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I'm Betting This Wasn't Beta Tested

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Derek had barely been able to move for the longest time thanks to Lydia's dust and his uncle's destruction of the alpha power he barely understood. Now though, hours later, his feet beneath him – he can't stop shaking in a way that has nothing to do with physical trauma or magical drain.

Considering what he’d just talked about with Boyd, this whole thing is ironic – or would be, if it weren’t so fucked up. In a few months he's risen from beta to alpha through violence and now fallen the same way. Only now his body is reminding him, loudly, screamingly, that he isn't just any beta; he's a born beta.

He thinks that must be the explanation. The shock to his system has forced biological systems innate to his birthright into overdrive, including dormant ones like heat. He doesn't have time for heat, not like this. He went through a minor heat at puberty like most of his kind do but nothing like this, so strong that his breath is coming in choked gasps and his limbs are trembling so hard he can barely stay upright as his body pulses with a staccato of needneedneedneed

This isn't supposed to happen to alphas. It's not even supposed to happen to beta males unless they're mated to another male and choose to trigger it. Only with what Peter just did to suck out the alpha power, everything in Derek is thrown off. He doesn’t even know if he could control his change right now.

Or, hell, maybe Peter did this on purpose. Maybe out of some sort of sick, twisted familial affection he added something to Lydia's magic that triggered his heat to try and destroy him from the inside rather than kill him outright. If that was plan then it was a good one.

As far as Derek knows, an unintentional heat of this severity hasn’t happened in his family since they left Europe. There were plants that grew in the New World that worked for them the way mountain ash and wolfsbane worked against them. They put that element of their animal nature under control, which, his mother had always told him, was so important to the success of their kind in America. The end of heat fevers kept their betas from mating men – human and wolf – they wouldn't want otherwise. While only about two thirds of heats actually ended in pregnancy, a less sporadic reproductive system kept pack size more manageable and that made it easier to move, to run, to hide in the face of hunters.

Most importantly, keeping their kind free of heats was damage control. The immediate effects of heat were debilitating. Derek already could feel them, taking him from a young man with a pack to lead to a debauched animal whose whole being was focused on the need to mate. Worse was the possible long term damage the heat fever could cause: a heat left unsatisfied for too long destroyed the human in a werewolf's mind, leaving only the animal behind. The body was the same – shifting forms, functioning as before – but speech, most memories, and any reason beyond that of a natural wolf were gone.

Being burned away was rare but it did happen. It happened often enough for betas in heat to offer themselves to anyone if they got close enough to the edge. It happened often enough for the hunters to know. Half the knowledge that hunters had about wolves came from catching betas in heat and holding them captive for the days or hours it took until the wolf was forced to beg to be bred out of fear of being burned away. Then hunters had a debased wolf they could torture for information, or even better, a pregnant were willing to tell them anything they wanted to protect their young and then cubs to experiment on.

Any of their own being reduced to their animal selves for the rest of their lives or used by the hunters was unacceptable to the Hales. A few generations of consistent suppression and spontaneously going into heat was, as Laura had liked to say, practically vestigial. When it did happen, there were things to be done. Usually at least one member of the pack was close enough to be trusted through a heat, and afterwards there were countermeasures for preventing recurrence, for slowing the symptoms, and to provide a wolf and their pack with more time to form a plan.

Only Derek doesn’t have a pack that he can turn to support him anymore. He is the support now. It's his turn to be the one with all the answers but it's one more thing he's failing at, like stopping his uncle or being stronger than this heat. He wishes he could at least remember which herbs his ancestors used because he can already feel himself slipping.

Deaton might know. He seems to know all kinds of things he shouldn't but there's no way Derek'll make it. Besides, everything he learned growing up told him that the methods used in the past were all about a pinch of prevention being worth a pound of cure. With how deep the craving has already crept into his very veins, he knows that getting them now wouldn't make a difference.

Derek manages to make it all the way to the front door before he's hit with the overpowering wave of fire as the heat fever surges. He's no expert but he remembers enough to know that this part is going to get worse, fast, if he doesn’t do something. He feels like his brain is boiling brain as he grasps for a solution. There has to be something because he'll be damned if he's going to let his mind be burned out of him in the same place where Kate burned out his entire family.

His shaking hands check his pockets and he thanks fuck that Lydia and Peter didn't get his phone. He can't call anyone in his pack. It's morning and Isaac will have unchained them but they're going to be exhausted. He can't face them this way either, not when he might climb Boyd or Isaac like a tree and beg them to help him, to fuck him so hard and deep he can taste them in the back of his throat. He's their leader, their alpha – even if the power is gone. And even if he weren't, there are bonds of trust there that make up pack; breaking them would be almost as bad as what Kate did to him. He won't do that. He'd die first.

Scott's not an option either. For one thing, Allison. For another, Scott hasn't even called back from earlier. If he can't count on Scott for something as simple as helping the pack with their first new moon, how can he count on him for this?

That leaves exactly one option: Stiles. If Derek's honest with himself – and he figures why not be with things this fucked up; it can't do that much more damage, can it – that's the best person he could turn to. For all his flailing, he can keep a secret. He's saved Derek twice and counting, three if he counts Stiles helping him out of the Argent torture chamber, and a guy who will keep you afloat for more than two hours in eight feet of water is someone he could risk trusting.

The fact that Derek's thought about that smart mouth wrapped around his cock dozens of times as he jerked himself off is a good reason to call too. He's had his hands on a few inches of Stiles' pale skin in the past and it's always been so soft. The idea of feeling more, touching more, of Stiles spread out over him, all that delicate human skin sweating and rubbing against him as Stiles takes and takes and takes him makes Derek's cock get hard and his body throb with emptiness on top of the heat fever cooking him from the inside.

That has to be a good sign, right? Derek thinks. Yeah, he's pretty sure it his. So, Stiles. He needs to call Stiles. He fumbles through his contacts, braced against the doorframe. He hits send so hard he nearly drops the phone, praying that Stiles will actually pick the fuck up.

It rings four times. Derek's been low on hope for years but he almost loses what he has left before there's a yawn over the line. "'Lo?"

"Stiles?" he breathes, unable to keep the relief out of his voice. "It's me. I need you to come get me."


"Yeah. Come get me. Right now."

"What?" There's another yawn then, "Screw you, man. I'm not your chauffer."

"Stiles! It's a fucking emergency." He growls and oh, Stiles would laugh so hard if he knew that was a pun. "I'm…I'm home. Come get me." He swallows down what little pride he has left and says, "Help me. Please."

There's a long silence on the other end of the line. "You just said please."

"Yeah. Stiles." Derek knows he's pleading but he can't help it. He's fucking powerless to his own body which is betraying him more and more by the second. He hates it and himself for being so stupid, so weak.

He feels stripped naked just having to ask, and he cringes. This part he could never have expected: his cold, niggling humiliation and exposure. He is so grateful that Stiles can't see him in this moment, even as badly as Derek wants him here.

"Right, sorry. I didn't mean- I'm sorry, man, that wasn't cool." Stiles doesn't seem to push, doesn't snap at him like he did the last two times Derek was hurt, dying. Maybe it was the please. "Okay. Okay I'm coming for you, all right? I'll be right there. I'm getting my keys and my shoes as we speak."

"Stiles," Derek says again because he's made the choice. He's been chosen. For some reason, that fact alone knocks his knees out from under him. "Stiles."

"I'm going out to my car." There's the hum of an engine. "And it’s started. So when you say home, you mean your house, not the creepy train, right?"

Derek nods before remembering that Stiles can’t see him. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm not- I'm at home."

"Hey," Stiles says and his voice is so soft, so warm. Derek wants to sink into it. Drown in it. It sends pleasure vibrating through his limbs, inwards to his chest and down into his core."Are you okay?"

"Get here," he grits out, barely managing to hold back finishing that statement with and I will be.

"Breathe, okay? Derek, don’t die until I can get there, okay? I will be so pissed if you make me drive all the way into the woods and find you dead."

"'M not dying."

"Good. I don’t have the energy to dig your grave this morning. I've had the longest night ever."

Derek tries to laugh but it hurts. Everywhere hurts, even the pleasure of Stiles' voice hurts. He needs to come. He needs to be filled. He needs to be taken. He wasn't warned and he didn't understand what heat was, how it really worked, and now isn't the time for this. It shouldn't be happening but it is and he can't even breathe let alone think, because every second without hands on his skin is making this worse.

Stiles is talking. He talks about the party. He talks about how he called in his drag queen friends, who had stage names like Ida Hoe and Foxy Cox, to Lydia's house. He talks about how someone spiked the punch with hallucinogens. He tells Derek how some girl named Shantal from his AP calculus class dunked his head in the pool. He talks about how some kid called Matt is controlling the Kanima. Then he veers away from Beacon Hills news and tells Derek about how the scientists in Cern found the Higgs-Boson particle. He talks about how he thinks that the black hole at the center of the galaxy is going to destroy the Milky Way one day.

Derek pants down the line and listens without really registering a fucking word of it. Not until Stiles says "Derek, hey, I'm here, can you come out?"

"No." Derek whispers, hating how fucking young he sounds.

The phone goes dead and suddenly Stiles is on his knees in front of him. Oh Jesus Christ, he smells so good. He smells like sunshine and shampoo and sweat and a hint of chlorinated pool water and Stiles. Derek pitches over, forehead landing against Stiles' shoulder where he breathes deep. It helps.

"Derek. Hey, Derek, are you okay? Are you hurt? What's going on?"

"Need," he mumbles into the fabric of Stiles' worn Beacon Hills High sweat shirt. His pain is receding at the closeness, the touch, the heady smell. All of Stiles gives Derek promises of almost, of could be, of a potential mating that will ease the burning in his veins."Need you."

"Okay. You need me to do what exactly?"

"Touch me. Just – hands. Put your hand out." He reaches out, grabs one of Stiles' hands and places it against his cheek. His entire body shudders then gets looser.


"Can you put the other one on my neck?" he asks, relieved to find his voice is steadier already. "Or shoulder, or arm? Just skin. Just touch my skin okay?"

"Yeah. Of course, because this isn't weird as hell on the sliding scale of bizarre shit that makes up my life."

Derek can't see Stiles rolling his eyes from here. He can hear it though. It's so normal, typical Stiles. That goes one more step towards grounding him.

"Sure," Stiles says with a put upon sigh. "Whatever. I can do that." Always one for follow through, he places a careful hand on the back of Derek's bare shoulder.

Derek does not whine. He just really wants to. Instead he clears his throat and says, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. You know, I have no idea what's going on but it's made you terrifyingly polite. Are you sure you don’t need to go to the emergency room or something? Because this level of courtesy from you has to be like… the breaking of one of the seven seals of the apocalypse."

"No." Derek leans further into the hand cupping his face. "No, I'm just fucked."


"Wait, Stiles, I mean literally. I need you to fuck me."

That makes Stiles jerk back, and no. No, the hands are gone. That's bad. Derek needs the hands back. His chosen, the one who chose him, isn't touching him anymore and that's not good. His body is already starting to rebel.

"I'm sorry, you what me to what you?"

"I'm in heat," Derek blurts while he's still coherent, before the fever starts turning him into a base physical being again. "Peter, he's back and he took- he used- I'm- It threw everything out of place and I need you to just do this for me, Stiles."

"And by Peter you mean Mr. Alpha McMurderWolf? Are you kidding me? Didn't you kill him?" Stiles demands. "Because I remember setting that son of a bitch on fire. It was terrifying but then you slit his throat and he was dead."

Derek curls up a little. He doesn't want to but his body can't help itself; the air is starting to hurt his skin, and Stiles is so close. It's either do this or crawl over and put his head in Stiles' lap. It does get Stiles to reach out and put a careful hand on his arm, though. That helps.


"Stiles, come on. Fuck me. Decide. Yes or no."

Stiles stares at him for a long moment. "Okay so, your dead uncle's come back to life. Then remember what I told you about Stalker Matt controlling the kanima on the phone? Yeah, that's still a problem too. Not to mention the hunters who are still really pissed at the pack for existing. We've got all of that going on and you're talking about sex? Derek, not to be mean or anything, but you look like you've been hit by like by every float in a Christmas parade. How can you want-"

"It's not about want," Derek growls, feeling his teeth lengthening. He wonders what color his eyes are now. Are they blue again? "I need this, okay? Heat isn't like a case of blue balls. My whole body's barely mine anymore. It's like the change but it won't end with the moon. It'll keep going until it's satisfied." Derek grits out, hating the weakness, hating Peter, and hating being a wolf for the first time in his entire life. "I can barely think when you're not touching me." And oh god, how much his hands are helping. "I can only string my words into sentences because you're here. How can I fight like this?"

Derek could force out more, about what a heat can do if left unsated, about losing himself to the base impulse for the rest of his life. He'd be an animal, just like the fucking Argents are only always saying. If he told Stiles there wouldn't be a question of cooperation but he can't have Stiles say yes to that. He'll hold back that truth until absolutely necessary because to do anything else is just a little too close to a line he won't cross. It feels wrong, skating too close to the kind of coercions Kate used on him and he won't be that. Not while he's a person, and he is, thankfully, still a person.

For now, he does the best he can with Stiles' honest confusion.

"And you need me to have sex with you."

"No," Derek says. "I need you to fuck me. I need you inside me. I- If you can't it's okay. You don't- You don't have to but I don't have time to be like this, not with Peter out there, controlling Lydia and being psychotic. I at least need you to help me figure out what to do, Stiles, so no one gets hurt because I can’t do what I have to."

"Right. So I have to fuck you for the good of Beacon Hills. It’s a humanitarian mission."

Derek lets out a choked noise. He wishes it were a laugh. He misses real laughter. "Yeah. I guess you could think of it that way."

"Sure. Anything for a… not quite friend. Plus you're like, a twelve on a one to ten hotness scale when you're not being terrifying or a total jerk so, yeah, I could totally get behind this plan it's just- Are you sure you don't want, oh I don't know, anyone else on earth to do this for you, or to you? I mean, have you seen Boyd? He is seriously ripped. I think his arms are bigger than my head. Or Danny, remember? Good looking guy, hacker, thinks your name is Miguel? You know he's into you, right?"

Stiles lets go of Derek's arm to rub the back of his neck. Derek follows his long narrow fingers with his eyes, hungry. They shouldn’t be worrying over the front of his sweater, down his arms. Derek can smell his anxiety, his self-doubt, and a hint of lust. It's dizzying. Or the heat is. Or both. Both, Derek thinks even as he starts to reel out again, his vision drifting up to the pulse in Stiles' throat. Derek finds himself rocking his hips to time to the beat of his heart. "Stiles," he breathes.

"I'm not really the guy for something like this. I mean, I may be the last virgin in Beacon Hills for God's sake."

Derek shakes his head. "You. Needs to be you." Then he stops and thinks about what Stiles has said. If it weren't for the maddening symptoms, the physically painful craving, having Stiles like this would be a moment wrapped in desire rather than desperation. "I want it to be you."

Stiles gapes at him, his mouth hanging open like a suffocating fish for a moment then sputters then asks "Why?"

Derek shakes his head again. "I can't think like this. Stiles. You look- Your smell. You always smelled so fucking good and it’s even better now." He knows it doesn’t make sense but he's trying. He's always had… something where Stiles is concerned. Not something that made sense but from that first time, when that bitch that destroyed his world shot him, Stiles was his first call.

Everything is just amplified. It always could've been something bigger if Derek let himself consider it. Now he's been shoved face first into how much more there really is when it comes to himself and Stiles.

"My…smell?" He tugs the collar of his shirt over. "I smell fine. I showered okay."

"With your brain, your mouth," Derek says, trying again. He can’t make what's going on in his head come out the right way. "Makes me want. It's- You're-" He growls, frustrated. He isn't going to crawl even though instinct is telling him to. He has very little dignity left but that is one piece he refuses to let go of, goddamnit. He'd rather let the heat fever fry his brain and force him to do it than make that choice consciously.

He takes a deep breath, then another and makes one last ditch effort to explain even as he can feel his coherency melting again. "You always feel good. So good but now-" He swallows hard, because this part? This would be excruciatingly hard even if he weren't overwhelmed. "But you take care of me. I want you because I can trust you to take care of me, the only person who has since Laura. Stiles- Can't. Sorry. I'm-" He waves a hand upwards. "My head."

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to keep talking. Stiles is coming back. He's shucking his sweatshirt and revealing a t-shirt with a Fangoria logo that exposes more pale skin. Then he's climbing into Derek's lap, wrapping those arms under the thin fabric of the torn wifebeater, grounding him even as Derek drops his forehead against Stiles' neck, and he's saying "It's okay" over and over until it starts to sound true. For a few blessed minutes, Derek just closes his eyes and breathes.

"Good. This is good." Stiles' heart beats in an even rhythm that tells Derek he means it. He's starting to smell aroused too, thank fuck. Then he asks, "Do we have to do it here though? The sex." Stiles shifts as he looks around. "Because it's gross, Derek. I smell rot, and also there's a gaping hole over there where I'm guessing your uncle was dug up. Ugh. How can you be turned on around all this?" Stiles asks, knowing they both get that all this is the death soaked into every inch of the building.

"I don’t know if I could make it out," Derek admits. It's not something he's happy to share but it’s no more painful than anything else he's told Stiles this morning.

"Hmm." The sound rumbles in Stiles' chest and Derek can feel it everywhere. He wishes for a moment that his were was a cat so that he could purr into the feeling. It intensifies when Stiles begins gently rubbing his hands back and forth over bare skin. "Let's try. I don't think you want to do this here and I know I sure as hell don't. You deserve better, you know? And I really don’t want to lose my virginity here. It's creepy."

"Moving may not be doable for me though. Unless it's to get us out of our pants so that I can get your cock inside me. Now." Even as he says it Derek is weighing the pros and cons of dropping contact with all that Stiles-skin to tear at his fly. Stiles is on top, though, and that would require readjusting so Derek decides to wait, for now.

Stiles groans. "Okay, so, as hot as that mental image is? And seriously, so hot I could spontaneously combust, Jesus, I'm going to have to say no. Unless you have lube magically hidden in your skintight jeans or- Hang on. Does being in heat mean that you, like, self-lubricate?"

Derek pulls back to glare at him. It feels good. It's nice to be sane enough to glare and to have Stiles smirk back. That more than anything makes Derek think that this is actually going to work, he's pretty sure. "Don't be an asshole."

"Ha, yeah. Then no. Not here." Then Stiles presses his lips to Derek's forehead, gentle and soft like he would a child. "Okay?"

"Stiles what-"

"I've got you but we can't do this here so why don’t you put your hands on my waist for right now instead, like under my shirt."

Derek does so without protest and watches as Stiles pulls his t-shirt off. He's not as scrawny as he appears with all those layers on. With the lacrosse he plays and all the running and fighting and surviving he's been doing he actually is sleek in his muscle definition, but that's not what has Derek hypnotized. It's his skin. There are moles and freckles and little scars here and there but the skin itself is so pale it almost glows white in the early sunrise. He looks nothing like a wolf and everything like what Derek wants and needs right now.

Before Stiles can drop the shirt to the floor, Derek dips his head and licks from the far edge of his shoulder near his armpit, across his chest into the hollow of his collarbone and up his neck, stopping just under Stiles' ear. He presses his nose against the skin and hair there and lets out a rumble that’s torn between pleading and pleased.

"Right," Stiles drags out, bunching the shirt in his fist. "Yes. Licking. That's, uh, interesting. Okay. Keep your hands and arms on me and we're going to go to my Jeep – without any licking. Okay?"

"Yeah," Derek murmurs, nuzzling that small patch of skin that smells so specific it’s like some of the itching in his brain has eased. The sensation that’s replaced it is cool and calm, like water closing over his head. "Jeep. Arms. No licking. Fine, whatever. I needed you in me an hour ago, Stiles."

Stiles heaves an annoyed sigh but his heartbeat is still fast and his smell is still spicy and sharp."One, you have to stop saying shit like that if you want me to stay hard long enough to give you want you want. That’s the first thing. The second thing is that you have to let me up so we can actually leave."

"Fuck that," Derek growls, wrapping his arms around Stiles' waist and climbing to his feet. He's so light, like he's nothing wound around Derek this way. He wishes they could switch, that Stiles was strong enough to hold him up like this, fuck him into one of the ash-filled walls until he screams, until he begs, until he fucking cries. This is okay now though. It gets Stiles' hard-on against his as they cross the yard to the Jeep.

Setting Stiles down in the driver's seat – he left the door open in his hurry to get to Derek's side – feels like he's peeling off a layer of his own skin. He places both hands on the door frame of the car and presses his face against Stiles' bare chest to brace himself. His ear is close enough that he can hear Stiles' heart pumping blood without even using his wolf's senses.

Stiles brings one hand down the back of his head and runs a finger through his hair. "Derek, is this something bigger than just getting fucked? I mean this, here, with the way you're acting. I don't- From what you said- This isn't what all heats are like, right?"

He nods against Stiles because he's right. Stiles is almost always right. This is so much more than normal but he can't articulate how. There's something here, something beyond the biological imperative to fuck, to breed, to indulge in the basal mating that will turn his hormones and pheromones back to normal.

Derek can feel whatever is intensifying an already violent heat, shadowed and just out of reach, coiled around and around all through his body. It's answered every time he touches Stiles, and that Stiles would even ask that question means that Stiles might feel it too. It's too late to care though, too far in, too long gone without.

"Please," he croaks again, "Stiles, please."

"Just let go for a second and get in. Then you'll be able to be all Handsy McGee on me again okay?" Stiles gives the hair at the back of Derek’s head a tug. "I can't drive if you're hanging out the door, Derek. I lack the skill. Use your wolf speed or whatever." Then he does it again.

He presses his mouth to Derek's skin, his temple this time and fuck, Derek could come just from that, he really could. It wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't stop the heat but he could anyway. That knowledge is enough for him to leap over the roof and land on his hands and knees on the other side. Stiles gives an impressed little laugh and has the door open for him even as he clambers inside.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, Derek presses his face into Stiles' warm, bare shoulder, feeling the chaos settle, just a bit. When he slides one arm carefully around Stiles' stomach it's even better. His other hand rests on the back of Stiles neck and all at once it's like his brain is back on-line. "Oh. Shit."

"You back with me?" Stiles asks, revving the engine and tearing away from the house.

Derek does a quick mental systems check. He knows where he is, what’s going on, what he's doing, who he's with. Everything makes sense even if it's overwhelming. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Okay. Being of sounder mind, you still sure you want to do this whole sex thing? With me?"

"Yeah." So much, he doesn’t say. I want to know how long you are, how thick so I can imagine how deep and wide you'll stretch me. I want to know if running those suicides for Finstock will help you fuck me so hard that I hit your headboard with my face. I want to lick you everywhere after and taste my come off your skin. The contact keeps Derek's mind sharp enough to hold all of that back so he can just say, "I want you."

"I'm taking you home," Stiles says, and Derek stiffens though he doesn’t pull away. Stiles ignores it. "My dad's not working but he's going over to Beacon Heights today, unofficially following a lead on one of the '06 swim team members who Matt hasn’t had killed yet so. Yeah. My house. You just go straight up to my room and I'll give you whatever you need to be okay."

"That works." He doesn’t have to worry about it then. He can just rub his face against warm skin and smell Stiles, feel him. He'd lick him but Stiles said no licking and apparently all his old beta instincts are back, including the ones that lovingly push him to obey.

He used to be so good at being obedient to the will of the pack – before Kate, and then after for Laura. Stiles isn't his alpha but the impulses are the same only more, deeper, all the way to his bones and suffused with a lust that definitely was never there before. A distant part of him thinks that maybe offering his throat to Stiles would turn this low hum into something steady, even peaceful. Derek wants that. He can barely remember what it was like before fire burned away any of his own inner peace.

He closes his eyes and sinks into scent and touch until suddenly Stiles is shaking his shoulder. "Hey, we're here. My dad's car's already gone so we can go in. You know where my room is, obviously, so wait for me there? I have to grab my stuff and I'll be right there."

Derek opens his mouth to protest but nods instead. It's easier, hell, more comfortable right now to obey. He's been stabilized long enough that he can probably keep his head on straight and get what they need together so that Stiles can fuck him as soon as he gets in the room. "Hurry." Derek growls deep in his chest.

Pink spreads from Stiles' neck down over his chest. Derek watches, hears his heart beat speed up and can't help taking one last lick. He tastes of sweat salt, laundry detergent, body wash and StilesStilesStiles. Derek shudders before pulling away and tearing up the side of the house and into Stiles' bedroom window, because if he doesn’t do it now he never will and Stiles doesn’t know enough to fuck him in the Jeep.

He follows his nose to the chemical scent of lubricant. It's in a drawer in Stiles' computer desk, rather than the bedside table. Derek considers looking for condoms, he really does. But then he takes a deep breath and is hit with the overwhelming scent of Stiles, years of it built up: walls and clothes and objects all coated in his smell. The bed will be more, better.

He strips out of the bloodied, torn tank top and jeans with just enough care not to destroy them. He doesn't remember throwing the slick on the bed but it’s near his shoulder when he lands face down and naked on Stiles' bed. The smell is intoxicating and reminds him suddenly, violently, that he is so fucking empty.

Derek can feel his mind clouding even as he fumbles for the lube. It's better here though. Stiles' smell is everywhere, making him so fucking hard he actually has to bite at the comforter. His claws grow in response to the need, letting him slice the top of the tube clean off. His nails retract leaving his fingers drenched.

There is no burn, no sting when he shoves two fingers inside himself. His heat makes his body open easily. There's just wetness and stretch and the feel of the cotton comforter and the smell of Stiles. He's still too empty but it's better. It's something. He works in a third, twisting his wrist and trying not to whine because it's good. It feels so good but it's not right. He can smell right though, hear the footsteps pounding up the stairs and the door swinging open.

"Oh my fucking god," Stiles breathes. Derek turns his head to look at him in the doorway. He knows he must be a mess where the lube's spilled. He threw it too close and now there are smears on his neck and shoulder from the puddle. It's disgusting. Derek doesn't care.

All that matters is that Stiles is there. So close, his shirt and sweater gripped tight to his chest. He's still too far away. Anything is too far if he's not buried in Derek.

"Fuck me," he groans, his throat feeling raw, sounding like he's been sucking cock for days. "Stiles, fuck me now."

"I just realized I'm not- I don't have any, you know, condoms. Didn't seem like it'd come up." He chuckles at the pun. "I could go look in my dad's-"

"'S fine," He pants, pushing his fingers hard against his prostate with his knuckles. "Bare's good. Want you bare, hot, hard. Stiles." He breaks off because he is ready to beg and he honestly isn’t sure if that's something he wants to do or not.

Stiles is across the room an instant later and his hands are on Derek's back, smoothing from his neck down to the base of his spine and up again. Derek's shoulders sag forward into the bed, lifting his hips, and everything that is held so tight unwinds just a bit. Then Stiles' other hand reaches down and catches Derek’s desperately thrusting wrist.

"Jesus. Derek, you look…"

There are so many ways that sentence could end. Slutty. Filthy. Greedy. Whorish. Those are things Kate used to call him during sex when things got messy. She’d laugh and kiss him and tell him that he was her dirty boy. He used to like it. It used to turn him on and make him fuck her deeper or harder.

Now he realizes that something like that is the last thing he wants to hear. He'd never admit it aloud but he's too vulnerable like this, too exposed. He'd live through it but it'd break something between him and Stiles, maybe between himself and his dignity.

Instead Stiles' thumb rubs over the pulse in his wrist, and he breathes, "Amazing. You look amazing. I've seen stuff like this in porn but it's you and it's just, fuck, Derek, I mean, you know what you look like, okay, but you're like, extra beautiful right now. Jesus."

Derek can't say anything to that. He just sags. He doesn’t ask again, just pulls his hand free of his hole and plants it on the bed beside his shoulder to leverage himself horizontal. Stiles does another long swipe of his back then says, his voice shaking a little, "What should I- Derek, I don’t know what to do."

"I'm open so fucking hold my hips and push in. You won't hurt me. You can't hurt me."

"Right but-"

He presses his face into his arm. "I'm wet for you so just unzip. You can undress later."

"So you want me to leave your pants on?"

"Stiles," he growls. "If you don't put your cock inside me, I'll reach back there and throw you out the fucking window."

"What, lubey fingers and all? Oh yeah," Stiles snorts. Derek hears him kicking out of his pants anyway a moment before the bed sags under his weight. "That's super sexy. You know, never mind how difficult that will make it for me to get the job done. Keep talking dirty to me like that."

"Stiles-" Derek begins but then there is a hand on his hip, firm enough that if he was a human, it would leave deep purple-black bruises. He moans at the sound of a zipper being pulled down and then there's a gentle press at his hole. "Fuck."

"Trying," Stiles says through gritted teeth. He rolls his hips then, thank fucking god, is finally inside. "Whoa. That's- I'm not- This feels so- I mean wow."

Derek feels like every bone and joint in his body clicks into place at the sensation of Stiles inside him, so fucking deep. His hips are pressed against Derek's ass and that’s enough. Derek can rock himself forward on his elbows and back onto Stiles cock. It's a little shorter than the average length but it's surprisingly thick for a teenager, more than enough for Derek to finally feel full.

He pushes back hard and Stiles moans. "Oh god, Derek." He feels Stiles' head dropping between his shoulder blades. "You're- you're so tight. Is that okay? Can I say that?"

"Yeah," Derek manages, "Yeah you can say that. I like it." Derek reaches back and grabs Stiles' ass, pulling him sharply forward even as he pushes back. They both let out guttural noises but then Stiles is talking again.

"You sure?"

Derek glares over his shoulder at him. "This is the only time you can say whatever you want, Stiles. The one and only time ever."

Stiles bites his lip red then stutters out. "Don't-don’t tempt me. I may call you sugarblossom when I come. Honeybutton. Gumdrop." He's got his eyes squeezed shut.


"Dude, it's either this or I'll have to start thinking about the various kinds of weapon wounds I've seen since meeting you to keep from coming right fucking now. Derek, you're wet and hot and-and your skin." He leans down and drags his mouth over the top spiral of Derek's tattoo. "I'm too close."

Of course he is. He's a sixteen year old virgin. Derek can't believe he's still hard at all. "S'okay," he gasps and means it.

"No," Stiles groans. "No, you said you need- Derek." He rubs his nose against Derek's skin, tracing the spiral. "Derek."

His caress is so wolf-like in its care and possession that it melts Derek's bones. His arms give way and he sags face first into Stiles' bed, hips still canted upwards against Stiles' uneven strokes. He's not even skidding forward as Stiles rocks into him, he's too strong, but it's still bliss to be so pliant.

He makes a content noise in the back of his throat that is completely involuntary. He's hard but it’s not that important so long as this keeps going. Derek could stay like this forever and both he and his wolf would be content. The rest of the world could hang.

"You said you needed," Stiles says again. "You needed me to do something. Something for your heat and I want, fuck, Derek. I want you to have what you need. What you want. Tell me, please, I'm losing it."

"Just come," Derek says without thinking. Once it's out he thinks that it's the exact right thing and he makes one of his limp arms work enough to slide beneath him and wrap tight around his cock. He uses his wolf-speed because he doesn't want to have to wait, not for this part. "In me."

"That can't be it."

"Is. That is. Want it." Derek is fucking himself fast into his hand and back onto Stiles' cock, panting out each word. He scrambles through his mind for something, anything that will make Stiles lose it and do exactly what he needs. "Come in me. Fucking breed me."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Stiles groans, his hips snapping hard against Derek's ass even as his entire back arches back. "Fuck, fuck, Derek, oh fuck."

He can feel Stiles shooting into him, hot and wet, painting his insides, easing the itch, soothing the wolf with every spasm. He's coming a few breaths behind Stiles, letting go of his cock so that he can reach forward with both hands for something solid. His hands hit the wall and his claws dig into the drywall as he howls his pleasure. It shakes the windows until his voice gives out.

He falls to his side and Stiles falls with him, pressing his mouth to the base of Derek's neck. For the longest time, he just breathes. Derek listens to his heartbeat and when he hears it drop under a hundred and twenty beats a minute, he moves just a little.

Stiles jerks at that and pulls out almost too sharply. "Oh, god, sorry. I did not mean to spoon you. You are probably really anti-spoons, aren’t you? Or at least little spooning. I didn't-"

Derek grabs his arm and yanks him back down, pulling his arm around his chest. He blames the heat for wanting Stiles to stay this close, stay curled around him. The craving comes from the same place as where the burn came from. It explains the cuddling. He never was a cuddler before. Ever. What he says is, "Shut up. Spoons are fine. This is the part where you stay still and I sleep."

"But it's disgusting," Stiles complains. His arm is over Derek's chest but he's still sitting up, looking critically at the damage. "There's jizz and lube everywhere. Also if all the mess doesn't ruin it, your claws finished the job killing my duvet. My dad just got fired. How am I supposed to afford a new bedroom set? Of course that is if I don't get killed by McMurderwolf or Stalker Matt's kanima. Seriously, awesome orgasms aside, how can you sleep?"

"Easy. I haven't slept in two days," Derek says and bam, his back is coated in mostly naked Stiles. His arm squeezes around Derek's chest and his cheek presses close against his shoulder. That's better.

"Okay. Okay, stay and sleep. Scott'll call when it's time for a team meeting."

"Yeah, you can always count on Scott to call when things are going wrong," Derek mumbles, letting his eyes drift shut. Their two scents are fused into one new one and it fills the air. Every breath in and out is like one tether to the waking world being untied.

"Hey, Derek?"


"I'm glad you stayed," Stiles murmured. He leans over him and tips Derek's face towards him.

It's such an obvious move that Derek doesn't know why it's such a shock when their lips press together - Stiles just came inside him, after all - but it is. He opens his mouth to gasp and Stiles' tongue is in his mouth. Derek reaches up to cup the back of his neck and sighs when he pulls back. Stiles is finally smiling, like that was better than the sex, better than coming, better than Lydia Martin paying attention to him. Stiles darts in and gives him a quick closed mouth kiss, still smiling.

Derek returns the smile with a small one of his own. It's tentative but with the way Stiles lights up the bedroom with his grin, Derek can't help but reflect it back. "Yeah and uh, you picked me up. That was-"

Stiles smile explodes, making his ears wiggle a little and his eyes shine. "You don’t have to break something trying to say thanks. I know. I like you better this way. It's how I know you're okay again."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Okay." Stiles drops his upper body down onto the mattress so hard that the whole bed bounces. He cuddles up close, his forehead and nose smashed tight up against Derek's back. "Sleeping now, yeah? Because eight in the morning sounds like bedtime to me."

"Yeah," Derek agrees. The whole thing is ridiculous and undignified and saccharine but there's worse around the corner. There's too much to do to prepare the pack after last night. They have so many enemies to fight when Scott calls. This Matt kid controlling Jackson, Victoria Argent, Gerard, his uncle Peter and whatever his plans are, Lydia Martin and her immunity and connection to the old-new alpha who nearly killed him and definitely drove him to a breaking point that Stiles just barely pulled him back from. All of this and more is all still hovering over him. Derek can't forget any of this as exhaustion takes over.

Being unable to let it go is also why just this once, Derek lets himself have a moment. He doesn't deride or castigate himself for giving into impulse of snuggling back against Stiles' smaller form. He's too tired to be surprised by the fact that he's rewarded for the action with the sensation of falling asleep, for the first time since the fire, without feeling alone.