Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1319842.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Knotting, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Dirty_Talk, Hand_Jobs,
      Blow_Jobs, Anal_Sex, Anal_Fingering, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Underage_Sex,
      Drama, Angst, Miscommunication, Sex_Toys, Butt_Plugs
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_Domestication_of_Stiles_and_Derek
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-16 Completed: 2014-04-03 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 17901
****** Summer Storm ******
by Moit
Summary
     In the Domestication universe, this is Stiles and Derek's first time.
     Things do not go as planned.
Notes
     This fic can be read prior to Domestication, but it was written
     somewhere between chapters 12 and 14, so I could recommend reading it
     then.
***** The First First Time *****
It's warm even as night falls, and every window in the loft is tilted open. A
breeze drifts into the humid stillness bearing the scent of nectar and grass
and canyon flowers, and it's so heady Derek can barely think, barely plan.

He feels like he should be planning, preparing, readying himself somehow. But
then again: what do omegas really need, during their heats, aside from a bed
and a knot? Stiles will bring changes of clothes, he assumes, but the rest can
be accomplished with their bodies alone.

Truth be told he's still high on the rush that it was him Stiles approached to
do go through his heat with, even though their latest attempt at sex was
unsuccessful. 

Derek paces, alive with anxious energy. This time will be different: Stiles
will be wet, soaking wet, and everything he does will feel just right. 

The wolf, of course, is pleased by all this; Derek can feel a pulsing vigor in
his energy, and thoughts recur of Stiles' cheek pressed against the floor,
knees wide open, back arched sharply, cock drooling onto the concrete. In his
mind's eye he can already see the soft pink tongue working at his lower lip as
he moans incoherently, fingers working without purpose against the ground...

Don't get ahead of yourself.

He has to adjust himself in his jeans before he can comfortably sit down on the
couch again, one arm slung over the back, thighs parted generously. For his
part he's procured the things he imagines they might need: food, mainly nuts,
seeds, and fruits; music, in case something vague and rhythmic will help him
ease into the swell of his heat; and lastly towels and washcloths for the in-
between phase during which sweat and cum might need to be washed away.

But for now he can really only wait, and it's the best kind of agony. By the
time Stiles shows up, he imagines, the kid will be so ready to go they'll fuck
on the threshold.

Because this time, he resolves, will be better.

* * * 

Not that he gives a fuck about Stiles' lame friends, but when the kid gets
cleaned up to hang out with them, he's irresistible. Derek noses against his
jaw as he lays him back in his bed, inhaling his aftershave.

Whatever it is smells damn near as good as Stiles' own scent, the smell that's
lingered in Derek's senses for over a year now. He slips his fingertips under
the hem of his shirt and works it up, licking along the skin he reveals: belly,
rib, nipple, collarbone. Stiles tastes like the smoke and sweat of the barbeque
they spent the afternoon at.

"That red-headed bitch wants you," he murmurs with a smirk into his ear,
dropping his hand to palm his fly. He kneads him slowly, pulling back only to
get a look at his face.
 
Stiles doesn't need werewolf senses to know he's being bated, but this time
Derek seems playful, so Stiles relaxes bit by bit. He's practically trembling
from head to toe in excitement because this is it.

"I don't want her," Stiles whispers back, tilting his chin up for another kiss.
Derek's hand feels so good on his cock he's afraid he's going to cum before
they even get naked. "I want you." 

If this wasn't Derek, and an Alpha to boot, he would probably be more in
control, but as it is, he can hardly string two words together. He just wants
Derek to lay him out and take, but hopefully, the werewolf will be doing just
that in a few moments. 

"Come on," Stiles says, biting down on Derek's bottom lip and offering
challenge, "Are you going to fuck me, or not?" His teeth pause on the "f" and
his lips pop on the second syllable. He's praying that it sounds sexy, rather
than lame.
 
Stiles could say anything -- literally, anything -- and it would sound erotic.
Derek has beaten off to Stiles more than all his favorite starlets combined, in
part because fantasies about Stile always seem so goddamn dirty, and this is
why. When he releases his lower lip from the long hissed syllable it plumps
again against the pointed dip of his cupid's bow, and Derek can't look away
from the flash of his tongue underneath.

He crushes his mouth in a bruising kiss, whipping his belt off and shucking his
jeans without ever breaking it. He pulls up with a gasp to divest himself of
his shirt, and takes Stiles' next. Last are the boy's jeans, which he lowers in
coarse shoves, relishing the slow reveal of those perfect lean thighs. 

"Fuck," he breathes against his mouth, almost exasperated by how long this has
been in the making. "Want you so fucking bad."

Down to his boxers, hair mussed, Stiles is the picture of wanton sexuality, all
long limbs and a cheeky little trail of hair fading up toward his navel. Derek
lowers himself down his body, dusting kisses over his naked stomach, and hooks
his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers. When he lowers them the other's cock
bounces against his taut belly, and Derek can't imagine a single cock on planet
earth more perfect than this one, flushed rosy-mauve at the head and
glistening. 

He takes it in his mouth and sucks, gulping more and more down until his nose
is buried in the plush nest of curls at the base, which smell so thoroughly
of Stiles that Derek groans against his cock.
 
Derek's tongue is doing obscene things to Stiles' cock, and he's not sure how
long he can last. His ball are already drawing up tight, muscles clenching and
relaxing in an effort to hold himself back. Stiles hardly has time to yank at
Derek's hair in warning before he's coming with a shout down the werewolf's
throat. Definitely not what he expected for his first blowjob, but it's so much
better. 

"Fuck, Derek! I'm sorry!" he says, even as Derek's hands gentle him through the
aftershocks. 

He finishes, his body rag-doll limp and limbs akimbo across the bed. At this
point, Derek could probably do anything he wanted and Stiles would just lay
there and take it. 

"I'll be ready for Real Sex in a minute. Just need a minute." 

He swallows several times, trying to get some moisture in his parched throat.
After that performance, he can only imagine how mind-blowing the main event
will be. 
 
A minute is, incidentally, just what Derek needs.

He divests himself of his boxers, which are now rather embarrassingly stained
with dots of moisture at the front. Normally he isn't the type to weep precum
like a teenager, but Stiles has a peculiar affect on his body. Even his knot
has already begun to prematurely swell, thickening the base of his cock
noticeably.

While Stiles recovers he reaches over him for the tube of slick in the
nightstand, and pops open the cap with his wrist, depositing a dollop into his
palm. 

Omegas should produce their own, and it's better than the manmade stuff. But
Stiles is new at this, he reminds himself, and every precaution should be
taken, lest he be barred from future access.

He warms the lube in his palms and then thoroughly coats a finger, returning to
lean over Stiles' prone body as he eases it between his thighs. As he sucks at
his lower lip he teases the boy's tightened balls with the tip of his finger,
tracing the seam. 

"Good to go?" he grins against his mouth, and as he murmurs his hand wanders
lower, and the tip of his finger comes to rest against Stiles' hole.
 
"Oh, my god, yes, Derek, just put it in!" Stiles cries, arching his back with
desire. He can feel Derek's body heat and the weight of his cock swinging
between his legs is all most too much for Stiles to bear. He wants it--wants
everything--and he wants it now. Waiting even a minute longer just seems like
an eternity. 

He plants his feet firmly on the mattress and takes two handfuls of the sheets
in either hand. He's never been so ready for this. His dick feels like a steel
rod that could punch out a window or something. He never knew having an Alpha
in bed with him would cause such an effect, but such is his life. 

"Come on, Derek, come on. I'm not a shrinking violet, and I'm not some girl-
beta. Stick it in, already." 

He's tired of waiting, tired of asking, and if he has to, he'll flip himself
over and take what he wants, what he needs, so badly. 
 
Only in goddamn O-Ring letters-to-the-editor smut sections are omegas this
insatiable, this ready. Derek's vision almost blurs with the sudden heightening
of his senses, and more than he's ever wanted to before he wants to fuck, pound
him, knot him, breed him, fill him up again and again, and everything in
Stiles' posture and voice just keeps beckoning to him. 

His cock is leaking profusely now and his knot is swelled so thick his cock is
held in a fairly rigid position. 

"Easy," he pants, pressing that first finger in as deep as it will go, "just -
- relax." 

The next joins it with a little more difficulty, but Stiles is a virgin, he
reminds himself, no matter how impassioned and horny and fucking beggingfor his
knot --

Derek shakes it off, spreads his knuckles, twists his wrist, and feels sweat
bead on his forehead with the restraint it takes to keep stretching him when
all he can think of is how those smooth satiny walls will feel on the leaking
head of his cock.

"Ready?" he asks, and he's sure his voice cracks slightly, but he doesn't care.
 
Stiles feels like he's going to go out of his mind if Derek keeps asking him if
he's ready, and he tells him as much. 

"Do you need me to draw you a map? Write out an invitation?" He sighs overly
dramatically and throws his head back. "Please, Derek, just stick your cock in
my ass and fuck me already!"

Grabbing his legs behind the knee, Stiles yanks his legs up, practically over
his head, to give Derek a visual of just how ready and willing he is. If the
Alpha takes any longer, Stiles might have to go find some other Alpha to
deflower him, and he tells Derek that, too. 

"Is this good enough? Does this convey my message? You get the picture?" 

He hold on tight enough to potentially rip something, but right now he would
much rather pull a muscle actually having sex than remain a completely-whole-
un-injured virgin. 
 
If he's going to show him, then Derek is going to look; he spends a moment
there, peering, and Stiles' hole is the most perfect thing he's ever seen,
tight and shining with slick and twitching for him. 

And everything is compounded, of course, but the knowledge that he's the only
Alpha ever to have been where he's going, which acts on his psyche like a heady
jolt of pheromones. 

He moves between his spread thighs, straightening until the tip of his cock
bumps against Stiles, and the boy's face is framed between his forearms. 

"You're mine," he breathes into his mouth, catching him in a kiss as he presses
the flushed head into the tight pucker of his hole.

Tight being the key operative: Derek is half puzzled, half elated by how much
tighter Stiles' feels on the tip of his cock than he did on his fingers. He's
able to push just down past the flare of the head, and as soon as Stiles' body
conforms around him he groans, hips giving an involuntary buck.

He breaks the kiss to praise him, breathing labored.

"Fuck, Stiles, you're -- so, so tight."
 
It hurts at first, as Stiles knew it would, and not only does that dampen some
of his excitement, it also takes away some of his arousal. His cock shrinks to
about half-mast, and he takes it in his hand in an effort to encourage it back
to full hardness. He's not a masochist by any stretch of the mind, but, as he
reminds himself, his body is designed to handle this. He produces slick to
allow an Alpha to knot him. 

At the thought of Derek's knot, Stiles' hole clenches even tighter around the
head of Derek's cock as if to get him out or keep him out. If it hurts now, he
can't even imagine what it must feel like to be knotted. Suddenly, the prospect
doesn't sound so enticing. 

Stiles allows his legs to drop, feet falling flat on the bed once again. He
takes a series of deep breaths as he stares up at the blank expanse of Derek's
ceiling. He's trying to concentrate on anything but the pain, and nothing seems
to be working. 
 
Stiles' body is so tight it almost renders him breathless; even the minutest
push of his hips results in sensation so intensely pleasurable it's almost
painful. Derek stills his breathing, focusing it, kissing the teen's open mouth
now and again to remind him he's still with him, still there, here on earth.

But it feels so much better than that, and so much more urgent. His knot
tingles: all he can think of is burying it in him as soon as possible, stroking
that smooth back as Stiles' hole milks cum out of him.

And so he thrusts, gently, but still -- and there is no progress.

Sweat now shines on his face, with a small rivulet forming just underneath one
of his sideburns. His brows knit in concentration. 

"Relax, babe," he urges him, and again thrusts.

But there's still not so much as a centimeter of depth gained. When he pushes
again, the resistance is painful on the tip of his cock, though his arousal
doesn't exactly flag.
 
Stiles tries, he really does, but finally it gets to be too much, and he pushes
at Derek's chest as he tries to close his legs. 

"Get out, get out, stop!" he shouts as though he's trying to protect himself
from a physical blow. "Just stop, Derek! It fucking hurts!"

He knows he's overreacting, that it can't hurt that bad, but his whole asshole
like it's on fire, and his dick has shriveled to the size it gets when he jumps
into a swimming pool. He no longer has any interest in having sex--now that
Derek's dick has been inside him, he's not a virgin anymore anyway--and he just
wants to curl up somewhere and die of embarrassment in the hopes that he will
escape this moment. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he finds himself repeating over and over as the tears
splash down his cheeks, but there's nothing he can do now. 
 
Pulling out itself is a bit of a trial; Derek grits his teeth as Stiles' body
tugs at him, and removes himself anyway.

Not that he would, under normal conditions, just obey like this. But he's weak
against tears, especially Stiles; never did he even imagine an inkling of
affection for the teen until he cried that night in his loft, in the presence
of Scott and Jennifer.

He knew then as he does now that he really does feel something tender for him,
which is the reason he can remain still even as his dick is hard and sore and
aching, just outside the other's body.

"Calm down," he sighs, sweeping a handful of tears away from his cheek, "you're
fine. It's okay."

* * * 

Derek checks his cupboards again: there's plenty of food, the kind of thing
Stiles' eats, and the kind of thing the doctors recommend for omegas in heat,
which one has to feed them as they're not generally hungry for the duration. 

This time around he's better educated. Last time he didn't know what an omega's
body was supposed to feel like when it was ready for knotting; now he does:
Deaton kindly demonstrated with different intensities of his clenched fist
around two of Derek's fingers.
TBC
***** The Buildup *****
Chapter Notes
     I honestly think I forgot how hot this fic is. Prepare yourselves,
     dear readers.
Stiles sits in the parking lot of Derek's building for a whole ten minutes
giving himself a pep talk. He's thankful Derek can't hear--or smell, for that
matter--him because it's bad enough that he has to do this.

"Okay, Stiles," he says to his reflection in the rearview mirror. "You can do
this. So what if the whole 'losing your virginity' thing sucked? Everyone's
first time sucks. Since yours did, too, then that just gives you one reason to
be considered normal, right?" 

He pauses to fiddle with his hair and pop a couple of tick-tacs. His heat
hasn't yet begin to crest (or even start) but Derek asked him to come over
tonight since it's supposed to start, and his dad already okayed the whole
thing, even signed papers over it. He still can't believe his dad brought out
the paperwork in the first place, let alone signed it, but whatever. 

"You are going to go in there and be a normal omega, because this is totally
normal and you are going to blow his Alpha mind." 

He gives himself a too-wide smile, and it deflates after a moment. 

"I am going to completely fuck this up somehow," he sighs, grabbing his
backpack and climbing out of the jeep. 

The walk up to Derek's apartment feels like a funeral march. Every step feels
like he's one second closer to death. In his bag he's packed a couple changes
of clothes, some granola bars, and a water bottle. He thought about throwing in
the KY he uses to jack off, but since his body produces more than enough
lubricant, he tossed it aside with burning cheeks. They probably wouldn't need
it, and he didn't want to look paranoid by bringing any. 

At the top of the stairs, he takes a deep breath, mentally reviews his
checklist one more time and reaches up to knock on the door. If he makes it
through this heat, it will be an absolute miracle. 
 
The moment he sees him he knows something is off; he just doesn't get excited.
A rush wells in his chest -- which he tamps down, of course, as he sweeps
Stiles inside and closes the door behind him.

"You're late," he notes, "something wrong?" 

Already he's pulling at Stiles' jacket as though he's usually anything
resembling a good or conscientious host. He hangs it on the back of a chair and
uses the opportunity to squeeze the boy's slightly barer shoulders, tracing the
lean muscle through his t-shirt.

"Nervous?" he presses, leaning in to scent him.

Stiles does seem anxious. Under normal circumstances Derek would be off-put by
that kind of apprehension, but as it is his own heat seems to be rising, which
becomes clear to him as the very sensation of the other's skin through the
fabric of his shirt sends tingling pulses of pleasure through his wrists.
 
"Sorry, just . . . my dad held me up," Stiles lies, not even sparing a thought
to the fact that Derek will hear the skip in his heartbeat. It's already
pounding like mad, anyway. He rubs his hands up and down his bare arms. It's
chilly in Derek's apartment, probably in preparation for his heat. 

"Sooo . . . " he says nervously, striding across the floor of the apartment in
a half-hearted attempt to put distance between himself and Derek. He's nowhere
near ready for this, and the reality is just beginning to set it. 

Stiles stops in front of the big window that looks out over the city. Downtown
Beacon Hills isn't much to look at, but it's better than nothing. "You . . .
have a great view," he says lamely, pretending to be very interested in the
landscape he's seen hundreds of times. It gives him something to focus on. 

"You know that Dale's Barber Shop closed down?" he tacks on, fighting for
something else to say. Pointing to the lonely red and white barber pole down on
Main Street, he nods slowly. "Apparently old Dale finally gave up the ghost,
but neither of his sons wanted to take over the family business. Can't say I
blame them, honestly. If something ever happened to my dad, I am not prepared
to be the new Sheriff. No way." He glances at Derek, giving him a weak laugh. 
 
At night the town seems almost postcard quaint. Derek settles into a chair at
the desk and simply lets Stiles ramble, figuring he's blowing off steam.

Though, he isn't doing a very good job of it. Even his laugh is somewhat
pitiful, and Derek does his best to return a genuine-looking smile to ease some
of the tension. 

"You want a drink, Stiles?" he offers.

Normally he doesn't stock alcohol; it does nothing for him, and he doesn't like
the taste. But in preparation for Stiles he's built up a handy little cache,
though truth be told he had been expecting to offer it to him after the ordeal,
when a bit of celebration and loosening up was in order.

"I've got beer," he informs him, "food, too. Chips, dip, whole nine."

He even picked up gushers, of all disgusting quasi-candy foods, on the off
chance that Stiles would still be dealing with the last of his pre-heat hunger.
 
At the mention of food, Stiles perks up noticeably. He was too nervous to eat
the dinner his dad made, and so he's quite pleased at Derek's offer,
particularly because all he has in his backpack are granola bars. 

He follows the Alpha into the kitchen and his stomach growls audibly when Derek
shows him bag after bag of potato chips, cookies, crackers, and even those
chocolate chip "mini muffins" that Stiles can devour by the pallet. He's got
all kinds of lunch meat and bread and mustards and mayonnaise, and fresh fruit.
There's also a drawer full of complete junk: twizzlers and miniature snickers
and poptarts and skittles, but Stiles plans to leave the good 'n plenty for
Derek. It's like the Alpha bought out the Sav-Mor and had it delivered to his
kitchen. He may be terrible at voicing his emotions, but he sure knows how to
feed teenage boys. 

Completely without remorse or shame, Stiles fixes himself a sandwich with
salami, roast beef, turkey, swiss, cheddar, lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles,
doritos and three slices of bread. He has to mash the whole thing down just to
get it in his mouth, but when he does, it's like heaven on rye. He adds to his
plate a handful fritos and a banana. It's not even a thought to stop and assess
Derek's opinion on the whole thing because he doesn't care. He's a seventeen-
year-old omega who should be going in to heat any minute now, and if he wants
to eat Derek out of house and home, then he'll do however he damn well
pleases. 

The pizza rolls he knows Derek is hiding in the freezer, though, he plans to
save for breakfast. He just hopes there are hot pockets, too. 
 
On any other occasion watching someone eat that -- thing? sandwich? stacked
slop heap? -- would turn his stomach and offend him morally. But presently,
beyond all reason, watching Stiles eat suffuses him with a sense of well-being
and comfort.

Part of it is that he's watching Stiles, even in some roundabout way,
be filled. He can surmise with little imagination what it must feel like, the
heavy full settling sensation in the pit of his belly, and he knows there will
be echoes of that same contentment later.

Another part is merely that Alphas, especially those in the breeding mood, like
to see their omegas healthily eating. It bodes well for procreation, even if
that isn't precisely their goal at the moment. 

"That's uh, wow."

The sandwich is gone in no time flat, and Derek gets a bit more hot and
bothered watching Stiles consume the banana. When he's washed it all down and
doesn't seem capable of shoveling anything else into his throat at the moment,
Derek catches his eyes.

"You're nervous," he says, flatly, without judgment. "Why?"
 
Stiles is in the middle of opening a "fun size" packet of m&ms when Derek
levels him with that dark stare and asks why he's nervous. Presently, Stiles'
hands slip on the bag he holds and m&ms fly in about a hundred directions.
Fortunately, there are only about 20 in the bag, and he busies himself with
trying to pick them all up so he doesn't have to worry about looking at Derek
or answering him. When the m&ms are off the floor and melting steadily in his
hands, he drops the mess in the trash and rinses his hands off before reaching
for another packet. This one, he's careful to keep from spilling all over the
floor. 

"Um," he says, popping one m&m into his mouth. He shrugs one shoulder. "It's my
first real heat, and the first time we had sex was a complete and utter
disaster, if you can even call it sex." It's the first honest thing he's said
all day, but the words don't feel good coming out of his mouth. It feels like
he's just played his ace, and now he's left bare. 

"Thanks for, um, all this. The food, and stuff. I guess you know that omegas
eat a lot before heat." He shrugs again. "It's like we're storing up energy or
something." 

He holds out his m&ms. "You want some?" 
 
Derek plucks the m&m out of his hand and tosses it in his mouth, where he
crushes it in one chomp at the back of his jaw, level gaze never leaving
Stiles' face.

It was a disaster, their first go at things. He'd been painfully unaware of
what to expect out of an omega virgin -- shamefully 'informed' by porn, but
nothing substantive. Now he has a better grip, and he forces himself not to get
too emotional about it while Stiles is so skittish.

"Fair enough," he returns, rewarding the boy for his honesty. 

As always, Stiles is perceptive. Omegas really do store energy, so far as Derek
knows, because their heats can be long and arduous and in the old world it was
not uncommon for an Alpha to lock a heat-ridden omega away when they themselves
had business or work to attend to. It was considered too dangerous to the
omega's virtue to let anyone else care for them, even other omegas. In those
times it was paramount that an omega had enough food to make it through.

But now the world is more civil. Alphas don't lock omegas away, and they can
easily apply for time off work to spend with their omegas: it's even somewhat
celebrated. 

And Derek intends to keep up that general spirit of reverence. 

"Do you think it'd help to see me?" he offers simply, leaning on the counter.
"My body, I mean. Up close. No pressure."

He figures it was dark last time and they were incredibly close -- there's no
way Stiles had the chance to memorize the planes and angles and scars and marks
of his body. But perhaps if he does, he supposes, he'll feel more comfortable
with the idea of spending the next few days with it.
 
The arousal that spikes through Stiles' body has absolutely nothing to do with
heat, but it's enough to get him interested in the proceedings. Derek Hale's
body is like a marble statue, and the fact that he's offering to let
Stiles look at it with no strings attached is enough to make him start
salivating like a dog waiting for table scraps. 

He tosses the rest of the m&ms in his mouth to get rid of them (it's a little
much for a mouthful and he has to fight around sugar and chocolate to chew and
swallow quickly) and then it takes a few minutes longer than he wants to wait
before he can talk. 

"Yes," he croaks, and then coughs. The m&ms got stuck in the wrong part of this
throat, and he tried to swallow and speak using only his trachea. "Yes, please.
That would be . . . I think that would be really great," he says, trying not to
sound too eager. It's entirely plausible that Derek will play this quid pro
quo, but it's not like they've never seen each other naked, and he's here to
have sex anyway. he just doesn't know what to do with his body right now. 

He crosses his ankle over the opposite thigh and drums his fingertips on the
kitchen table in an effort to look as normal and as natural as possible. 
 
When he'd made his offer he hadn't intended to strip right there in the kitchen
-- it is a bit chilly, after all, in anticipation of their heats -- but he
figures it'll drive home his point about 'no pressure' if he doesn't take
things immediately to the bedroom.

So he pulls another of the chairs around, directly across from Stiles, and
stands before it, squarely in the teen's line of vision.

And he smiles at him, cheekily almost; there's little else to do when preparing
to give a strip tease.

Not that there's much teasing to it: Derek crosses his forearms and peels his
henley off in one easy tug, letting it fall on the table. Next he goes to his
belt buckle, and in the ensuing feat of dexterity cords and tendons in his arms
jump and flex in an easy rhythm. He peels the belt away, and -- with a last
flickering glance up at Stiles -- unbuttons his jeans and lowers the zipper.

Derek's thighs are strong and thick and dusted thoroughly with black hair.
Already he's slightly hard, due to the beginning of his own heat, but only very
barely, and the cold does plenty to discourage him as soon as he pushes down
the navy blue jersey of his boxers.

He is, of course, a well-endowed man, nothing practical joke sized, but
impressive nonetheless despite being flaccid. Due to the cold, his sac is drawn
slightly upward to his body, but is nonetheless evidently full and heavy. His
penis is nestled among a glossy patch of black curls that trail up to his navel
in a fading line of soft dark hairs. When he's naked, he holds both palms out
as if to display that he's finished, and shrugs.
the 
"All yours," he says, nudging the chair closer with his ankle. He sits, then,
knee-to-knee with Stiles, and reclines to let him have his view of things.
 
For a long moment, all Stiles can do is stare and drink in the image before
him. Beneath the bronze skin that looks painted on are ridge after ridge of
hard muscle. Stiles' eye is automatically drawn to the line down Derek's chest,
between his pecks, over his navel, and finally his gaze lands on the quiescent
flesh between Derek's legs. For some reason, the sight makes his mouth water. 

His eyes flick up to catch Derek's dark gaze, almost as though expecting the
Alpha to chastise him, but Derek meets his eyes evenly. 

"Can I," Stiles has to lick his lips before he can finish his question. "Can I
touch you?"

Derek nods, and Stiles feels like he's just been given a golden ticket to Willy
Wonka's Chocolate Factory. 

He shuffles forward, mouth hanging open in awe. He starts by running his
fingertips whisper-soft down Derek's bare chest. He's lightly furred, like a
bear--or a wolf, his mind supplies--and Stiles can't help but twist his fingers
into the dark curls. They're softer than they look, and he can't wait to feel
that all over his body. 

Moving lower, Stiles maps out Derek's body by hand. It's more exploratory than
sexual, this venture, and he takes his time noting the dips and curves and
scars and marks. Above him, Derek supplies the answers as he asks, and almost
unwittingly, Stiles finds himself relaxing. When he finishes his exploration,
he's sitting on the floor at Derek's feet, his cheek resting on the Alpha's
bare thigh as he stares up at the older man. 

"I don't feel my heat, yet."
 
Looking down at him is a heady kind of rush. It only takes a little imagination
to envision his head between Derek's thighs, bobbing with dedication, those
juicy lips spilling saliva all along his dick. Derek can feel his knot swell at
the very thought, and he takes a deep, sharp breath to calm it down.

"That's...probably normal," he submits, running his hand gently over Stiles'
hair. The kid has the softest skin and hair on the planet; especially in the
midst of his own heat, Derek feels he could touch him for days.

"We could watch something," he offers with a shrug. He does have movies, mostly
artsy ones he doubts the teen will care for. But there are other types, too.
"Y'know...maybe something to help get you in the mood?"
 
"Are you asking me if I want to watch porn?" And then, for some reason, Stiles
finds this so hilarious he doubles over with laughter. It takes him some time
to calm down, and it's only when he realizes that Derek is completely serious
that he sobers. 

"Yeah, totally." He nods to underscore his interest. What teenage
boy wouldn't want to watch porn? "Do you have like a . . . collection?" He eyes
Derek with trepidation that he doesn't really feel. He really just wants to get
his hands on the Alpha's porn.

Stiles shoots up off the floor like a jack-in-the-box. He seems to remember,
then, that Derek is still naked, and he, himself, is still fully-clothed. "Do
you want me to . . . uhh . . . " Plucking at the fabric of his t-shirt, he
gives Derek a questioning look. While he's not quite ready to get naked, he's
not sure what Derek wants. 

"If it's awkward or something, I mean . . ." He's not sure what he's offering
or asking, so he just shuts his mouth with a click. 
 
Derek stands and gives him an amiable sort of half-grin, looking him over from
head to toe.

"You could at least lose the shirt," he submits, tugging briefly at the collar
before stepping into his boxers and heading up the spiral staircase to the
upper loft.

In the moments it takes Stiles to follow, he makes a very brief selection from
a much larger library of tightly organized DVDs. The main categories are 'HET'
and 'GAY', with no lesbian accompaniment, because of a certain preference for
dick in his sexual entertainment. There are, however, female solo shows in the
HET category, which still remain HET in his mind because he, a man, is the
subject of the viewing. 

He chooses the GAY category for the night, however, and among that broad family
can pick from a further three genres: A/O, PREG, AMA. Amateur, which contains
his exes section, doesn't seem the right course for the night; Stiles will
doubtlessly not want to compare himself to non-professionals. And PREG is too
high pressure.

Under A/O, he's categorized the boxes by actor and sex act. He picks out five
favorites, each featuring knotting, and meets Stiles with them, displayed like
a hand of cards. The boxes have no pictures, only labels, because most of them
are ripped from the net rather than purchased. Only a precious few production
companies are worth buying from, in his estimation.

"They're all good," he offers up lightly, "whichever you want."
 
Stiles takes the discs from Derek with shaking hands. He shed his shirt before
climbing the stairs, but the tremble is not from a chill. In his hands, he
holds five titles: Hank Takes his First Knot, Nothing Butt Knotting, A Knot in
Time, Knot My Dirty Hole 3, My Alpha's Knot, My Hero. They all sound equal
parts tittilating and cheesy, and Stiles has a hard time choosing one. He
practically has to close his eyes and pick, but he decides on A Knot in
Time. It sounds vaguely like something he would be interested in, even though
he's sure he'll be more interested in Derek than the porn. 

"This one," he says, sliding the jewel case out of Derek's hands. It has no
cover, unfortunately, for him to judge, but just holding the promise in his
hands is enough to set his heart racing. 

The upper portion of the loft is where Derek sleeps, and the only available
surface for sitting is the bed, but Stiles supposes that's appropriate. He
busies himself with popping the DVD into the player and fiddling with the
controls. The porn starts with no preamble, and it takes Stiles aback for a
second. He fumbles for the pause button. 

"Woah," he says, turning around to face Derek. "I wasn't expecting that . . .
so soon." He smiles nervously, looking from the Alpha to the bed and back.
Suddenly this whole thing seems very real, and his heat feels too far off. 
 
A Knot in Time is one of those standby favorites for when nothing sounds
particularly appealing. He knows it'll turn him on absolutely every time, no
matter what he's in the mood for. After all, there's very little not to like:
it's shot well, lit well, the pacing is to-the-point, and the dialogue is so
sparse as to not be overly distracting. In fact, in terms of communication,
there's almost an amateur feel, as though the director let them wing it.

And the two of them are gorgeous. The omega is some fair blond college boy with
keen, almost Nordic-seeming features, aquiline nose and piercing blue eyes,
quite narrow. His cheekbones are high and sharp and his jaw tapers to an
equally severe chin, delicate in its acuteness. His body is healthy, firm, he
could easily be an athlete of some kind with lean natural muscle and fairly
broad shoulders.

The Alpha is a taller, slightly older man with cinnamon-bronze skin and bright
green eyes. Derek is almost always distracted by the fullness of his lips,
especially the cleft in the lower one. He manages to affect an almost gentle
way with the omega, though he maneuvers him without question, and his knot is
perhaps the thickest Derek has ever seen. It makes his heart race each time the
camera closes in on it pressing against the omega's pink, puffy hole. 

Derek pats the bed beside him and waits for Stiles to settle in. He picks up
the remote with one hand and begins rubbing slow, warming circles between the
teen's shoulder blades with the other.

"Relax," he says, though he can imagine that isn't easy. "It's good."

When he presses play the Alpha resumes his fingering, spreading index and
middle wide in the omega's hole. The camera zooms in enough to catch a glimpse
of tender pink inside, juicy with slick.

"He's in heat too," Derek murmurs, almost reverent.
 
Stiles' cock goes from half-hard to ramrod straight in an instant. Watching the
omega on screen get fingered is enough to make him want to bend over and beg
Derek to stick it in. Again. Even though that didn't work so well the first
time. 

He almost expects to feel a gush of wetness from his rear, but no such luck.
His heat seems to be stubbornly off-stage, despite all of Derek's attempts to
coax it out of hibernation. Undoubtedly, it will heat with both of them least
expect it. 

"Yeah, it's . . . " Stiles licks his lips slowly, becoming painfully aware of
his breath. "It's something, all right." 

Beside him, Derek is like a blanket of heat, but instead of being cloying, it
only makes Stiles want to rip their clothes off and rub himself all over the
Alpha. He's still nervous about having sex (for real, this time) but his
arousal is beginning to override his fear. 

On the screen, the Alpha has begun to rim his omega in earnest, pink tongue
digging deep into the wet spread of the omega's hole. For a moment, Stiles is
afraid he's going to have to go jack off in the bathroom, lest he blow his wad
in his jeans before Derek ever gets them off. 

"That is so fucking hot," he whispers, almost forgetting the Alpha next to him
as he loses himself in the porn. 
 
Alpha heats are different: they settle rather than crashing, soak in rather
than crest. Derek has been comfortably riding the pleasure and swell of
sensation that accompanies his heat all day, but he still can't imagine what
must be keeping Stiles' at bay.

Briefly he wonders if they lack chemistry. The thought is deeply troubling:
what then? There really is very little recourse when, for whatever reason, an
omega's body responds to wisdom deeper and subtler than conscious thought and
refuses the body of an Alpha...

Which is definitely not what's happening on screen. The Alpha pulls away, chin
and lips shining with slick, and delivers a final broad lap to the omega's
twitching hole.

"Gets better," Derek murmurs, and it does. For a moment the Alpha leans close
and just blows lightly against the dripping pucker, and the jet of air alone is
enough to have him bucking and squirming. 

But he doesn't penetrate him; just teases. They reverse their positions, and
the Alpha presents his omega with his knot, which the other eagerly begins to
suck at, groaning in his throat.

Derek is running his hand down the length of Stiles' bare back now, letting his
fingertips dip into the back of his jeans and boxers, with the index just
edging at the crevice of his ass.
 
Dick sucking doesn't do nearly as much for Stiles as the rimming; it's also due
to his biology as an omega. The knot-worship is designated for the Alphas,
anyway. Not many omegas are aroused by watching another omega give his or her
Alpha's knot a tongue bath. 

"I can only imagine," Stiles breathes. The omega he's watching finishes his
blow job and bends over the table on their set, spreading his legs as wide as
he can. The camera zooms in on his twitching, leaking hole, and Stiles feels a
pang of sympathy as a glob of slick dribbles out and slides down the omegas
leg. If he could will his body to begin producing slick and trigger his heat,
he would. 

Despite the dryness in his boxers, Stiles begins to fidget. At first, it's just
small movements, adjusting his hips, cracking his knuckles, but soon he can
hardly sit still, and he's sure Derek is going to chastise him, but the Alpha
just keeps rubbing his hand up and down Stiles' back, which the omega finds
equal parts maddening and arousing. 

"It's hot in here. I'm getting really hot. Are you getting hot?" As the scene
before them progresses, Stiles' arousal level begins to ratchet, and with it,
his internal temperature. 

"I'm just gonna . . . " He stands up and wiggles out of his jeans, trying not
to feel awkward about it. Derek is already in his boxers, and he came here for
sex, anyway. With his dad's permission, even. His cock tents the plaid material
of his shorts, bobbing as he sits back down on the couch. He spares it a
cursory touch, more to situate it than stimulate it. The cool air feels better
on his skin, and he's able to give his attention back to the couple on the
television. 
 
Of course, he doesn't have permission, exactly, to do whatever he'd like.
Rather, he made some very serious agreements with the Sheriff as to what he'd
pursue and what he'd leave -- but none of those contracts designated when he'd
start, or how. And though Stiles isn't quite in heat yet, Derek is finding it
very hard to keep off of him.

The omega bent over the table on tape groans deep and throaty as his Alpha's
cock slides home, all the way to his plump knot.

And Derek can just imagine how he feels, finally driving himself into that
slick and pulsing hole, absolutely hungry to be filled. The ease of tension is
almost palpable; the omega goes slack, mouth open, a little puddle of saliva
forming near his lips.

Derek presses his nose against Stiles' neck and scents him thoroughly, hand now
steadying him by his back, and then laves his tongue over the omega's pulse
point.

In another gesture he could easily be marking him, but he keeps his fangs
suppressed. Instead he fixes his mouth against the soft skin there, sucking
firmly but constantly until a flushed red bruise arises. He trails them down
toward his shoulder, lapping at the dip of his collar bone, and lets his hand
smooth over the top of Stiles' thigh, nudging toward his sex.
 
Stiles' breath catches in his throat. He's positively throbbing by now. He
wants nothing more than to climb on top of Derek's lap and shove himself all
the way down on the Alpha's dick, even past the point of his knot. What holds
him back is the fact that his heat is still, stubbornly, nowhere to be found.
There is no slick to guide the way, and Stiles is afraid to rely on just lube.
He doesn't know if Derek even has any, anyway. 

"That's good," he stutters, shifting as subtly as possible into Derek's hands.
"That's . . . that's really good. You can keep doing that. Totally. Like, don't
. . . you don't need to stop. I'll totally just sit here and let you do that.
All night if you want." 

He finally releases from his throat a low mewl of pleasure at the feelings
cursing through him. Nobody has ever made him feel this good. It's like he's
simultaneously watching and participating in the porn on Derek's television.
Except for the sex, of course. 

"Could you, maybe, ahh . . . " Stiles slips his fingers through the creases
between Derek's and nudges their joined hands closer to his dick. Right now,
he'd probably be willing to take Derek dry just to get a little friction. 
 
Derek has no objections to stroking Stiles off; on the contrary, his cock gives
an approving pulse at the thought. The only difficulty will be limiting the
handjob to nothing more than hands, because as much as he wants Stiles to enjoy
himself and get comfortable with his body and sexuality, his own needs are
making themselves known at an increasingly insistent pitch. But his heat works
in his favor. Were he clear-headed and less affectionate, the half-painful
erection in his shorts would likely be less a matter of exquisite discomfort
and more a matter of right fucking now.

Stiles' shorts are loose and elastic enough to work his way to the teen's sex
through the opening of one leg. Heat radiates off his groin, and for a moment
Derek merely cups his balls, rolling them softly in his palm, feeling the
sear. 

He's hotter than that inside, he muses, and will be warmer still when his heat
crests. Derek shudders.

And since the foreplay is working -- Derek would never have guessed Stiles
would be the type to enjoy such protracted first-basemanship -- he keeps it up,
running his lips wetly from the corner of the teen's jaw to the round of his
shoulder, then up again to his bobbing Adam's apple and the hollow of his
throat. Stiles is positively covered with fresh hickeys, some of them so new
and deep their centers are whitish pale. 

Derek releases his balls gently and circles the base of his penis, squeezing
firm. Stiles is rock hard, but he can tell from the dryness there's no heat
yet, which dismays him, but he persists, dragging his fist up in a tight, slow
stroke. 

"You like that?" he murmurs raggedly against his ear, more breath than voice.
 
"Nghhhh . . . yessss." Stiles' words are little more than a guttural
exhalation, but he's sure Derek understands what he means. His hips pump into
Derek's hand seemingly of their own accord, though he's not complaining. 

At this point wearing boxers is just stupid, so Stiles stops Derek long enough
to shimmy out of his shorts and leave them in a puddle on the floor. Nude, he's
able to spread out a little bit more on the couch. It not only gives him a
better view of the screen, but also more access to Derek's body. He stretches
his long limbs out, settling his head on Derek's bare thigh. 

Initially, Stiles just takes the tip of Derek's cock into his mouth, nursing at
it like a babe. He wedges his back against the couch, settling almost into the
crack between the cushions so he can watch the television and suck Derek's cock
without disturbing the hand on his own cock. He feels like a most treasured
omega--as he well should--and it makes him want to purr like a cat. His life
could not be more perfect than it is at this moment. 

The on-screen duo have reached the point of knotting, and Stiles feels a pang
of jealously at the look of pure rapture on the omega's face. His Alpha is
buried to the very hilt inside him, and the camera pans slowly into the crease
between the omegas legs to get a good shot of the Alpha's cock pumping deeply
inside him. Stiles hazards a quick check of his own hole, but his fingers come
back dry. Truth be told, he's starting to panic ever-so-slightly. 

There are omegas who have one heat and then for one reason or another become
barren. It's not a common phenomenon, but it's not unheard of. Roughly one in
ten omegas will become barren, and while they aren't pariahs in society, they
aren't exactly sought-after, either. Usually, they live alone, with other
barren omegas, or with betas. The unbreedable tend to stick together, but those
who are born omegas fear barren status almost more than death. It's almost
enough to give Stiles a panic attack. 
 
Stiles' tongue touches the head of his penis almost exploratorily and Derek's
hips jolt; he has to restrain himself with extraordinary effort to keep from
thrusting into the boy's mouth right then and there. Most omegas, even the
lustiest, can't handle a knot in the mouth without a pretty good deal of
practice, and that thought alone has the tip of Derek's cock weeping onto
Stiles' wet lips. 

"You like that?" Derek wonders aloud, voice thick and hazy with desire. His
eyes fix on Stiles' mouth, the way it moves around him, and the shadows that
fall over his cheeks when his lashes flutter. He strokes over the boy's
shoulder with a warm palm, and then takes hold of his cock again, stroking. 

And though he doesn't mean to frighten him -- he already seems nervous -- he
can't really resist a feel, at least. No penetration, he reminds himself firmly
as his hand drifts down the smooth plane of Stiles' stomach and over his waist,
fingers playing for a moment at the dip of his spine. The tips of them trail
down into the cleft of his ass, and though he hopes for that tell-tale rush of
moisture, he prepares himself for the possibility that Stiles' heat still
hasn't hit.

It hasn't, it seems. Derek gives a low hum of approval anyway, and gently
passes the pad of his index finger over the tight pucker of Stiles' hole. It's
as satiny-smooth and inviting as he remembers, hotter than the rest of his
body, and just the sensation swells his knot. 

"You like dirty talking?" he probes, supposing that, if nothing else, might
tickle whatever it is in Stiles that still resists his heat. It seems like
something the kid might enjoy -- he likes talking, anyway.
 
For as aroused and excited as he seems on the outside, Stiles is practically
shaking like a leaf on the inside. His mind is like an audio track of failure
on repeat. All he can think about is the fact that if his heat doesn't start
soon, he won't ever be able to be bred, or carry children, like the filthy
words spilling out of Derek's mouth say. 

Normally, dirty talk sends him from mildly aroused to holy hell orgasm now! but
tonight all it's doing is reminding him of how dry and barren his hole is. It's
only a matter of time before Derek realizes he's made a horrible mistake and
asks Stiles to leave. 

He feels a sob welling in his chest at the thought of Derek asking him to
leave, and it's almost more than Stiles can take. Before he makes an even
bigger fool out of himself, he jerks away from the Alpha in a less-than-fluid
movement. It's more like a flailing of limbs that almost results in him falling
to the floor before he can right himself. 

"Uh--bathroom," he chokes out awkwardly, and then dashes off before Derek can
stop him. 

The door slams shut with more force than Stiles meant to use, and he throws the
lock over. In his haste, he forgets that Derek could burst into the bathroom
with his werewolf strength if he so wanted, but he's not sure Derek is going to
be seeking him out for anything at all right now. 

Stiles makes a show of flushing the toilet after a few moments and then running
his wrists under cold water. He also splashes his face, and stares at his
reflection for several long minutes. 

"You have got to get it together, Stiles," he tells himself. "Either your heat
comes and Derek fucks you, or it doesn't, and you're permanently ruined goods.
If you've got to suck his dick for the next 12 hours to make yourself
lubricate, then you better get the hell out there and do it." 

He feels much less confident than he sounds, but what he needs right now is
some courage, no matter how worthless it may be. 
 
They get so emotional.

A haze lifts once Stiles is gone -- the effect of his pheremones dissipating,
Derek surmises -- and the Alpha is left with raised brows, staring blankly at
the bathroom door. 

It seems likelier that Stiles is hiding in the bathroom than using it, he
thinks. This close to a heat, most digestion is put on hold. And this is taking
way longer than a leak.

Derek sits up, sucks in a deep breath, and presses his knuckles to his
temples. 

He's young, he tells himself, and nervous. Though it isn't clear to him why
Stiles' body is still resisting, it doesn't much worry him, either: the anxious
ones always struggle, and Stiles is wound up tight on a good day. Right now
he's nearly rigid with apprehension; even when he was sucking dick he was going
at it jerkily and self-consciously, with an almost frantic upward-glancing
technique.

Not that it was bad, of course, but it confirmed for Derek that he needs to
slow things down a notch, lest the kid have a full-on panic attack. He doesn't
even want to imagine that kind of phonecall to the sheriff. 

"Stiles?" he calls, idly holding his dick as he knocks on the door. Already
he's going a bit soft, though still more or less erect. The thought of Stiles
distressed just isn't erotic, and the smell is even less so. 

"Look," he tries, clearing his throat to keep his voice low and steady, "it's
late, I'm tired, let's just go to bed, okay? We'll figure it out in the
morning."
 
At the sound of Derek's words, Stiles heart plummets through his stomach. This
is it. This is the end. They're going to retire to bed, and in the morning,
Derek is going to ask him to leave. He's got to do something, and he's got to
do it fast. 

Throwing open the door to the medicine cabinet, Stiles scans the shelves
quickly, and his gaze lands on an expensive tube of lubricant that makes him
sigh in relief. As quickly as he can, he shoves his boxers back down his
thighs, snaps open the cap on the lube, and smears some in his palm. Two
fingers hurt going in, but he screws his eyes shut and forces himself to keep
going. He goes back for lube twice, making sure there's enough to keep him
dripping. He's got to make this look real. 

Stiles flies out of the bathroom and throws himself into Derek's arms, kissing
the Alpha like mad before he can say anything. The omega's heart is nearly
hammering out of his chest, but he throws himself into the act with all his
strength. 

"My heat," he pants, pulling away long enough to talk, "It's starting." The lie
comes to his mouth easily; he just hopes Derek will buy it. 

He kisses Derek again, harder than the first time. Their teeth clack together
audibly and Stiles forces himself to moan into the kiss. His dick, traitor that
it is, has only managed to reach half-mast. Stiles' mind races, trying to pull
together enough clips from porn he's seen to get himself going full tilt before
Derek realizes something isn't right. 
 
Stiles folding into his arms is the most satisfying, fulfilling sensation he
thinks he's ever felt; ten liters of cold water on a burning hot day have
nothing on it, nor a breath of air after a deep dive, nor falling into bed
exhausted. Derek moans audibly and lets himself be led into frantic kissing,
tilting his head to accommodate the sweet tip of Stiles' nose. 

And he holds him tight, sure this is it, and what they need when their heat
crests is to be anchored -- he's learned that much from the solemn, almost
spiritual conversations Alphas have in privacy when they're feeling
contemplative. His forearms press into Stiles' back, and his hand moves down,
squeezing one handful of ass cheek and then the next, fingers delving into the
crease.

There is wetness there -- not exactly the sloppy deluge he expects, but more
than the previous hour's bone dryness. 

Derek presses his mouth to Stiles' cheek and then his ear, breathing
obscenities into it, and then moves down to the juncture of neck and shoulder
to peer behind him as he marks him reddish-blue.

He pulls his fingers, now thoroughly coated with slick, away from Stiles' body.
When he parts them, however, the strands don't cling: his fingers open neatly,
the slick coating each of them but not stretching between. There's a shine to
it, but it's not the diamond-gleam of real omega slick.

Lube.

Derek breaks the kiss slowly, still holding him tight, and looks evenly into
his face.

"Stiles," he pants, "babe, you sure you don't just -- want to sleep?"
 
Stiles' heart clenches with fear. I'm going to be found out. 

"What? Noooo . . . why?" He stumbles over his own words, mind racing 1,000
miles an hour. He's running through ever conceivable possibility fromDerek
knows I'm lying to Maybe Derek's too tired to fuck and really does want to
sleep. The second idea seems too good to be true, but looking in to the Alpha's
greyblue eyes he can see nothing other than sincerity. 

A yawn makes it's way up and out of Stiles' mouth--the first honest
vocalization he's made all night. 

"We could. Go lay down. If you want to. I guess." Retiring to the bedroom could
also be Derek's invitation to have sex, so Stiles prepares himself for either
option. No matter what, getting an Alpha into the bedroom is not getting
himself turned out on his ear, so he has to look at it as a positive either
way. 

Then Stiles kisses him again for good measure. He'll never tire of the feeling
of Derek's mouth against his own, the scratch of the werewolf's beard against
his cheek. If he never gets to do this again, he'll be thankful for the memory
of just Derek's kiss. 
 
Fortunately for situations like these, his sheets are black.

Underneath the fitted top sheet, there's a layer of plastic: one of those
special mattress covers you can purchase for omega heats. He had to prove to
the sheriff that he'd purchased one, because leaving wet sheets on top of a wet
mattress can cause sores and rashes, and thus Derek will change the top sheet
after every long, soaking session, and Stiles' skin will be returned to his
father creamy and flawless as ever.

Derek peels back the comforter and pats the revealed space, climbing into his
own spot.

On the nightstand there are water bottles and washcloths, all of them stacked
together neatly in preparation. Derek has made himself ready for any
contingency: sometimes they overheat to the point of feverish discomfort and
need to be cooled; other times they dehydrate and grow faint; sometimes they
just feel sweat-sticky and cum-stained and benefit from an in-bed sponge bath.

And other times, he supposes, they just need to get some rest and let their
nerves settle.

"C'mere," he murmurs, having tugged the lamp chain and cast the room into
darkness. He opens his arms for Stiles and waits for him to draw close enough
to gather up to his softly furred chest. 

"Just get some rest," he urges him, "okay?"
 
Though his mind is still a flurry of fear and uncertainty, Stiles forces
himself to calm down. He has never handled stress well, and the fatigue of his
body is beginning to overtake the mania of his mind. 

Against the power of Derek's strong arms and his warm blankets, Stiles is
useless. He cuddles close to the Alpha, allowing the werewolf to wrap him up in
body heat and security. It's the best he's felt all day, and unwittingly, he
feels himself slipping easily into sleep. 
 
TBC
***** The Real Heat *****
Chapter Summary
     . . . in which we meet Stiles' oral fixation.
Chapter Notes
     This is sort of like the finale of "How I Met Your Mother," only not
     at all.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles wakes sometime in the night because he's suffocating. He kicks off the
blankets, pushes Derek away, and strips himself to the skin. Even with the
ceiling fan on, the room feels like it's about 200 degrees. Grabbing a water
bottle off the night stand, Stiles pads softly out of the bedroom. He saw a
thermostat in the hall, and he heads there now. The glowing screen reads 72
degrees, and Stiles cranks it down to 68. 

He drains the remainder of the water as he walks back into the bedroom, and his
heat really hits. Dimly, he can hear the A/C kick on, but suddenly his dick is
like a heat-seeking missile between his legs, and all he wants is to be filled
and stretched by an Alpha's knot. 

Slipping back onto the bed, Stiles carefully removes the covers from Derek's
body. The Alpha is still wearing his boxers, and Stiles can only see them as an
obstacle. Fearing he will wake Derek too soon, Stiles settles himself between
the Alpha's slightly spread legs and just begins to mouth at the outline of
Derek's cock through the fabric. It's enough to pacify the raging storm in his
belly for the moment, but he knows before long, Derek is going to have to wake
up and fuck Stiles through the mattress. 

Almost as soon as his mouth lands on Derek's cock, he feels his hole disgorges
a glob of omega slick, and he huffs a breath against the dick in his mouth with
relief. 
 
No matter how many times he's dreamt of Stiles crawling into his bed to worship
his knot, he's never woken up to it. Derek sits up with a faint startle, hyper-
sensitive from his heat, and immediately peers down at the boy with lust-
darkened, half-hooded eyes. Stiles has never seemed as feral as he does in that
moment, crouching between Derek's thighs, swan-like neck bent to lap at his
Alpha's rapidly hardening cock. 

Derek pushes himself to sit and then takes to his knees, pitching forward to
catch him in a kiss. But he can tell even before he tastes him that the heat
has begun -- he can smell it, thick and sweet and musky, and the scent goes
straight through his spine to his dick in a long, groan-inducing shudder. 

Sometimes he's caught the scent of an omega heat in public; when he used to jog
before dawn he'd sometimes stop into the 24 hour market on the way home and
find beleaguered Alphas stalking the aisles like zombies, picking up water and
lotion and various eccentric foods, the results of nutritional cravings. Legend
has it if they demand grapefruit, they're pregnant.

But he's never inhaled it like this, never this close, never for him. When he's
done washing out the other's mouth with is tongue, he dips his hand between
those taut thighs, because nothing is off limits between them now. 

"There it is," he muses, fingers wet before they ever reach the puffy,
sensitive rim. "Ready now?" For a moment he just teases the pucker with a
fingertip, and then tests it with his thumb. The flesh yields easily, and he
slides the whole of his thumb inside, all the way to the heel of his hand,
hooking it against Stiles' prostate. 

Everything seems right, ready for his knot; Derek is breathing hard like a bull
and just as ready to fuckhimfillhimbreed him -- somewhere in his mind the wolf
is aroused, its senses blending with his.
 
The feeling of Derek's thumb inside him is good--great, even--but it's still
not enough. Stiles clenches and bears down on it, but it's just not enough. 

Frustrated, he whines high in his throat and bounces himself up and down on the
digit he's got. 

"Come on, Derek. Come on, I need you in me. Need your knot. Need to come.
Needtocumneedtocumneedtocum. Oh, god, Derek, I need to cum. I need to cum now."

He's riding Derek's thumb for all he's worth and pulling on his own dick like
there's no tomorrow, but nothing seems to be helping the rising heat inside his
body. He knows that what he needs most right now is his Alpha's knot, but he
can't seem to make his limbs obey his commands. His whole body feels like it's
made out of gelatin, and the only organ that is still working is his tongue,
but even that lolls lamely out the side of his mouth as the pressure on his
prostate increases. 

Finally Stiles gives up and sinks back onto the bed, arms and legs akimbo. The
sheets make him feel like a pancake on a griddle and Derek's body looms over
him like a pitcher of ice water. 

"Please," he whimpers, reaching out pathetically. 
 
In everything he does, Stiles is unique. Most omegas fold onto their hands and
knees during the early, spasmodic stages of heat. Not Stiles: he lays back,
expecting missionary or something like it even in the utter depths of his
lust. 

It has a peculiar effect on Derek because, he imagines hazily, he himself is in
heat. Squaring up behind a bent and begging omega would be easy to do while
maintaining his composure, but as he lays his body over Stiles' and comes
mouth-to-mouth with him in the full flush of his warmth and scent, all the
affectionate tendencies of his heat are stirred and aggravated, and he feels
the impulse to -- love him well up suddenly.

He's going to freak the fuck out, he reminds himself; Stiles is too young, too
horny, they don't know each other near well enough for this, but -- 

As Derek moves the teen's legs to either of his hips and presses the leaking
tip of his cock against his hole, he says he loves him. He says it against his
cheek, breathing it into a wet red spot that's part hickey, part beard burn,
and on some level hopes he doesn't hear it. But saying it alone gives him such
pleasure that he repeats it, slurring, groaning at the edge of it as he pushes
the head of his cock inside him.

Stiles is tight and slick and sloppy and everything he could've imagined; it's
like heaven, pure sensation, and his heart clenches because he's sure in that
moment of clarity that he really does love him, and that he has to know. 

"You're fucking," he moans, "amazing, Stiles, you're fucking perfect."
 
The words coming out of Derek's mouth are little more than noise to Stiles'
ears at this point. The noises around him are like a white noise buzz clouding
his senses. He clutches Derek like the Alpha is his last and only lifeline
tethering him to the earth. 

Stiles comes almost as soon as Derek's dick gets inside him. It takes the edge
off, but only for a moment. His head thrashes back and forth across the pillow.
What he really needs is Derek's knot. 

His hole clenches tightly on every out-stroke as though he's afraid Derek is
going to pull out and leave him, never mind the way they're clinging to one
another. Omega slick is pooling on the sheets beneath Stiles' body. His thighs
are sticky with it; Derek's cock is coated like the glaze on a donut. At this
point, it's hard to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. 

Stiles thighs begin to tremble from being held in such a position for so long.
He stretches his arms overhead, twisting his fingers together. His mouth still
can't seem to form words, and his eyes are glassy with the effects of his heat.
His skin no longer burns, but that's probably because Derek cools everything he
touches on Stiles' body. 

Another orgasm crashes through him, and this time, Stiles wraps both arms and
both legs around Derek like an octopus just to anchor himself through the
tremors. 
 
A warm sticky pool of Stiles' cum has already accumulated in the valley of the
boy's taut stomach, and Derek is curious to see how hard he'll come when he
finally slides his knot inside. All kinds of porn caters to the his-first-knot
fantasy, but Derek has never seen an omega take their first knot in real life,
and the anticipation has his heart pounding harder than the workout his hips
are getting. 

He doesn't have to tell Stiles to relax, but he murmurs it into the red-flushed
sell of his ear anyway, and then pushes back, drawing his knees forward. It'll
be easier, he figures, pulling and pushing at the same time; there's still a
little resistance, because Stiles' isn't accustomed to the thickness of the
knot, even though his body is slick and open and tingling for it.

Derek's hands fix on those narrow hips, and he pulls Stiles up into his lap,
still rocking into him rhythmically. 

His eyes flicker up to the other's sweat-dampened, slack face, and he keeps
them there as he tugs him down, watching the pink wet rim of his hole adjust to
the width of his cock, and finally the top of his knot.

"Easy," he reminds him, voice low and rough and breathy; his teeth are bared in
concentration, jaw tight. And when he finally seats his knot in the dripping
heat of Stiles' ass, he's sure for a moment the orgasm it triggers will be for
the rest of his life unsurpassed; he can feel the pleasure spark and spiral
from the base of his spine to his chest. Heat blossoms in the pit of his
stomach and radiates outward; the rest of him positively tingles, fingertips
half-numb, vision swimming. With each jet of cum he groans until the groans
subside to panting and them to breathy hums.
 
Derek's semen sets off some kind of nuclear explosion inside Stiles' body
because all at once he's shaking and throbbing and moaning and crying and
cumming and cumming and cummingcummingcumming. He fights to simultaneously pull
Derek's knot farther into his body and push it away because the pleasure is
almost too much. It skirts the knife edge of pain, but somehow manages to bleed
into pleasure like none he's ever felt before. 

Having sex while they're both in heat has got to be equatable to the kinds of
drugs betas take because this feels like nothing in the world could possibly
surpass the pleasure Stiles is feeling. His stomach is covered in cum--neither
of them are even touching his dick anymore and he's still ejaculating--and he
can feel it leaking out of his hole even past the plug Derek's knot has
created. 

After what seems like an endless wave of crash after crash of pleasure, Stiles'
mind finally begins to clear the fog, and he's left with a dull throbbing in
his ass and a soreness in his throat, no doubt from screaming. Derek is wound
around him, whispering words into his ear that Stiles can't make sense of, but
he finds the tone of the Alpha's voice to be comforting. He rubs his cheek
against Derek's bristled one, making a low noise in his throat, which is all he
can seem to manage at the moment. 

His hands slide up and down Derek's sweaty flanks. He unlocks his ankles from
around Derek's waist and lets his legs fall to the mattress. A popping sound
issues from each of his hips, and with it, an accompanying sigh. 

"I think I'm over the crest," he finally manages to say, though his tongue
feels like a wad of cotton in his mouth.
 
Stiles handles him like a lover. Derek tenses, but only briefly; he's fucked
since Kate (plenty) but hasn't felt a touch like that since then, when she
would reward him for being a good boy with that kind of fondling and soft
kissing. He lets his lips rest against Stiles, not pushing, not parting, just
lingering. He can taste the warm humidity of the teen's breath, and it's sweet,
heady, intoxicating. 

"I think so, too," he rasps, when he gathers the composure to speak. 

Behind him he hears his phone buzz on the nightstand, reminding him that it's
there. He scoops it up with a sore backwards reach, checks the screen -- five
in the morning -- and idly hovers it above Stiles.

Seems likely the kid will leave him -- why wouldn't he? But Derek doesn't want
to forget this, in part because a growing suspicion warns him that it's not
merely his heat that's producing words and gestures of love. He snaps a
picture, and Stiles is beautiful in it, red-sweaty-flushed and covered in ropes
and pools of cum.

"Should take a bath," he murmurs.
 
At the sound of an artificial shutter on Derek's phone, Stiles cracks one eye
open. 

"Did you just take a picture of me? Because, dude? Weak. Taking advantage of a
man when he's down is just not cool." He throws one arm over his eyes. On any
other day, he would demand the phone and erase the picture himself, but right
now he can't bring himself to care, not when Derek's knot is still throbbing so
deliciously inside of him, even if it's getting to be too much. Who would Derek
show the picture to, anyway? He figures it's probably just a fuck-trophy, and
Stiles could really care less. It's not like he expected Derek to mate him or
something. 

"What time is it, anyway? After that marathon I feel like I could sleep for the
next four days. My dad isn't expecting me home until like Sunday night, anyway,
so we could totally just sleep all day." He deliberately says the earliest
possible day his heat could finish because although the paperwork Derek
signed technically allows Stiles to stay there until Tuesday, he's sure the
Alpha will want to get rid of him as soon as possible. Teenagers aren't exactly
easy to have around. 

He then remembers the stockpile of food downstairs and it takes all his
strength of will (and common sense) not to rip himself off Derek's knot and go
charging after the refrigerator. He also needs to clean himself off something
fierce. No doubt, he stinks. 

"Do you have a rag or something?" Stiles gestures vaguely to the mess on his
stomach. "I'm sort of . . . " He grimaces. "Disgusting." 
 
Disgusting.

Derek nods with a kind of solemn understanding. He can sympathize with Stiles
wanting to get cleaned up, but the scent should be pleasing, not revolting. He
himself is somewhat intoxicated by it, like one feels drawn by a heady incense
that disorients and enchants. To be displeased with an Alpha's scent is more or
less an omega's signal that any involvement will be short-lived.

Which is his choice, Derek reminds himself: Stiles is young, and it wouldn't be
right to seal him in anything permanent, no matter how perfectly he fits in his
arms.

He produces a smooth black butt plug from his nightstand, and takes Stiles'
gawking at it as an opportunity to withdraw his knot. The distraction is
helpful, and it slips free with less resistance than he imagined. He replaces
it quickly with the plug, working without explanation, and then -- rises,
stretches, and scoops the omega up in his arms like a new bride.

"Don't want it all over the floor," he supplies, it referring, of course, to
the copious amounts of cum pooled on and in Stiles' limber body.

The bathroom is modern, mostly stainless steel and glass, and Derek lays Stiles
on a towel by the bathtub as he fills the basin with warm water.
 
When Derek slides the plug inside Stiles' body, he's initially surprised, but
that feeling turns quickly to satisfaction. He doesn't want to leak on the
sheets, but more importantly, he doesn't want to lose the piece of Derek he's
managed to receive. 

His limbs feel heavy, as though he's filled with lead, and he's thankful for
Derek's strong arms around him. Had the Alpha expected him to walk to the
bathroom, he surely would have fallen to the floor. 

When Derek makes as if to remove the plug, however, Stiles catches his wrist.
"Leave it. Otherwise it will sort of mix with the bathwater." The heat of a
blush burns his cheeks at the weak explanation, but he can't think of a better
reason to keep Derek from removing the plug. 

Stiles can't stop from moaning in pleasure as Derek lowers him into the water.
It's almost better than sex. Almost. Derek must have added from fragrant oils
to the bath because it smells like eucalyptus and sandalwood. 

"So good," Stiles murmurs, letting his head fall back against the lip of the
tub.
 
There's a stack of clean cloths on the edge of the tub, where some of the
aromatics are. They ease human soreness and anxiety, but also play a rather
useful role in werewolf healing processes; Deaton suggested them a long time
ago, and Derek's always appreciate the tip. He unfolds one of the cloths and
submerges it, wringing it before laying it softly against Stiles' neck.

One of the dangers with omega heats is, of course, over-heating. Their
temperatures can rise far too high far too quickly if they're not periodically
cooled, and so Derek hopes the lukewarm water evaporating off of Stiles' skin
will serve that purpose.

It's the sort of concern a responsible Alpha would have, he tells himself,
which is a pity: Stiles doesn't seem interested in the long haul. Derek
methodically sweeps the cloth over his neck and shoulders and face, tidying
carefully along his hairline, where sweat has gathered. He smooths it down his
chest and belly next, and then over his thighs, where dried cum still clings to
him even under the surface of the water.

In all this he's exceedingly gentle. 

"I don't think you'll be done by Sunday," he says flatly, maintaining his
sincere effort not to betray any emotion. "It'll come in waves. So don't get
excited about going home yet."
 
Stiles has to force himself not to grin at Derek's words. If he had his way, he
would stay under the Alpha's care for the rest of the month. Every stroke of
the washcloth over his his heated skin makes him want to purr with pleasure. He
leans his head back obediently when Derek reaches for a cup so he can wash
Stiles' hair. His fingertips massage Stiles' scalp meticulously, and at that,
Stiles does mewl in appreciation. 

His cock gives a twitch of interest, but does not rise. When Derek leans back
over him to wash the last of the soap from his hair, Stiles tilts his chin up
to bump their lips into a kiss. His mouth opens to allow Derek's tongue inside
as he twists one wet hand into Derek's hair. 

"I can't decide if I want to fuck again or take a nap first." 
 
"Either way," Derek shrugs; both options sound good to him. 

He loosens the stop of the tub and rises, still naked -- and rather comfortable
that way in Stiles' presence -- to get a towel. Slipping both arms under him,
he lifts him onto the bath mat and dries him there, patting him down and then
wrapping him in it, taking meticulous care to keep him dry. It' the moisture,
he reminds himself, that hurts their skin.

Along with the friction, that is. 

"You know," he says, "another option is to eat. You should at least drink."

There is a bathrobe in the loft; mostly Cora had used it. He unhooks it from
the back of the door and drapes it over Stiles' shoulders, loosely securing the
belt around his narrow waist. He can't resist kissing him a couple more times,
just to remind himself that he can, because for the moment at least their
bodies belong to one another.

Steadying him by the waist, he helps him down the loft stairs, and deposits him
in the same kitchen chair he'd settled into earlier.

"Anything sound good?" he wonders, gesturing to the cabinets full of junk food.
"There's also real food."
 
"Oh, my god, the food," Stiles groans, lowering his forehead to the table with
a small thunk. "I completely forgot about the food." He turns to rest his cheek
against the cool surface of the wood as he considers Derek. 

"Hot pockets. Swiss rolls. Twizzlers. And a Dr. Pepper. And next time you
should put the box of swiss rolls in the freezer. The twinkies, too. They're
much better frozen." 

As he watches Derek heat his hot pockets and unwrap swiss rolls, his mind
begins to wander. Derek seems to know exactly what he's doing, but he's
probably done this a thousand times. No less than twenty, Stiles is sure. 

"How many omegas have you helped through their heats? It's probably a ton, I'm
sure, but I really do appreciate you doing this." Even if it's just a one-time
thing. "I would have had to go back on the suppressants, if it wasn't for you."
And he hates the suppressants. They make him feel like a zombie for days. 
 
A plate isn't going to cut it. 

Derek winds up fishing a tray out from under the sink, and rinsing it before
setting it with the various courses Stiles has requested.

All said and done, there are the steaming hot pockets, sticky chocolate swiss
rolls, a few bundles of twizzlers, and a couple of Dr. Peppers -- he adds a
second so he won't have to get up again for it. In the meantime he produces a
couple of boiled eggs and some turkey breast he'd prepared in advanced, and
heats it for himself. 

He settles Stiles' tray of junk before him on the table, and settles down
across from him, thinking his question over.

"Actually," he returns around a mouthful of turkey, "You're number one. Don't
think I've ever even known another omega. Not well, anyway."

There's Isaac, but he's pack, not mate-material.

Mate material? Derek shakes the thought off with a gulp of ice water. Somehow
the slickness of the glass returns his mind to the fact that Stiles is still
plugged; he shifts in place, well aware that there's not so much as a thin
layer of jersey between his stiffening dick and wandering eyes.

"You can take that thing out," he reminds him, "if it gets uncomfortable."
 
"Oh, it's fine," Stiles says airily. It's also keeping him from leaking all
over the chair, but he won't say that to Derek. It doesn't feel horrible,
either. It's almost like Derek is still inside him, even though he's standing
across the kitchen, and Stiles likes that feeling. 

He picks at the hot pocket with two fingers. It's really too hot to eat, but he
can't help himself from poking at it. The sauce and pepperoni rolled up inside
a flaky crust makes his stomach rumble. He's not sure this will be enough, but
it's a good place to start. As he waits for the hot pocket to cool, he drinks
down about half a can of Dr. Pepper and shoves one swiss roll into his mouth. 

As he chews, he considers the enigma that is Derek Hale. He's honestly
surprised to hear that he's the first omega Derek has spent a heat with. It
stirs up some measure of pride, but he stomps that down as fast as it
appears. He's not yours, Stiles reminds himself again. Sure, they tried to fuck
that once, but it's not like Derek was holding out for him. He said himself
he's never met another omega (except for Isaac, of course) so he hasn't had a
lot of opportunities to spread his Alpha seed, as it were. 

"Are you planning to help Isaac through his heat?" Stiles asks innocently,
biting down on the hot pocket. It's still too hot, and his hisses, pulling away
from the pastry with his teeth bared and a gooey line of cheese connecting
them. 
 
Derek watches him eat with unveiled interest, graceless as it is. The thin
string of cheese (or whatever passes for cheese in those things) dangles from
his lips, and thin is slowly reeled in just beneath the tip of his cupid's bow
by a slowly lapping tongue. He thinks he must've repressed all those times he
stared shamelessly at Stiles' tongue, because the kid really isn't shy about
working at his lips with it when he's concentrating. Memories drift to the
surface of his thoughts, and Derek begins to believe he must've been attracted
to Stiles for far longer than he let himself believe...

"Isaac?"

The name snaps him out of his steamy reverie. 

"No," he shakes his head, turns his attention to his food, and picks at it with
his fork. "No, he's pack. Like family."

Which isn't to say Derek has never considered him sexually. Isaac is a good-
looking boy, preternaturally rosy and fertile-looking, tall, strapping, easy
and docile. He would undoubtedly be a rewarding fuck, but Derek knows better
than to try no-strings-attached sex with pack. With pack, there
are always strings attached.

"Why?" Derek then presses, glancing up from a half-eaten turkey breast. "I
wasn't your first pick for an Alpha, right? Let me guess: McCall turned you
down."

And the thought, though one of his own creation, ignites the palest flame of
jealousy.
 
Hearing Scott's name sets something off-kilter inside of Stiles. All at once
the hotpocket in his mouth turns to cement, and he drops it onto the plate.
He's not hungry anymore, and the robe doesn't feel warm enough. He wants out of
this room, out of Derek's house. Wants his heat to be over, wants to go home
and scrub himself clean of the Alpha--wants this goddamn buttplug out of his
ass and Derek's seed with it. 

"Why would you say something like that?" he asks, his words sounding more hurt
than angry, much to his own dismay. "Scott may be to me what Isaac is to you,
but there's a big fucking difference between growing up with someone--a human--
than biting someone and becoming 'pack.' I have only the barest understanding
of my own physiology and you expect me to understand werewolf politics? 

"Use your head, Derek, and not the one between your legs. Don't you think if I
asked Scott--a beta--to Alpha for me he would suck it up and do it because he's
my best friend?" Stiles is so angry he's shaking. "You weren't just my first
pick--you were my only pick. If you would have said no, I just would have gone
back on suppressants, which, apparently I should have done, anyway."

Stiles takes a long slow deep breath. 

"Did you also forget about the time I gave you my virginity? Because I didn't
lose it, Derek. I know exactly where to find it."

His anger seems to have the wrong effect on his body, though. If it weren't for
the plug, he would be leaking all over the seat, but Stiles is not about to
tell Derek that. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the remainder
of his breakfast as he tries to will his traitorous cock back down. 
 
By the time Stiles finishes Derek is dumbfounded. He opens his mouth to
respond, rethinks, closes it, and breathes heavily through his nose. His jaw
tightens, and his thoughts feel frustratingly elusive. 

"Stiles," he grinds out, "it was -- I was joking."

For as long as he's known the boys they've been nothing more than the best of
friends, but that proximity has always given way to a good amount of teasing
about the nature of their relationship. Some of it is good natured -- Isaac,
for instance, has a go now and then -- and some of it less so, as in the case
of Jackson. Derek has never taken any of it seriously enough to imagine that it
could be offensive.

But he can only imagine Stiles reacting this way out of an excess of emotion.
Usually the kid is cool. 

Wasn't he just saying he wants to get home? 

Derek's brows knit together as he tries to reconcile the two -- maybe, he
thinks, Stiles just wants to get out of here, already irritated by him. It
would at least explain why he's so on-edge, and why he brought up the very
early departure date earlier, in the bath.

"I was trying to play with you," he adds, somewhat defeated, as he rises to
carry his plate and utensils over to the sink. He splashes a little of the cool
water on his face as he washes, and tells himself this is all a result of
Stiles' heat, which he has no control over. Getting angry, therefore, won't do
any good. 

When he returns to the table, he's rather embarrassed at being naked, the
intimacy between them somewhat disrupted by Stiles' anger. He squeezes his
shoulder as he passes, mumbling, "I'm sorry, ok?"
 
Stiles watches Derek's retreating back as the anger inside his chest escalates.
He jumps up from the table, leaving his plate forgotten. 

I was just trying to play with you.

"Trying to play with me?" he shouts up the stairs. "I'm not a fucking doll,
Derek! And you don't get out of this conversation like running away like you
always do!"

Every step he takes incites him further. Not only has Derek insulted him, now
he's abandoned him, to boot. If he really wants, he can probably have Derek
arrested, or at the very least, have the heat contract annulled. Both
possibilities are swimming through his mind right now, along with how he's
going to string Derek up by his balls. 

Stiles finds Derek in the bathroom--the door is open--and the sight that greets
him is like a punch in the stomach. 
 
It's a sad fact of his personality that he's never been able to deal well with
others' emotions, especially anger. When those around him get angry, Derek can
either escalate -- that is, lash out, match their wrath and then some -
- retreat, or fold. He'd made a habit of succumbing submissively to Kate's
unpredictable spells of rage, and now has resolved never to take that route
again.

So he leaves.

The bathroom needs to be straightened anyhow, he tells himself; he hates
messes, they make him feel out of control. But when he scoops up the towel he'd
tossed to the floor, though his body is still tight with anxiety (whatever is
going on with Stiles right now will have to be solved; he can't hide forever,
he knows --) the scent comforts him. 

Stiles smells good on any given day. Derek can admit that to himself now. It's
always been some mixture of clean linen and boyish aftershave and the vaguely
sterile scent of public school, sometimes coupled with a twinge of fresh grass.
When he's in heat, the scent is downright intoxicating -- heady, earthy,
complex spice, something sweet and inviting, warm...

And there really is nothing else to say, when the door opens. Derek gives a
brief start, and slowly lowers the towel from his face, staring at Stiles
blankly.

"You smell good," he explains, as though the other had been confused about the
scene. "Usually. But now especially."
 
Whatever Stiles was going to stay sticks to the roof his his mouth at the sight
of Derek's full frontal nudity. It's no different than the view Stiles was
treated to downstairs, but hearing Derek talk about him like that makes his
omega side swoon. 

No, he reminds himself forcefully, You are not going to just fall at his feet
like that. That's what he wants. That's probably what he expects from omegas,
anyway. Do not give him the satisfaction, Stiles. 

"I smell good? I fucking smell good?" Stiles grabs ahold of his anger and hangs
on for all he's worth. "Look, I think this whole thing was just a big
mistake." 

He pushes past Derek and shrugs out of the bathrobe. Lifting one foot up onto
the counter, he throws a look over his shoulder at Derek as he tries to pull
the plug out of his ass, but he can't seem to get a good grip. 

"Get this thing out of me, will you?" 
 
With his foot balanced on the countertop and head turned over his shoulder,
Stiles' spine bows into a suggestive dip, and the slope of it doessomething to
Derek. His heat isn't over, and neither is Stiles' -- he can tell by the smell
and look of him, unusually flexible and sensitive to temperature and touch.
Even though what he's saying is heartbreaking -- Derek's mind can't really
match up the word mistake with the shuddering, life-affirming orgasm he had
only a couple of hours ago -- he's as enticing as ever.

So Derek tries to maintain his composure. 

He dumps the towel into the hamper and returns to Stiles, laying a hand over
his waist, where a crease is formed by his leg folded so close to his body.
Derek surmises he's having trouble getting a grip on the plug because his body
has pulled it in so deep in want. 

"Relax," he recommends softly, letting his other hand trail down the teen's
back. When he reaches his ass he runs his fingertips over the base of the plug
carefully, mapping the places it meets Stiles' skin. 

He's only able to get a hold on it by pressing one finger up underneath and
pulling down gently until the base loosens a little from the other, though
Stiles' body fights the removal in a way that makes his cock pulse and ache for
touch. 

"Y'know," he goes on, idly, sliding the plug free inch by inch, "for what it's
worth, I don't think this is a mistake. Any of it."
 
The plug slides free and Stiles watches as it is set in the sink to be washed.
His hole remains open--he can feel it--yet his body clenches reflexively on
nothing but air. With the absence of the plug, he wants--needs--something to
fill him up. Almost as soon as the plug is gone he can feel the gross mixture
of slick and cum begin to make its way out of his body, but just as suddenly
he's hit with another wave of heat. His foot slips on the counter and if it
weren't for Derek's solid presence behind him, Stiles would have crashed to the
floor. 

Derek's scent is above him, all around him, and it makes Stiles dizzy with
want. He twists in the Alpha's arms, nuzzling his neck and breathing in as
deeply as he can. 

"I'm sorry," he pants, "I know you don't want to do this, but I really just
need you to fuck me right now." 

Dimly, some part of him regretted admitting that to Derek, but his heat was
beginning to override rational thought again. All he could think about was
getting Derek's long, thick cock inside of him so he could write around on his
knot. 
 
 
Maybe, he thinks, mood swings are part of this; maybe they're not. Maybe
Stiles' disdain for him is only temporarily overridden and not transformed.
Maybe after he comes he'll be surly and regretful again, and this all seems
likely, but Derek puts it willfully aside.
It won't do to be despondent now. He leans into Stiles' kiss with fervor and
hoists him up under the thighs, fingers pushing at the vulnerable backs of his
knees, where he's weak and shaky.
"I've got you," he says to him, wondering if he's said it before, or only
thought it about him.
He has thought it about Stiles, so many times. Stiles always seemed more
delicate than the rest of them; skinny, defenseless Stiles -- or he seemed more
delicate, anyway, when Derek couldn't admit the truth was that he just cared
more about him than all the others. Isaac and Erica and Boyd, all of them like
his own children, and he would've laid down any of them for Stiles.
Not that he had to, but he would've. And he would again, now, even having
experienced the loss of all three in different ways, knowing that pain and
fully understanding it -- would agree again to it, for this. He presses his
nose into the acute corner of Stiles' jaw and breathes in a burst of foggy
heat-scent, suffuse with lust and heavy as incense smoke.
Stiles' legs come up trembling to frame his waist. Derek says: "hold on tight."
He backs him up against the bathroom door, pushing it closed, and feels a
shiver run through him at the cool touch of the wood.
Already he can feel the heat of his hole, even before he lifts his dick between
them, nestling it against the twitching, dripping rim. When the tip is pressed
tightly enough to stay he loosens his grip on Stiles, lets gravity bring him
down until the flare of the head has slid past resistance with a distinct
sensation of yielding, and Derek moans, low and guttural, can smell his own cum
and Stiles' body reverberating with pleasure.
 
Stiles can't think past the pressing need to just get Derek's cock inside him.
He feels like his entire life, his entire existence, has just been building up
to this one point, waiting for Derek to just press inside, and then--

relief.

He comes again almost as soon as the head of Derek's dick slips past the rim of
his hole. His head slams back against the wood of the door and he lets out a
howl like a wounded animal. It feels so good, and doesn't seem to be stopping
any time soon. The pleasure continues to mount and crest like he's on a roller
coaster of orgasms. Unlike beta, or even Alpha, women, omegas are able to have
orgasm after orgasm so long as the Alpha stimulus (in this case, Derek's dick)
is still in place. 

At no point does it become overwhelming, not even when Stiles' short
fingernails dig grooves down the hard muscle of Derek's biceps so he can hold
on tighter. His hole just keeps clenching, and he keeps cumming, and it's all
he can do to just hang on.

When the haze does finally clear, it feels like they haven't moved. Derek still
has him wedged up against the door, his dick still buried to the hilt (sans
knot). Stiles is panting harshly through his nose. His chest and cheeks are
splotched with red like he's experiencing an allergic reaction. (Quite the
contrary, actually.) 

"Howww is my dick still cumming," he stutters against the skin stretched over
Derek's collarbone. 
 
He doesn't even really remember getting this erection. During his heat it just
happens; Stiles' smell alone is enough to set him off. 

And he knows he shouldn't knot him, not here, like this. If he did he'd have to
carry him back to bed knotted, which would tug and pull at him weightily and
uncomfortably. A long time ago he read a caption under a picture in a magazine,
must've been O-Ring. The picture was of an omega, and he knew it was an omega
because of the softness of her features and the placid, almost distant
expression that made her look glazed even though there was some massive cock
jammed in her. The caption said: Pain? No Gain: Don't forget, just because
she's in heat doesn't mean she can't feel pain. 

Was one of Peter's mags, in the nineties. Since then they've come out with
research showing that during heat, omegas' pain receptors are vastly reduced in
function. But there's still some receptivity, and Derek knows better than
anyone how powerful the memory of pain can be.

I don't know whether to kill it or lick it.

Kate's voice echoes in the back of his mind with birdsong; it's dawn, he can
hear the chorus of morning rising outside the windows, through the walls,
senses heightened by his heat. He carries Stiles back to bed in a sort of daze,
so close to orgasm he can feel the weird twinge at the back of his throat,
choking of his voice. Still he lowers him down gently, a hand on either side of
his head, and watches his face as he bends over him.

Stiles looks like she did, the woman in the magazine, who he thinks of now when
he thinks of that caption. His expression is similar. On some level it's
arousing, so fucking hot, Derek thinks he must've fucked the sense right out of
him, fucked him into some kind of oblivion, subspace, where all he needs is
more and more and more and moremoremore.

And then again, he also wants Stiles.

"Gonna come," he utters, hips pumping, sweat is dripping off the tip of his
nose, lands near Stiles' lip. "You -- relax," he adds, breathless, and when he
knots him stars explode in his vision but he doesn't close his eyes, instead
keeps looking, watching, as the thick bulk of flesh embeds jerkily in him, and
locks in place.
 
Stiles very nearly cries actual tears when Derek's knot finally slips inside
his body and stays there. It seems to settle something in his chest, and he
runs his hands gently up and down Derek's sweaty back, whispering nonsense to
him. 

"Yes, Derek, yes yes yes, fuck me fuck me." He's not cumming anymore--not that
it matters--but his head is finally beginning to clear ever so slightly. He
folds his knees up so that his feet are resting on the bed and he's cradling
Derek's body more than laying under it. His head falls to the side. He's
exposing his throat without having the wherewithall to realise what he's
doing. 

Licking his lips, he takes a slow deep breath. He feels like he's just run a
marathon and then some. 

"Are you . . . " Stiles stops. His mouth has gotten him into a fair amount of
trouble over the years, and doesn't seem to be ready to stop. Now seems like as
good of a time as any, especially considering Derek can't get away from him
this time. "Tell me something, Derek. Honestly. Did you agree to go through
this heat with me because you just wanted to have sex with me, or do you
actually . . . " The words stop short of see me as your omega. Even what they
were doing before had a casual air of bedwarming, but here, now, in Derek's
arms, Stiles doesn't want to just be the one Derek calls when his dick gets
hard. 

"Because I don't . . . " he shifts as much as he can to get more comfortable.
For as good as knotting feels, the adrenaline begins to leave his body as soon
as it happens, and he's left with the tingle of sensation and discomfort. "I
just don't want this to mean nothing to you. I know you don't feel like I'm
family the way you do Isaac, but--" he turns his face into the pillow so he
doesn't have to see Derek's eyes "--I do care about you, okay? And it would
just be nice to know that you didn't just tolerate my presence. Even when I'm
not leaking from the anus." 
 
It doesn't even occur to him that Stiles asked a question back there against
the door, rocking in its frame, until the waves of his orgasm rise and break
over him. How is my dick still cumming? Pretty simple, he thinks: omegas come
over and over again because when they do their internal walls pulse and draw up
Alpha semen deeper inside them, where some red chamber awaits with an egg
secreted away, not unlike a pearl, ready to be fertilized. For Stiles, a male
omega, the little sac is somewhere mid-abdomen.

We're not using condoms.

Derek swallows hard.

And Stiles is talking to him. He can hear him only vaguely through the din of
his realization, and can see the arch of his exposed throat, bob of his Adam's
apple as he mutters something about Isaac, and then, as if to cleanse himself
of that sin, says he cares.

Somehow Derek finds his sweaty hand, joints still knobbly and awkward with
teen-age, and pries the fingers up from damp bedsheets. He laces theirs
together, palm to palm, and scents him again to make sure.

There's not one note of unclarity in his smell, he notes. Stiles is pure,
everything about him is pure, his very being is like a silver bell in white
light: clean, whole, perfect. That he will inevitably be defiled by Derek and,
well, all his fucking baggage -- momentarily recedes. 

"I want you," he confesses, low, raspy, right into the shell of his ear. "Want
you as my omega. Fuck Lahey. Forget him. I'm here with you."
 
The sound of those words on Derek's tongue is like balm for Stiles soul. He
practically melts into the mattress with the knowledge that it isn't just an
Alpha, but his Alpha above him, all around him, filling him, knotting
him, loving him. 

"I love you, too," Stiles whispers, smearing his grin into Derek's neck. He's
always known that the werewolf isn't very verbal, nor does he come out with his
feelings very easily, so to have him admit that he wants Stiles for his omega
is as much of an admission of love as he's going to get. 

Wrapping his long arms snugly around Derek's firm back, he snuffles a soft sigh
and closes his eyes. The rest of the world can just wait until his heat is
over. 
 
Fin
Chapter End Notes
     I love buttplugs. They're pretty much my favourite sex toy. Hence.
     And yes, you must suffer my mindless meta when I post. :D
     If you liked this, please leave us some feedback. It's totally the
     ambrosia for our muses.
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