[ everything is just - stars, and heat, and derek's dizzy from the force of it. every kiss stiles gives him makes him feel fucking alive, like all his senses heightened by the moon are spiking to full capacity, every touch runs up every nerve, overwhelming in his oversensitivity. through the guttural noises, the hard, physical reactions to everything that's ruining him, stiles' voice cuts past it and manages to keep him steady. he's encouraging and loving and it's exactly what he needs. it's exactly why he's derek's anchor.
stiles turns away, like the genius he is, and there's a part of derek that sees his submission, an easy offering of prey to a predator, and wants to rip and tear and maul and take, to hurt and kill and have. the rest of him - the parts that matter, the parts that carry weight beyond instinct - is just fucking awed by how beautiful he is. how fucking perfect.
for the first time, derek sees the scar on stiles' back. a burst of sunlight, left behind by hard, shredding teeth, made with the intent of taking his life. derek's too out of it to really understand what it is, how it got there, but he knows that it looks painful, and he knows that this has to have come from a chapter of stiles' life he hasn't yet told derek about, and simultaneously, he feels two things. a strong, swooping sadness in his stomach, laced with the overprotective need to hurt whoever hurt stiles - his stiles, his stiles, his mate, the man he loves, the man he'll always love, the love of his life, the one he wants to die with, the one he wants to die for -
and an unbelievable, cascading wave of pride and affection. stiles is still beautiful, even with his scars. stiles trusted him enough to show him this, when he was red-eyed and full of teeth, when he was as dangerous as he'll ever be. stiles loves him, and derek's heart honestly hurts from how big that feels. he touches his hand to his chest, feels how hard his heart is beating, and he genuinely feels afraid for a second that he's going to throw up, or pass out, or-- or something, too overworked and too full of adrenaline and chemicals and the fucking moon to stay stable.
he doesn't throw up. doesn't pass out. he bends forward, resting his forehead on the gap between stiles' shoulderblades, nose against his skin. he breathes in and out, drowns in him, in his scent, in his presence, in everything that he is. his teeth itch and get bigger, his claws feel sharper, more serrated. his eyes hurt from how brightly they're burning.
he kisses the mole on stiles' opposite shoulder, beautiful and characteristic and so intrinsically stiles. he kisses along stiles' shoulderblades, up to a square of skin just besides his scar, clean and untainted and undamaged. he kisses more, kisses further, kisses the painful, ragged edges of what donovan did to him, because no matter how this happened, no matter who did this, it's still stiles, and it's still beautiful, and derek doesn't love him any less for it.
and then - derek drops to his knees.
his claws are out. he needs to be careful, when he squeezes his palms tight against stiles' ass. he doesn't waste any more time - doesn't have it in him to wait. he sets the flat, pads of his thumbs besides stiles' hole and stretches him open, just enough, and he darts forward, lapping a long, long line with his tongue from the base of stiles' balls, all the way up. he gets stiles completely, completely wet, breathing out against the soft, pink hole he so, so desperately wants to fuck.
he fucks stiles with his tongue in long, slow thrusts, as deep as he can get it. there's drool running down stiles' taint, dripping to the floor and down his thighs, and the water from the showerhead is spraying too far behind them to get him clean. while he eats him out, derek slides one of his hands around to stiles' cock, slowly circling his fist around the head and keeping his claws way the fuck away. when he jerks him off, it's - a little too rough, a little too hard, his grip too strong and his strokes too irregular, but all his neediness, all his want, all his desperation to just touch stiles and make him feel good - it's all so obviously there.
derek only stands up when his knees start to hurt. he moves closer, slaps his bare cock against stiles' ass, still hard. he leans forward to kiss his neck, an imitation of the way stiles was kissing him when he came. each kiss comes harder than the last, more frantic, and every so often, the razor-sharp edge of his teeth will brush against stiles too closely for derek to feel comfortable, and he'll freeze, set his lips back over his fangs, and he's kiss slower, steadily building back up in intensity until he forces himself to stop again. ]
Stiles.
[ it's all he's got in him to say. he drags stiles' name out like just saying it is the most sexually intense experience he can have, like-- like he's so unbelievably, critically turned on by who stiles is. his voice is deep and quivering and desperate, and derek moves his hands to rest on stiles' hips. he's less careful this time, the lightest, papercut of a scratch drawing a line across pale, perfect skin. not deep enough to draw blood, but maybe deep enough to smart.
he says his name again, helplessly grinding his cock forward, like he's waiting for permission. like he's begging for it. again, he says his name, almost like he's close to tears. ]
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stiles turns away, like the genius he is, and there's a part of derek that sees his submission, an easy offering of prey to a predator, and wants to rip and tear and maul and take, to hurt and kill and have. the rest of him - the parts that matter, the parts that carry weight beyond instinct - is just fucking awed by how beautiful he is. how fucking perfect.
for the first time, derek sees the scar on stiles' back. a burst of sunlight, left behind by hard, shredding teeth, made with the intent of taking his life. derek's too out of it to really understand what it is, how it got there, but he knows that it looks painful, and he knows that this has to have come from a chapter of stiles' life he hasn't yet told derek about, and simultaneously, he feels two things. a strong, swooping sadness in his stomach, laced with the overprotective need to hurt whoever hurt stiles - his stiles, his stiles, his mate, the man he loves, the man he'll always love, the love of his life, the one he wants to die with, the one he wants to die for -
and an unbelievable, cascading wave of pride and affection. stiles is still beautiful, even with his scars. stiles trusted him enough to show him this, when he was red-eyed and full of teeth, when he was as dangerous as he'll ever be. stiles loves him, and derek's heart honestly hurts from how big that feels. he touches his hand to his chest, feels how hard his heart is beating, and he genuinely feels afraid for a second that he's going to throw up, or pass out, or-- or something, too overworked and too full of adrenaline and chemicals and the fucking moon to stay stable.
he doesn't throw up. doesn't pass out. he bends forward, resting his forehead on the gap between stiles' shoulderblades, nose against his skin. he breathes in and out, drowns in him, in his scent, in his presence, in everything that he is. his teeth itch and get bigger, his claws feel sharper, more serrated. his eyes hurt from how brightly they're burning.
he kisses the mole on stiles' opposite shoulder, beautiful and characteristic and so intrinsically stiles. he kisses along stiles' shoulderblades, up to a square of skin just besides his scar, clean and untainted and undamaged. he kisses more, kisses further, kisses the painful, ragged edges of what donovan did to him, because no matter how this happened, no matter who did this, it's still stiles, and it's still beautiful, and derek doesn't love him any less for it.
and then - derek drops to his knees.
his claws are out. he needs to be careful, when he squeezes his palms tight against stiles' ass. he doesn't waste any more time - doesn't have it in him to wait. he sets the flat, pads of his thumbs besides stiles' hole and stretches him open, just enough, and he darts forward, lapping a long, long line with his tongue from the base of stiles' balls, all the way up. he gets stiles completely, completely wet, breathing out against the soft, pink hole he so, so desperately wants to fuck.
he fucks stiles with his tongue in long, slow thrusts, as deep as he can get it. there's drool running down stiles' taint, dripping to the floor and down his thighs, and the water from the showerhead is spraying too far behind them to get him clean. while he eats him out, derek slides one of his hands around to stiles' cock, slowly circling his fist around the head and keeping his claws way the fuck away. when he jerks him off, it's - a little too rough, a little too hard, his grip too strong and his strokes too irregular, but all his neediness, all his want, all his desperation to just touch stiles and make him feel good - it's all so obviously there.
derek only stands up when his knees start to hurt. he moves closer, slaps his bare cock against stiles' ass, still hard. he leans forward to kiss his neck, an imitation of the way stiles was kissing him when he came. each kiss comes harder than the last, more frantic, and every so often, the razor-sharp edge of his teeth will brush against stiles too closely for derek to feel comfortable, and he'll freeze, set his lips back over his fangs, and he's kiss slower, steadily building back up in intensity until he forces himself to stop again. ]
Stiles.
[ it's all he's got in him to say. he drags stiles' name out like just saying it is the most sexually intense experience he can have, like-- like he's so unbelievably, critically turned on by who stiles is. his voice is deep and quivering and desperate, and derek moves his hands to rest on stiles' hips. he's less careful this time, the lightest, papercut of a scratch drawing a line across pale, perfect skin. not deep enough to draw blood, but maybe deep enough to smart.
he says his name again, helplessly grinding his cock forward, like he's waiting for permission. like he's begging for it. again, he says his name, almost like he's close to tears. ]
Stiles.