstorm with heat lightning. His mourning was timeless yet still so fresh, almost palpable, that it seemed like a tangible presence, like humidity. Stiles pulled Derek's chair back from the table, nearly making him spill his now lukewarm coffee in his lap, which made him flinch like an ill-broken horse. He walked around till he stood in front of him and sat down, his long arms and legs folded up into his lap. "Sometimes I feel like you need to see me at a similar level, to hear me, but since you're out of commission, I figured I would come down to your level." He said, his eyes studying his face with a quizzical expression. Derek placed his coffee on the now distant table, slightly annoyed, but growing more intrigued with what angle he was trying to play. "Whenever you make that face, you're up to something. You're a cunning rascal." " You like this. And if you don't, tell me to stop. Immediately. Alright?", Stiles said, removing his shirt and throwing it on the counter. Derek nodded, slightly nervous about what his scheme could be. "Come over to the couch and follow my lead, is that alright?" He said, making his way to the loft's large plushy couch, big enough for 2 grown men to cuddle on. He patted the space in front of him while sitting cross-legged, his freckled back nestled into the leather arm. They sat intertwined, Derek's hushed breath tickling the hair on Stile's arm, a cute sign that he was alive. Uncomfortable with the fact that the last time they lay in this position, He almost wasn't. He wasn't one to even be cuddly. He was a livestock guard dog in his soul, often pacing instead of saying how he felt. "I'm going to praise you, and if you need me to stop, let me know, Derek. Alright? Last night was bad. It's been almost 9 months, and I don't know how your people work, but I know it's... That kid is probably here. I'm sorry, Hun. None of this is your fault. You know that. " He quietly uttered, rubbing his shoulders. He could feel the sigh that Derek let out, not sure if it was out of anxiety or the relief of the knots being loosened from his muscles. He knew Stiles was right. And he was almost unnerved by his calm, sweet demeanor. He appreciated it, but it felt unnerving. He was waiting for a metaphorical shoe to drop, not knowing if there was even another shoe. he didn't even know what his next course of action would be, look for a birth certificate? Knowing his attacker, she wouldn't have registered the kid, and if they were registered, it would probably not be under either of their names. He began spiraling, and without realizing it, shaking, without even having to ask, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek, letting his heart rate slowly return to normal. Aware of the painful tension between them, he kisses the top of his head, swallowing heavily as he tries not to cry himself. "Hun, you know I will love them if you let me. If this is what you want. We could start a family. I know we don't know how to be a family, but we could figure it out." He gulped, waiting for him to blow up, and was surprised at the delicate chuckle that left Derek's lips. It felt like nearly leaning too far back in his chair, the anxiety and clarity back to back. Derek sat up to eye level and kissed the place where his jaw connected to his ear. He could feel his wide smile against his skin, and his warm breath made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He couldn't precisely tell which his partner was feeling more, grief or excitement. They knew they would never have a biological child, but with the right help to process this healthily, they believed that they would be good fathers. That his father would be a good grandfather. He didn't know how hard raising a were-baby would be, but having many childhood dogs, he knew the dog part of the equation. Derek, quick to try to lighten the mood, nipping at his shoulder, leaving a light pink mark with his sharp teeth, eliciting a gasp from Stiles, who put on a pouty expression and crossed his arms, whispering "Baby, you're going to have to tell me what you want, we don't bite people unless they ask you to", which made Derek shoot up at an eager speed, groaning as his body reminded him that he had indeed been stabbed. Being a Lycan offered perks like faster healing, but not that fast. He stood, looming over Stiles, eyes blown with animalistic lust and adoration for his lover. "I know that scientifically I can't give you my children, I mean, I don't know how humans fully work, but we can at least try it, just this once," He said, helping Stiles to stand, who gave him an odd look. They hadn't been intimate in months, which he was fine with. he knew that Derek wasn't ready, so for him to be so excited was a bit shocking, but well-received. Being that he was the landlord, Derek had mostly soundproofed the loft. He was paranoid about the neighbors finding out about his "issue". Stiles stood behind him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, reaching around to caress his groin, continuing to talk abseent mindedly, "Sounds like a plan, let me treat you to an evening of trying then, my love, we can check hospitals in the area tomorrow", Stiles said, picking up Derek, who was speechless. Being on the heavy side, he forgot that others could even pick him up, but it was rousing for someone smaller than him to be able to pick him up so delicately. He leaned into Stiles and let him carry him up the loft stairs, rubbing his face into his neck. He daintily placed him at the foot of their bed, removing his pants, which prompted Derek to begin undressing, which made him stop him, and redressed him, with a strict warning, unusually dominating as he growled, "This is for you. I'm not crawling on top of you like that bitch. We're doing this our way. And if that means you're dressed because that's how you're comfortable. Then I'll fuck you with a shirt on. I'm going to be very upset if you don't advocate for yourself ". It made Him incredibly turned on to see him like this. The idea of even having a choice was enchanting.

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Derek pulled his shirt off and threw it at the opposite wall, making a mental note to pick it up later. Peeling off his sleep shorts, He spread his legs and adjusted his hips towards Stiles, his legs idly hung off the edge of the bed. He hungrily stared at his lap, waiting for permission to begin. He made quick work of taking Derek in his mouth, eliciting moans of pleasure as he took him down to the base. Moving delicately up and down, he felt his Mate's erection grow in his mouth and soon, his throat. It filled him with an impish delight as he continued to lightly run his tongue all over it, working his shaft between his hands, saliva coating the tip. He rubbed his hands against his hips. Being that Derek was one of maybe 2 men that he had ever had oral sex with, He took it as a challenge each time. Truthfully, he was much more experienced with cunnilingus, but he fought through it anyway; either way, he was still a pro with his tongue. Stiles pinned his submissive's pelvis down and admired the way Derek's once dark eyes started lightening as he increased the pace, lightly twisting his hands as Derek twitched his hips closer to his face. He lightly traced his nails down his lover's V-line, making him groan and shiver with needy impatience. He felt the gyration of his mate increase as he brought him closer to climaxing, which evoked a low chuckle from his throat, which only tormented him more. Derek felt an all too familiar heaviness forming in his stomach, it was a staticky ardor that made him clutch the bed sheets, itching to whine with bliss. He had obviously experimented with himself before, but this sensation made him weak in the knees even while lying down. Stiles swiftly stopped sucking and stood up straight, causing Derek to fuss, which earned him a stern glance from Him. He wouldn't dare start touching himself, but he couldn't help it; he rubbed his thighs together, trying so hard for any sort of alleviation, prickles of enjoyment. Stiles leaned down and harshly pushed his thighs apart. He dug his nails in, glaring into the pit of his soul; his pupils were pinpoints. Without a word, he knew exactly how much trouble he was in. Both men throbbed at that look. He knew he was safe enough to "act up" every so often, and he knew Stiles liked to correct this behavior firmly, edging him until his eyes crossed. It tended to pick up around the full moon or when he was particularly stressed. He walked over to their shared closet and rummaged around until he found a heavy red plastic tub on top of a shelf. He pulled it out and placed it onto his bedside table, and began sorting through it as if he were a surgeon setting out his instruments before a major surgery. He pulled out a small bottle of lube, a cock ring, and a pink vibrator, about 5 inches. Derek's eyes went wide with glee as Stiles sauntered back over to the bed, pointing at the head of the bed, and Derek scooted up to the headboard. A scowl grew over his face as he was once again reminded of his stitches, and shooting pain filled his abdomen. He was too far in to stop; he wouldn't let himself. He lay prone, ass in the air, feeling particularly vulnerable again. A small waterproof pillow was wedged under his stomach so his stitches didn't touch the sheets. His cock ached as it touched the flat surface beneath him.

Chapter Text

venerate
verb
ven·​er·​ate ˈve-nə-ˌrāt
venerated; venerating
Synonyms of venerate
transitive verb

1
: to regard with reverential respect or with admiring deference
2
: to honor (an icon, a relic, etc.) with a ritual act of devotion

Stiles slowly lubed himself up, lazily stroking his cock as he reached for the decent-sized metal ring, and he slipped it over the head, the sensation. Whether it was the temperature or how swollen he had already become, he couldn't tell; all he could tell was that he was about to burst all over the floor if he didn't relieve the pressure that was bubbling up between his hips. Seeing his boyfriend in this state made him feel like an animal, bug-eyed and starving to get a taste.
Admiring the curves of his soft flesh that met in valleys of muscles and sinew, his tanned skin shone with a light glaze of sweat that started to bead atop it. Stiles picked up the bottle of lube again and emptied some onto his index and middle fingers. They made intense eye contact as he rubbed it around his fingers, making sure to stop just before the crease of the top of his palm. Stiles took his non-lubed hand and gingerly hooked it under Derek's stomach, prompting him to push himself onto his knees. His thighs were impelled to shake as Stiles slowly circled his hole with his fingers; they slowly found their way to his prostate. The sensation made Derek want to scream; he nuzzled his face into the pillows, and he tried to hide how red his cheeks were getting, almost getting lightheaded. He was swiftly adjusted as Stiles pulled his hair by the root, and he sat back on his haunches obediently; his round ass was exhibited in all its glory. He moaned as Stiles re-entered him from behind, spreading his fingers out in smooth, slow circles.