Archive of Our Own ^beta

A Wolf's Heart

He is half of my soul, as the poets say.

― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Derek watched as the carriage rumbled along the cobblestone street. He was nearly certain the boy was inside. If he could only get a little closer, he thought, his racing heart overtaking the rhythmic clippity clop of the horses' hooves and the creaking of the turning wheels as he crept forward. All he needed was a glimpse of the person who sat hidden behind the hood to be sure...

The carriage driver raised his whip as his other hand tightened on the reins. "Watch where you're going, you mangy cur," he snarled. The conveyance lurched as Derek twisted sideways; it was only his quick feet and sharp reflexes that allowed him to escape unscathed.

A flash of pale skin peeked above the collar of a cream-colored silk jacket, carrying along with it a scent that made something bloom, aching yet beautiful, in Derek's chest. He clutched the scrap of parchment in his pocket, then reached over the side of the carriage and shoved the paper into the boy's hand. 

He took off, ignoring the enraged shouts of the driver, as a smile tugged at his lips at the memory of the boy's surprised gasp.

*

"Are you mad?" Stiles seethed as he entered the tiny cottage with a bang. "What were you thinking?"

Derek couldn't help the grin that crossed his face. Stiles looked breathtaking. Even dressed in the stiffly formal satins and intricate brocades of the Institute, he exuded a wildness that couldn't be contained. "You came."

"Of course I came. I had to come so I could knock some sense into you." Stiles stepped forward, his amber eyes flashing as he brandished the note Derek had given him in front of Derek's face. "Do you know what they would have done if they caught you? If I hadn't been able to spell your words into something illegible?"

"I don't care." Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles and drew him to his chest, dragging the scent of him in with deep, huffing breaths. "It was worth it to see you again."

Stiles' shoulders sagged. "I can't lose you, too." He stepped back, the anger in his eyes replaced with desperation. "Promise me you won't do something so foolish again."

Derek knew he couldn't promise anything of the sort. "Tell me about your classes. I don't want to spend what little time we have fighting," he said instead.

Stiles gripped the fabric of Derek's shirt as if he were afraid Derek would disappear if he let go. "We're learning about runes in Deaton's class."

"Like wards and the such?"

"They can amplify charms or curses, and help in divination. Oh, and heighten the belief and skill of the caster, of course." Stiles let out a put-upon sigh. "We're supposed to find the one that exemplifies our magic by semester's end."

"A smart and annoying know-it-all?"

The jibe earned Derek a half-hearted punch in the arm. "I don't know why I like you."

"Says the person who could never leave me alone," Derek said with a smirk. Ever since Stiles met Derek at two, he'd imprinted on the older boy like a duckling. Their mothers had smiled knowingly at one another when the boys became attached at the hip; everyone knew that where Derek was, Stiles would be alongside him, and vice versa.

"Pfft. It was you or Laura. And you owned all my favorite books." Stiles' voice grew quiet as he loosened his hand from Derek's shirt. "How is Laura doing?" he asked, patting down the fabric.

Derek sighed. "She's working in Deucalion's kitchens."

Stiles stepped back, his jaw dropping. "Since when?"

"Since she turned seventeen and was of an age where her employers thought her duties also extended to their bedrooms." Derek could feel the air around them crackling with Stiles' fury, one that matched his own. "Thankfully, she's not working for Deucalion directly. She's employed by one of his betas. Kali."

"It's so unfair." Stiles said, his voice trembling with his conviction.

Derek could only nod. Ever since the fire killed nearly all of his family two years ago, he and Laura had depended on Deucalion's charity. It tore at his gut to be beholden to someone his family had despised, but he and Laura had only been thirteen and fifteen when they were orphaned, with no money and nowhere to go.

Sometimes, Derek thought about leaving Beacon Hills. To find a place where Deucalion hadn't yet sunk his poisonous claws into. Where he didn't have allies who he'd bought—or threatened—to be at his side. But Deucalion had heard the stories about a boy with a raw but prodigious talent for magic, whose spark portended a power unlike any other of his generation. And when Stiles lost the protection of the Hale pack following Derek's mother's death, and with Stiles' own mother gone and his father infirm, it took little more than a thinly veiled threat at his father's safety for Stiles to accept Deucalion's 'offer' to attend the Bardo Institute of Magics.

It wasn't poverty or a fear of the unknown that tied Derek to this place. Derek couldn't leave Beacon Hills, because that would mean leaving Stiles, too.

He reached up and pushed the hair off of Stiles' forehead, then ruffled it about. "You're too young to know so much hate."

"I'm thirteen! I'm not a baby!" Stiles said indignantly.

"Well, you're too good, then."

"I feel like whatever goodness is left in me dwindles the longer I'm in that school. They follow me everywhere, Derek! They act like I'm some precious vessel that shouldn't be tainted. Me! The person who never found a rule they didn't try to break. And I can't cast sleeping charms on my handlers every time we meet; they're bound to grow suspicious. If they discover what we've been doing… that I've been sneaking out to meet with you…"

Ice-cold dread trickled through Derek's chest. "Are you saying we can't see each other again?"

Stiles threw him an incredulous look. "Of course not! Only that we have to be more careful. Maybe we should see each other less often. At least, until I can come up with a stronger spell for my escape."

Derek swallowed the argument that rested on his tongue. He didn't want to see Stiles any less; the time they already spent apart was already weighing terribly on his wolf. But he knew they'd both be in a lot of trouble if they were ever caught. "Are you making a stronger sleeping draught?"

Stiles waved his hand dismissively. "I think I'm going about it the wrong way. The problem with casting a spell on others is that the inherent variability of the subjects affects its potency. But what if I were to cast the spell on me instead? It wouldn't be anything harmful," Stiles added hurriedly, as Derek frowned. "Just… What if I could become invisible?"

Derek let out a snort. "That's impossible."

"Well, maybe not literally invisible. But so much of magic hinges on illusion and the power of belief." Stiles peered up at Derek from underneath his lashes. His eyes were practically glowing, like the richest caramel in the late autumn light.

"You know what I like even better? What if we were invisible together? We could run away. Disappear."

"Now who's impossible?" 

"I blame you for making me forget all rhyme and reason."

Stiles opened his mouth, scrunching up his face as if he were gearing up for an argument, when a soft chime sounded from his cloak.

He pulled out his pocket watch. "I have to go. The sleeping charm will be wearing off soon," he said ruefully, then hesitated before he continued. "Also, I made something for you. For your birthday."

"My birthday's not for another month."

"Well, since I won't be able to see you—And no, do not even think of doing something stupid like trying to see me at the Institute. I won't risk that, do you hear me?" Stiles' voice cracked, in the way thirteen-year-old boys' voices were wont to do, except this time it was laden with emotion. He dug into his cloak pocket and pulled something out, and shoved it into Derek's hands. "Here."

Stiles observed Derek carefully, his cheeks pinking as he gnawed on his lower lip, so reminiscent of when he was a child and would wait for Derek's approval.

Derek opened his fingers. A slender rosewood pendant hanging from a silk cord gleamed against his skin. There were several symbols carved into its oblong surface.

"They're protective runes. Ansuz, for communication and spiritual guidance. Thurisaz, for the strength to defend. Raido, for safe travels. And Othala, for family, heritage, and tradition." Stiles turned the pendant over, his slim fingers pushing on a button that was hidden in the side. "Watch this: you slide this piece up and in, and to the right," he said as the pendant opened like a flower, the rearranged pieces folding in on themselves as they took the shape of a heart. The runes rearranged themselves as well, and Derek gasped as their curves reformed into a Triskelion, the symbol of his family's pack. 

"It is magnificent." For not the first time in his life, Derek was at a loss for words when it came to Stiles. He ran the pad of his index finger along the side, feeling a small gap in the heart's seam, and slid the top open. A small painting of Stiles as a ten-year-old sat inside the hollow. It was one Derek had seen before, only it had rested around someone else's neck.

"I… This is too much, Stiles. This was your mother's. You should have it—"

"I know what I look like. I don't want you to forget." Stiles' pale cheeks turned a blotchy red, and his eyes darted down, as if he had confessed more than he'd intended.

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles' shoulders and gathered him to his chest until they were pressed so close together he couldn't tell where one ended and the other would start. "That will never happen." Stiles was as much a part of Derek as Laura, bringing with him a feeling of belonging and acceptance that Derek felt in the marrow of his bones. The idea that he could ever forget Stiles was inconceivable. "This is the most incredible thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you."

"Remember. In case I'm not here to tell you," Stiles whispered, his voice muffled against Derek's neck and strangely wet. "Up and in, then to the right to open. To close it, you do it in reverse."

Derek couldn't have known it then, but over the years, he would gaze upon Stiles' portrait so often, he could puzzle the locket open and closed in his sleep. Each twist and glide of the wood pieces had felt as natural to him as breathing. As sure as the beating of his heart.

*

We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake loving him in silence.

― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Derek felt his mouth go dry as Stiles stepped inside the potting shed. "Wait," he said, once he could catch his breath. He took off his jacket and laid it on the muddy ground before Stiles' feet.

As Stiles had predicted, their visits had grown less frequent over the years; Derek's new job, the increased distance and restrictions, and Stiles' studies had seen to that. But while it had been nearly six months since Derek had last seen Stiles, he was often visited by Stiles in his dreams.

Derek's dreams couldn't prepare him for the physical changes that had occurred, however. Stiles was sixteen now. He was still slim, and his fingers were as long and graceful as ever, but his shoulders had broadened. He was tall—only inches shorter than Derek—and the muscles in his forearms and legs hinted at the strength of someone entering adulthood. Gone was the trousered suit of a younger boy. Now, the ruffles of his muslin shirt highlighted his neck and forearms, his waistcoat accentuated the dip in his waist, and his breeches hugged the long lines of his legs and showcased the curves of his—

"There is no need to ruin something so useful. It's merely dust and the earth. There are far worse things to fear." Stiles interrupted Derek's train of thought as he picked up Derek's jacket and handed it back to him. When he smiled, it didn't reach his eyes.

Derek's wolf snarled, enraged at Stiles' obvious unhappiness. He threw his jacket to the side and grabbed Stiles' hands. "What happened?" he slurred through his fangs.

"I can take care of myself, Silly Wolf. It's you I'm worried about," Stiles added, his voice softening.

"Laura and I are managing well enough." It was hard work, but Derek enjoyed being out in the fields. Finstock's farm sat far away from the city, and was bordered by woods. The solitude was welcome; Derek was never one for mindless conversation anyway, and Mr. Finstock was a fair employer, even if he was a tad eccentric.

Stiles rubbed his thumb against the pad of Derek's hand, then deftly turned his wrist and interlaced their fingers. "You know, it's amazing the things you can pick up when people think you're not listening. I'm learning about elemental magic this semester. Many of our professors are Druids."

Derek nodded, unsure where all this was leading.

"Magic is supposed to be about a balance. Druid magic, in particular, is often about protection. Druids are part of the land, and they rely on a relationship with the things around them. The elements, living creatures… they're sort of like natural spirit guides. But sometimes, that balance can be corrupted." Stiles took a deep breath. His scent soured, and a soft, sympathetic whine escaped Derek's throat. "I overheard Miss Blake—one of my teachers—speaking with Deaton about how that balance could be changed. Through sacrifice. Deaton disagreed; he felt that sacrifice was a darkness that would eventually beget compensation from the magic user. Miss Blake felt the sacrifice was compensation enough, and then she said she'd been able to control the elements without repercussion in the past through sacrifice alone. Not to direct or guide, Derek. To control. And that got me thinking: what if the fire that killed your family wasn't an accident?"

Derek shook himself from Stiles' hold and took a step back. "Lightning caused the fire. You saw yourself where the oak tree was struck," he said hoarsely. "Why would you suggest something like this now?"

"The fire was caused by lightning," Stiles agreed. "But it wasn't a particularly dry summer, and the weather was temperate. Even with the proximity of the tree to your home, it doesn't make sense that the fire would have spread so intensely or so fast."

Spots appeared before Derek's eyes. Suddenly, the light streaming through the small window in the potting shed appeared too bright, and he swayed as his legs nearly buckled from under him.

A pair of hands helped guide Derek into a nearby seat. "I don't understand. My family was peaceful. We didn't have quarrels with other packs."

Stiles knelt at Derek's feet. "I think that was the problem. Your mother was a well-respected alpha and your lineage is impeccable. Anyone would have coveted an alliance with your family. But because of their refusal to bow to certain pressures, your family could also have been viewed as a threat."

Derek closed his eyes briefly and tried to steady his breaths. "Deucalion?" he asked after a moment.

"It crossed my mind," Stiles admitted. "After all, he tried to curry favor with your mother and failed. And Miss Blake—well, the gossips say Deucalion has yet to find an emissary worthy of his pack, and that Miss Blake has long vied for the position. She also happens to be Kali's mate, and as a Druid, she can manipulate the elements. What if she started the fire? To prove her loyalty to Deucalion, thereby proclaiming her worth as his emissary?"

Losing his family had left a permanent hole in Derek's heart. It was an ache that could never be erased. The pain had dulled slightly over the past five years, but reliving the memory now, along with the notion that their deaths had been deliberate, ripped at unhealed wound until the edges were ragged once more. Derek hadn't realized he had been growling until he felt Stiles' hands rub soothing lines up and down his legs.

Derek scrubbed at his face. "If this is true…" The words trailed off. By the look on Stiles' face, the implication was understood.

"Confronting Deucalion with no proof would be a death's sentence. Let me do a little more digging. You know how good I am at investigating."

"What am I supposed to do with this information, then? I can't just sit here and pretend everything's fine, while—" Derek's jaw dropped, and he turned toward Stiles, stricken. "Oh, my god. Laura."

"I'm thinking they allowed her job to keep a closer eye on you."

Derek shook his head. "That's what I fear as well. Yet they've done nothing after all this time."

"You and Laura were young when the fire had struck. Your lives were spared because you were away. It would have raised suspicion if something had had happened to either of you so soon after the tragedy. But now that you're older, and time has passed… Well, I don't think it's safe for her to stay in Kali's home." Stiles' fingers curled against the rough fabric of Derek's trousers, and his scent grew tinged with desperation. "Perhaps it's not safe for either of you to stay in Beacon Hills."

"I'm not leaving you behind. You hate Deucalion as much as I."

Stiles didn't disagree. "You have no idea. He—I hate him with every fiber of my being. But I can't leave; he could still have my father conscripted if I do."

Derek knew that was the reason Stiles had enrolled in the Institute. "So let's run away," he said, for what seemed to be the hundredth time. "You, me, Laura, and your father."

"I want that," Stiles said fervently. "But our escape would be a blow to Deucalion's ego. He would do all he could to find us."

"So we do nothing, then?" Derek asked, unable to stop the anger from bleeding into his words.

"I just need a little more time. My magic… It's strong, but it's not enough—"

"You're not the only one in the picture, Stiles! Don't you think Laura or I would fight him with every bit of our being? Or your father, once you told him everything?" He couldn't understand why Stiles refused to tell his father about Deucalion's threats. Even more, Derek's wolf was hurt at the idea that he couldn't—wasn't allowed to—protect Stiles. "Why do you think everything has to rest on your shoulders?"

"I don't. But Deucalion has many allies, along with considerable wealth and militias at his side. My magic is the one thing that can make up the difference." Stiles stood, his fingers loosening the buttons of his waistcoat before tackling the ties of his shirt. He shrugged out of his clothing as Derek stared.

Stiles' milky-white skin was now covered in tattoos. The largest one, a pair of graceful wings, spanned across his chest. An unblinking eye sat at the base of his sternum; another fish-like symbol was angled down toward his hip; and a fourth peeked above the waistband of his breeches, although the majority of it remained hidden.

Derek reached out, his fingers gliding over the curve of the wings. Stiles' skin pebbled beneath Derek's fingertips, despite the summer heat. "They're beautiful."

"That was my first. I couldn't imagine anything being more important to me than freedom, protection, and escape." Stiles' voice, which had wavered at first, grew steady.

Derek moved his hand lower. "And this one?" he asked, cupping the drawing of the eye. "Is it wisdom?"

Stiles nodded, the length of his neck highlighted as he swallowed. "Also, power." He twisted a bit and angled his left hip toward Derek. "Do you remember when I had to find the source of my magic? My anchor? I'd thought for the longest time it was family. Thus, Othala," he said, pointing to the fishlike symbol with a flourish. "But while that was strong, and certainly powerful, I found another that was even better."

"A cheese toastie?" Derek arched his brow at the mention of Stiles' favorite snack as a child.

It was worth the eye roll he received in response.

"No. This." Stiles lowered the waistband of his breeches, unveiling the symbol that lay hidden beneath.

If Derek was left speechless before, the sight of the Triskelion stole his remaining breath. He traced the swirls of his family's crest and felt as the flare of Stiles' magic surrounded him with its warmth.

"Stiles," he croaked out. 

"You are my best friend," Stiles said, his voice trembling.

Something desperate, yet oddly triumphant, swept through Derek. "Is that all I am to you?"

Stiles lowered his gaze until his lashes brushed against the curve of his cheeks. "Don't make me say it out loud."

Derek cupped Stiles' chin with his hand. "Then I will. You've been at my side since I was four," he said, willing Stiles' gaze upward. "Although I've considered you my best friend for nearly all my life, I've known for quite a while that you were something more."

Stiles' scent bloomed, sweet with hope and a burgeoning arousal. "Really?" he husked. He hooked his hands along the sides of Derek's hips, and his heartbeat quickened as he licked his lips. His mouth was beautifully pink, and Derek felt his gaze drawn to it inexorably.

Stiles was young, and Derek knew humans didn't have an exact equivalent, but he couldn't hold in his secret anymore. "You are my mate, Stiles," he blurted out, his heart beating wildly as he awaited Stiles' response.

"And you are mine." Stiles breathed. "I told you that while Othala is a powerful rune, it is not my anchor. It isn't about family; mine or yours. My anchor—the thing that keeps me grounded while allowing me to fly—is you."

They grinned at one another, giddy with the confession of their love. Derek weaved his hand along the back of Stiles' neck and leaned forward, capturing Stiles' mouth with his own.

Their first kiss was as sweet as it was innocent. Stiles was clumsy, yet eager, and he surged forward, bumping their noses. But he was as quick a learner with kissing as he was with everything else, and it wasn't long before his movements grew confident and assured. Soon, his mouth softened, allowing his tongue to dart out as it licked its way into Derek's mouth; his hands gripped Derek's hips, drawing them close as he ground innocently against Derek's leg. The juxtaposition of his naivete and wantonness made Derek's belly fill with a slow heat, and he purred as Stiles writhed and mewled against him. The prickle of Stiles' magic intensified as they frotted and kissed, their hands wandering over covered skin, while their bond sang its approval. Derek grew so lost in the feel of Stiles under his hands, in the scent of their mutual arousal as it thickened in the air, that he nearly missed the sound of Stiles' watch chiming.

"Fuck," Derek groaned as he dipped his head forward in frustration.

Stiles reached down to shut off the alarm. The strands of Stiles' hair were sticking out haphazardly, and his mouth was swollen and red. He looked beautifully debauched. "Ugh. I don't know whether to be grateful or furious about the interruption."

"Well, at least your virtue is intact." Barely, Derek thought to himself unhelpfully.

Stiles snorted. "Virginity is a concept constructed to keep the illusion of purity at best, or to control another's behavior at worst. I don't care about such things. I am only glad we escaped being caught, despite the unfortunate timing.

"I don't want you to leave. But you should go," Derek said reluctantly. He brushed his lips against Stiles', then nuzzled his cheek, memorizing his scent and the softness of his skin.

"One day, we won't have to be together in hiding. I love you," Stiles said fervently.

Derek had dreamed of this moment forever, it seemed. But now that it had happened, it was nearly impossible for him to let it go.

"I love you, too," he said, simply. For now, it would have to be enough.

*

I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.

― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

The Alpha's spark had hit Derek as he was clearing brush from the field.

It wasn't empowering, or triumphant, or right. It was Laura's— had been— and Derek didn't want it. Never wanted it, especially if it meant…

He shifted before he was even aware of it happening. Derek ran toward the woods, the guilt and loneliness tearing at his insides as his clothes tore, too small now for his bulkier alpha form. He shouldn't have listened to Laura. He could have begged harder for her to leave Kali's employ; to trust Stiles' plan instead of endangering herself by trying to get information from within. It had been stupid, so stupid, to think they were safe, especially when Deucalion controlled everything around them. 

His legs were burning, and his chest grew tight with a pain that even heaving gulps of air couldn't relieve. Derek ran until he could run no more, then stumbled his way to a small, quiet lake. He sank to his knees and hung his head, unsure what he was going to do. No job was safe; he had no family left, no money to speak of, and no place to go.

He blinked back tears of frustration and anguish. When he saw the red eyes reflected at him from the surface of the lake, he lifted his head and howled.

*

Hands shook him roughly. Derek blinked open his bleary eyes, his entire body protesting as he tried to sit. It felt as if he had been running for days, but by the position of the setting sun, it had likely been hours.

"Oh, thank god," some muttered, before hitting Derek's arm.

Derek tried to focus on the figure in front of him. As some of the fogginess cleared, he could make out the worry in Stiles' eyes.

As well as the decidedly unhappy turn of Stiles' mouth.

"How did you find me?" Derek croaked out.

"My rune. I nearly doubled over when I felt your pain." Stiles' eyes darkened and grew wet with sorrow. "I'm so sorry, Derek."

Derek squeezed his eyes shut and took a slow, deep breath. He hadn't thought about what his grief had done to Stiles; he had only reacted out of instinct, fleeing as he tried to escape his anguish. Shame flooded through him, and he felt a corresponding flare of annoyance from their bond. 

"You can be angry and sad. But don't you dare feel guilty. I miss Laura, too, but she understood the risk. The last thing she would have wanted was for you to be Deucalion's victim as well." Stiles withdrew a small flask and held it to Derek's lips. "It's just water," he said. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth after Derek eyed it suspiciously.

The water was cool and soothed some of the burning in Derek's throat. "Small sips," Stiles warned as Derek drank more greedily.

Eventually, Derek was able to push himself up from his elbows to sit. His body felt like someone had thrown it into a raging river, left to the mercy of the currents as he warred between the heightened power of his newly found alpha status and his devastating loss. Everything was amplified, including his hearing, and he was soon picking up the sounds of horses and men in the distance.

"Someone is coming." He tilted his head, his nostrils flaring. "A hunting party. We need to go." Derek stood, fighting against the wave of dizziness that assaulted him as he did, and reached for Stiles' hand.

Stiles stood, then picked up a rucksack that had been sitting next to him and pushed it into Derek's waiting hand. "There are five phials of restorative potion in there. There's also some coin and clothing, and trinkets of moderate value, too."

Derek stared at the contents of the bag. It contained more valuables than he'd accumulated in years. "Where did you get this?"

"I saved here and there. And a lot of the students gamble for fun. I win most of the time; it hasn't made me the most popular person because of it, but…" Stiles shrugged. "It's not a lot, but it should last you a month. Maybe more, if you barter the things you can't use."

Derek's brain tried to catch up, but he became stuck on a single word. "It should last me—You're not coming, too?"

"I can't." Stiles' voice broke, and he turned away, pressing the heel of his hands against his eyes. "Change in plans, okay?" he said, looking up once more. "I thought I'd have a little more time. I don't have enough saved for both of us."

Derek dropped the bag onto the ground and took Stiles in his arms. "I'm not leaving you here. If it's a choice between you and me, you should go."

"You must. Please, Derek," Stiles begged. "My father is here. And I'm… I'm too valuable to Deucalion. He won't kill me. But he will kill you."

"You don't know that. You're always putting yourself in danger, Stiles." Derek's throat seized. "Look at what happened to Laura."

Stiles shook his head. "I don't have time to explain everything now. But trust me: I know Deucalion won't kill me. I'm sure of it. Listen to my heart if you don't believe." True to his word, Stiles' heart had beat steadily with his conviction, but then grew panicked and uncertain. "Go," he urged, as the shouts of men in the distance grew louder. "Take the horse I left at the far side of the meadow and run!"

Derek was torn between fleeing from a near-certain death and staying at Stiles' side. But Stiles had always been fiercely brilliant, and Derek had faith in his mate.

He gathered Stiles against him, his lips seeking Stiles' mouth in one last, desperate kiss. "I will find you again," he promised as Stiles wept openly in his arms. "If it's the last thing I do."

Ten Years Later

I am made of memories.

― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

"If your intention is to remain hidden, it would be better for you to mingle with the crowd. Your murderous glare is attracting an attention of the wrong sort."

Derek fights the urge to shrink even further back into the corner he's been occupying for the past half hour. It's bad enough he's been wrangled into clothing that hampers his movements, and that he's primped and coiffed within an inch of his life. He's also had to deal with the curious looks and unabashed interest of many of the guests, which only makes his scowl grow harder.

"This is a better vantage point. I can't find him if I'm half-hidden amongst the crowd."

"If Stiles is your mate, you won't need your eyes to find him," Boyd argues.

Derek gives Boyd a curt nod. His second-in-command is the closest thing to a best friend Derek has had—at least, in this new life. But even Boyd doesn't know Derek's shameful secret. That for the past year, Derek hasn't been able to feel his mate-bond.

The very existence of the bond had surprised him at first. Even as Derek had run from Beacon Hills—as his anguish and guilt and cowardice made it hard to focus on anything except the very act of surviving—it was his connection with Stiles that had given him the strength to persevere. It was a belief in his mate that never wavered, even as the days turned into months, and then into years.

Maybe it was Derek's own breathless declaration that initiated their bond. Or, perhaps it developed when Stiles inked the Triskelion on his hip, bolstered by the potency of his magic. Or mayhap it was ordained by the moon and the stars, creating a mate-bond so pure and timeless their mothers had recognized it from the start. Whatever the cause, the bond had only strengthened as Derek settled into his new identity, building a pack and gathering the resources he needed to bring Stiles back home, once and for all.

Derek never thought he would experience the agonizing pain of unexpectedly losing someone all over again.

He was so terribly wrong.

The silence that stretches out between them must be worrisome, since Boyd clears his throat. "Or you could head to the receiving line, as I believe he's entering the ballroom now." Boyd inclines his head toward the staircase where many of the guests have gathered.

Despite Derek’s irritation, he finds his eyes skipping above the heads in front of him, desperate to glimpse the guest of honor as the footman announces their entrance.

"Mister Stiles Stilinski. A recent graduated from the esteemed Bardo Institute with a Class A rating in Hermetic and Spiritual Magics, and a High Honors in Chaos Magic, and who is now affianced to His Grace, The Duke of Beacon…"

The footman's voice drones on. The rest of his words are lost against the rush of white noise that fills Derek's ears as he drinks in the vision that descends the stairs. Gone are the uniforms of the Institute and the practical woolen clothes of Stiles' childhood. A flowing, diaphanous gown swirls down to Stiles' ankles, the silken material seemingly alive as it twists and yields to his every step. He's still a study of contrasts: unconventional yet graceful, powerful yet soft. But there's a blankness in his gaze that's new, and Derek shifts on his feet, trying to find a glimmer of that familiar willfulness in Stiles' eyes.

His gums itch, and it takes everything in Derek's power not to wolf out completely when Stiles reaches the landing and Deucalion approaches. The Alpha Wolf slips a possessive hand around Stiles' waist, his fingers toying lazily with the belt of Stiles' robe, as if daring the flimsy tie to unravel.

Stiles greets each member of the receiving line with a slight smile that never quite reaches his eyes. As he draws closer, however, Derek can't help the flutter of hope that wells in his chest. He knows he looks far different since Stiles last saw him. He's wearing a mild glamour, for one, and he's also traded in his teenage, boyish naivete for an alpha's responsibility and physique. Still, he thinks Stiles would recognize him. Just as importantly, he believes Stiles' touch could reignite their dormant bond.

His nostrils flare at the heady scent of ozone and pine, and Derek's body is singing, his heart pounding as he prepares to take Stiles' hand in greeting.

"The Right Honorable Earl of Westerwolf!" 

Derek ducks his head as he's announced. His eyes dart up to catch Stiles' expression, his wolf preening as Stiles' pink lips part and amber orbs widen. Derek lets his gaze travel down the length of Stiles' body slowly, slow enough that it borders on inappropriate, as he catalogues the new ink Stiles has added, his desire for his mate igniting under the weight of Stiles' stare. Something niggles in the back of Derek's mind, however, and it's not until he's pressed his mouth against the back of Stiles' hand that he recognizes what it is.

Derek lets go of Stiles' hand as if he'd been burnt. He manages to straighten, despite his shaky legs, before turning rudely on his heel, uncaring of the outraged murmurs that follow him out.

*

"We're leaving now," Derek gasps out as Erica places a worried hand on his cheek. "Where are Isaac and Boyd?"

"Isaac is gathering our coats and Boyd is summoning our carriage." Erica looks beautiful tonight; it's her first ball, and Derek hates that he has to ruin her evening along with his own. "What happened?"

Derek lets out a mirthless laugh. "Everything I thought I had is truly lost."

Erica's eyes narrow. "Not everything," she hisses. She bares her neck slightly, and Derek jumps at the invitation, huffing in the scent of his pack as he flounders, desperately seeking something to ground him.

"Derek?"

The voice comes from behind him. It's soft and tentative, but its timbre is all-too familiar, and Derek aches.

He turns, not trusting himself to speak.

"I… I would recognize those eyes anywhere. Plus, the glamour that's spelled on you is practically worthless." Stiles strives for a lighthearted tone, but the break in his voice at the end gives him away. His gaze drops to where Erica is now gripping Derek's hand and his lips thin. "May I speak with you? In private?"

Erica steps forward. "I think you've done quite enough, you—"

Derek sighs. "Erica. That's enough." He gives her permission to leave, then turns back to Stiles, who, for some reason, looks nearly as unhappy as Derek feels. "Our coach has already been summoned. You have two minutes."

Stiles lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. "When I knew you last, there was not enough time in the world to spend in each other's company."

"You've known much more than me in the years since."

"That isn't fair." Stiles looks away quickly, his lips trembling. The music filters in from the next room, along with the chatter of the guests and their muted laughter. "Especially since you've apparently moved on as well."

"Wrong again." Derek smiles, and this time, he bares his teeth. "Erica is loyal, that's true. And while I'm not sure it's a concept you're familiar with, she's happily mated to another of my betas."

"Your betas? You… you have a pack now?" Stiles' eyes shine, and his voice sounds so hopeful, so happy for Derek, that Derek's nearly bowled over by the emotional whiplash.

"Yes, I have a pack!" he hisses. "One I thought you'd be a part of!" Derek claws at his cravat; his collar is too tight, and it's hard for him to breathe. Eventually, he loosens the top two buttons, and it's then that he registers Stiles' choked gasp.

"The locket." Stiles closes his eyes briefly, and the vase on a nearby table rattles. "You kept it."

"I considered it important once." Derek grips the cord, and for a moment, thinks about ripping it off. He shakes his head at the notion, then growls. "I don't know what selfish game you're playing, Stiles. But I want no part of it—"

"You may think I am selfish, and I would agree. But it's not for the reason you think."

Derek feels his shoulders slump. "My pack is waiting." He turns, warring with whether to lay eyes on Stiles one last time, when he feels Stiles' hand on his.

"There is a safe house. Here." Stiles opens Derek's hand and gently traces something over the palm. Derek feels the tingle of magic on his skin—Stiles' magic—as an address materializes in blue ink. The hint of ozone grows stronger before it and the writing dissipates, but he will not forget. "I'll be there tomorrow at two. Fifteen minutes of your time is all I ask. If you ever cared for me, please meet me. I beg you."

"I'll think about it," Derek says cooly. Although he knows, in his heart, it's a request he could never refuse.

*

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth.

― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Perhaps there is a subconscious reason Derek shows up at the safe house twenty minutes late. He'd spent a ridiculous amount of time picking out his clothes, dithering among the choices Erica had laid out, wanting to show himself to his best advantage without appearing overly eager. There's also a part of him that wants to send an angry message to Stiles; to switch the timetable to his own terms. And, truth be told, there's also a small part of him that secretly hopes Stiles won't bother to wait. He has a lot of questions, and he's not sure he wants to hear the answers.

The safe house is a small room tucked away in what were probably the servants' quarters of a modest but well-kept home. Derek knocks on the door. Stiles opens it with a relieved smile.

"The home belongs to Heather," Stiles explains as he ushers Derek in. "She's one of the few who dared to befriend me. She guessed I had a secret lover, since I never seemed interested in taking advantage of the courtship offers being thrown my way." He looked down at his hands and huffed out a small laugh. "We discovered our mothers were friends in school. Her parents offered me the use of the space, even though they knew they would risk Deucalion's ire."

Derek looks down at the small bed pushed flushed against the corner, the simple wooden desk, and the leather-bound books stacked on its surface. He catches the faint whiff of some other scents muddled under the dust, faint and older and human. Otherwise, the room looks and smells like Stiles.

He kicks off from the doorjamb and shuts the door. "Ten years later and we're still meeting in secret."

Stiles' smile is wobbly but hopeful. "Old habits die hard."

Derek frowns. His brain is telling him he should flee Beacon Hills. To cut his losses and return home. "Fifteen minutes," he reminds Stiles gruffly.

"Okay. You're right." Stiles sits down on a small wooden seat and pats the edge of the bed. His smile falls when Derek remains standing. "Last night, you accused me of playing a selfish game—"

"One which you did not deny."

Stiles takes a deep breath. "You're right, of course. But my selfishness lay not in what I did in the past, but with what I'm about to tell you. I can live with a lot of things. But knowing you don't believe you deserve every bit of my love, that I've always—" He looks down at his hands once more, worrying them back and forth. "I'm getting ahead of myself. I've always tried to protect those I love. Maybe my methods weren't the best. But they were always done with the purest of intentions."

On this, at least, Derek can agree. He knows what Stiles did to protect his father. How he had given Derek everything he had to escape.

"Our bond…" Derek fists his hands at his sides. Stiles is a mage. He would be in tune with a mate-bond as much as any werewolf. "You are engaged to Deucalion. You dissolved our bond. Didn't it mean anything to you?"

Something breaks in Stiles' expression. "Of course it did!" he cries. "That bond was what kept me sane after you left. It let me know you were safe. It also gave me something to hope for and made that fucking school tolerable." Stiles waves his hand as Derek opens his mouth to protest. "Yes, I loved the learning. I hated the politics of the place, and certain instructors who made my life miserable."

"If the bond meant so much—Stiles, I wasn't the one who destroyed it." 

The implication hangs heavy in the air between them. Stiles hunches into himself and twists the fabric of his tunic in his fists. "I'm sorry."

The ache in Derek's chest grows tighter. He had known, deep inside, that the removal of their bond was of Stiles' doing. But to hear his suspicions confirmed makes the pain of its loss that much greater.

"You erased my mark," he croaks out. You erased me.

Stiles looks up, the confusion in his expression sliding away once he notices the direction of Derek's gaze. "I suppose 'erase' is an appropriate word," he says, pressing his fingers along the line of his hip where the Triskelion once lay. "But the rune is still there. It's just… hidden. Muted."

Derek jerks his head up. "What? Why?"

"For both of our safety. Yours, especially." Stiles stands and takes Derek's hand and leads him to the bed, and this time, Derek follows willingly. "So, the selfish part of me wants to tell you everything," he adds as they both sit. "But I'm afraid of what you'll do once you know."

"I think you owe me the truth," Derek says quietly. "What I choose to do with it is my decision."

"You're right, of course. And it's a decision I fear because I know you so well." He holds up his hands as Derek scowls. "But yes. The truth. I owe you at least that much." Stiles slips his hand in Derek's and squeezes gently. "I never gave up on investigating the fire. I learned that Jennifer—that is, uh, Miss Blake—wasn't a teacher at the Institute when the fire happened. She became one soon after, about three months before I enrolled. But we'll come back to that later." He squeezes Derek's hand again, and Derek wonders if the gesture is as much for Stiles as himself. "I went back to your family's home. Or, you know… where it used to be. Deucalion had cleared much of the land. He'd designated the area as a preserve, with trails for walking and horseback riding. I think he knew people wouldn't take kindly to anyone rebuilding in a place where your family had so much history," he adds softly.

Derek looks down. Losing his family is a bruise that will forever ache. But the formation of his new pack has lessened the sting. "I hate that it's Deucalion's idea. But I think they would have liked that."

"I started visiting right before you left. I was more familiar with elemental magic and magical signatures by then, and with Jennifer's in particular. And her presence is so strong there, Derek. I can feel her in the roots of the trees, in those that were burnt to the ground and the saplings that have sprung up since. And there's something dark and twisted in her signature, and it's so strong where your house once stood."

Derek recalls Stiles' theories from all those years ago. "You believe it's dark magic. The result of sacrifice," he guesses.

Stiles nods. He slips his hand from Derek's to steady his jittery leg. "Jennifer had been denied a professorship at the Institute previously, but she was granted one two months after the fire. Where Deucalion is a member of the board, and a high-ranking one, at that."

"You said she wanted to be his emissary. She's not, is she?"

"Nooo." Stiles draws out the word with a long, shuddering breath. "She's not. But not for the lack of trying. It's because Deucalion has always had someone else in mind instead."

"Who?" Derek always found it strange that an ambitious werewolf like Deucalion didn't have an emissary. The right emissary would bring not only increased stability and security to a pack, but amplify an alpha's own powers. In all the years Derek has known him, Deucalion has shown no interest, never mind tried to curry the favor of anyone remotely worthy of the position, except—

The pieces fall slowly into place, each one revealing an entirely different picture that's shattering his worldview.

"Wait. Do you mean to say…?" Stiles' engagement; his enrollment in a magical academy where Deucalion had a foothold. Derek stands quickly, his eyes flashing red as he reels from the betrayal. "You knew! When you sent me away, you said you were too valuable to Deucalion! You knew back then, and you never said a word!"

Stiles rushes to his feet. He leans into Derek's space, his own eyes sparking with anger as he refuses to be cowed. "They killed Laura! You had just inherited her alpha spark and were beside yourself with grief. If I told you then, it would have been your death sentence. How could I do that to the person I loved?"

Stiles' voice breaks, and his scent floods with frustration and anguish. Derek steps back in an effort to regain control.

"I'm your—" Derek swallows. "I was your mate, Stiles. I wasn't there for you when Deucalion forced himself into your life. You didn't give me that choice!"

"I know that. And I'm so, so sorry, Derek," Stiles whispers. "But while you may disagree, can you understand why I acted as I did? When I discovered what Jennifer did and Deucalion's interest… Derek, my mother was a known magic user. After that incident in the marketplace, word of my spark grew. Deucalion was sure to have heard."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Derek had to smile. Stiles was stubborn and demanding, even as a child. When he was refused a sweet before supper at the market by his parents, he'd turned the butcher's display into a veritable candy shop.

"It was intriguing enough that he probably kept a close eye on me. He must have known how close our families were; it wouldn't be hard to learn that you and I were tied at the hip. When I was older and my powers grew…" Stiles' words trailed off, and his eyes were wet with his frustration. "He'd destroy anyone he viewed as competition for getting his emissary of choice. Our family's ties were enough. But if he had known we were mates…"

Derek listens with a dawning horror. "If what you say is true, Jennifer is your enemy in more ways than one."

Stiles wipes at his nose angrily. "It is a small price to pay. Since I am the reason your family is gone."

The hurt, the anger, the bitter confusion Derek felt over the news of Stiles' engagement is pushed aside as he takes Stiles into his arms. "You aren't the reason," he soothes. "By that logic, I'm as much to blame. But it rests solely on Deucalion's machinations, and his thirst for control and power." He gives in to his need and dips his face into the crook of Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply as he drags his nose along the delicate skin. "Don't go through with it, Stiles. Don't get married to Deucalion. I can keep you safe. I have an estate now, with plenty of room for you and your father."

Stiles curls his fingers along the front of Derek's shirt. Happiness bleeds through his sorrow, and he peers at Derek shyly from under his lashes. "You have a pack, Derek. An estate! Tell me everything. For all the times I've thought about you; wondering what you were doing, where you've been."

Derek kicks off his boots and sits back against the head of the bed, then pats the space beside him. He doesn't want to think about his motives too much, but when Stiles sidles next to him, pressing the length of his body against Derek's side, Derek's wolf feels content.

"I believe this will go over your fifteen minutes," Derek teases, smiling when Stiles huffs out a laugh. "It wasn't easy at first. All I could think about was surviving after I fled. I was trying to stay alive; day by day, and sometimes moment by moment. It was bad enough that I was running away from my mate. From everything I'd known. But I was also a new alpha; my wolf went crazy at times, in my desire for you, and my need to avenge Laura's death. Living in the woods for helped appease my wolf, but it wasn't enough."

Derek closes his eyes as the memories unfold. "I didn't want to sell what you'd given me at the time. Not because of sentiment or pride. Just… I would only do so if necessary, as my last resort. I headed toward the smaller towns. Found odd jobs here and there, on the docks, in the factories, and in the fields. Anywhere they needed bodies, especially if one was as good as another. I didn't stay in one place very long, as I made my way north and further away from Deucalion's hold."

When he opens his eyes, he discovers Stiles watching him with a soft expression. "That explains so much," Stiles says. "Our bond may have been new, but there was so much change in that first year. I felt so much turmoil. I didn't know if it was what you were experiencing, or my worry that was feeding into it." He gives Derek a small smile. "I'm glad you made it out of Beacon Hills safely."

Derek doesn't tell Stiles about the times he almost didn't. When another worker had discovered his identity and snitched to their avaricious boss; where he'd foolishly gone back to his room to retrieve the nearly empty rucksack, knowing Deucalion's men were closing in, because it was what little he had left of Stiles. There was no use in sharing that he'd been tortured and beaten after a hustle gone wrong, or that he'd gone weeks without food or a place to sleep. What's important is that he's here, now.

"Once I made it to the countryside, into Ito pack territory, the job opportunities grew slimmer. I did things I'm not proud of. I hid behind inns and ate the scraps of food they'd discarded. I gambled and used my heightened senses to win. I… Once, when I was really desperate, I considered selling my body," he confesses as heat floods his face. "The madame at the brothel was only too happy to have a young male on her staff. But when she demanded I give her a preview—so she would know what type of customer to send me, to know my talents were — I couldn't go through with it. I grabbed everything I had and ran."

Stiles lifted his hand to Derek's cheek. "You did what you could to survive. There is no shame in that."

Derek laughs wetly. "I suppose there was one good thing to come out from that. Three, actually. The madame sent her guard and two of her fille de joies to chase me down. Maybe it's because the sight of me hightailing it out of there was a reminder that they could, too, because when Boyd caught me, he didn't turn me in. Instead, he asked to tag along." He smiles fondly at the memory. "So did Erica and Isaac. And they haven't left my side since."

"They're your betas," Stiles guesses.

Derek nods. "Boyd is a born wolf and my second. I gave the bite to Erica, who you met last night, and Isaac, soon after."

Stiles frowns, and the bitter hint of jealousy catches Derek by surprise. "I don't know if 'met' is the right word," Stiles says petulantly as Derek laughs. "So is it just the four of you?"

"We were on the run for another two years," Derek says, sobering. "Plus, Boyd and I were busy trying to get Erica and Isaac used to their wolves. We couldn't have taken on another pack member without compromising our safety."

"So, how did you go from being a pack on the run to the Earl of Westerwolf?"

Derek lets out a long breath. "It was nothing heroic nor romantic. I saved the real Earl of Westerwolf from being shot at the gaming tables. He was terribly drunk, could barely stand, so I helped him home. He had no family to speak of; he'd lost his wife and son to consumption decades ago and since drowned his sorrows in drink. I think he wanted to join them; his home was in terrible disrepair, and there was a sickness to his scent. The kind that comes from plying one's body with alcohol and little else." Derek shakes his head. "I couldn't leave him like that in good conscience. I stayed overnight to make sure he was all right, telling myself I'd leave in the morning. But when the time came…"

"You were thinking about your own family," Stiles says. As usual, he's right.

"Even with my family gone, I had you— us— to live for. If I had lost you and them… Well, I'm not saying I would have done exactly as he had. But it's a terrible thing. To feel so utterly alone in the world. So Boyd, Erica, and I took turns visiting him." Derek rearranges his legs and sighs. "The years of drinking had already damaged his body and mind. He was human, and unfamiliar with werewolves, but I think he suspected we were something different since I was often siphoning his pain. Two weeks before his passing, he had summoned his solicitor and, unbeknownst to us, rewritten his will." Derek splays out his hands on his thighs, still in disbelief. "He left his estate and his belongings to me. I have no right to the title, but assumed it as part of my alias when we entered Deucalion's court. By the time we'd gotten the main part of the estate in a habitable condition, I was readying myself to go back to Beacon Hills, when—" Derek turns to Stiles, unable to continue.

"My god. The bond."

Derek nods. "I thought I lost you, Stiles. I was going crazy. It was Boyd who kept me from charging back here, half-mad. We called upon a few contacts and did some digging. And then I learned you were engaged, and to Deucalion, no less…"

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, for what seems to be the hundredth time. "I was in love, and a fool. And despite my best intentions to protect you, you still came into the wolves' den."

"I had to come back. I was prepared to let you go. But I needed to know why."

"I wanted to keep you away for so long. To keep you safe. But now that you're here, I find myself unable to let you go." Stiles rearranges himself on his side. His hair is shorn in a manner Derek hasn't seen him wear since he was a child. It makes Stiles' eyes appear large and luminous, but younger than his age.

Derek gives into his urges and runs his hand over Stiles' scalp.

"I hate it," Stiles whispers. "Deucalion keeps it cut short. He says it prevents me from being distracted by worldly things, to focus on my lessons. I know it's vain of me, but—"

"It's hair. Whether it's long or short, you'll always be beautiful." He bends down and presses his lips against Stiles' head; the short hairs are soft, tickling his chin. He thinks of something else to distract Stiles from that train of thought. "How is your father? Is he still a Runner?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Not for the lack of trying. He misses police work terribly, and perhaps it was foolish for him to stay active, despite his injury." He gives Derek a look, as if to say, What can you do? Like father, like son, Derek thinks. "He finally conceded to using a walking stick after years of complaining. But I still find him scanning the papers and handbills to keep abreast of local criminal activity."

Derek leans back and tilts up Stiles' chin. "I told you I have the room, in both home and land, to shelter you and your father. Noah isn't a reason for you to remain as Deucalion's pawn."

"But you are. Derek, the only thing that drives Deucalion more than winning is revenge. If he loses me to you, nothing will stop him from hunting us down and killing us all."

"So you're consigning yourself to spend the rest of your life with a madman?"

Stiles wriggles himself out of Derek's grasp. "No! I hate that he's dictated my life. And I don't want to spend the rest of my life running." He scrubs his face. "I want to spend my life with you. But I don't want to meet you in private, and you can't wear a glamour forever. I've been… Well, even before you came back, I've been thinking of ways to take Deucalion down."

Derek should have known. "I'm assuming it's more potent than a sleeping draught?"

Stiles sucks in a breath. "About that. Deucalion's not stupid. He knows I'm not marrying him willingly. And he didn't get where he is without considering all the angles." He shoots Derek a rueful smile. "He had Jennifer place a magical fetter on me."

"A fetter? What kind?"

"I can't cast a spell that would harm Deucalion or his pack directly."

"There's got to be a loophole. Right?"

"Theoretically, everything does, although some may not be worth the cost. I've been researching, of course. But the restraint she cast is deeply tied to my magic. It's possible that any efforts to undo it would destroy my magic along with it." Stiles reaches down and rubs at his hip ruefully. "I guess I'm all full of magical restraints."

Derek stares at the spot Stiles is rubbing. "You're the one who suppressed our bond, though. Does that mean—?"

"It's too risky," Stiles says, and his voice brooks no argument. "And it's not an easy spell to undo, either. Jennifer meets with me every week, and now that I've moved in with Deucalion…" He looks at Derek, anguish written in every line of his face. "I couldn't take the chance. So I painted over the rune with a tincture that would not only mask the symbol, but mute our bond. Perhaps it's no different than if I'd dissolved our mate bond completely, but I couldn't bring myself to break it."

Derek presses his hand on Stiles'. "May I see?"

Stiles gives him a tentative nod. He loosens the tie on his breeches and lifts the hem of his shirt. The area that once displayed the Triskelion is a smooth canvas of pale skin, and Derek reaches for it, holding his breath. Stiles' skin feels warm under his fingers, and he hears Stiles' heart stutter as he wills something to happen..

There's nothing. No tingle, flare. It's as if the bond—a representation of Stiles' anchor—never existed. 

Derek pastes on a smile and tries to hide his disappointment. "Your magic is as strong as ever," he says, pulling away. "If I can't feel it… Well, I'm sure Deucalion doesn't suspect a thing when you're together."

"I haven't been with Deucalion. He wants to wait until the mating ceremony to consummate the marriage. He believes it will make our bond purer. I guess that's one good thing about being engaged to a traditionalist." Stiles makes a gagging noise, and Derek feels his upper lip curling as a snarl works its way out. "Do you remember when I said I thought virginity was a construct? I believed that, then. I still do. But I also want my first time to be with someone I love." He glances at Derek, his eyes widening. "Not that everyone should feel that way!" Stiles hastens to add, "I mean, I've heard my classmates talk. About how incredible and fun sex is, and to each his own, because hormones and urges, right? Just because I feel that way doesn't mean—"

"Stiles, it's all right. You're not the only one who wants their first time to mean something." Derek undoes the top fasteners of his shirt and pulls it to the side, exposing Stiles' locket.

When Stiles reaches out, his fingers tremble. "But you said… With the madame. When you nearly had to—"

"I was twenty-two. I'd been desperate and willing to do just about anything to survive. And sex isn't viewed in exactly the same way for werewolves as it is for humans. It's a natural part of living; similar to our need to touch and to scent."

"I would have understood if you had, though. Especially as an alpha werewolf."

Derek shakes his head. "You're my mate, Stiles. Our bond was strong, even back then. Even without a formal mating bite. I couldn't do that to us; I had no desire to."

"But you're you." Stiles gestures up and down Derek's body. "You must have had plenty of offers."

Derek doesn't deny it. "I was uncomfortably familiar with my hand," he jokes, before mimicking Stiles' motions. "Also, I had someone at home who was better than any offer sent my way."

Stiles' face turns blotchy. "But then I went and destroyed our bond."

Derek sighs as he remembers his pain and confusion when the bond that had kept him tethered for years disappeared. "I was despondent, and then furious. But a part of me couldn't believe it had happened. I couldn't believe you would do that to me. To us. That's why I had to see you in person, to hear directly from you what happened. But that night at the ball, when I discovered the Triskelion tattoo was no longer there…" Derek pushes down his ire as he relives his shock. "But no; there's no one else for me." He lifts his hand and brushes his thumb along Stiles' lower lip. It may have been inconceivable after everything that happened last night that Derek would want this. Need this. But he's here, and Stiles is here, and after everything they've been through, he doesn't want to stand on ceremony. "Only you," he confesses.

Stiles parts his lips and latches onto Derek's thumb, wetting its tip with his tongue. It sends an immediate jolt of lust down to Derek's cock, and if he didn't know better, he would have thought Stiles experienced. As it is, the combination of innocence and desire is nearly too much to bear, and it has his wolf pawing at the seams.

"It's always been you for me," Stiles gasps hoarsely as Derek's thumb falls from his mouth. "We've waited so long, I need… I need you to…"

Derek kisses him. Stiles' lips are eager—demanding, even, failing to contain his gasps, and Derek shifts position, throwing his legs on either side of Stiles' hips as he maneuvers Stiles onto his back. They kiss for a while like this, with their hands roaming and bodies pressed against each other. The weight and heat of Stiles under him feels familiar, but not, and Derek takes in the differences that have occurred over the years. Stiles' body is that of a man's; the promise of his strength has materialized in the broadness of his shoulders and chest, and in the corded muscles of his forearms, now visible past the pushed-up cuffs of his sleeves. His fingers are still tantalizingly long, but they're dusted with the finest of hairs, and Derek nearly moans at the thought of them sliding inside him.

Derek's entire body sings as he pulls back from their kiss slowly. His cock fills and presses against the front of his breeches, and when he grinds down slowly he feels the hard line of Stiles' dick matching his own. Stiles' sinful lips are even plusher than usual, their tantalizing curves red and glistening with spit; his eyes are huge against his pale face, his pupils blown wide, and the ruddy slash of color along his cheeks highlight his delicate, ethereal beauty. His heart is beating rapidly, like the sound of birds' wings in the rafters, and the surrounding air fills with the scent of their mutual arousal as Stiles rocks up, chasing Derek with his slim hips.

Derek groans. "God, Stiles." He bends down to kiss Stiles once more, shuddering when Stiles grabs a hold of his thighs, then ruts against him. He wants every bit of Stiles; his wolf is begging to scent him, to howl and come, to rub his release into his skin. "The things I want to do to you."

"Do you want to bite me? Mark me?" Stiles cups his hand over the extremely visible bulge in front of Derek's pants, causing Derek to hiss as he gently squeezes. "Because I want that, Derek. I want you to make me yours."

Fuck. Derek takes Stiles' head between his hands and kisses him frantically. He licks inside Stiles' mouth, tasting every inch of him as he spears him with his tongue. Stiles kisses back with an equal fervor; the rhythm of his heart is fast but true, and the smell of his skin bursts with sweetness, the honey-sweet scent of happiness an additional layer over the intoxicating fragrance of ozone and earth.

Stiles presses his palm against Derek's dick. Despite the layers of clothing between them, Derek's cock throbs from the touch. They scrabble for the front of their pants, desperate to feel each other's skin without the fetterment of their clothes. Stiles is faster, and as he tugs his breeches past his hips and down to his ankles, his cock springs out, slapping against his belly.

Derek's fingers falter as he drinks in the sight of Stiles' cock for the first time. It's long and flushed a beautiful pink, less veiny than his own, but with the perfect head for sucking. He quickly shucks off his own trousers; despite its formidable size, his dick is hard enough to jut out beyond the nest of curls, and Derek can't help preening when he catches Stiles staring, his tongue tracing the line of his lower lip.

Derek curls his fingers around Stiles' dick; it's the first time he's had a cock in his hand that wasn't his own. The skin of its turgid length is velvety soft, and when he strokes it slowly, Stiles visibly shudders.

"I wish… Derek, I want to feel you. To have you fill me up."

Derek presses his forehead against Stiles'. Despite the haze of his lust, Derek knows from the ribald talk he's heard on the docks and in the fields that he can't take Stiles the way he truly wants to. Virgin or not, this was not something they prepared for.

"I know. I want that, too." He knows Stiles is smart enough to understand why they can't, but it doesn't make the longing any easier. "I'd like to try something else, though. If you'll let me." He watches as Stiles eyes him intently, his lover's face slackening with realization as Derek slides on his belly between Stiles' legs.

"Oh," Stiles says, his wonderment audible in his tone. His mouth parts, and his eyes squeeze shut as Derek takes the tip of his cock in his mouth.

Derek lets out a moan as the taste of Stiles bursts for the first time over his tongue. He's heard the stories from others, Erica included, about what it's like to suck another's dick. How some dislike it, or view it as a prelude to the main event. Perhaps it's because Derek's a wolf, or it's because Stiles is his mate. Whatever the reason, Derek finds that he loves it. He swirls his tongue along the spongy head, then adds a little more suction when he discovers it makes Stiles keen. He licks at the slit, tasting the drop of fluid that collects at the tip, its taste slightly bitter yet musky. When he takes Stiles deeper into his mouth and nearly chokes, he discovers that it drives Stiles wild; Stiles' hips buck, his movements uncoordinated and desperate, and it makes Derek do it again and again, until his lips curl around the root of Stile's prick.

Derek doesn't think he's ever been this hard in his life. He ruts against the fabric of linens, their roughness doing little to ease the ache he feels as Stiles grips the sheets above his head. Stiles' back arches, and his hips are making these swiveling, tiny aborted thrusts. Derek reaches up to still Stiles' hips; he's dangerously close to wolfing out.

"Derek!" Stiles gasps. When Derek looks up, he discovers Stiles watching him; his lower lip has caught between his teeth, and it blooms a dark red from where it's being pinched. Their eyes meet, and a surge of possessiveness flows through Derek at how thoroughly Stiles has come apart from only his mouth. Stiles is gaping, his mouth seemingly unable to form any words aside from a needy whine as his hands scrabble against Derek's shoulders. Derek licks a long, wet stripe along the underside of Stiles' dick, then wraps his lips around the head and sucks. He feels Stiles' fingers thread through his hair, pulling him tight as Stiles lets out a drawn-out groan and spills into Derek's mouth.

Derek drinks every drop of Stiles' release. He laves the tip of Stiles' cock with several swirls of his tongue before pulling up to his knees.

"Stiles," he manages, his voice hoarse. Derek pushes up the hem of Stiles' shirt, exposing his magically inked skin, and he feels his eyes burn red as his gaze lingers on the patch of blank canvas at Stiles' hip.

"Do it," Stiles whispers.

It's all the permission Derek needs. The blood zings through Derek's veins as he fucks into his fist, the scent of Stiles' salty-sweet release still vibrant on his lips and the need to leave his mark on his mate egging him on. Stiles watches him, his eyes heavy-lidded as he reaches forward, stroking the sensitive skin of Derek's inner thighs. The touch causes the steady thrum of desire inside Derek to ignite, and when Stiles moves his hand backward, his finger slipping to press against the space behind Derek's bollocks, Derek comes with a howl. He angles the head of his cock and points, painting Stiles with his come, then places his hand in the mess and rubs it into Stiles' skin.

"I'm sorry," Derek says, stricken as he sees the mess he's made of Stiles and the sheets. Even then, he can't help touching Stiles; bathing him in his scent.

"I liked it. Really liked it," Stiles adds, as he dips the tip of his finger in the cooling liquid and takes a tentative taste. "If you ever did something I didn't agree with, I promise I'll let you know." He snaps his fingers with a mischievous grin; Derek feels a brief zing of electricity against his buttocks. It's a warning of sorts, and he scowls as Stiles laughs.

Still, he can't pretend to remain irritated for long. Especially when Stiles leans forward and kisses him gently.

Derek turns onto his back, his wolf purring in this moment, and his heart and body content.

"How did you escape Deucalion's clutches today?" he wonders as he threads his fingers through Stiles'.

Stiles sighs. "Deucalion's ego will forever be his weakness. So, I appealed to the things that matter to him most." He loosens their fingers and turns onto his side, splaying his hand along Derek's belly. "I told him I needed to practice my magic so I could be a worthy emissary. And that I needed to brush up on pack lore and local history. Both increase his power, so he allowed it. Especially since we're nearing a full moon."

Derek drags the back of his nails gently along Stiles' forearm. "Why does that matter? That's we're close to a full moon?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Deucalion throws a party every month on the night of the full moon. He invites not only his allies, but his enemies. It's all for show; a display of his reach and power." His mouth twists unhappily. "He trots me out like a trained circus pony so I can dazzle everyone with magic." Stiles takes both hands and cups them in front of him. A small sprig appears from the curve of his palms; it grows, tiny leaves sprouting from all sides that slowly unfurl as a storm cloud appears above the tableau. Derek watches in amazement as the cloud starts to drizzle, while everything outside of Stiles' palms stays dry.

Stiles claps his hands, vanishing everything in that second. "So much of magic is based on illusion and the power of belief. It's party tricks, honestly. But it's a real crowd-pleaser."

"Not all magic is illusion." Derek fingers the cord of his locket, then strokes the wood with the pad of his thumb. "After all these years, you are still the boy I fell in love with." He sits suddenly, his body vibrating with determination as Stiles' hand falls to his side. "We're mates, Stiles. I won't sit by as you put yourself in danger for some questionable poison to take hold. And you're right; I don't want to run or hide from Deucalion. We're going to take Deucalion down, and we're going to do it together."

"My magic is useless against him. And while you'll always be my knight in shining armor, he's got so many people on his side—"

"We have my pack, Stiles. And your father, too." Derek stands and tugs on his pants, then moves to the washbasin and wets the hem of his shirt. He walks back to the bed and begins to gently clean Stiles' skin, making shushing noises at Stiles' protests.

Stiles shakes his head. "My father doesn't know what I did. I didn't want him to feel guilty, especially after all this time, thinking I'd been pressured into this situation because of him."

Derek stops his ministrations and rests his hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Give your father and me more credit. One day, you'll learn you don't have to take the weight of the world on your own shoulders."

Stiles turns his head and rubs his cheek against Derek's hand. "All right, I'll bite. What do you propose?"

*

There are no bargains between lion and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.

― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Derek knows how to mask his emotions. The years on the run, the hours at the gaming tables, and even the days spent under a spell that has altered his image have taught him well. Still, it's difficult to maintain a less-than-placid curiosity as he joins the audience gathered for Stiles' show. The full moon glows a silver-white, while the trees sway under the night breeze, their branches dancing along to the earth's song. Even from his seat, the thrum of something primal calls to Derek’s wolf. To stake his claim to his pack and his mate, and to avenge the family he has lost.

The scents that surround him are unfamiliar. Derek strains to pick up the hints of his pack, scattered about in the crowd. He shoves his hand inside his jacket pocket; there's a wrapped hard candy inside, and as his fingers curl over the covering, its crinkled texture proves strangely reassuring.

"Can you imagine a more magnificent night? " the woman to Derek's left exclaims. Her cheeks are rouged, bright red spots against the palest skin. Derek thinks she might be a banshee from the unmistakable note of detritus in her scent.

"A perfect one for conjuring ghosts," Derek murmurs.

The man sitting to the woman's left scoffs. "There are no such things as ghosts. My sources say Mage Stilinski was a middling student who skated by on Deucalion's good graces. It is more plausible to think he relies on trickery than genuine magic."

"Oh?" The maybe-banshee arches a perfectly penciled brow. "How so?"

The man's mouth drops, and his brow furrows in consternation, as if he's surprised at the need to defend his accusation. "I don't know," he admits.

"Well, don't let Deucalion hear you besmirching his fiancé, Mr. Harris," another woman titters. "Or else you'll find yourself in a disappearing act of your own."

"It is surprising that you are here. Since magic is tied in with belief," Derek comments.

"I believe. Not only in magic, but in ghosts." Several heads turn, Derek's included; he tries not to smirk when Isaac bobs his head vigorously. "In fact, I've seen the ghosts of those who have inhabited the lands around here."

Harris looks at Isaac dismissively and sneers. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. Lord Rhys, for one."

That name caused several ears to pick up and a number of people to sigh. Even Derek knows of the tragic story of Franklin Rhys, the handsome war hero who had survived the War of the Clans and returned to Beacon Hills, only to die at the hand of a spurned lover.

"And the Hales," Isaac adds.

"The Hales," someone says. "I haven't heard that name in a while. Talia Hale was a wonderful Alpha. Such a beautiful family."

"Such a shame," another remarks. She clucks her tongue as several others murmur their agreement.

"Didn't two wee ones survive?"

Derek looks down at his lap. He takes a deep breath as his fingers curl against the candy in his pocket.

"Laura and Derek Hale," Isaac supplies, and Derek is grateful that the conversation didn't spiral into a guessing game about who survived in his family. "And if I remember correctly, they weren't exactly 'wee.' Although they were children."

"That wasn't the only tragedy that fell on the family, poor dears," an older woman adds. "Their eldest daughter—Laura—had an untimely death as well. They say she fell out a top-floor window. Her neck was snapped right in half."

Derek grips his seat, his claws ripping into the fabric as the scent of excited curiosity fills the air. He can't help the way his nostrils flare as he tries to rein in his shift,

The banshee looks at him curiously. "And what about you, My Lord? Do you believe in ghosts?"

"In a world filled with magic and supernatural creatures, it would not take a large stretch of the imagination to think that ghosts exist. And if not in a non-corporeal form, at least in emotion."

"A fair point, My Lord. Albeit an evasive one." The banshee looks Derek over, and he wonders if the glamour Stiles created is fading as her gaze sharpens. "I guess we shall find out soon enough," she adds as she turns her attention back to the clearing.

The noise from the audience dies down into a hush as Jennifer leads Stiles to the center of the forest's makeshift stage. Even now, Stiles manages to steal Derek's breath. His cheekbones cut sharply across his thin face and his eyes are wide and luminous. While his appearance could come across as fragile and ethereal, especially under the light of the full moon, there's a power that coils around him, too. Unlike the silky gown he wore at the ball, his clothes tonight are more practical. He's dressed in a billowy white shirt that he has tucked into a pair of soft-looking but form-fitting breeches, and there are adornments, too. Metallic hoops glint from his ears, and there's a medallion hanging from his neck.

It takes every bit of Derek's control not to snarl his displeasure when he discovers that the pendant bears Deucalion's crest. The Alpha wolf of Beacon Hills himself sits several rows ahead; he's flanked by two of his betas, and tracking Stiles' movement hungrily with his eyes.

Derek takes a deep breath. He whispers a silent prayer to the goddesses above, then brings his focus back to Stiles. 

"Good evening," Jennifer begins. She, like Stiles, looks otherworldly under the starlight. Derek has to admit that the Druid is outwardly beautiful, although it is nothing more than a facade for the ugliness she bears inside. "The Empedoclean elements of antiquity are the fundamental building blocks of nature. While earth, water, fire, and air are elements to be revered, there are those who have also learned to command them as well. Although Mage Stilinski's strengths lie in the Hermetic and Spiritual Magics, I have had the pleasure of instructing him in Elemental Magic at the Bardo Institute. It is, of course, a testament to Lord Deucalion's influence and generosity that such an education be provided. Not only to people such as Mage Stilinski, but to all qualified magic users worldwide."

Stiles stands as Jennifer takes her seat. A nervous anticipation falls over the audience. Harris, surprisingly, is quiet. Even Deucalion seems to sit a bit straighter. Stiles' eyes dart quickly over the crowd, but when they land on Derek, Derek notices how Stiles' shoulders loosen as his chest falls in a slow exhale.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Stiles begins. "The Story of Beacon Hills."

He lowers himself onto a simple wooden stool; his eyelids flutter, his face slackening and expression growing blank as his hands reach toward a small mound of dirt at the center of the clearing. A sprig of greenery soon appears; it resembles the one Stiles held in his hand in the safe house, but as it grows, taller and thicker, its thin, green stalk stiffening into the smooth trunk of a sapling, Derek marvels at the sight.

It must be magic, he thinks. Surely no illusion can replicate how the sapling's trunk soon turns woody and rough. Or how the leaves turn green and huge, nor how the air grows perfumed with its sweet and earthy scent.

"It's the giant oak! The one in the Preserve," someone whispers. Derek knows exactly which one it is, too. He used to see it from his bedroom window; he'd spent hours with his family under its canopy of leaves, climbing its branches with Stiles until the fire took it out.

"Look!" someone else squeals, their excitement mirrored in the gasps and shouts of the crowd as smaller trees soon sprout up around the oak. Some disappear as quickly as they appear, replaced by several small dwellings. There's a haziness to the images, as if they were plucked out from the town's collective memories, and when a gray wolf appears, Derek feels the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

"Satomi Ito," he whispers, awestruck as the wolf morphs into an ancient woman with a long and silver-black braid. Too quickly, Satomi's image fades, only to be replaced by several more figures at the opposite end of the stage. They all hold a prominent role in Beacon Hill's history, save for one that appears apart from the rest. In fact, the captain's image is the one that doesn't disappear like the others, remaining hovering by Stiles' side.

"It's Captain Stilinski," the banshee observes, her tone bemused.

"I fail to see why we should care," Harris adds with a snort.

Derek turns and fixes Harris with a glare. "Magic is experienced through the caster and those around them," he says lowly, relishing the jolt of satisfaction that courses through him when the man flinches "Since this is the mage's interpretation of Beacon Hills, if the captain is his relative, he has every reason to be included."

"Well, at least Stilinski has the sense to include those who are truly important. It would be a terrible oversight not to include his future pack," Harris sniffs as a tawny wolf strides in from the center of the clearing. It is clearly meant to be Deucalion, which the audience acknowledges as the smattering of applause grows louder.

The wolf pushes up onto two feet, its shape shifting back into Deucalion's human form. He's clothed in the red and black colors of the Alpha's pack, and the symbol that's embroidered onto its cloak leaves no question that it's Deucalion's house. It would be a fitting ending, but even as Deucalion smiles, his chest puffing out visibly at the tribute, the applause around them slowly dies as another figure emerges from behind the large oak.

A murmur of confusion ripples through the crowd. "Who is that?" someone whispers.

Derek feels his throat tighten as Laura moves to stand in front of Deucalion's image. Her dark curls are pulled off her face, held to the side by a plain, wooden comb. The style also highlights her features: her pale green eyes, the sharpness of her nose, and the familiar strength of her Hale chin. It also happens to highlight the bruising around her neck, which is tilted at an unnatural angle.

"It's Talia Hale," someone cries.

"No, Laura," another person corrects as the noise in the audience grows. "Why is she here?"

Laura points at Deucalion's image, then turns and stares at the audience. Her mouth opens, her eyes pleading, although no sound comes out.

"Ms. Hale! What happened to you?"

Jennifer stands from where she is sitting off to the side, her face ashen. "Mage Stilinski! That is quite enough!"

"Let Laura speak!"

Derek watches Deucalion closely. The Alpha's shoulders have gone rigid, his expression sliding from momentary confusion to anger. He tilts his chin at the massive beta to his left—a big, hulking brute named Ennis with a lot of power but little else, per Stiles.

Derek stands and makes his way into the aisle as he points at Laura's throat. "She, unfortunately, cannot. But perhaps one of her family can."

Deucalion rises. "You are new to Beacon Hills, so I will excuse your ignorance. Most of the Hales had perished in a terrible fire. Laura suffered an untimely death; her brother died a lone omega. There is no other family to speak of."

Derek takes a step forward. "And I excuse your ignorance, as you have mine. For her brother is neither an omega nor dead." He smiles at Deucalion, then removes the candy from his pocket and unwraps it slowly, feigning a cool amusement before popping it into his mouth.

Deucalion's face reddens at the rude behavior. "While I might forgive ignorance once, I do not tolerate insolence. Especially in my territory."

"Better insolence over murder," Derek snarls, right before biting down on the candy. The taste of dark cherries spills inside his mouth. The effects of the liquid potion Stiles brewed for him are immediate, even before all of it has gone down his throat. Derek feels his skin pull and his bones shift as the uncomfortable mask of the glamour finally slides off. The transformation is complete when the medallion around Stiles' neck changes, its symbol no longer that of the Alpha house, but the house of Hale.

Derek doesn't need to hear Deucalion's gasp, or the cries that erupt around him, to know he's garnered their full attention. "I am Alpha Derek Hale," he says, drawing himself up to his full height. "The scion and lone survivor of the Hale pack of Beacon Hills. And I stand before you today, to accuse Deucalion and members of the Alpha pack of their murders."

The crowd erupts at the proclamation. Stiles slowly comes out of his trance; the shimmery mirage of Deucalion and the forest that he'd conjured disappear, leaving only that of his father and Laura behind.

Derek takes advantage of the uproar to make his way toward the clearing. Isaac and Boyd follow hot on his heels, while Ennis and Kali push people aside like rag dolls, clearing the way for Deucalion. Derek makes it to the front just as Noah is tossing a small pouch over to Stiles. He's grateful to set the next part of their plan in action as Deucalion leaps over the remaining guests in his path, landing in front of Derek on crouched feet along with a thunderous roar. 

"You pathetic whelp," Deucalion snaps, baring his teeth as his jaw lengthens and fangs drop. Even now, Derek has to admit the effect is terrifying, but he keeps Deucalion's attention trained on him and not on the two figures laying down the mountain-ash circle around them. "I should have killed you along with your sister before the fire was even extinguished!"

He lunges at Derek, who side steps him quickly, allowing Deucalion to collide head-first against the invisible barrier. Deucalion lets out a yelp of surprise; when he sees Stiles holding the empty pouch, he lets out a bitter laugh.

"You would have made such a good mate," he hisses. "We could have been so powerful together. But now you'll watch another Hale die instead." The wind around them howls as the moon drifts behind a cloud, its dimming light seeming to underscore the threat of Deucalion's promise.

"He was never yours," Derek growls. Deucalion's attention snaps back to him as Derek feels his beta shift coming on. The seams of his clothing stretch, then rip as he discards the tattered remains of his jacket. "None of this should be yours," he adds, gesturing to the land around them.

"And yet it is. And I will smite you down, just as I had your family before you." Deucalion chortles at Derek's anguish, his voice deepening further as he gives in to his alpha form. It's massive and grotesque as he springs from his knees. Derek leaps up to meet him; Deucalion is smaller, but he's driven by his fury, and the air is forced out of Derek's lungs as Deucalion gains the upper hand, landing on top of Derek and forcing him down.

Derek's teeth clatter as his head hits the ground. The pain blooms across his shoulders and his back as his nostrils fill with the smell of the packed earth beneath him. He lifts his head, dazed, his eyes snapping back into focus right before Deucalion pushes to his knees. Deucalion's right arm is poised above his head, its razor-sharp claws unsheathed.

Derek rolls. He's quick enough to avoid a lethal swipe to the throat, but he can't avoid the strike completely, and he howls as Deucalion's claws tear through the muscle and sinew of his shoulder. 

Deucalion is close enough that Derek can feel the spittle from his mouth; smell the bloodlust thick around them. He lashes out blindly, and fortune must be at his side, because there's a squelching noise as his claws sink into soft and tender flesh, followed by the scrape of skin and meat as it's torn from bone. Deucalion roars, his violent rage palpable as they both stumble to their feet.

The wound inflicted by the other alpha is left gaping and slow to heal, and Derek's shoulder screams from the movement. Deucalion isn't faring much better, however. Derek smiles grimly when he sees the gouges he's managed to slash across Deucalion's face.

Deucalion swipes at the wound beneath his eye, flicking off the blood in disbelief. "When I am finished with you, I am going to make you wish you had died along with the rest of your pathetic family!" he bellows, charging forward.

Derek pivots as Deucalion rushes by, then grabs the other werewolf by his shoulders. The momentum causes them to hurtle toward the ground, although the impact is softened when Deucalion lands first. Deucalion lets out a surprised grunt, and Derek takes advantage as he grabs at Deucalion's head and smashes it repeatedly against the ground. None will be strong enough to deliver a fatal blow, but Derek feels a vicious satisfaction with each strike as his wolf howls for revenge for a life lost and what could have been.

For his parents. For Cora. For Laura, he thinks, managing one more attack before Deucalion twists in Derek's hold.

Fuck, is all Derek has time to think as he rears back, unable to avoid the attack when Deucalion whips his leg around and lands a kick that catches Derek in the flank. The pain steals his breath, sharp mixed with dull, and Derek wouldn't be surprised if he's bruised some of his organs along with the cracked ribs. He pulls himself along the ground, his claws digging into the earth, trying to gain some distance from the other were as he wills himself up.

Deucalion is quicker to recover. He stands by the boundary laid out by the mountain ash, snarling as he prowls closer. But the marks Derek's left on his face are still bleeding, and Deucalion is turning his head as he's circling, as if his vision on the left has been affected.

Derek hauls himself onto his knees, his right hand digging into the ground behind him. As conniving and ruthless as Deucalion is, he's wounded and humiliated, and driven by fury. Deucalion can be a killer when needed, but he's always done better behind the scenes, by having others do his bidding. And right now, the Alpha Wolf is less calculating, more animal than human, and telegraphing his moves.

It's all Derek needs. He waits until Deucalion springs, then unleashes a fistful of dirt into Deucalion's good eye, temporarily blinding him. Deucalion's head swivels, using his other senses as he lashes out unseeingly, but Derek has already moved out of the way, spinning to the side before sweeping out with his foot to catch Deucalion behind the knees. Deucalion pitches forward, and an anguished, desperate howl escapes as Derek pounces, landing on Deucalion's back.

He grinds his knee against the curve of Deucalion's spine, then grabs at the hairs at Deucalion's nape and yanks Deucalion's head back, exposing his throat.

"I dreamt of this moment," Derek snarls, his voice trembling. "Of avenging my family and my mate. Of paying you back for everything you've taken from me and from others. But I've wasted too much of my life to think about you anymore." He raises his hand and unleashes his claws; he's not good enough to avoid the thrill that runs through him as Deucalion draws in a painful breath at the sound and the air grows thick with the smell of his fear. Derek rotates Deucalion's neck to the side, just enough for Deucalion to see who is acting as his judge and jury, then razes his claws across Deucalion's throat.

A wordless gurgle bubbles from Deucalion before he's choked quiet, the alpha-red light fading from his unseeing eyes.

Derek sheaths his claws. It takes a moment for him to realize he's trembling.

"Derek!" Noah darts in front of Derek's field of vision. His blue eyed-gaze turns flinty as he stares at Deucalion's lifeless form. The Captain had been adamant about being part of their plan, despite Stiles' protests, and the anguish he expressed upon hearing what Stiles had borne had nearly matched Derek's own. "Hurry," Noah urges as he breaks open the mountain ash circle.

Derek steps through the circle and quickly assesses his surroundings. While he was in the mountain-ash ring, his focus had been limited to Deucalion and trying to survive. Out here, it’s chaos, with people screaming and tumbling over one another to escape and a number of smaller fights scattered about. Boyd and Isaac are standing over a subdued Ennis. Derek spies Erica’s blonde hair, the glamour of Laura’s appearance well-faded as she fights Kali. While Erica fights with her heart, she isn't the strongest or most cunning of Derek's betas. To Derek's surprise, she seems to be holding an advantage over the more experienced were, until he realizes why.

Deucalion didn't have a family or a successor to pass his spark onto. With his death at Derek's hands, there's no more Alpha pack. Which also means the fetter Jennifer placed on Stiles is no longer effective. Derek searches for Stiles frantically, craning his head past the sudden sea of people in his way, when Noah grabs his arm and tugs.

"He's by the tree line. Hurry; he can't hold Jennifer back much longer."

Derek locks in to the two figures dueling near the forest's edge. For as long as Derek has known Stiles, Stiles has relied on his quick wit. He's a master of outmaneuvering others and going on the offensive, whether it's with his intelligence and his mouth or his spells. And while Stiles' prowess is a wonder to behold, it's easy to see that he's not attacking Jennifer like he could.

"Deucalion is dead! There's no more fetter!" Derek roars, hoping Stiles can hear him above the din as he scrambles past the oncoming swarm of the crowd, uncaring who's in his way

Stiles' movement stutters for the briefest of moments. Something stirs the air; the thrum of magic, dangerous yet delicious, tickles Derek's skin as the wind rustles the trees' leaves. When Stiles shifts, his face is filled with a grim determination. 

"It's over, Jennifer," Stiles shouts, dodging the branch that splinters from a nearby tree. "Deucalion is dead!"

Jennifer lets out a piercing wail that cuts through the din. She casts a spell that sends a tornado of debris whirling towards Stiles. "I was supposed to be his emissary!"

"I never wanted it." Stiles diffuses the attack easily, which only serves to infuriate Jennifer further. She raises her arms, and Derek feels it before he sees it: the unbearable heat, followed by the smell of ash and crackling wood.

"It never should have been yours!" Jennifer's face appears disfigured by the flickering flames, and it's obvious she's beyond reason. "You were supposed to be there with them. You should have burned with the rest of the Hales!"

The cavalier way in which Jennifer confesses to slaughtering his family feels like a knife to Derek's chest. And he thinks of how close Stiles had come to losing his life. That the only reason he and Derek and Laura had survived was because they were visiting Claudia Stilinski when she had fallen ill. He roars, barely aware that Noah is following close behind as he rushes forward. But before he can reach her, a thunderous crack rips through the air. A massive bough falls from above, pinning Jennifer to the ground and killing her instantly.

Stiles casts several spells to douse the flames. He's so intent on containing the damage that he misses the moment when Kali throws Erica to the ground and bounds toward him, her face twisted into a rictus of grief.

Derek moves faster than he ever has in his life, leaping into the space between Stiles and Kali's outstretched claws. Her razor-sharp nails slice into Derek's still-healing flesh, but it's not enough to stop her from raking her other hand down Stiles' shoulder. The wound is deep, and painful enough, to cause Stiles to buckle.

"Stiles!" Derek cries. He reaches around, stumbling back as Stiles collapses against his chest. As he lowers Stiles gently to the ground, he desperately tries to position himself between Stiles and the other were, trying to shield his mate's body as much as possible. He feels the searing burn of her claws on his back as she attacks, and as he turns his head, her eyes are inhuman and rabid.

Derek braces himself and hunches himself into Stiles. Even though Kali is now an omega, his battered body hurts, and he's not sure how long he can protect Stiles.

Several gun shots ring out, echoing through the night. Derek turns once more, his eyes widening as Kali stumbles then falls, black blood oozing from her mouth.

Noah tucks his revolver back into its holder. "No offense, Derek. But sometimes wolfsbane bullets have their purpose." His triumphant smile slides off when he takes in Stiles' wounds.

He rushes to Stiles' side. "Is he…?" Noah asks, swallowing.

"If I may?" A man from the audience approaches, and Derek growls out a warning. "My name is Alan Deaton. I was one of Stiles' professors at the Institute."

The name sounds familiar, but the man is too calm, too soft-spoken for Derek to trust. He hunches even closer to Stiles, who cracks a bleary eye open.

"It's okay, Protectivewolf," Stiles croaks out, patting his hand. "Hi, Professor."

Deaton nods. "Stiles." The look on his otherwise placid face could almost be described as fond.

Noah takes a deep breath, then lays a hand on Derek's shoulder. "Perhaps we should allow the professor to take a look, son."

Derek is loathe to separate himself from his mate. Especially when his wolf is practically begging him to tuck Stiles against his body and keep him close. He moves over, reluctantly, but refuses to let go of Stiles' hand.

Deaton crouches down and removes the tattered remains of Stiles' shirt, his eyes tracking over Stiles' now-bare torso. The runes inked on Stiles' body flicker, but they are neither steady nor strong. Derek knows it's not good, and he draws strength from his pack, who have since left their own battles to gather beside him.

Deaton prods at the gouges in Stiles' shoulder. "Mage Stilinski will survive this wound," he proclaims, ignoring the warning rumble Derek lets loose when Stiles winces. "But the drain on his magical energy is another issue. While Stiles will live, it is possible that if he can't replenish his magical reserves, his Spark will be permanently snuffed out."

"There must be some way—" Derek begins, at the same time Noah asks, "What can we do, Professor?"

"Stiles needs to conserve his energy. This is not the time for him to be physically or emotionally riled," Deaton says, and Derek grits his teeth at how calm the professor seems. "The strength of his loved ones—of his pack—will help. And I have a tincture that can remove some of the minor damage of Miss Blake's spell work. But overcoming their deeper seated, more lingering effects, is up to Stiles." He reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a vial. The liquid inside shimmers, a silvery purple mix.

"So, do you always walk around carrying magical cure-alls?" Erica asks suspiciously.

Deaton shakes his head. "Only when one of the most talented students I've ever had asks me to."

Derek squeezes Stiles' hand. That's his mate: always thinking, and one step ahead. He moves aside grudgingly as Deaton removes his jacket and re-positions himself by Stiles' side. When Deaton pours a small amount of the potion on a handkerchief, it glimmers with a mysterious promise.

"Wow," Erica says as Deaton gently massages the potion over Stiles' tattoos. It's like wiping away the film of sleep from one's eyes; the runes still glow unsteadily, but their color is deeper. More vibrant. Soon, Stiles' skin is lit, a live canvas with inky drawings that almost seem to move. Even though Derek has seen them before, he can't help but be entranced. From the noise Boyd makes—who is a stoic in the most tumultuous of times—Derek thinks he's not the only one affected.

Deaton repeats the steps. When he finally reaches Stiles' left hip, he frowns.

"There's something…" A furrow in his brow appears as Deaton pours more of the elixir over the spot and rubs repeatedly. "There's magic underneath here, but…"

Derek's hand flies instinctively over his pendant. "It's… it's our bond. When we were children, Stiles had my family's symbol inked there. He said…" He hesitates as his voice cracks. "I was his anchor, but when Stiles went to live with Deucalion, he painted over it with a tincture. He said he did it to protect me, but it left him vulnerable."

"I see." Deaton's observant gaze lands on Derek's hands: the one entwined in Stiles' own, and the one that grips the pendant. He stoppers the nearly empty vial and places it back inside his pocket, before holding his palm over the space where Derek's mark once laid.

"Mage Stilinski is talented. The suppressant he used is strong. But…"

Five pairs of eyes swivel and lock on Deaton.

"But—?" Derek prompts impatiently.

"But, Alpha Hale, magic always has a loophole. Though the solution may not be easy, as in life, there is always a second chance."

Epilogue

In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.

― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

In the spring before the fire, Derek’s cousins had visited from Vienna. They were sleek and polished in a way that had put even Peter to shame, stunning in their physicality and beauty. Derek had wanted to impress them so terribly. But he had yet to grow into his muscles and limbs, and was soon overshadowed by Laura’s displays of wit and strength.

He had been sitting alone, sulking by the great oak tree, when Stiles had approached, plopping down next to him.

"Ow.” Stiles grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. The back of it was red and raw from where it had scraped against the tree.

"Don't do that," Derek had snapped, pushing his hand away. "You'll only make it worse."

Stiles’ brows had drawn down, his entire posture radiating his embarrassment. Suddenly, his entire expression had gone slack. "Oh my god. How are you doing that?"

It was the first time Derek had tried to draw out pain from a human. The closest he'd come to doing so before was with Laila, his sixty-pound, one-year-old German Shepherd pup. He hadn’t wanted to confess at the time—didn’t want Stiles to know the action was almost instinctual. That he needed to protect Stiles. That he couldn’t bear the thought of his best friend in pain.

He’d tried to brush it off with a joke. “One of the benefits of being a werewolf.”

“But how does—?”

Their attention had been diverted by an earth-shattering roar. Derek’s oldest cousin Avery was partly shifted and showing off the length of his fangs. His sister, Alex, then somersaulted off a branch, landing on both of her feet with a flourish. Derek had growled at the display; he knew Alex was fond of the human.

Yet Stiles barely acknowledged her. Even after she had blown him a kiss.

“Werewolves are awesome,” he’d said after a moment, turning back to Derek with his incredible and much-too-intelligent eyes. “But not all of them can be as awesome as you.”

Long fingers now brush over the back of Derek’s hand, pulling him from the memory.

“A farthing for your thoughts,” Stiles murmurs.

“I’m scared,” Derek says, after a shaky breath. Stiles remains silent, allowing Derek to gather his thoughts. “I feel like… I know I should be grateful. We’re alive. I have a wonderful pack. One that’s grown by two Stilinskis.”

“No take-backs,” Stiles says with a grin.

“I think Erica would have my head if I ever considered otherwise.” Once Stiles had gotten over his initial misunderstanding and jealousy, he and Erica had grown as thick as thieves.

“But…?” Stiles prompts gently.

Derek lets out a long sigh. “But I don’t want to fail you. After all this time; after all we’ve been through…” He stares at Stiles’ hip. “What if this doesn’t work?”

Stiles palms the area with his free hand. “So it doesn’t,” he declares, after a moment.

Derek frowns. “How can you be so calm?”

Stiles lets out a soft laugh. “Derek, you know me better than anyone else. ‘Calm’ is not in my vocabulary.” He meets Derek’s gaze, his eyes burning bright with conviction. “Tell me. When you first learned about the Triskele. How did it make you feel?”

“Surprised. And proud.”

“And what about after?” When Derek gives him a quizzical look, Stiles lets go of his hand and gestures between them. “You know. When we were apart?”

Derek closes his eyes. He allows his mind to drift to a time when he was living from moment to moment. Where a mistake could mean the difference between escape or capture. When he nearly forgot why he needed to stay strong; when it was the thought of being with Stiles that kept him alive.

“You were always with me. You were my strength. My comfort. My anchor.” His eyes fly open. “But when the bond went silent—”

Guilt floods Stiles’ expression. “And what about now?”

Deucalion’s death brought Derek some peace. Not because of vengeance, although there was a bit of poetic justice in the way he met his fate by Derek’s hand. But because, for the first time in over fifteen years, Derek can finally be.

He cups the side of Stiles’ face. “Now what I feel is you. You are my mate. I know that with all my heart, despite the magic that’s muting our bond.”

Stiles curls up against Derek at the head of the bed. “For as long as I could remember, I was attached to your side. Everyone thought it was adorable. Our parents joked we were bond mates before I even knew what that meant.”

Derek runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair; the strands have finally grown long enough for him to do so. “Peter fought Laura. They both wanted to be my second at our mating ceremony.”

Stiles’ shoulders shake, and Derek can feel the ghost of his laughter against his shoulder.

“Even though I didn’t know the term, though, I knew,” Stiles confesses after a bit. “It was the way we knew each other so well. How we couldn’t tell where one of us started, and the other ended. And yes, your Triskelion kept me moored once I had it inked. But it didn’t make me feel anything new. Not really. It just… amplified things a bit.” Stiles’ cheeks flush. “Even after you’d left, I felt things through that connection. When you were anxious or content. Or when you were distressed or happy. I’ve been so used to experiencing things along with you it threw me for a loop when it was gone.”

Derek lets out a sad whine.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles murmurs into his neck. “I went back and forth whether I should do it for so long. I hated the idea, but I couldn’t see any other way.” He tilts his head, baring his throat in apology, his eyes glistening. “The thing is, the magic I applied? It couldn’t get rid of our connection completely. Because while it was the beginning of a bond—another connection between us—we never completed it. And now that you’re back, I feel our connection, the one we’ve always shared, stronger than ever. So, while I hope this ritual will work, it doesn’t matter. Because what we have will never be less than what we have at this moment. And there’s no one in this world who makes me happier.”

Derek takes Stiles’ hand and lifts it to his mouth. “Same,” he whispers as he brushes his lips over Stiles’ knuckles. “If given a choice, I choose you. Always.”

He dips his neck forward, showcasing the knot that holds the leather strap of the pendant in place. Stiles works it loose; the leather drags against Derek’s skin with a soft hiss, and when Stiles removes it, Derek feels naked without its familiar weight around him.

He thumbs the side of the pendant where he knows the latch exists. Its sanded surface has grown even smoother over the years as it reshaped itself under Derek’s sure hand. 

The locket clicks open, unveiling Stiles’ portrait.

Derek pokes at the edges sadly. “You were so young.”

Stiles audibly swallows. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

Derek’s eyes snap up. “Are you sure about this?” He searches Stiles’ face, looking for any hint of reluctance. “Maybe there is another way we can do this.”

“No, it’s okay. I want to.” Stiles sits straighter, his heart beat unwavering. “To combat the dark nature of the spell, we need a sacrifice equally strong. And what could be stronger than love?” He shakes his head minutely. “You lost everything in the fire. Yet your family forever holds a place in your heart. Just like you and my mother are in mine.”

“We’ll have another portrait made. This time, of the two of us.”

Stiles gives him a brave smile. “I’d like that.” He slides the miniature painting out of its shallow chamber and into the palm of his hand. “Ready?” he asks, after a moment.

The sun's rays slant through the window and highlight Stiles' upturned nose, his impish mouth, his inquisitive eyes, his pink cheeks. He wants to wake up to that forever. To see that spark in Stiles' eyes, even when they're old and gray.

Derek nods. “For as long as I can remember."

Stiles gives him a lopsided smile as he reaches for the two bowls on the nightstand, his cheeks flush with pleasure. Derek recognizes several ingredients in the first vessel, having gone with Stiles to collect them: the crushed petals of two roses; a ten-year-old lily’s stem; the scales from a butterfly’s wings; a honeysuckle-weaned Spanish fly; and crushed mutton bone. Stiles moves the second bowl next to the first and drops his childhood portrait inside, cradled in its bronze hold.

When Stiles uses a tinderbox to set his picture aflame, Derek flinches. He knew it was part of the ritual; Stiles had warned him previously. Still, it’s impossible not to think about how nearly everything meaningful in his life has succumbed to flames. When he recently visited his family’s land, it was difficult to recall a time where a magnificent dwelling filled with life and laughter once stood. What the fire hadn’t destroyed, the ravages of time and vandalism had, leaving only the sour scent of loss and regret.

The flame licks along the edges of the dry card of the miniature, the colorful pigments turning brown before disappearing into a pile of gray ash.

Stiles produces a vial from his vest pocket.

“Tears of twin rivers. One born from happiness; the other from sorrow,” he chants as he pours the contents over the portrait’s smoldering remains and douses the fire completely. It forms a slurry as he mixes it together, which he then adds to the first bowl. The contents thicken as Stiles stirs: three rotations clockwise, followed by one counterclockwise, and then four more in reverse. By the time he’s finished, the mixture resembles an opaque lavender paste.

Derek isn’t exactly expecting fireworks. But it’s strange to learn the antidote holding the key to resurrecting his and Stiles’ bond appears so commonplace.

Stiles doesn’t seem nonplussed by Derek’s observation. “The strongest, longest lasting love isn’t one that needs to be shouted from the rooftops,” he remarks. “The strongest love just is. Besides, the next part is where the sparks really fly."

“What do you mean—oh,” Derek says as his mate’s eyes twinkle. His heart races, thudding against his chest. 

“Well, we’ll have to break the fetter first. And to do that, I’ll need to get undressed. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Derek says, his voice hoarse. He stands in front of Stiles and slowly undoes the fasteners to the front of Stiles’ shirt. The fabric glides down Stiles’ arms, unveiling the beautiful line of his collarbone and his myriad of tattoos. 

Stiles sucks in his lower lip. His pulse is visible at the base of his throat, and it picks up speed as Derek’s fingers brush over his skin. 

“Breeches, too,” he croaks out.

Derek’s mouth lifts at the corners. He tugs at the fabric, his dick stirring at the sight of the pale, long lengths of Stiles’ legs as he imagines what they will feel like wrapped around him. His wolf is howling inside, too eager to mate and claim, so he folds Stiles’ clothes carefully, using the extra time to regain his bearings. By the time he’s finished, Stiles has retrieved the bowl containing the tincture along with a small brush. 

Derek looks at the brush and then back at Stiles. “Shouldn’t you be the one to do this?” he asks. “What if I mess everything up?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I may have created the spell and its countermeasure. But you, my love, are the link that’s needed to make this work.” He holds out the bowl once more. Derek takes it into his hands, staring at the contents with a little suspicion and a lot of trepidation as Stiles lies down and lowers the waistband of his underwear well past his hip.

“When you said you felt like you were waiting ‘forever,’ I didn’t think you meant literally,” Stiles teases as Derek huffs out a laugh.

Some of the tightness in his chest loosens following Stiles’ remark. Derek dips the brush into the paste; the tincture clings, thick and heavy, to its bristles. He joins Stiles on the bed, then runs his free hand over the blank skin over Stiles’ hip, remembering the mark that was once inked proudly on its surface. Although Derek is well-familiar with the rune itself, he can’t remember its exact size and location. The best approach, he thinks, is to cover the area with broad strokes.

It doesn’t take long for the paste to disappear into Stiles’ skin, despite its opaque nature.

Nothing appears after Derek’s made several passes. He’s trying not to show his frustration, especially when Stiles is watching so intently, his amber eyes filled with trust and adoration. But when he paints over the spot for what seems like the tenth time, the tincture doesn’t fade.

Derek frowns. He places the brush and bowl to the side and rubs at the spot with his finger. There’s a smudge in his skin, but as the paste is absorbed and the friction from his finger grows, Derek notices that the color that bleeds through the skin is not purple, but a pale gray.

A surprised noise escapes Derek’s throat.

Stiles squirms and raises himself up on his elbows. “What—?” He sucks in his breath. “Oh, my god. Keep going.”

Derek does exactly that. He paints larger swathes of the tincture over Stiles’ hip. With each pass, the Triskelion turns thicker and darker, and he traces over the familiar curves until they become an indelible mark.

Stiles gently wrests the bowl from Derek’s hand once every bit of the paste is gone. “You did it.”

Derek traces a swirl with the tip of his finger. There’s an energy there, something thrumming under the ink, but it’s difficult to know whether it’s coming from the rune or Stiles himself. 

“If this doesn’t work…”

“We’ve already won, Derek. You’re here. I’m with the man I love.” He reaches out and flexes his fingers, beckoning Derek over. “Now get over here so we can finish what we started.”

Derek’s wolf agrees, eager to move on to claim his mate and solidify their bond.

“I love you,” he says, his voice rough as he strips off his clothes. Stiles’ pupils grow large as he drinks in the sight, and Derek tears off his remaining garments and tosses them aside. He crawls onto the bed to help Stiles remove his underwear, then straddles his thighs. “I love you,” he repeats, cradling Stiles’ face between his palms before bending down and devouring his mouth.

Stiles tastes like comfort; like freshly baked bread, and strawberries with honey. But he also smells like excitement—like the earth when it rains, and leaves on a mid-autumn day, and the promise of lightning before it storms. His hands are as restless as his mouth as they rove down the planes of Derek’s back. When they reach the curve of Derek’s ass, Stiles grabs a hold and squeezes, then arches up to meet him.

Fuck. The slide of their cocks against each other is nearly unbearable with its delicious mix of velvety soft and hard. Derek shudders; his dick twitches as Stiles’ cock rubs repeatedly against him. Stiles lets out a filthy moan, then tilts his head up and begs for another kiss. Derek doesn’t give him what he wants at first; instead, he applies kisses along Stiles’ neck, his jaw, his cheek, until Stiles lets out a groan of frustration that Derek captures with his mouth.

They lick inside each other with the rough slide of their tongues, a push and pull before coming together in a perfect dance. There’s a heat that coils low in Derek’s belly that intensifies when Stiles breaks off their kiss to angle his head, baring his throat.

Derek’s wolf howls. He wants to sink his fangs into that proffered flesh. To brand Stiles with a mark of his own making, one that ties him to his lineage, his wolf. Yet despite the vulnerable offering, there’s also a strength in Stiles’ pose. It’s in the beautiful lines of his shoulders and forearms, and the sharp angle of his hip, and the defined seam along his outer thigh. Derek kisses each one in turn; works his way down until he’s between Stiles’ legs. He nuzzles Stiles’ balls, his eyes nearly rolling back as he inhales Stiles' scent where it’s the strongest. Stiles’ mouth drops open when Derek’s nose brushes against his taint; soft whimpers rain down from his lips as Derek nuzzles the sensitive spot.

Derek presses a kiss against the inside of Stiles’ thigh. They haven’t had the chance to explore each other’s body fully after Derek’s return, not with the disruption of all the pack alliances following Deucalion’s death. But now, back in the safety of his estate, with their nascent bond beckoning, he’s prepared to claim Stiles completely.

“Ready?” he murmurs as he reaches for the jar of oil.

“Yes. Fuck, yes,” Stiles sighs as Derek presses a well-lubricated finger against his hole. It sinks in with little effort, and Stiles face colors a bright pink, to Derek’s surprise. “I may have… experimented down there earlier today. So I would know what to expect.”

The image of Stiles fingering himself, or using a toy to work himself open, nearly causes Derek to shift.

“Next time, you’re going to show me how you like to play,” Derek growls as Stiles moans his agreement. Stiles inches up his hips, and when Derek’s finger sinks down to the knuckle, he adds another. Before long, he’s fucking three slicked digits into Stiles’ hole, rocking them in and out, slow and steady, as Stiles ruts against Derek’s hand and gasps. A trickle of the oil leaks out between Derek’s fingers, and on instinct, he leans forward, sticks out his tongue, and licks.

A garbled sound leaves Stiles’ mouth. Derek traces the path of the drop with the tip of his tongue. He’s heard the ribald tales from others in the past; how their lovers enjoyed feeling the wet slide of a tongue against their pussy or ass. The idea appeals to Derek’s wolf, as well. He relishes knowing his mate so intimately, to indulge his senses and claim him in all ways possible.

When he reaches the soft, furled swell of tissue surrounding his fingers, he scents the spike in Stiles’ arousal.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Derek pants, his voice breathless and nearly unrecognizable.

When Derek’s tongue breaches the ring, its tip sliding next to his probing fingers, Stiles arches his back off the bed and whines. The sound makes Derek preen, and he licks and sucks at Stiles’ hole, nuzzling the wet ring of muscle with his face and his tongue, fucking him with his fingers until he feels Stiles clenching around him.

Stiles grabs a fistful of Derek’s hair and bucks. “Fuck, Derek!”

Derek lifts his head. “Tell me, darling. Tell me what you want.”

Stiles grunts in frustration. His dick is so hard, it’s laying flat against his belly, its head red and swollen with a bead of precome gathered at the tip. “I need you. I need to feel you inside me.”

His tattoos glow, and Derek feels his eyes flash in response. He wipes off the slick from his face, then palms the globes of Stiles’ ass. When he lifts Stiles’ hips, Stiles brings his knees towards his chest, putting himself on display.

Derek grabs his prick and lines up the head against Stiles’ hole.

“Derek!” Stiles chokes out as Derek slides in and groans. Stiles feels perfect, with the way he clenches around Derek, tight but yielding, and how he drags his heels along the side of Derek’s thighs and over his hips until they rest on his waist. Stiles clings to Derek, but it’s hard to tell who’s supporting whom, because Derek is just as wrapped up in Stiles. Right now, Derek is gripping the sheets, his claws barely sheathed as he presses the side of his hand against the curve of Stiles’ shoulder to ground himself as he slowly pistons his hips.

Stiles’ breath catches. “Der—" he hiccups.

Derek was never the talkative one out of them both, but it seems as if Stiles is just as tongue-tied. Stiles’ eyes shine, and lips part to show a hint of tongue as he rocks up to meet Derek’s thrusts. His cock bobs, pink and perfect and leaking precome with each snap of Derek’s hips. Derek sinks all the way in, shifting so the wiry hairs at the base of his dick rub against the smooth skin of Stiles’ ass. He nuzzles the crook of Stiles’s neck and presses his lips, free of any teeth, against the place where he’ll soon stake his claim. 

I love you, Stiles, he thinks.

His control is already hanging by a thread. He doesn’t dare say it out loud.

Stiles knows, though. Maybe he feels the way Derek goes still as he breathes him in. Or maybe he hears how Derek’s nails rub smooth, then sharp, against the weft of the sheets. Or it could be when he sees the adoration in Derek’s eyes, his disbelief that he has this, a lifetime ahead with his best friend.

His mate.

Stiles nudges Derek’s head. “Do it,” he urges. “Make me yours.”

Derek’s fangs drop, his nose and tongue filling with Stiles’ welcoming scent. He rabbits his hips forward, Stiles’ moans egging him on as his movements grow progressively unsteady. The base of his dick swells, and based on the way Stiles’ scent changes—a flash of pain that slowly turns into pleasure as he wriggles against Derek’s growing knot—he knows Stiles is close.

Derek groans, unable to resist any longer. He positions his teeth just to the side of Stiles’ neck, careful to avoid the space where the blood flows strong, and clamps down.

“I’m yours,” he promises, then bites down.

White heat courses through him as his fangs sink into the tender flesh and their bond flares to life. Everything seems clearer now. Brighter. Stiles cries out, his muscles spasming as he clenches down on Derek’s cock, and Derek roars when he comes. His orgasm seems to last forever, his knot holding them in place as he fills Stiles’ belly with his seed. They cling to one another, riding out the waves of their release, before giving into their giddiness as they devour each other's mouths.

Derek’s not sure how he stays on his knees. He hangs onto Stiles, and when the last of his release is wrung out of him, he carefully gathers Stiles to his chest and rolls them onto their sides. From this position, the Triskelion tattoo is clearly visible. The swirls are dark and bold and healthy against Stiles’ hip—nearly as prominent as the fresh mating bite Stiles now wears on his neck.

Derek lets out a pleased rumble. 

“Proudwolf,” Stiles says with a breathless laugh. He traces the outline of Derek’s hip and up to his belly where the wounds Deucalion inflicted have since healed. “Although I’m jealous that I can’t leave my mark on you as well.”

Derek captures Stiles’ hand and brings it over his heart. “That’s because it’s already there. From the moment I met you, you've marked me as yours.”

Stiles’ contentment washes over their bond. He tilts his face and smiles, and when he takes their hands and places it over his chest, Derek feels their hearts beat together in a timeless tattoo.

Derek leans over and kisses Stiles senseless. Somewhere on the old Hale land, a leafy sprig pushes its way out of the scorched earth, in the place where the great oak tree once stood.

~Fin~