Title: Cacoëthes
Author: Sunshineditty
Series: Part of the No Regrets 'verse
Word count: 1,093
Rating: T for situation
Summary: Stiles can be utterly incomprehensible at times, but then there are times when Derek completely understands.
"You know, I used to compose odes to your eyebrows."
"You did what?"
"Your eyebrows were epic. They still are, don't get me wrong, but you've learned how to use the rest of your facial muscles so it's not as important to decode the secret language of your eyebrows."
"Are you high?"
"Maybe. Since I don't need to write poetry to your brows any more, I'll have to find something else to worship."
Derek moans when Stiles kisses his way south, lips and tongue and teeth making it very clear which body part he likes best.
Several heart-stopping minutes later, Stiles pulls back with a dirty-sounding slurp, the strings of pre-cum and drool connecting his mouth to Derek's dick. He thinks it's his favorite look besides when Stiles is splayed across his bed knees to chest and begging, or maybe as charming as Stiles on all fours, eyes dark as he glares over his shoulder and shouts "Fucking hurry already."
"Wh-why you stop?" Clarity of mind is impossible when he has a nude Stiles in the vicinity, though clothed Stiles is just as alluring since Derek is the only one now who knows what lies beneath. A sharp slap to his thigh, dangerously close to his bobbing dick, startles him out of his instinctive and completely rational red-eyed death glare and threatening growl at the mere thought of someone else knowing what Stiles looks like naked.
"Dude, mind back in the gutter please." The pout forming on those delectable lips is fascinating, though not as much as when they're wrapped around his dick. "You do realize you're saying this out loud, right?"
Derek blushes a little, turning his head away from the lamp on Stiles' desk so the younger male can't see it. "You're a bad influence," he mutters, serious despite the situation. It is absurd how much of his emotional health is wrapped up in one-hundred seventy pounds of fragile bones and paper-thin skin. The years have been kind to Stiles, stretching him into the shape of a well-made man, his mind sharper and more focused, an incredible asset to Derek as both Alpha and lover.
"I missed you too, Derek," Stiles responds quietly, all traces of levity wiped from his expressive face. "I know being away from me is hard, but its only for a little while longer."
Derek is forced into action, kneeling so he faces Stiles, and traces the scar bitten deep into his chest. The mark is Peter's claim, taking from Derek what he hadn't known he wanted or needed until someone else had it. Maybe the sentiment is from the playground, but it's true: you don't know what you're missing until its gone.
Stiles' long elegant fingers cover his, pressing hard, a silent acknowledgment of Derek's pain and endless guilt, yet also a reminder of what they have here and now. Their innocence is long gone, shattered beneath the weight of their actions and others reactions, but they still have one another despite it all. At one time, he hadn't properly understood or accepted exactly how important Stiles was in the grand scheme, so this moment with him is precious and meant to be hoarded as all things tangible must be.
The clash of their mouths is desperate and cruel, the heat of need and panic driving their baser instincts. Derek knows he should slow down, use blunt fingertips to open Stiles properly, but the wolf is in control, needing to impart his ownership of the slighter male so the world will know he is cherished and loved, adored and possessed. He is incapable of telling Stiles any of this and can only express the fury of his heart through the marks he leaves on the pale skin; it soothes something deep inside when he still sees the blooming rose of purple and black, knowing Stiles' werewolf biology should instantly heal it yet doesn't.
The slap of flesh upon flesh is obscene in the hushed stillness, their hearts pounding in tandem as they push one another to higher and higher plateaus of sensations. Derek's mind is lost beneath the primal instincts of a mating wolf, so he doesn't remember pinning Stiles to the carpeted floor with his legs propped over Derek's shoulders as he hammers into him, breath sawing in and out of his heaving chest. The chunk of flesh he loses to Stiles' canines is necessary, blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh given in holy fucking sacrament; if he could tear his organs from his still living body to feed him, Derek would and never count the cost.
Inevitably, however futilely they try to stave it off, they must sunder their union and come back to their individual bodies, lonely and heart-rending as it is. Derek kisses each inner ankle bone, laving the vulnerable arches, before regretfully pulling back and allowing Stiles to curl into himself again, though Derek's scent is now firmly entrenched beneath the skin.
He is fascinated by how trusting and accepting Stiles is, half-asleep despite the very real danger at his back; he wishes he had the strength to ask about the long-past days of Stiles' time beneath Peter's yoke, but Derek knows he won't be able to hear the tale without rage creeping into his muscles, clenching his fists. He will strike out at Stiles because he can't do it to Peter, jealousy a toxic brew he can't afford to quaff. Stiles is his in all the ways that matter, has always been his even when Derek hadn't realized, but he can't forget he didn't make him wolf, he isn't truly Pack.
Peter has already taken so much from him - Laura, a haven in Beacon Hills - yet the most hateful is how Derek constantly wonders if Stiles will grow weary of him and finally leave, resentful of the constant questioning of his motives and loyalty. He doesn't understand why Stiles keeps coming back to him, an Alpha in his own right with no need to bare his throat either literally or metaphorically.
"You're thinking too loud again. C'mere, the day is coming fast and you need sleep."
Derek snorts, glad to be shed of his weighty thoughts, and noses at Stiles until he resettles into the hollows and planes of Derek's body, the perfect complement.
"I would kill for you," he whispers into his lover's ear.
"I have killed for you," is the unexpected drowsy response. "I always will."
Derek sleeps content.
A/N: Cacoëthes is defined as : an insatiable desire, mania. Latin, from Greek kakoēthes wickedness, from neuter of kakoēthēs malignant, from kak- cac- + ēthos character