Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2285400.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alpha_Stiles, Omega_Derek, Bottom
      Derek, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Underage_Sex, Rimming, Felching, Knotting,
      Unsafe_Sex
  Collections:
      Anonymous
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-10 Words: 2292
****** Don't Try to Stop, Baby, Hold Me Tight ******
by Anonymous
Summary
     It really, really doesn't go like this in porn.
"Look, I'm not—" Stiles leans forward, mashing his phone between cheek and
shoulder while he starts lacing up his shoes. Is there even any point to shoes?
He's just going to take them off again. For days. "Are you sure?"
Derek sighs, a sigh so predictable and put-upon that Stiles is briefly
reassured. He sounds like someone who's totally in command of mind and body,
not someone who just tersely asked Stiles for the D. "If you want, I can ask
Scott."
"Whoa," Stiles says. "Just take your pants off. I'll be there in ten."
                                   *~~~~~~*
Derek's loft smells like omega pheromones and pizza rolls. "I hope you saved
some of those for me!" Stiles shouts, locking the door to the loft behind him.
He should probably have eaten before he came over, but he always feels weird
jerking off with a full stomach, so maybe not. He doesn't have a lot of
experience with this stuff. The heat-sharing, not the pizza rolls.
"There's more in the freezer," Derek says. He's on the bed, which is smack in
the middle of the huge room like it's a piece on a porn set, and he's not
wearing any pants. Stiles can just make out the elastic band of Derek's briefs
on the curve of his hip. This is good, this is like an onion that Stiles is
going to peel in stages, a sex onion. "I got hungry."
Stiles frowns. "Do you get grocery delivery here? Do you at least get Chinese
delivery? Are we going to starve to death because I'm a bad provider?"
"I didn't ask for you to provide for me," Derek says.
"Uh," Stiles says. "You kind of did."
Derek rolls his eyes and then flops onto his stomach, and, crap, Stiles can
smell him. People always say that omega slick smells like food—omega girls
smell like peaches and cream, omega guys smell like vanilla and honey—but
Stiles has ripped the foil off many a container of Yoplait and he knows a lie
when he noses it. If Derek smells like yogurt, it's the tart stuff that's the
mainstay of the fancy froyo place downtown. Stiles wants to grab a spoon and
dig in.
Instead, he unzips his pants and shoves them down. Which is a terrible idea,
because his shoes are still on and—
"If I wanted Scott, I'd have called Scott," Derek says, glancing over. "I want
you."
                                   *~~~~~~*
Stiles has knotted before, of course. His hand, a few creatively DIYed sex toys
(okay, a sock in a leftover cardboard TP tube), an omega Fleshlight that he
spent all his Christmas money on last year. With enough lube, closed eyes, and
just the right porn for a soundtrack, Stiles can almost forget he's knotting
heavily-lubricated silicone instead of another person, at least until he has to
pull out and sneak down the hall and into the bathroom to unscrew the ballooned
sac of spunk at the end and wash everything out. The point being, Stiles knows
exactly how much jizz he can produce, and he's going to unload it into Derek's
ass and it'll stay there. Well, he won't have to wash Derek out afterward,
anyway.
He finally manages to kick his shoes and pants off and stumbles back toward the
bed, back onto the bed, onto Derek, who grunts but stays put. Even without the
Alpha werewolf bulk, Derek's very solid. Stiles has a hard time remembering to
be gentle with him. Judging from Derek's rap sheet, he's probably not looking
for an alpha who can deliver tender, candle-lit slow bone, but he also seems to
go for girls, so what does Stiles know. He yanks his shirt over his head and he
says, "How do you want this to go? You said—"
My wolf doesn't tolerate suppressants well, is what Derek said. Presumably he
means his recent, literal wolf, because Stiles has never smelled Derek in heat
before. I need—assistance. Stiles was confused for a moment, because Derek said
it like his Toyota needed a jump, or maybe like he needed to borrow the belt
sander in the garage that Dad claims Stiles doesn't need to know how to use.
Now Derek says, in that same even tone, "I need your knot."
It really, really doesn't go like this in porn.
"Where?" Stiles says, because he's a smartass. Then Derek puts his arm around
Stiles's waist and flips him so that Stiles is draped across Derek like a throw
blanket, his thigh hooked over one of Derek's, pressing against Derek's ass.
One of Stiles's arms is over Derek's back, and the other is pinned beneath
himself where it's going to go numb in approximately two minutes. Their faces
are uncomfortably close together. Well, not closer together than other parts of
them are going to be. "This is weird."
Derek sighs and shifts his hips. "If you want to go, you can go. I just—I
tried, on my own, last month. It was—"
"Okay, okay," Stiles says hastily. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."
Tentatively, he pats Derek's back. Then he rests his face against Derek's
shoulder, where Derek smells nice. Really nice. Dudely and musky, rich,
absolutely nothing like yogurt. He rubs his cheek against Derek's shoulder and
snuggles in a little. The part where he feels like he wants to take a nap in
Derek's body is a little weird, but hey, he can do that. It'll be way better
than all those times he fell asleep and woke up with cold jizz leaking out of
the tube sock and burst cardboard on his flaccid dick. He strokes Derek's back
a little less tentatively, then down his spine, down beneath the waistband of
Derek's briefs to where he's hot and—fuck. Derek arches his back up, tilts his
hips into the air, and Stiles drags his underwear down and off Derek's ass so
he can work two fingers inside Derek, who is wet and open, ready for Stiles to
go to town.
"Do it." Derek's voice comes out all thin and broken. "I need you to."
Stiles hesitates, his fingers still hooked in Derek's ass. "You're not worried
about, um—" Derek's a werewolf, so there's no risk of disease transmission, and
he's a dude, so there's a pretty low chance of him getting knocked up even off
suppressants. But he could. Stiles could be a teen dad. He could be living 17
and Babydaddy, which is not yet a reality show but it could be. They could also
be dead, like, next week. "Stuff."
Derek closes his eyes and says, "I don't care. I want it. I want it all."
"If I knock you up, I reserve the right to name our child after zero dead
people," Stiles says. Then he closes the distance between their faces and sort
of puts his lips next to Derek's. It's not a kiss—Stiles is #yolo about
unprotected heat sex but apparently too chicken to initiate heat makeouts—until
it is, when Derek turns his head presses his mouth against Stiles's, and opens
up sweetly, easy and practiced. For a moment, Stiles forgets about how deeply
weird this is and just… gets into it. He's hard against Derek's thigh, sliding
against him while he fucks into Derek's ass with his fingers. Stiles wants.
Even if it's just once, he wants all of Derek, who trusts Stiles enough to call
him when he's vulnerable and helpless. Stiles can provide with his dick.
                                   *~~~~~~*
Figuring out the right position is difficult. There are a lot of limbs
involved, and the longer they're tangled together, the less coherent they're
getting. Stiles feels drunk, his legs wobbly when he tries to get up to mount
Derek from behind. Yeah, that's not happening. They end up spooning, Derek's
back to Stiles's chest, while Stiles fumbles his dick into place. Derek pants,
sweats; he's hot, now, like he's running a fever. He's hot inside, too, when
Stiles pushes in, so hot and tight and slippery-wet. Stiles brings his hand up
to taste it, Derek's slick, and it's salty and sour. Everything is slow like
this, the way it gets when you're out in 100F heat trying to mow the lawn and
not die. Heat. "You taste good." Stiles rubs his cheek against Derek's neck.
"Later, I wanna—put my mouth on you."
Derek growls and rolls his hips, takes Stiles in deeper. Like Stiles isn't
already in over his head. He pinches one of Derek's nipples and twists, teases
at the nub for a minute before he moves onto the other. Derek tilts back his
head and lets out an low whine. Human and wolf, they're both animals operating
on instinct, the innate drive to bond and breed that sets alpha and omega apart
from their beta kin.
"Do you want it?" Stiles says, splaying his hand over Derek's flat stomach.
Derek's jerking himself off now, long strokes drawing the head of his dick out
of the soft nest of foreskin, and Stiles's hand brushes against Derek's on the
upstroke. "Do you want me to fill you up? Keep you full until you—"
"Always wanted," Derek says. "But you're just a—a—"
Stiles says, "Shut up," and bites Derek's shoulder. He thrusts into Derek,
short and jerky, losing rhythm as his knot starts to swell. This isn't anything
like his toys, the familiar pressure of his fist. Derek clamps down on him,
locks him in, and milks his orgasm out of him. It seems to go on forever,
intense and wrenching—Stiles doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he
starts gasping for air. He wraps his arm around Derek and holds him tight,
holds onto him like an anchor.
                                   *~~~~~~*
When Stiles wakes up, Derek is filling out the online delivery form for the
local pizza chain on his phone, some weird Meat Lovers and Veggie Paradise
combo. "No mushrooms on my half," Stiles mumbles. "Extra cheese."
"I know," Derek says patiently.
Stiles's knot hasn't gone down much. He does an experimental wriggle; no, he's
definitely stuck. He yawns and settles back against the pillow. "This is
weird." Derek stiffens. "No, no, just—aren't I supposed to be, like, feeding
you? I didn't even buy Gatorade or anything."
After few silent, tense seconds, Derek relaxes a little. "I didn't ask you to.
I don't expect you to know what to do."
"Yeah, if you wanted an alpha who isn't a virgin with no clue, you would
definitely have picked Scott," Stiles says to Derek's back. Wait, he's not a
virgin anymore. This substantially decreases the odds of ritual sacrifice,
awesome.
Derek says, "That's not why I asked you."
Belatedly, Stiles remembers the thing where Derek's entire sexual history is
people dying and/or betraying him and/or murdering lots of people, plus one hot
bounty hunter who left him for Moby Desert Wolf. The first alpha he did the do
with was—well. "You're not taking advantage of me, dude," Stiles says hastily.
Derek hunches in, but he can't exactly get away from discussions about feelings
when Stiles is trapped in his butt. Neither can Stiles, but it's not like he
really has feelings aside from ARE YOU OKAY and moderate concern that they'll
have to do some uncomfortable, conjoined shuffle under a blanket to get the
pizza from the delivery guy.
"How would you know?" Derek says. "You can't—it's different, when you're
young."
Stiles huffs. Instead of offering a rebuttal, he does another shimmy and his
dick finally slips free, dribbling on the sheets. "Lie down," he says, pushing
Derek onto his belly. "I wanna try a thing."
Kneeling between Derek's legs, he can see that this is going to be more
complicated than he thought. He tugs at Derek's hips until Derek cants them in
the air, nudges apart Derek's legs until he can see Derek's hole, glistening,
red, dripping. Stiles leans forward and for a moment, he thinks it's going to
be gross, that he's not going to be able to go through with it, but then he
licks through the mess they've made and Derek lets out a startled whimper.
Stiles flattens his tongue, licks across Derek's red pucker. It's like kissing,
but not quite. Together, their come and slick are sour-sweet on Stiles's
tongue, some strange, new flavor, viscous and heady. He eats Derek out until
Derek comes again, rutting against nothing, shoving back against Stiles's
mouth.
                                   *~~~~~~*
Turns out, providing can mean a lot of things. Stiles can barely open a can of
SpaghettiOs, but he can get Derek to come on his hand, his knot, in his mouth.
He fucks Derek until his hole is used and swollen, and past that when Derek
begs him. Stiles is a teenager fueled by the stamina of alpha rut—he can keep
pace with a werewolf, but barely. Scott keeps texting him; there's only so long
he can maintain the cover of "emergency camping trip" before Stiles's dad
insists Scott produce Stiles or a body. By the end of the third day, when
Derek's heat brakes, Stiles is the one who desperately needs electrolytes so he
doesn't melt into a tragic puddle.
"I can get you something if you need," Derek says, even as he's lying in a mess
of soaked sheets, the fitted one half-off the mattress. He looks like he's
dying, and wow, Stiles really wishes he didn't have a basis of comparison.
Stiles closes his eyes and cuddles close. He has zero time for pretending to be
cool and aloof or whatever a heat buddy is supposed to do after the sex frenzy
has passed. "Next time, we'll stock up. On all the—things."
"Next time," Derek says, cautiously.
Stiles says, "If you want."
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