Derek is finally Alpha, and it's a disaster.
He learns to appreciate just how much of Laura's patience he must have tested as he plays babysitter to teenagers, all of them drunk on new power and completely self-absorbed. Was he ever this bad, this hormonal? Scott can't seem to let common sense dictate who he wants so desperately to bury himself in (and it's still the Argent girl; Derek knows one day he's going to have to actually do something about that, but for now it's easier to just ignore the problem) and Lydia and Jackson spend as much time fucking as snarling at each other.
Stiles is somehow worse, though, a roving ball of hormones with no outlet, and Derek is desperately tempted to shove him in between Lydia and Jackson just so he doesn't have to deal with it anymore. But he can't, not if he expects to get Stiles back in one piece.
Derek wonders if this is part of his job, playing matchmaker. It feels necessary after weeks of waiting for the boy to take action and just go and find a willing body to screw. He's the right age for it to be easy, after all, if he can just close his mouth long enough for someone to get theirs over it.
He spends a painful amount of time listening to Stiles' inane chatter, trying to find a name that comes up more that the others, some person of interest to manipulate into holding Stiles down and working some of that adolescent energy out so Derek can breathe for half a second without choking on pheromones and going half-hard. He steals Stiles' phone and flicks through his contacts list. He makes pointed (if unsubtle) inquires to Allison and Lydia and finally Scott in a moment of desperation, none of which are helpful.
It's the same names over and over: just theirs.
Stiles continues to waft his unrequited interest while the others leave signs of their fucking everywhere, and it's Derek who stands frustrated and miserable at the center of everything.
He doesn't trust any of them, which means Derek gets to play den mother and put up with full moon sleepovers, complete with sleeping bags piled up in the main room (none of which ever get used, but Lydia and Allison seem to like the tradition of it) and a mouth-breathing human making himself at home, roving all over the only place Derek has managed to soak his own scent in and mixing in his own frustration.
"And so coach was screaming the whole time, right, totally freaked out about the blood --" Stiles says, completely oblivious to the fact that Jackson has his head buried between Lydia's legs not half a mile away and Allison has her hand on Scott's dick in the back of her father's car outside this burnt out corpse he calls home and it's completely out of Derek's hands, now, he can't fucking deal with this shit on the full moon.
He wraps a hand around Stiles' lower face and slams him back hard enough to send up a cloud of plaster dust, but the "Jesus Christ!" is perfectly audible, and even if it wasn't Derek is pretty sure he can feel the shift of every one of the atoms in Stiles' mouth form the words against his palm.
"There has to be someone." Derek knows his eyes are glowing and his fangs elongating. He can't stop it. Why the hell did he think he could deal with this tonight? "You cannot keep coming here, smelling like this, do you understand?"
If he were in his right mind there would be more menace in the way Derek buries his nose into the base of Stiles' throat, breathing in panic and fear and a fresh burst of that mid-grade arousal Stiles wears like a cheap aftershave.
Derek rubs his open mouth against a pulse point and feels Stiles open his own to breathe out heavily against his palm, wet and warm and completely inappropriate, like everything else about the boy. It's not a kiss, it's just scenting and tasting and touching, right up to the point where Stiles shudders, rolling his hips up into the hand Derek didn't mean to press against his groin and comes, biting at Derek's palm as though that will muffle anything.
The problem is suddenly so much worse, because now the smell is unbearably stronger, Derek can feel it soak into the walls and his clothing and his skin deep enough that it will take days to air out. He whines, the hand that had been covering Stiles' mouth dropping down to help tear at the dampening jeans.
"Oh god," Stiles is whimpering, but he spreads his legs and just rests against the wall -- "oh god oh god," -- as Derek drops down to his knees to nose into where the zipper has given way.
It's better there, the scent stronger and undiluted, and Derek breathes in greedy lungfuls as he shimmies Stiles' jeans and boxers down. He's mostly hard but softening, which is fine, Stiles is sixteen and it shouldn't take long to get him going again. Pushing up the hem of Stiles' shirt, Derek licks through the mess on Stiles' cock and rolls with the surprised rock of his hips.
He's too impatient to manage the job properly and Stiles is pretty much useless at holding his own weight, so Derek maneuvers him down onto the ground with the mess of come only half-cleaned, mouthing and biting furiously at skin and cotton as Stiles' mantra changes to "Derek, fuck, god, fuck."
"Get your shirt off," Derek says, and presses the heel of his hand painfully into his erection as Stiles scrambles to comply. Derek isn't a fucking teenager anymore, and he seriously doubts Stiles would be impressed by Derek coming in his pants, fair trade be damned.
The air in the house is cold, but not bitterly so, which means Stiles' shiver probably has less to do with the temperature than with the way Derek crowds him back against the warped wooden floor, hands framing the breadth of his shoulders. He watches Stiles lift a tentative hand, hesitating on the edge of Derek's shirt. "Just the pants," Derek corrects, smiling with approval when Stiles' hand dips lower and the other joins it, working Derek's flies with clumsy eagerness.
It takes a minute, and Derek curls his fingers into the floor, nails digging tiny grooves into the already ruined floor as though they can summon patience through the ground itself. Derek opens his mouth when Stiles finally curls a hand around his cock, but it's the body beneath that makes a tiny noise.
The angle is wrong but the pressure is good when Stiles starts jerking, his own hips twitching sympathetically when Derek slides his eyes shut and pants, concentrating on the sensation. This is good, but he knows what would be better; turning Stiles over, opening him up with his mouth and fingers, forcing another orgasm out of the boy before sliding in. It wouldn't take much, not tonight, not with Stiles ramped up to twelve and Derek feeding off it like a vampire.
He's growling, panting against Stiles' cheek with his eyes closed, and the hand is not enough. "Turn over," he grits out, forcing himself to back up a few inches. Stiles looks terrified and rapt, which is a good summation of the whole situation.
"I don't think --" Stiles starts, hands coming up to press against Derek's chest but words failing him.
"Not going to fuck you. Just -- Christ, will you listen, just this once?" Derek rocks down, grinds his cock against Stiles', as close to a promise as he can manage.
That's clearly enough to get Stiles moving, awkward with his pants still tangled around his calves and his shoes still on. He starts to reach down, and Derek's not patient enough for any more undressing, just heaves Stiles over and forces him up on his knees, biting into a mouthful of shoulder when it feels like the boy might try and flinch away.
Derek reaches around, presses his hand into the slight give of Stiles' stomach, feeling the wetness dribbled there from Stiles' renewed erection. He angles his own cock between Stiles' thighs, grunting when he's met halfway there, Stiles grinding back instinctively.
He fucks into the heat, nudging Stiles legs closed with his knees and wrapping his hand around Stiles' cock in turn, just holding. Stiles ruts into it and back, and Derek grunts into the skin still held between his teeth.
Stiles makes a noise, desperate, and then doesn't shut up, moaning and sighing like a pornstar, only better because he's trying to muffle it, dropping down onto his forearms and burying his head into the crook of an elbow.
"Come on," Derek says, swiping a thumb over the head of Stiles' cock, spreading the wetness around as Stiles continues to rock. It doesn't take long, and Derek keeps fucking between Stiles' thighs as his hand goes dripping, keeps rutting there until his own orgasm hits like a punch to the gut. He grunts, holds himself still as he covers Stiles even more thoroughly with semen, soaking in the scent of sex as thoroughly as it's been spread around his home.
Derek rolls them both to the side, rubbing his filthy hand up and down Stiles' stomach, as though to sooth away the tremble in the boy's muscles. It works, or possibly exhaustion just hits Stiles like a truck, because the last of the tension drips out of his muscles and he melts into it.
"What the fuck," Stiles says, but he isn't scrambling away so Derek decides to ignore the brief gnaw of guilt in his gut. "No, seriously, what the fuck?"
"Figure it out, idiot," Derek replies, almost pleasantly, and is satisfied by a shocked minute of peace that wrings out of Stiles.
"I -- okay. Can I ask why?"
It's not an unreasonable query, though Derek remembers vaguely having explained it not too long ago. "You always smell like sex. It's annoying."
There's a long, heavy pause. "I don't think this helped, actually."
Stiles laughs, at least, and it's only mostly freaked out, which is pretty good for post-virginity loss. Derek's hand slows its petting, then stills. He feels languid, unbothered by the reek of arousal in the air for once.
The peace doesn't last. "Should I put my clothes back on?"
Derek blinks his eyes open, unsure when they closed, and huffs out an annoyed breath. "If you want."
Stiles nods, and runs his fingers over the hand Derek has spread out across his chest. "And if I don't, can we do blowjobs later?"
Derek shrugs, pretty sure blowjobs and getting dressed are not mutually exclusive.