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The Solstice moon crests on the horizon, and Stiles wraps his warmest cloak around his shoulders, dons his shoes, and sets out into the night.
The walk ahead of him is long and arduous, and he’s never walked it alone. Within the hour, his feet burn with cold, sinking into the snow. Still, he forges on. The full moon shines brightly enough that even with human eyes, he can see through the trees and underbrush. An owl hoots, taking off from one of the branches above Stiles’ head, sending a fine cloud of snow tumbling down. Stiles shuts his eyes and allows the snow to settle on his eyelashes.
He shivers, wraps his cloak closer to his body, and keeps walking.
The ruins of the temple remain hidden deep in the forest. Stiles looks up at the stone columns, somehow still standing after hundreds of years, tall and forthright. The stone is weathered with age, the carvings buffed away by dirt and moss and the passage of time, but he can still make out the image of a rowan tree. Winding branches cascade up one column, across the crumbling edifice, and down another, a pattern that repeats around the entirety of the circular building. The lines have no beginning and no end.
His mother brought him out here many times as a child, sitting him on her lap while she wove crowns of wolfsbane and ivy. She sang songs in a language Stiles doesn’t have a name for, prayers and promises so old that there are no books to learn them from, passed down instead by word of mouth since the beginning of their family line.
His mother worshipped the ancient gods, their names long-forgotten to history, their temples all across the kingdom abandoned or destroyed.
All except this one in the small town of Beacon, forgotten in the deepest woods by all but him.
Taking a deep breath, Stiles walks into the temple. The moon and stars shine through the open roof, yet somehow, the ground inside remains entirely untouched by the falling snow. It’s as if Stiles has stepped foot into another world entirely.
A stream runs through the right side of the dirt floor, stopping at the other end of the temple walls but not going beyond them. The water drifts over the rocks as if it is midsummer and not the dead of winter. He leans down, dragging his fingers through the water, unsurprised to find it warm to the touch.
At the center sits the stump of an old rowan tree, wider than he is tall. His mother called it a nemeton, a symbol of the unfathomable powers wielded by the gods.
Legends say the priests of the new gods cut the tree down, leaving the trunk to rot. They took over the temple, building a roof to cut off the view of the sky and an altar in their gods’ names.
They drew no worshippers. Death and destruction followed them for the rest of their days, fires, plagues, and strife. None lived to see another year. The ceiling caved in and the altar decayed, leaving nothing behind.
The remains of the rowan tree outlasted them all, the stump unravaged by time. The nemeton’s roots still sink into the ground, pulling energy up through the earth, through the rolling water of the river. Bathed in the light of the full moon and stars, Stiles shuts his eyes, swearing he could feel that magic sparking against his fingers.
Stiles has not been able to bring himself here since his mother died three years ago. Fifteen and terrified, Stiles prayed at the temple every day, leaving the meager offerings of a child—a raven’s feather gathered in the woods, a rabbit caught in one of his snares, the best fruits from their harvest.
Still, his mother’s condition worsened. With every heave of her lungs, Stiles’ chest ached in sympathy. The cough turned into a constant wheeze, so every step between bed and hearth was a feat to be conquered.
By winter, she was bed-bound. She brushed her fingers through Stiles’ hair when he laid with his head in her lap and wept. He begged the gods to answer his prayers.
Death eventually comes for all of us, his mother said, as if she could read his thoughts. Sometimes, even the gods’ hands are tied.
By the time the first snow fell that year, she was dead. Stiles didn’t set foot in the temple or pray to the gods of his family again.
Stiles has wondered, time and time again, if this willful bitterness brought suffering to his people. Famine struck with no warning and no mercy. For three summers, their crops have yielded little, wheat wilting in the heat, trees bearing no fruit. His tiny vegetable garden remains barren. Even the hunters return empty-handed.
“We’ll survive,” his father said, dropping his hand onto Stiles’ shoulder. He dresses early every morning and makes the long walk into the town square, helping as many people as he can manage. He returns hours after the sun has set on the horizon, exhausted, hungry, and dispirited. People Stiles has known his entire life are confined to their beds, sick and starving.
They won’t survive another year without a harvest.
With this in mind, Stiles slips a dagger from beneath his cloak, the handle simple silver, the edges sharp. He drags the blade against his palm without hesitation, biting his lip at the sharp pain left behind.
He puts the weapon down, presses his bloodied palm to the surface of the nemeton, and closes his eyes. The language of the old gods flows off of his tongue, taught by his mother and honed with years of practice. He couldn’t hold an entire conversation, but he knows the most important words—how to thank the gods for their favor, to say good morning and good night, to make an offering. Summoning them requires sacrifice, his mother said, an act of supplication and desperation.
Stiles is very desperate.
He opens his eyes, and everything is exactly the same—the stream, the rowan stump, the moon and stars above. He drops his head, not bothering to hold back tears.
The scent of wolfsbane creeps up on him, soft and earthy, building until the air is saturated with it. Steam rises from the stream, filling the air with thick fog.
A low growl resonates through the temple. Stiles slowly raises his head.
He sees the red eyes first, gleaming from the doorway. Stiles’ breath catches in his chest as a shadow creeps closer, its shape shifting and bending, settling into a figure neither man nor beast. The creature’s body is covered in thick, black fur, legs bent at a strange angle, leading to long paws tipped with sharpened claws; long arms, hands shaped like that of a man’s, fingers thick and claw-tipped.
Stiles gasps as he looks into the creature’s face, long snout, bright eyes, pointed ears at the top of his head.
A wolf. His mother’s god is a wolf.
“Who are you?” The Wolf God asks, though his lips never move.
“My name is Mieczysław. My father took my mother’s name, Stilinski, when they married.”
“Her family built this shrine,” the Wolf says, and Stiles nods. “No one has summoned me since generations before your mother was born. Why have you summoned me now?”
Stiles struggles to think of the ritual words his mother taught him; they’ve flown from his head like a leaf on the wind, disappearing before Stiles has a chance to blink. So, he takes a deep breath and does what he does best: he speaks.
“My people are dying,” Stiles says, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The cut on his palm burns. “The harvest yields no food. The hunters return to the village with no game. It’s been the same for the past three winters. We won’t survive another.”
A rumble of a sound escapes the Wolf’s chest, like the rolling of thunder. “You wish to save your family.”
“No.” Stiles walks forward, approaching the Wolf as closely as he dares. The Wolf watches with curious eyes. “I wish to save everyone.”
“Everyone,” the Wolf repeats. Stiles nods. He startles as the Wolf moves towards him, feet making no sound, leaving no impressions in the dirt. “What do you offer in return for such a gift?”
Never make a deal with the gods, my little Mischief, his mother’s voice whispers in his ear. Not unless you intend to pay their price.
Unflinching, Stiles says, “Myself.”
The Wolf God blinks, the only sign that Stiles has caught him off guard. “What would I do with you, Mieczysław?”
Stiles swallows, hands gripping tight to the legs of his breeches. Not so fearless after all.
His tongue trips over the syllables of the god’s own language, but he manages to say, “Whatever you desire.”
The Wolf stops directly in front of Stiles. His clawed hand is twice the size of Stiles’ own, palm thick like the pads of a wolf’s paw, and surprisingly gentle as it wraps around his throat. “And if I desire to kill you?”
Stiles’ heart leaps in his chest. “If that is your wish, then I give myself freely.”
The Wolf hums, staring at Stiles as if he is a puzzle to solve. “Your heart did not waver,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb at the base of Stiles’ throat between his collar bones. “You mean what you say.”
“Yes.” Stiles’ lips twist into a wry smile. “My mother warned me it was pointless to lie to the gods.”
To his surprise, the Wolf laughs, a quiet chuckle that sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine.
The god’s eyes grow darker, a deeper red that somehow still shines in the darkness. His free hand slides down Stiles’ arm to his wrist, cups his hip, then slips below the waistband of his breeches. “What if I desire something else?”
Stiles inhales sharply; there’s no question as to what the Wolf means.
Heat settles low in his stomach, warming him through. His cock twitches. The Wolf’s nose flares, no doubt scenting his arousal. “Then I give myself freely,” Stiles whispers.
The Wolf reaches for Stiles’ hand, thick skin so very warm against Stiles’ own. He turns Stiles’ palm facing up towards the sky. The wound from his dagger disappears without a trace.
Stiles' head snaps up. He gapes at the Wolf.
“I accept,” he says, breath hot across Stiles’ face. “Shut your eyes.”
Helpless to do anything but obey, Stiles does.
A rush of air breezes past Stiles’ face, cold but not unpleasant. He flinches at the sudden crackle of sound echoing against the stone walls like bones breaking.
The sound stops. Stiles’ eyelids flutter, and when the Wolf gives no word to stop him, he opens his eyes.
He can’t help but stare at the Wolf God, no longer standing as a beast before him. In his place is a man of the same height as Stiles, handsome, dark hair framing his face, cheeks and chin covered in the shadow of a beard. Thick, bushy eyebrows stand out above red, hooded eyes, the only sign of his previous form.
Pink lips twist into a smile. “You appear surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
The Wolf smiles, fierce, flashing the hint of sharp teeth. “You would not be able to take me in my wolf form.”
Take him, Stiles thinks. Another shudder winds down his spine, making the Wolf smirk. “I think I would have taken you just fine.”
He laughs and the sound is brighter than Stiles would have expected, curling around him like a spring wind. “So brave,” the Wolf teases. He lets go of Stiles’ hand, pressing their bodies close, and Stiles blushes when he realizes the Wolf is naked—of course he is, where would he have kept his clothes? But he is a god, couldn’t he just create clothes out of thin air?
“I can practically hear your thoughts spinning in your head.” He strokes a thumb down the front of Stiles’ throat, growling when Stiles tilts his head to the side. “You’re nervous.”
“I’ve never done this before,” Stiles blurts out, cursing his traitorous mouth. The Wolf’s thumb stops moving. Stiles risks a glance up at his face, red eyes wide and wondering.
“You’re untouched?”
Stiles’ mouth works around the words he wants to say. He settles on, “By someone else, yes.”
The Wolf curses under his breath, more sound than language, a guttural syllable Stiles could never hope to imitate. “Yet, you’re still willing.” Stiles nods, even though it wasn’t a question. “You surprise me, Mieczysław.”
“Stiles,” he says, and the Wolf cants his head. “Everyone calls me Stiles.”
“Then Stiles you shall be.”
He clears his throat. “If I’m offering myself to you, perhaps you could tell me your name.”
“Perhaps.” The Wolf smiles and leans closer still, body pressed against Stiles from groin to chest. “Or perhaps I want to hear you worship me as a god for the rest of the night.”
Stiles almost bites through his tongue when the Wolf rolls his hips against Stiles’ cock, sending stars bursting behind his eyes. “If that is your wish,” he rasps out.
The pad of his thumb rubs across Stiles’ jaw. The sound that leaves his lips is a howl on the wind, dark and graveled like stone rubbing against stone.
“I’m going to be honest – I have no idea how to even begin to pronounce that.” He winces, worried that he’s just insulted a god, well done, Stiles. If his mother was here, she would—
Stand back with silent amusement and watch Stiles attempt to dig himself out of an early grave, probably.
The Wolf laughs, grin widening when Stiles slumps with relief. “You could not pronounce my name with a human mouth if you tried,” he whispers, thumb brushing across Stiles’ lips. He tilts his head down. “The closest in your tongue is Derek. You may call me that.”
“Derek,” Stiles breathes, and their lips meet.
Stiles arches up onto his toes, arms wrapped tightly around Derek’s shoulders. He returns the kiss, uncoordinated.
Derek pulls away for a moment, rucking up Stiles’ shirt to drag the tips of his fingers up and down his sides. "Slowly,” Derek murmurs, his smile fond but with a wicked edge. He unbuttons Stiles’ cloak, letting it fall to the ground. “We have all night.”
Stiles moans, cheeks flushing at the wanton sound. Derek chuckles, guiding him down onto the soft grass. He cups Stiles’ face and leans in. Stiles shudders at the touch of Derek’s lips against his, syrup slow and just as sweet.
Then, Derek nips at his lips, and Stiles opens his mouth to his tongue, body curving towards Derek, hands reaching for his waist.
A rumbling sound escapes Derek’s throat. He pulls far enough away that Stiles’ fingers clench around empty air. He whines.
Derek kisses the corner of his mouth. “I am not going anywhere. But you do not get to touch me until I say so.”
Stiles curses, feeling as if he might burst into flames. Derek smirks down at him, dropping kiss after wet, open-mouthed kiss against Stiles’ cheek. “You like that. Having to obey me.”
“Don’t really—” Stiles gasps when Derek drags his teeth along the curve of his jaw, “—have a choice.”
He leans back with a frown, hands lightly framing Stiles’ waist over his shirt. The glow of his eyes fades. “You always have a choice.”
Stiles blinks. “What?”
“Do you want this?”
Stiles inhales sharply. He’s barely able to breathe past lungs gone tight with apprehension. “Yes. Of course, I want this.” His hands flutter from near Derek’s knee to his own lap, unsure where to land. “Do you want this?” he asks, feeling foolish. As if Derek couldn’t disappear into the ether if he didn’t want this.
Derek’s thumb rubs circles into his hip. His skin prickles with sensation even through the material of his shirt.
“You are the most beautiful human I have ever seen,” Derek says.
Stiles lowers his eyes, cheeks burning red. He scoffs, “You must not have seen many humans.”
Derek grips Stiles’ chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. Stiles’ heart skips a beat. “I have seen entire civilizations rise and fall. I’ve seen more humans than you can fathom.”
“That still isn’t an answer,” Stiles says when he manages to find his voice.
Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles smirks at the very human gesture. “My statement still stands. You are beautiful. I would be honored to lie with you.” He shakes his head. “I’m not asking if you want this for my own comfort, but for yours.”
Stiles’ brow furrows. “I don’t understand. My village—my family, they—“
“Their survival would still be ensured. I swear it.”
Stiles’ jaw drops open. Derek presses two fingers to the underside of his chin, closing his mouth.
“What?”
“The gods don’t back out on their promises.”
“Yes, I know,” Stiles rushes to say—questioning the integrity of any god, nevermind one who holds the fate of Beacon in his hands, is an egregious sin. “But—why? I haven’t given anything to you in return.”
Derek trails his finger down to the outside of Stiles’ thigh. “You were willing to sacrifice yourself for your people. You still are.”
“Yes,” Stiles says; if Derek changes his mind and demands his life instead of his body, Stiles would offer it up in a heartbeat.
“Your devotion, your loyalty—that is more of a gift to me than your body, Stiles.”
“I feel so honored. And possibly insulted.”
Derek’s lips lift into a smile.
“You’re serious,” Stiles says, awe and disbelief coloring his voice.
“Yes,” Derek says firmly. “Now, answer me: Do you want this?”
Stiles looks away to the rolling stream and considers his options. He could leave now, go home to his father and his bed, and still be confident that Derek would keep his promise by morning.
Or, he could stay, for the simple reason that he wants to. This isn’t being required of him, and that baffling yet meaningful fact releases tension in his body Stiles didn’t even realize he was holding. He wants to give himself over to Derek’s hands and his will. He wants to let Derek take him.
The thought sends a bolt of desire straight to his cock. Knowing Derek will hear the truth in his heartbeat, he answers: “Yes.”
Derek groans, grips his face in his hands, and kisses him, wild and almost vicious.
He pulls back long enough to tug Stiles’ shirt over his head. He speaks with his mouth dragging against Stiles’ skin. “I am going to kiss every single one of these beauty marks before the night is out.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles chokes out.
“I thought I told you to call me Derek.” He glances at Stiles, eyes shining with mirth.
Stiles laughs, surprised at the affection taking root in his chest. “I never would have thought a deity could sound so ridiculous. And yet.”
Derek tips Stiles onto his back. Stiles takes the opportunity to toe off his boots. “Is that how you speak to the god who has granted you favor?”
“I—” The words he was going to say get stuck in his throat and die when Derek mouths down his chest.
He nips at the skin over Stiles’ ribs. “Did you say something?”
“No,” Stiles rasps. “Nothing.”
“I didn’t think so.” He grasps Stiles’ wrist when he raises his hand to Derek’s hip. “What did I tell you, Stiles?”
His brain, high on pleasure, takes a moment to come back down to earth. “Not to touch you?”
Derek presses his wrists into the ground at Stiles’ sides. “Then keep your hands down. Or else I will tie them down.”
It’s meant to be a threat, but Stiles jolts at the burst of electricity that lights up his skin so every inch of him hums with warmth.
A growl builds in Derek’s throat. His eyes darken, a shade of red that Stiles doesn’t have a name for. He yanks at Stiles’ breeches, pulls them over his hips, and down his legs. He throws them to the side, leaving Stiles fully bared to another person for the first time.
Derek’s gaze feels like a living, breathing thing as he trails his eyes down the length of Stiles’ body and back up again.
Stiles fidgets, unable to keep still. “Still think I’m beautiful?” he asks, attempting to jest and falling wide off the mark. He feels exposed in more ways than one, like one misplaced word could destroy him completely.
“Yes,” Derek says. His touch is almost reverent as he trails his hands from Stiles’ shoulders to his chest. Stiles jerks as his palms brush over his nipples, but Derek doesn’t pay them any extra attention. He caresses his hands over Stiles’ ribs, down his abdomen to his stomach, brushing over his hips and the tip of his cock before skating down from thighs to toes. He curls his fingers around Stiles’ ankles, returning up past the backs of his knees and thighs, over his ass, and up the center of his back, leaving Stiles shaking with want.
When Derek reaches his neck, he trades fingers for lips. He follows the same path with his tongue, making good on his promise to kiss each and every mole on Stiles’ body.
Stiles feels like he’s the one being worshipped.
“Derek,” Stiles whimpers, throwing his head back with a wordless groan when Derek’s mouth wraps around his cock. He’s never felt anything like it before, so different from when he strokes himself with his hands—wet heat and an almost scalding warmth, and Stiles can’t help but arch closer.
Derek pulls away with a wet sound, and Stiles jerks at the first touch at his hole. Derek’s fingers are suspiciously slick.
He leans up on his elbows to look at Derek with a raised brow. “Do you just carry oil around with you everywhere you go?”
“God,” Derek says and shrugs as if that’s all the explanation required.
Stiles supposes it is. He bends one of his legs, shifting his weight to his right hip. “Should I turn over?”
“No,” Derek growls, more wolf than man. Stiles’ eyes widen.
Derek takes a deep breath, eyes burning Stiles down to his core. “I want to see your face when I slide inside of you. I want to watch you fall apart with pleasure, knowing that I am the one giving it to you.”
“Oh,” Stiles gasps, suddenly unable to hold his own weight as Derek’s finger gradually slides inside of his ass. He collapses back to the grass. “That, yes, you should—” He gasps again as Derek moves his finger in and out, “—you should do that.”
Derek hums, a purring sound closer to a cat than a wolf, as he adds a second finger. Stiles writhes. Derek presses a hand to his hip, holding him down.
“Stay still,” Derek murmurs. He pets a hand down Stiles’ flank. “I will give you what you need.”
Derek’s fingers shift inside him, and Stiles cries out as every nerve in his body suddenly lights up. His back arches, but Derek holds him steady, keeping him exactly where he wants. He pants as Derek adds another finger, stretching him wider.
“That’s it. Good.” The word quells something deep in Stiles, and he melts into the grass, legs splaying open wider, letting Derek in. “Let me take care of you.”
Stiles nods, hands twisting into fists so he doesn’t reach for Derek the way he wants to. He moans. “Derek—please, I’m ready.”
“I will decide when you are ready,” Derek says, holding tight to Stiles’ side. He squeezes his eyes shut while Derek twists his fingers inside him, his body pulled tight as a bowstring.
Derek removes his fingers, and Stiles keens at the loss. “Shhh. Open your eyes. Look at me.”
Stiles forces his eyes open as Derek settles over him, grips the base of his cock, and slowly guides himself inside. Stiles feels like he can’t breathe, his entire focus narrowed down to that single point where they’re joined. He feels so full, so held, so absolutely owned.
Overwhelmed, Stiles grips at Derek’s arms, anchoring himself down. Derek lets him touch.
He kisses Stiles’ shoulder, his neck, the shell of his ear, his jaw, his cheek, and finally, his lips.
Derek presses their foreheads together, breath hot against his face. He drives his hips forward, and Stiles’ eyes roll back into his head, hands crashing down to his sides.
Derek chuckles, and the sound drips down Stiles’ spine like molten lava, settling low in his pelvis. His unhurried thrusts leave Stiles gasping.
He braces his arms tightly around Stiles' back to hold him steady. Then, he kneels up, dragging Stiles into his lap as if he weighs nothing at all. Stiles moans loudly enough that the sound echoes off of the walls as he drops down deeper onto Derek’s cock, hitting that spot that lights him up from the inside out.
“Oh my—Derek!”
Derek laughs, low and a little mean. Stiles opens his eyes to look at him, pupils blown so wide, Stiles can only make out a thin ring of red around the iris. “Derek,” he says, voice absolutely wrecked.
Derek kisses his throat, a soft press of lips. Stiles whimpers when Derek thrusts up harder before slowing down again.
“Please. Please, Derek,” he says, voice shaking.
Derek bites at the curve of Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles keens, tipping his head backwards. Derek's fingers dip down his collarbone, his sternum, his belly, trailing down to his cock and stroking all of once before letting go again. His hands slide across Stiles’ chest. Derek rubs his nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and Stiles moans, the sound punched out of him.
“Please,” Stiles cries, strung out and desperate; he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for anymore. “Please, please—”
Derek kisses the expanse of his neck, speaking with his lips at Stiles’ ear. “Not yet. Wait.”
Stiles sobs, hands twisted up so tight in the grass, his fingers ache.
“Just a little longer. You've been so good for me. You can keep being good for me, can’t you?”
Stiles nods furiously. Derek grins and leans forward to suck his lower lip between his teeth, sharper than any human’s should be. Stiles groans and returns the kiss, messy and wet.
“Hold onto me,” Derek orders against his mouth. Stiles rushes to obey, hands braced on Derek’s shoulders. Derek leans back a little, smirking down, and Stiles follows his gaze, flushing. His cock bobs against his stomach, hard and red and aching, balls drawn up tight.
“Do not let go,” Derek says, and Stiles cries out when Derek strokes him, precome and leftover oil on his skin easing the way. Derek rolls his balls in his palm, and Stiles heaves in sobbing breaths, legs shaking, beyond words, beyond anything but needing to be everything Derek wants.
Derek grips beneath Stiles’ thighs just beneath his ass and yanks him down onto his cock, rocking Stiles’ body up and down. He drags his fingers through Stiles’ hair, and tugs.
Stiles closes his eyes, tilting his head to bare the skin of his throat. Derek groans, biting at the cord of his neck. He kisses his way up to Stiles’ ear and whispers, “Now, ride me.”
A strangled sound escapes Stiles’ mouth. The muscles under Derek’s skin flex as he helps Stiles rise up on shaky knees, dropping down in a languorous glide. Derek guides Stiles’ hips as he sets the pace that Derek wants, slow, maddening, but it’s worth madness to hear Derek call him good.
Derek’s hand wraps around his throat, thumb worrying at his pulse point. He trails his other hand along Stiles’ skin, nails shifting into claws that he draws down his spine, spiraling down his thighs, but never once touching his cock. He repeats the pattern until he’s worked Stiles into a frenzy, every breath coming out as a sob.
“You look beautiful like this, Stiles. Desperate and eager. I could keep you here for hours, just watching you ride my cock.” He sends sparks shooting through every inch of Stiles’ body with every thrust.
Stiles’s legs shake, skin covered in a sheen of sweat that Derek chases with his tongue. He licks up Stiles’ sternum, over to one of his nipples, sucking on it so Stiles moans. He shows the other nipple the same treatment, tugging and twisting and biting.
His fingers wrap tighter around Derek’s shoulders to hold himself up. He bites his lip, voice coming out on a muffled whimper. “Please,” he begs.
Derek strokes down his side, lips sliding across his shoulder. He grins against Stiles’ neck.
Stiles cries out, jerking in frantic movements when Derek wraps his hand around his cock. Derek thrusts up harder, dropping his other hand from his neck to cup his hip. His skin burns where Derek grips him almost too tightly, and Stiles whines, squirming. Derek holds him in place as he bites down at his throat with a flash of fang.
That’s all it takes for Stiles to come, keening and moaning and screaming.
Derek curses, pumping up into him once, twice, and then he’s coming, too, groaning into Stiles’ neck.
He pants into Stiles’ skin, tugging him forward until Stiles curls into his chest with his face buried in Derek’s neck. He shifts and Stiles clings tighter, relaxing only when Derek shushes him, drawing him in with his legs wrapped around his waist. He drags his hand gently up and down Stiles’ back and whispers words of praise in his ear, beautiful, so good for me—
“I was good?” Stiles asks, surprised at how utterly wrecked he sounds.
“You were perfect. Fit for a god.”
Stiles groans. He nips at Derek’s shoulder when he laughs. “That was horrible, but I’m taking it as a compliment.”
“As you should.”
Stiles rubs his face against Derek's throat and presses errant kisses to his skin. He hisses when his hip twinges, but Derek presses the palm of his hand to his side. The pain fades.
“Thank you,” Stiles mumbles.
Derek nuzzles his temple and kisses his hair. “Sleep.”
“No,” Stiles mutters.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Derek lies down on his back, still inside him. Stiles uncurls his legs and rests his entire weight on Derek’s chest. “Are you really trying to argue with a god?”
“I argue with everyone,” Stiles slurs, lazy.
“Of that, I have no doubt.” He cards his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “Sleep, Stiles,” Derek whispers, and Stiles shuts his eyes, sinks down into Derek, and sleeps.
He wakes in the temple hours later, disoriented, clothed, and alone.
His cloak has been draped over his body like a blanket. The dagger Stiles used to cut his palm is lying in the grass beside his left foot. Stiles sits up, rubbing a hand over his face. He frowns when his fingers get caught against something, and he pulls a sprig of wolfsbane from his hair.
The sun shines through the open roof, warm where the rays kiss his skin. He glances around the temple, startled to find wolfsbane flowers blooming in the grass as far as his eyes can see, petals of blue, purple, white, yellow, pink.
A rowan sapling has sprouted beside the nemeton. Stiles marvels at the splashes of dark red and green against the small branches. He reaches out and hesitantly strokes the tip of his finger against one of the buds, hissing when the movement pulls at the sore spot on his hip.
He lifts his shirt and lowers the waistband of his breeches. His brow furrows. A dark red mark spans the length of his hip; Stiles would bet his life that the size exactly matches the pads of Derek’s palms in his wolf form.
He rubs his fingers at the reddened edges, sending a twinge through his side. He has no idea what the mark means. He finds himself smiling anyway.
Stiles tucks the sprig of wolfsbane behind his ear. He takes one last look around the temple, at the evidence of Derek’s oath surrounding him on all sides. He pulls on his boots, stands up, throws his cloak about his shoulders, picks up the dagger, and starts the long journey home.
Beacon is alive with the sound of joy by the time Stiles reaches the village. He overhears the hunters saying they caught four hares and a buck that morning. It’s enough meat to feed the whole village for days.
Laughter follows his every step as people step out of their houses to find their gardens bearing a harvest.
He walks up the path to his house through the snow and into his own tiny garden. He stops in his tracks.
The clementine tree, brown and barren just yesterday, is lush and green and full of hanging fruit. His fingers shake as he plucks one off of the branch, picking at the icy rind with his nails. He inhales the scent of citrus, licking the juice off of his fingers, cold and sweet.
A hand drops to his shoulder. Stiles turns to see his father, eyes suspiciously wet as he glances around the garden.
“Your mother would say that the gods have smiled on us,” he says, wiping away a tear that escapes his eye. The look he gives Stiles is the same one he gave Stiles' mother when some small miracle occurred after she journeyed to the temple to pray.
This is no small miracle. This is divine intervention. This is a blessing.
This is a promise fulfilled.
Stiles presses his hand to the mark beneath his shirt and whispers words of thanks in both Derek’s language and his own. Somewhere in the distance, the wind carries a wolf’s howl.
He pulls the wolfsbane flower from his hair, fixes it behind his father’s ear, and laughs at the look of stunned confusion on his face.
“Not all of the gods,” Stiles says, smiling. “Just one.”