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Soothing the Savage Beast

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Secretly, Stiles had always hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

It’s stupid, he knows. Auctions are by far the most common way for omegas to be placed once they come of age. He’s know this day was coming for a long time now. Still, that doesn’t make it much easier to accept.

He knows his father had tried his hardest to secure a private buyer, to make sure Stiles would be owned by someone safe and trusted, but that hadn’t happened. His father had begged and bartered and offered to take Stiles’ price down to the legal minimum, but every safe choice they could think of was either unwilling or unable to buy a new omega. They even tried listing Stiles online, so that even if he was sold to a stranger Stiles’ dad could at least vet them before the sale, but none of the alphas who responded to the ad were willing to submit to the scrutiny of a beta parent who wanted to protect his omega son.

Stiles knows he didn’t do himself any favors by growing up willful and mouthy. He wishes, for his father’s sake, that he’d been able to act the part of the obedient, docile omega people pay big money for. But the clock ran out. Stiles’ body had reached maturity, and Stiles’ father is no longer permitted to act as his legal guardian. By law, Stiles has to be sold.

It’s not all bad, Stiles knows. It’s a well known fact that on average omegas sold at auction sell for much more than private sale, and most families with omega children need the extra income. Stiles is sure his father does. But putting an omega up for auction means losing all control over what kind of alpha your omega child ends up with. Omegas are simply sold to the highest bidder with no questions asked, and that typically means a stranger who has no interest in allowing their new omega to retain contact with the people from their former life.

Stiles wishes the system wasn’t designed to keep omegas in the hands of greedy, rich alphas. As a kid, his best friend Scott had made grand claims of saving up all his money so that when they were big he could buy Stiles and they could stay together forever. Scott was the kind of alpha that any omega would be lucky to belong to, but it hadn’t taken them long to realize that no amount of scrimping and saving from their birthday money and allowance and, later, minimum wage jobs would be enough for Scott to be able to afford the legal minimum sale price for an omega. Scott had cried when they’d both finally admitted it, and Stiles had wanted to. Instead, he’d hugged his friend and told him he was sure he’d end up with a nice alpha who would let them stay friends. It was a lie, and they both knew it, but it made them both feel a little bit better to pretend.

The morning of the auction, his father lays out his best clothes for him, fusses over his hair, hugs him at least a dozen times, trying not to let Stiles see the tears in his eyes before the beta marshals working the auction come to retrieve him. Stiles sits quietly in the back of the transport van with the other omegas who are being sold today, each of whom project the same mix of terror, dejection, and resignation that Stiles feels.

As it turns out, the care his father had put into his appearance is for naught. The moment they reach the market, he and the other omegas are stripped, showered, and given threadbare robes to cover themselves before their turn on the docket. Professional looking betas with clipboards and fancy machines come in and examine them like livestock.

Stiles is bent over for an utterly humiliating pelvic exam, a silent beta clinically penetrating him with cold gloved fingers and hard plastic tools, when he feels the prick of a needle in his arm.

“Ow! What the hell?” he exclaims.

The beta in front of him has the good grace to look mildly apologetic. “Sorry. We just need a little blood to run some panels, to assure the buyers of your physical health,” she tells him.

“I do have a medical record, you know,” he snarks.

She gives him a tight smile. “I’m afraid the records of personal physicians can’t be independently verified. You understand.”

Stiles holds his tongue, reminding himself that his dad needs the money from his sale and giving his handlers the impression of obstinance will only drive his price down.

The beta taps at her machine, reading through his results. “Congratulations,” she tells him, smiling brightly, “your fertility scores are very high and you’re just entering the peak of your cycle. A lot of alphas will pay handsomely for a sturdy breeding omega. You’re very lucky.”

Stiles feels his stomach roil at the reminder of what this auction means for him. He won’t just be owned by an alpha -- he’ll be fucked and bred by some stranger, probably by tonight, without much say in the matter at all.

He winces as the beta behind him pulls out the speculum, declaring his visual exam good and his virginity intact before moving on to the next omega down the line. He straightens, and awkwardly tugs his robe back down to cover himself. Looking up the room, he sees the auction has already started. His fellow omegas are being led out one by one to the stage, then returning to be held and processed while their new owner finalizes their payment.

Stiles watches the faces of the returning omegas, hoping for some hint of what to expect. Most look nauseous or worried. Some look utterly terrified. Occasionally, one will return looking downright pleased. Stiles assumes they went for a high price or were bought by a particularly attractive alpha.

Sooner than he’d like, it’s his turn, and one of the handlers is stripping him out of his robe and shoving him out onto the brightly lit stage.

“And here we have lot 47, Omega Stilinski,” the auctioneer announces brightly. Stiles wonders for a moment if all omegas are announced by their last name, or if the auctioneer was simply stumped by Stiles’ given name. “He’s ripe as they come, and ready to breed, and not too bad to look at, either.”

The audience chuckles, and Stiles fights the urge to cover himself.

“Go on, give us a turn,” the auctioneer tells him, motioning with his hand, “show the nice people what they’re bidding for.”

Stiles glares daggers at him and tries to just be thankful that the auction is only open to alphas, so his father won’t be in the audience witnessing his humiliation. Still, Stiles doesn’t have much choice in the matter so he turns slowly and tries to tune out the crass commentary. There’s a lot about how good he’d look stretched out on a knot, how a virile alpha could have him swollen with pups in no time at all. At one point the auctioneer makes some lewd comment about lactating and pinches Stiles’ nipple for emphasis. It takes everything in him not to punch the smug beta in the face.

The alphas in the audience are laughing and catcalling, and Stiles can feel their leering glances burning on his skin. Stiles had known the auction wouldn’t be pleasant for him, but this is -- fuck, this is so much worse than he ever imagined. He likes to think he’s brave, likes to think he’s a strong, modern omega who isn’t cowed by alpha influence. But he’s standing naked on a stage beneath the downright hungry gaze of a room full of alphas, one of whom is about to buy him and fucking breed him, and he is so goddamn scared that it’s taking everything in him not to piss himself or break down crying.

The bidding starts, and Stiles tries desperately not to pay attention to the numbers being called or the alphas whose paddles are being raised. He tries to think of something else, but his mind wanders to his biggest fears, like whether his new alpha will let him see his dad or Scott. He wonders how badly sex will hurt, wonders if his new alpha will do anything to make it easier on him or if Stiles’ pain will add to the alpha’s enjoyment.

The auctioneer keeps teasing the alphas with commentary, trying to drive the price higher. He calls out the flush on Stiles’ cheeks, tells the alphas how prettily they might mark up Stiles’ pale skin. He makes Stiles turn his back to the audience so he can wax poetic about Stiles’ ass, then brings a hand down sharp and hard against one cheek, leaving it stinging and no doubt red. Stiles counts his breaths in his head and tries desperately not to panic.

The bidding seems to go on forever, and with it Stiles’ humiliation, until finally the auctioneer bangs his gavel and cries, “SOLD! To Alpha Hale for $17 million!”

Stiles tries not to stagger at the amount. That’s, that’s a lot of money. Enough to make his dad richer than Stiles can even imagine. Stiles tries not to hyperventilate, because the idea of being sold for even one million had seemed absurd to him until this very moment, and he’s just been sold for seventeen million dollars . Whoever bought him is obviously enormously wealthy, and willing to spend an insane amount of money on a fertile omega. Stiles wonders idly as he’s ushered off the stage if that should make him feel excited or scared.

When he gets back to the holding room, a handler scrawls “ HALE ” across his chest in marker, then sends him to sit with the other sold omegas.

“So how much did you go for?” asks the beta next to him, sounding a little more cheerful than Stiles thinks the situation warrants.

“Um, I wasn’t listening,” Stiles lies, mostly because he can’t wrap his head around the number he actually heard. He’d done his research going in. He knows the average auction price for an omega is somewhere around $750k, depending on several factors including, yes, fertility. He knows that after the auction house’s cut and taxes, his dad could only expect to receive about half of that. The knowledge that his sale price was so far above average weighs on him, and he’s not sure how his fellow omegas would react.

“I bet it was a lot,” an omega sitting across from him chimes in. She points to Stiles’ chest, “The Hales are loaded.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, “do you know anything else about them?”

“Just that they’ve gotten real reclusive ever since that fire a couple years back. Killed a whole bunch of them, and some people say the ones who are left went off the rails a bit.”

“Yeah, I don’t envy you, man,” says the omega next to her, “I’ll take my boring middle class pencil pusher alpha over some tortured billionaire any day.”

“Thanks,” Stiles bites out sarcastically. “I feel so much fucking better now.”

The other omega shrugs, uncaring. His neighbor pats him consolingly and says, “Who cares if they’re crazy, right? I mean, rich is rich. You’ll be living in luxury, dude.”

Somehow, Stiles does not feel particularly reassured.

The door to the holding area opens, and one of the beta marshals calls, “Lot 47 for Hale!”

Stiles doesn’t react for a moment, then the omega next to him kicks him and says, “That’s you, moron! Go before he gets impatient!”

So Stiles stands on shaky legs and walks toward the marshal, who’s not even watching him as he holds the door open.

The marshal hands him a robe, thicker and longer than the one he’d been held backstage in, and ushers him toward a waiting alpha who is watching Stiles with a piercing gaze.

“Well, well. You are ripe,” the alpha says, leering at him and taking a blatant sniff. “I bet with a good fucking tonight you’ll be all bred up by morning.”

Stiles recoils, and the alpha smirks unpleasantly.

“Not to worry, pup. I won’t be the one breeding you, much as I may wish to.” His eyes trail hungrily across Stiles’ body, and Stiles squirms unpleasantly under the scrutiny. The direct attention of one alpha standing right in front of him is somehow worse than the dozens of alphas catcalling him from the auction audience. “You’re to be a, shall we say, gift for my nephew. Though, I can’t say I’d be opposed to taking a turn once he’s finished with you. Boyd!” he calls to a beta standing behind him, “Take him to the car, try and keep his scent as clear as possible. No contact with any alphas.”

Boyd nods, and motions for Stiles to follow him. He ends up sliding into the back of an expensive town car, a blonde beta with a sharp grin sitting in the driver’s seat.

“So this is Derek’s new toy, huh?” She asks Boyd, who shrugs. “You think he’ll bite for this one?”

“We can hope,” Boyd replies solemnly as he slides into the front passenger seat.

Stiles glances between them nervously.

“Is, uh,” he clears his throat and tries again, “Is my new alpha really picky or something?”

The blonde snorts. “Sure, you could say that,” she says, before putting the car in gear and pulling out of the marketplace lot.

“Isn’t the alpha who bought me coming?” Stiles asks, puzzled.

Boyd shakes his head. “You heard Peter. No alpha contact. We can’t risk Derek rejecting you because you smell like you belong to someone else.”

“We should wash him when we get back to the house,” the blonde says to Boyd, as if Stiles isn’t even there. “I know that him smelling like a whole bunch of betas and other omegas shouldn’t be a problem, but it’s Derek so better safe than sorry, right?”

Boyd nods in agreement, while Stiles flails in the back seat.

“What the hell kind of alpha are you people giving me to?” he demands.

“One who hopefully won’t be turned off by the way you run your damn mouth, omega!” snaps the blonde.

“Erica,” Boyd says, his tone warning.

Erica bristles, then seems to forcibly relax herself. “Leave it to Peter to pick a mouthy little fucker,” she grumbles before returning her full attention to the road.

Stiles snaps his mouth shut and keeps quiet for the rest of the ride.

Chapter Text

The only word Stiles can think of to describe the Hale manor is opulent . His mouth hangs open as he stares around wide-eyed while Boyd and Erica lead him through the house. There’s high ceilings and arching doorways and everything from the furniture to the freaking wallpaper looks insanely expensive. There’s a museum like quality to it, and as Stiles looks around, trying to take it all in, he realizes he can’t really imagine anyone actually living here. Despite the fact that, apparently, he does now. He doesn’t see anyone as Boyd and Erica march him through a grand entryway, up an elegantly curved stairway, and down a wide hallway.

The betas usher Stiles in through a lavishly decorated bedroom to the most luxurious bathroom Stiles has ever seen in his life, and he’s including the shower porn he’s seen on the internet. There’s a clawfoot tub, and an enormous shower area with a waterfall shower head and two hand held shower heads, and a separate little room for the toilet and Stiles kind of gets caught up in being in awe of the whole thing that he doesn’t really take note of Boyd turning on the shower until Erica pulls off his robe and pushes him under the spray.

“What the fuck?” he splutters, uselessly trying to wipe water out of his face. At least the water’s warm. He doesn’t need two freezing cold showers in one day. One would think, given Stiles’ experience that morning, that he’d be used to standing naked and humiliated in front of strangers by now. But as Boyd and Erica watch him with bored, impatient looks he finds himself angling his body away from them, trying to hide despite being so completely exposed.

“We need to wash the scent of the market off you,” Boyd says calmly, picking up one of the shower heads. He points toward a basket of toiletries off to one side of the shower, and says, “Pick a loofah and some body wash and start scrubbing.”

Stiles gapes at him, wondering if it’s normal to expect omegas to be complicit in their own humiliation, until Boyd sprays a stream of water directly into Stiles’ face.

“Ok! Ok! I’m going!” Stiles protests, doing as he’s told. He chooses a fluffy green loofah and squeezes a generous amount of the fragrance free body wash on it.

He starts scrubbing, and Boyd continues to hose him down despite the continued spray of the overhead shower. The whole thing manages to somehow be even more humiliating that the group shower he’d been forced to take that morning.

“Wash off that marker,” Boyd says, spraying his chest where ‘HALE ’ is still scrawled sloppily in running marker ink. “We know who you belong to.”

Stiles glowers at his choice of words, his mind raging against the idea of belonging to anyone. It’s the curse of being raised by betas, Stiles supposes. There were almost no adult omegas in the town where Stiles grew up, because nobody could afford them, so there was no good example of how omega ownership was supposed to work and omega kids were mostly just treated like, well, kids.

Today, for the first time in his life, he’s been thrown headfirst into being treated like the possession that he always, legally speaking, has been. It fucking sucks.

He scrubs angrily at his chest, wishing he could wash away Hale’s ownership of him as easily as the marker. Boyd continues to point out spots he hasn’t washed yet, while Erica leans against the wall and picks at her nails.

Finally, Boyd and Erica seem satisfied with his cleanliness and Boyd shuts off the shower. Stiles shivers in the sudden chill and asks, “So do I get a towel?”

Erica shrugs and lazily points to a cabinet in the corner that, when Stiles opens it, turns out to be filled with towels. They’re so soft that Stiles kind of wants to bury his face in them and take a nap, and they smell fresh and clean, without any overpowering fragrances. Petulantly, Stiles tucks one around his waist and drapes a second across his shoulders, daring the betas to call him out on his greediness. When neither of them seem to notice or care, he takes a third to dry his hair.

“C’mon, time to meet Derek,” Erica says, and walks out of the room. Boyd glares at Stiles until he follows.

Erica leads them up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway, before stopping in front of a heavy wooden door. She turns to Stiles, and suddenly her aloof and careless manner becomes much more serious.

“Omega, it is very important that you listen to what I am about to tell you,” she says.

“Stiles,” Stiles can’t help but snap at her, “my name is Stiles.”

She gives him a tights smile, and continues, “Stiles, then. I need you you listen carefully and do as I say. Derek is a very powerful alpha, and he does not like to be challenged. When you go in there, you submit immediately. Get on your knees and bare your neck to him. Stay still and stay quiet until he’s given you his approval. No matter what happens, do not resist him if you value your safety. He may accept you, or he may reject you, but he will not hurt you unless you provoke him, do you understand?”

Stiles swallows thickly and wonders what kind of sick sadist he’s about to be given to. Cautiously, he nods his head.

“Good,” Erica says, “Now, your alpha is waiting for you. Get inside.”

And she swings open the heavy door, ushering Stiles into the room. Stiles steps in, and the door shuts quickly behind him. He’s pretty sure he hears it lock.

The room is nothing like the rest of the house. The walls are bare except for heavy scratch marks, and the room is unfurnished except for a nest of pillows and blankets that might or might not be sitting on top of a mattress.

Stiles doesn’t see the alpha anywhere, and wonders briefly if the room might have some secret other entrance. Shaking and scared, he remembers Erica’s orders and drops to his knees, baring his neck for the alpha.

The motion is met with a faint growling from inside the nest.

Stiles looks to it and sees a pair of alpha-red eyes peering out at him. Slowly, a figure emerges. The alpha is half-shifted and seems to be crawling more than walking toward Stiles’ trembling form. He sniffs at Stiles, curious in an animalistic sort of way, and suddenly Stiles is hit with the terrifying realization that Derek is feral. He’s been locked in a room with a feral fucking alpha and expected to breed with him. Even in Stiles’ very worst nightmares of being sold and claimed, things were never this bad.

He focuses on keeping still while the feral alpha creeps closer. The alpha reaches out a hand and pulls the towel from Stiles’ shoulders, tossing it away, then rips away the towel around Stiles’ waist.

The thing is, if Stiles is as fertile as the betas evaluating him at the auction claimed, then he’s giving off heat pheromones right now. Pheromones that are basically designed to provoke a mating instinct in alphas.

And while an alpha in possession of rationality might be able to overcome those instincts with little trouble, being stuck in a room with a feral alpha who is completely controlled by his instincts means Stiles is basically, and very literally, fucked.

Stiles doesn’t resist as the alpha circles around behind him and pushes him face down onto the carpet, lifting his hips and exposing his tight hole.

He whimpers in terror as Derek licks him wetly, but apparently Derek interprets the noise as encouragement, because he repeats the gesture, eating Stiles out messily until he’s dripping.

With the exception of the cold, sterile pelvic exam he’d received at the auction, Stiles has never been touched where Derek is now eagerly licking, his tongue pressing into Stiles and opening him up. The sensation is startling. There’s a tingling sort of heat pooling low in Stiles’ abdomen, and it radiates through the rest of his body as Derek’s tongue works him open.

Without his permission, Stiles’ hips stutter back, pushing into Derek, seeking more.

Derek growls, and roughly shoves him back onto the floor. Then, the alpha lifts his head and changes position, undoubtedly preparing to mount Stiles properly.

Glancing back, Stiles can see Derek’s cock, hanging heavily between his legs, growing harder as Derek prepares Stiles to take him.

Stiles can’t watch. He looks back toward the carpet and tries to brace himself as best he can as Derek grabs both his hips and shoves in. Stiles groans at the force of it. His body yields to Derek’s cock, his passage slicking to ease the intrusion. It feels like his body’s betraying him by welcoming the alpha so easily, but he’s grateful that his deflowering isn’t more painful than it needs to be.

Derek’s pace is fast and relentless. His cock feels huge inside of Stiles. It’s painful, though not as bad as Stiles feared. Still, Stiles feels overstretched, his muscles burning. Derek is humping him fiercely, and Stiles’ body rocks hard with each thrust. He tries to ride it out as he gets fucked into the carpet, doing his best to minimize the rugburn. He’s braced on his forearms, so at least his face is protected. But the skin at his elbows is starting to feel rubbed raw, and his arms are shaking with the effort of keeping him up.

Eventually, Derek’s thrusts grow slower and more forceful as his knot begins to swell. He forces Stiles to take it, stretching him impossibly wide, until they’re locked together and Derek simply collapses on top of Stiles.

Derek’s knot feels like it’s splitting Stiles in half, and his body is heavy, trapping Stiles to the floor. But at least the alpha seems sated, if the way he’s gone completely limp is any indication.

Stiles raises a cautious hand to poke him. “Uh, Derek?” he says, quietly so as not to startle the alpha and risk being on the wrong end of his claws. “It’s Derek, right? Heeey, buddy. You’re kind of really heavy and I’m kind of trapped. Any chance we could shift to the side? Or have you move any part of you off any part of me?”

In response, Derek breathes raggedly against Stiles’ neck. It’s quite possibly a snore. Stiles is trapped beneath a heavy, feral, unconscious alpha who just knotted him.

Later, he blames the knowledge that nothing worse could possibly happen to him today for the fact that he somehow falls asleep like that.

Chapter Text

When he wakes up, he’s been moved to the pillow nest and Derek is licking his elbow very determinedly. He blinks himself back to full consciousness, slowly remembering all the events of the past day. He glances at his elbow and sees the harsh rugburn forming scabs along his forearm. Derek has apparently decided to show some form of caring by laving the wound.

He lifts his other arm, which is equally stiff with scabs, and points to where Derek is licking. Slowly and clearly, he says, “This is what happens when you fuck me on the carpet with no warning and no padding.”

Derek looks at him blankly. His eyes are no longer shining alpha red and are instead a beautiful hazel green, but they still show no sign of understanding Stiles’ words.

“You did this,” Stiles tries again, pointing between his elbow and Derek’s face.

Derek blinks, uncomprehending, then turns back to licking Stiles’ wound. Stiles lets out a frustrated sigh, flopping his head back against the pillows. Letting Derek tend to his wounds is at least more pleasant than getting fucked hard enough to receive said wounds, so he may as well let this happen. Even if Derek’s method of tending to his wounds is kind of gross and definitely not doctor recommended.

Eventually, Derek sets Stiles’ arm aside, and turns his attention to Stiles’ belly. Which, initially, Stiles thinks is sort of odd. Because Stiles’ belly is not one of the places Stiles was injured when Derek fucked him into the floor.

Then suddenly he remembers in a wave of terror just what the likely outcome of being fucked in his current state is. Could he possibly already be? Would Derek even be able to tell yet? From the way Derek’s tongue is licking at it with the same gentle care as he tended to Stiles’ injured arm, and his hand rests so gently it’s almost reverent, it’s clear the alpha thinks something is going on in there.

Stiles is very carefully trying not to flip the fuck out over the possibility of already being impregnated with Derek’s feral wolfbabies when the door creaks open and Stiles is much more worried about the way he is being suddenly lifted and placed in the corner of the room furthest from the door, with Derek crouching protectively in front of him.

“Why Derek, how nice to see you up and about,” comes a worryingly familiar voice. Peter, Stiles thinks, the alpha who bought him at auction.

Fury boils in Stiles’ veins at the man who knowingly threw him into bed with a feral alpha.

“You psycho!” he shouts towards the door, Peter still blocked from his view by Derek’s imposing frame, “You locked be in here with a fucking feral? He could have killed me!”

“On the contrary,” Peter replies, sounding amused, “he seems quite protective of you.”

“He didn’t seem that protective last night when he forced me to the floor and raped me,” Stiles snarls. Derek growls louder, but it still seems to be directed toward Peter, seemingly reacting to Stiles’ distress rather than his words.

“Raped you?” Peter tuts, “My dear omega, have you forgotten so quickly that you were purchased? You cannot be raped by someone you belong to .”

“Omegas still have rights! This is inhumane treatment. What the hell is wrong with you? My father’s the sheriff. If he finds out what’s happened to me --”

“I know precisely who your father is, Omega Stilinski, and rest assured when I tell you that your treatment here has been well within the bounds of the law,” Peter says, his tone taking on a dangerous edge. “I suggest you consider carefully before you threaten me again.”

There must be something in Peter’s tone or body language that sets Derek off, because before Stiles can form a response, Derek charges toward the door. Stiles barely has time to see the expression of terror on Peter’s face before the door slams shut, leaving Derek to beat at it furiously with his fists, roaring incoherently.

It’s the first time Stiles has actually seen the kind of rage from Derek that’s typically associated with feral werewolves. The alpha had displayed no real intelligence or understanding beyond basic animal instinct, and he certainly hasn’t been particularly gentle with Stiles, but everything he’s seen so far is nothing compared with the sudden viciousness on display as Derek claws at the door, roaring furiously after Peter. Stiles curls into himself, feeling more terrified than ever, and prays that Derek forgets about him until his rage has passed. When Derek tires of beating uselessly against the door, he begins pacing, stalking up and down the length of the room and blowing air out of his nose like a bull ready to charge.

Stiles wonders how long Derek has been trapped in here, wonders how long he’s been feral. The other omega back at the auction had said something about a fire, but Stiles doesn’t know when it was or if that’s even what caused Derek to go feral.

He also wonders why Peter didn’t keep Stiles for himself. The older alpha made no secret of how attractive he finds Stiles, so why pass him off to a feral nephew that could easily have chosen simply to kill his very expensive present?

Of course, Stiles is locked in a room with a feral alpha who clearly can’t answer these questions, so why bother asking them at all.

He shivers. There must be a draft somewhere in this corner of the room, and Stiles is sitting naked on the ground.

Derek’s attention snaps to him, and Stiles freezes, worried about what he might do. The alpha rushes toward him, and Stiles finds himself tensing for some kind of attack. Instead, Derek picks him up and carries him back to the nest, then spends the next several minutes meticulously arranging blankets and pillows around him until his wolfy mind is satisfied that Stiles is warm and comfortable. He lets out a satisfied rumble, and curls up beside Stiles, apparently content with his work.

Stiles studies him for a few moments, trying to process the way Derek had reacted to Peter like an enraged feral beast, but then turned around and treated Stiles with such care. He clears his throat slightly to catch Derek’s attention, then says as clearly as he can, “Thank you.”

Derek tilts his head and blinks at Stiles. His brow furrows slightly, but it looks to Stiles more like confusion than anger. Stiles does his best to indicate the way Derek has so carefully wrapped him in blankets and cushioned him with pillows, and slowly repeats, “Thank you.”

Derek huffs at him, then lays his head back down.

“Forget it,” Stiles mutters to himself. He’s not really sure what time it is, or how long he’s been in here with Derek, but Derek has tucked him in all cozy. And to be honest, there’s really not much of anything better to do while he’s stuck here so he lets himself drift back to sleep.


 

He wakes up to Derek’s tongue in his ass.

He’s not really sure how he got un-cocooned or how he got turned over onto his stomach, but Derek is eating him out like a champ and showing every indication that he’s gearing up for round two, and Stiles is not so sure his body is ready for a repeat performance.

“Nuh-uh, buddy. I did not sign up for your somnophilia,” Stiles says, and tries to wriggle out of Derek’s grip. But Derek grabs his shoulders and pushes him down, growling threateningly as he holds Stiles in place. Stiles struggles harder, trying to push Derek off of him, but Derek only growls louder and tightens his grip on Stiles’ shoulders. Apparently Stiles resisting is Derek’s signal that he’s had enough foreplay, because Derek pins Stiles’ shoulder with his forearm and reaches the other hand down to grip Stiles’ hip before shoving himself into Stiles’ hole.

He fucks Stiles like he’s making a point, like his point is you’re mine and I can have you whenever I want you . Stiles buries his head in a mountain of pillows and chooses to be grateful that this isn’t happening on the damned carpet again. Derek has him so tightly pinned he can barely move, and Stiles takes a moment to despair of the fact that his alpha seems to have no concept of mutually enjoyable sex. Fortunately, it seems as though stamina is not one of the alpha’s stronger points, and it’s not long before he’s knotting deep inside Stiles and collapsing on top of him.

But Stiles is not all about suffocating in a bunch of pillows while his alpha has him pinned, so he throws some elbows, figuring Derek will be less likely to full-out attack him immediately post-orgasm, and bullies the alpha into turning over so they’re spooning.

“Thank you. Now I can breathe,” Stiles says once they’re on their sides. He takes a big, dramatic breath to demonstrate.

Derek grunts, disinterested. His hand is laid protectively over Stiles’ belly, and he keeps stroking it gently.

“Yes,” Stiles agrees, patting his hand, “you have correctly figured out how to put babies in me. Good job, alpha. Maybe next we can work on some of your social skills. Like asking for consent before fucking someone and probably knocking them up.”

Derek opens his mouth and presses his teeth to Stiles’ neck, not biting down, just resting his teeth at the juncture of Stiles’ shoulder and neck, and lets out a low growl. Stiles is pretty sure the message is Shut the hell up, Stiles .

Not that Derek knows his name. Not that Derek knows what a name is, even.

The hand on Stiles’ belly skates lower, and Derek gives Stiles’ cock a curious tug. Stiles’ hips jerk at the unexpected contact, which seems to please Derek. He tugs at Stiles’ cock again, and Stiles focuses on keeping his hips still so not to encourage Derek’s explorations further.

Disgruntled at Stiles’ lack of response, Derek tugs again. Harder.

“Motherfucking OW! ” Stiles shouts, grabbing Derek’s hand and pulling it off his cock. He turns as best he can to look Derek in the face, and says as sternly as he can, “No.”

Derek tries to move his hand back, but Stiles grabs on to it tightly, and repeats, “No.”

Derek looks comically outraged for a moment, before bucking his hips up into Stiles. His knot shifts and tugs inside of Stiles, sending shockwaves of pain tinged with pleasure throughout Stiles’ body.

“Fu-uuck,” Stiles groans, his body convulsing on Derek’s knot.

Derek takes advantage of Stiles’ distraction to free his hand and plant it firmly back on Stiles’ crotch.

Stiles gives up, letting himself fall limply back against Derek. “This is so not ok, dude,” he protests weakly. “I’m not even kidding about that consent talk we need to have.”

Derek squeezes his cock. He fondles Stiles aimlessly, without skill or finesse, and Stiles tries to just lay back and take it but he has never felt so sexually frustrated in his goddamn life.

“Fuck this,” he snaps, “just let me show you--” and he reaches his hand down to cover Derek’s, guiding his fingers to grip loosely around Stiles’ cock. He moves Derek’s hand up and down, stroking his cock slowly, watching Derek’s face carefully for any sign that he’s catching on.

With Derek’s knot tied tight inside him, Stiles is already pretty keyed up. So it doesn’t take long for him to get hard under his and Derek’s joined hands. It also doesn’t take long for Derek’s dry palm to start dragging against his cock with the not-so-good kind of friction, so carefully he pulls Derek’s hand away from his cock and spits wetly in his palm.

Derek’s brow draws together as he looks between Stiles’ face and his hand in confusion. Cautiously, he leans forward and follows Stiles’ example, spitting into his palm.

“Good,” Stiles says, encouragingly, “that’s good.” Then he leads Derek’s hand back to his cock and resumes stroking.

He can see the moment it clicks for Derek, and he starts jacking Stiles off enthusiastically. It’s fast and hard, not unlike the pace Derek set when fucking Stiles. It’s nowhere near Stiles’ own preferred technique, but it’s working. Stiles writhes on Derek’s knot, his hips jerking and causing Derek’s own hips to buck into him. Stiles moans as the pleasure overtakes him, and Derek lets out a self-satisfied growl as his hands and his hips work together to take Stiles apart.

It’s not long at all before Stiles is coming, gasping out a guttural cry as he shoots all over his stomach. He collapses, spent, and glances back up at Derek’s face.

“Are you happy now?” he asks, his breath still ragged.

Derek looks insufferably smug as he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks at Stiles’ come.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Stiles tells him seriously. “I want you to know that.”

Derek wraps his arm back around Stiles’ waist, lays down his head, and goes to sleep.

Chapter Text

It takes a while, but eventually Derek’s knot goes down and Stiles is able to wiggle and shift his hips until Derek’s cock slips out of him. He checks to make sure the alpha is still sleeping before carefully lifting the arm draped across him and climbing his way out of the nest.

He grimaces as he feels Derek’s come leak out of him as he stands, leaving a mess between his thighs. He needs to clean himself up. He stretches, and looks around the room. He hasn’t really had the chance to do so since he was thrown in here. There’s a curtain hanging from one of the walls. Stiles pushes it aside and finds it leads to a bathroom, and suddenly Stiles realizes just how badly he needs to pee.

As he’s relieving himself, Stiles pauses to wonder at Derek’s condition. The bathroom is startlingly clean for one that’s primarily used by a feral werewolf. And though the main room is heavily distressed from Derek’s obvious rage issues, there doesn’t actually seem to be the lack of hygiene that, if Stiles stops to think about it for a moment, it would make sense to find in this situation.

He adds it to the ever-growing list of questions to ask if he ever manages to get in front of someone he can demand answers from.

He glances up at the mirror and is somewhat surprised to find himself looking more or less the same as usual.

He's not sure how he expected to look. Maybe wrecked, since that's sort of how he feels. Instead, it's the same brown hair, no messier than it usually is when he wakes up. The same brown eyes, same scattering of moles across pale skin. His eyes trail downwards and catch on his belly. He turns to the side to look at it from another angle, trying to see if he can tell any difference. It’s not like he'd be able to see anything this early anyway, or like the curve of his stomach is something he's paid particular attention to in the past so how would he tell the difference anyway?

He tries to figure out if he feels any different, before realizing it's a stupid fucking question because of course he does. In the past day (days? He really needs to figure out how long he's been in here) he's been ripped away from his father and everyone he's ever known, stripped naked, examined like a piece of meat, sold at a humiliating auction to the highest bidder, locked in a room with a feral alpha, and forcibly knotted - TWICE. Which, oh yeah, also happened to be his first time having sex. Of course he's feeling fucking different.

His vision blurs at the edges, and he has just enough time to think Oh god, please don’t let it be a panic attack before an awful, wrenching sob bursts its way out of his throat.

It’s like a floodgate opening, his chest rattling with each desperate, shaky breath he takes before another sob bursts out of him, loud and angry and miserable. Fat tears are streaming down his cheeks and he shakily sinks to the floor, gracelessly pushing himself against the wall and pulling his knees to his chest as he cries more desperately than he has since the day his mother died.

He misses his dad. He misses Scott. He wants to go back to his life, to school, to something even resembling normal , but instead he’s been imprisoned in a secret room in a fucking mansion so that he can be the unwilling broodmare to a feral alpha.

It sounds like the setup to a goddamn fairy tail. And not one of the Disney ones, either. The Grimm versions, where the secret moral of every story is that omegas deserve the misery heaped upon them and that’s why everyone dies horribly at the end.

He’s not sure how long he sits there crying, but eventually Derek finds him. The alpha crawls toward him cautiously before reaching out a hand and touching Stiles gently on the head.

Stiles stiffens, unsure how to react and not eager to provoke him.

Then Derek leans in and licks the tears from Stiles’ face.

Stiles shoves him back as hard as he can, because self-preservation be damned, he did not sign up for this shit.

Derek stumbles back, looking shocked, his eyes wide. He lets out a plaintive whine.

“No,” Stiles says, his voice low and trembling, “no, this is your fault. You did this.”

The alpha cocks his head, then starts crawling back toward Stiles.

“No!” Stiles shouts, shoving at his head before the rest of him can get any closer, “Get away from me! If it weren’t for you, your uncle never would have bought me and I could belong to some nice, boring accountant with a 401k and a progressive attitude toward letting omegas keep contact with their birth families. It’s all your fault, you useless fuck!”

Derek backs up as Stiles verbally assaults him. He looks for a moment like a scolded puppy, rather than the dangerous alpha Stiles knows he is. Stiles almost wants to say something kind, to wipe that stupid look off Derek’s face. But he doesn’t want it as much as he wants to be left the fuck alone.

He buries his head in his hands, scrubbing at his eyelids and praying that the tears don’t start again. He’s had his little breakdown. He needs to pull himself back together so he can figure out how to improve this godawful situation.

He hears Derek leave, and allows himself to relax marginally. The relief doesn’t last long, though, because Derek comes rushing right back and shoves something in Stiles face. It’s a bowl, filled with what looks like oatmeal. Stiles grabs it on instinct. It’s still warm.

“Where did you get this?” Stiles asks, dumbfounded, “Where did this come from?”

Derek doesn’t answer. Obviously. Just looks at Stiles expectantly. The oatmeal looks really good, actually. There’s walnuts and dried cherries and what looks like brown sugar sprinkled on top, and it smells really good, too. Stiles realizes he hasn’t actually eaten since -- fuck, since breakfast with his dad before the auction, and he’s starving.

“I suppose a spoon is too much to ask for,” he says reluctantly, talking more to himself now than Derek. He contemplates the bowl, and tries to figure out the best way to eat it without ending up covered in oatmeal.

Derek snorts impatiently and sticks two fingers into the bowl, scooping up a glob and pressing it to Stiles’ mouth.

“Oh my god!” Stiles splutters, knocking Derek’s hand away, “Did you just stick your fingers in my food? When’s the last time you even washed them?”

Derek’s face contorts angrily, and he pushes his fingers back into Stiles’ mouth. Most of the oatmeal has spilled off, but there are still remnants of it sticking to Derek’s fingers. Despite himself, Stiles relishes the first taste of food he’s had since he got here. His belly growls in anticipation of more.

Derek looks disgustingly pleased with himself as he takes his fingers out of Stiles’ mouth and moves the back toward the bowl.

Stiles pulls it out of his reach and snaps, “I got it from here, big guy.”

To demonstrate, he scoops up a bite with his own fingers and sticks it in his mouth. He chews open-mouthed and obnoxious in Derek’s face just to drive the point home. Irritatingly, that makes Derek smile.

It’s a fucking pretty smile, too. Damn him.

As soon as he swallows his first bite, Stiles swings from hungry to fucking ravenous and devours the rest of the bowl quickly. He looks at the empty bowl and wonders if there’s more, then realizes he still hasn’t figured out where it even came from.

He stands and heads back into the main room, and is startled to find a tall beta with curly blonde hair changing out the soiled blankets in the nest for clean ones.

Stiles stares at the beta for a moment, before breathlessly saying, “Please tell me you’re here to let me out.”

The beta looks up at him, apparently just noticing his presence. A series of emotions flash across his face before settling to a regretful sort of resignation.

“I’m sorry,” the beta says, his voice quiet and meek, “Peter’s orders, you have to stay with Derek until you’re -” he cuts off, embarrassed, but his eyes flicker to Stiles’ stomach.

“I am!” Stiles protests, “I must be. He’s already taken me twice, and the betas at the auction said -”

“I’m sorry,” the beta cuts him off. “Peter wants to know for sure. He said to give you this,” he tosses Stiles a home pregnancy test. “I can let you out as soon as you have a positive test.”

Stiles scans the instructions on the box frantically, and feels his heart clench as he reads. “This says it could take two weeks to show results,” he says. “You can’t just leave me here for two weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” the beta repeats, and then he leaves, locking the door behind him.

Chapter Text

The beta is called Isaac, it turns out, and he comes once a day to clean up after Derek and feed him. Now that Stiles is here, he looks after Stiles, too.

Derek tolerates Isaac with a pointed sort of indifference. Isaac is always sure to show submission to Derek, and never gets too close. The only time Derek ever actually acknowledges that Isaac is in the room, it’s to growl at him for getting too close to Stiles.

Stiles, on the other hand, latches on to Isaac as a source of information and human contact. Not literally, of course, because Derek gets antsy any time he isn’t firmly between Stiles and the beta, keeping them across the room from one another. Still, they can talk to one another, and Stiles can ask for the information he’s been lacking.

It’s frustrating, because Isaac doesn’t know much. Or at least, he isn’t willing to tell Stiles much. He’s able to tell Stiles how long he’s been here, and that he has been purchased for Derek specifically, and no other members of the household are permitted to touch him.

Isaac brings things to Stiles when he’s asked. Books, a deck of cards, a clock so Stiles can keep track of the hours and start feeling sane again. He takes food requests, and is usually able to deliver on them within a day or two

He shakes his head regretfully when Stiles asks to use a computer. “Peter wants you to settle in before you have contact with the outside world,” he says, and for all that Stiles hates the restriction, he knows it’s not uncommon for alphas to keep their new omegas in seclusion for a while after they’ve been bought. It’s supposed to help the omegas transition, by fully severing their ties to their old lives before introducing them to their new ones.

Stiles fights back tears as Isaac leaves that day. He had known it was a long shot, but he’d held out some faint hope that someday he might be able to see his dad again. Now he knows for certain: Peter Hale is not the type of alpha to permit that sort of thing.


 

Derek always fucks Stiles after Isaac leaves. Every day.

If asked why, Stiles would have to say it’s because his alpha is possessive as fuck and wants to re-stake his claim after Stiles has interacted with someone besides him.

Derek covers Stiles’ body with his own, rubbing his scent everywhere even though Stiles and Isaac have never once so much as touched.

Derek takes his time, licking and biting his way across Stiles’ skin, sniffing him and rubbing himself against Stiles until their scents are so mingled that Stiles can no longer tell where one of them begins and the other one ends.

And Stiles -- god help him, Stiles likes it. His body responds to Derek’s touches and he feels alight with desire. By the time Derek enters him, Stiles is craving it, pushing back against Derek and taking him deeper, moaning and keening for more.

Derek’s attentiveness grows day by day. Instead of pushing or forcing himself on Stiles, he coaxes. His fingers learn how to make Stiles react, arching into the touch. Derek seems pleased with himself every time he gets a reaction out of Stiles. He grins in satisfaction every time he makes Stiles beg.

Their eyes meet sometimes, while Derek is thrusting inside him, while their hips rock in eager rhythms. Derek always holds his gaze, seemingly captivated by what he sees.

Stiles isn’t immune to the pull of Derek’s eyes. He searches eagerly for a flicker of human intelligence while his heart beats wildly and his very soul feels ready to burst from his chest and merge with Derek’s.

Sometimes, Stiles even fools himself into thinking he's seen something. Recognition or emotion beyond the simple primal urge to claim and keep.

When Derek knots him, Stiles clings to him tightly, his legs wrapped around Derek’s waist and Derek’s body pressing him deep into their nest. He lets Derek nussle affectionately into his neck, every inch of him focused on how full he feels of Derek’s cock, his come, his cubs. It feels good. More than that, it feels right.

A few days in, Derek has collapsed on top of Stiles, their chests pressed together and Derek’s head buried in the crook of Stiles’ neck. Stiles is carding his hands idly through Derek’s hair, smiling as the small, pleased noises Derek makes reverberate against his skin.

“I don’t really like you, you know,” he says conversationally. He’s addressing Derek, but the words are meant more as a reminder to himself. “Honestly, this is classic Stockholm Syndrome. You’re the only company I have, except the few minutes a day when Isaac comes. You show me what passes for you as affection in an otherwise awful situation, and I’ve been isolated from normal society, so of course I start to feel something for you. But at the end of the day, it’s nothing real.”

Derek mumbles something into his neck. From anyone else, Stiles might have assumed it was a word that got lost in the sleepy afterglow of sex.

Smirking, he teases, “What was that, dear?” not expecting any kind of answer.

So he’s understandably shocked when Derek replies, much more clearly than before, “My mate,” before nipping at the side of Stiles’ neck and settling against him, the way he always does just before falling asleep.

“Derek?” Stiles says, shaking the alpha’s shoulder in an effort to rouse him, “Derek, can you understand me? Can you speak?”

“Shhh,” Derek says, not lifting his head. Which. That’s still more language than Stiles has ever gotten out of him.

“Derek, this is important,” Stiles insists. “If you can understand me, you need to tell me.”

Derek lifts a hand and presses his index finger gently but firmly to Stiles’ lips.

“Shhh,” he repeats, then falls asleep on Stiles.

Stiles’ head is spinning, because Derek just spoke to him. He’s been here for over a week now, and Derek’s never said anything even resembling a word.

Stiles turns the words over in his brain. My mate , Derek had said. What an odd, archaic thing for him to say. Like something out of prehistory when alphas challenged one another for omegas in bloody battles back before civilization brought with it rules and laws to regulate omega ownership. As far as Stiles knows, the term hasn’t been regularly used in hundreds of years except by stuffy old historians. Why on earth would that be the first words that Derek uttered?

Derek shifts in his sleep, and Stiles’ attention is drawn back to the way Derek’s body utterly possesses his own. Stiles is filled up with him, wrapped up in him. He feels like he’s drowning in Derek’s presence, and at the same time like Derek’s the only thing keeping him alive.

My mate , Derek’s words echo in his head, only now they don’t seem so puzzling or strange. They feel familiar, comforting. He belongs to Derek, down to his bones. This must be the bonding. It’s instinct, supposedly, hard wired into every omega’s brain. Derek has claimed him, bred him, and now Stiles is imprinting on him, claiming his alpha back.

He’s been told most his life that the bonding is a myth. That it’s something made up by overly romantic poets and capitalized on by films and card companies that want to make a quick buck on omega sentimentality, or a way for alphas to trick their new omegas into believing there’s something wrong with them if they don’t appreciate their lot in life. But this... what he's feeling doesn't feel like a myth. It feels real and overwhelming, like a wave that's been swelling for days and is just now crashing over him.

Stiles twists his head to look at Derek’s sleeping face. Like this, he looks normal. As if he could just wake up and casually ask Stiles if he wants a cup of coffee. Like in the morning they could get dressed and leave this room and go somewhere like normal people do.

He feels a burning sort of affection for this face, and for the man wearing it. It doesn’t matter, he decides, that what he's feeling is just a quirk of biology flooding his brain with chemicals that mimic genuine affection. He’s glad the bonding is real. Staying here will be much easier now that he's in love with Derek.

He settles back into the nest, resolved to wait impatiently for Derek to wake up so that Stiles can push him more on this whole communicating with words issue. But Derek’s breath is slow and steady against his neck, and Derek’s weight is warm and comforting on top of him, and Stiles finds himself drifting to sleep.

Chapter Text

When he wakes up, it takes him a few moments to remember what it was he’d been so eager to do before falling asleep.

“Derek,” he says urgently, and Derek turns to him. Stiles doesn’t think he’s kidding himself when he sees more intelligence, more comprehension in those eyes than he did on his first day here.

“Derek, I need to know if you can understand me,” Stiles says. Derek’s brow furrows slightly, and he cocks his head curiously.

“Just, just nod your head if you understand what I’m saying,” Stiles pleads.

Derek blinks at him, and Stiles holds his breath. Then, slowly, Derek nods.

“You can?” Stiles asks excitedly, “Can you speak? Will you say something?”

Derek opens his mouth, then pauses. He looks confused, and then frustrated. He scowls and shakes his head.

Stiles scoots closer.

“You said something to me last night,” Stiles reminds him. “Do you remember?”

Derek nods.

“So do you think you can try and say something for me now?” Stiles asks.

Derek breaks his gaze away. “Hard,” he grits out, so rough that Stiles almost dismisses it as a growl.

“Hard? What’s hard?” Stiles asks.

“Words,” Derek says.

“Words are hard for you?” Stiles ask, and Derek nods.

“That’s ok,” Stiles soothes. “That’s alright. It’s been a long time since you’ve used them. It’s ok if they come back slowly.”

Then he hesitates. He wants to comfort Derek, but he’s never actually initiated anything with the alpha. In their couplings, much a Stiles has come to enjoy them, Stiles has always been mostly a passive recipient of Derek’s attentions. Still, it’s important that Derek know how happy Stiles is with these new developments.

Stiles climbs across Derek, straddling his lap. He puts a hand on Derek’s cheek and looks deep into his eyes.

“My alpha,” he says fondly.

Derek makes a broken, whining sound as his hands grasp tightly around Stiles’ waist.

“My mate,” he replies. It’s broken and rough, but it’s words. It’s sweet, beautiful words.

Stiles smiles at him, and runs a hand through his dark, unruly hair. “Kiss me,” he says, partly to see if Derek understands him, and partly because he desperately wants to be kissed.

Derek frowns in concentration for a moment, and Stiles has to force himself to sit patiently while Derek processes his request. Then, finally, Derek leans forward and presses his lips to Stiles’. Stiles hums into the kiss, contented.

“My clever alpha," Stiles praises, "do it again."

Derek does, and this time it's not just a simple press of lips. Derek coaxed his mouth open, and their tongues slide together. Stiles feels like he’s being devoured.

He presses his body against Derek's, grinding down onto his lap. He feels Derek’s cock growing and stiffening beneath him.

"Do you want to fuck me, alpha?" Stiles teases, and Derek growls eagerly.

"Uh-uh," Stiles says, backing away. "Tell me with words."

A flash of anger and frustration passes across Derek’s face.  Stiles fights off the urge to submit, to give himself over to Derek rather than provoke his anger. Stiles is fairly certain by now that Derek will never actually hurt him. Manhandle him? Yes. Intimidate him? Sure. But Derek has shown himself to be far too protective of Stiles to ever actually cause him harm, so Stiles stands firm, and holds Derek’s gaze.

“Yes,” Derek grunts.

“Yes what?” Stiles pushes.

“Want you,” Derek says.

Stiles beams. He pushes Derek’s shoulders, urging him down onto the bed. Derek moves to grab his hips, no doubt to flip him into one of their typical positions, but Stiles catches his hands and pulls them away.

“Want you,” Derek repeats, but it comes out like a whine.

“And you’ll have me,” Stiles promises, “but I’m in charge today.”

Derek whines, and it comes out so pathetic and needy that Stiles has to stifle a laugh. He bends low over Derek, and whispers in the alpha’s ear, “Don’t you want to please me?”

Derek’s hips buck beneath him, and he nods urgently. Stiles smiles to himself, loves that he can affect his alpha this way. He lets his teeth graze the shell of Derek’s ear, and reminds him, “I want you to use your words.”

“Please,” Derek says, his voice an urgent growl. “Want you.”

Stiles sits back up, satisfied with his progress. He lifts his hips, and guides himself down onto Derek’s waiting cock. He’s never done this from this angle, and he feels overwhelmed with how different it feels, being on top of Derek instead of pinned beneath him. He moves slowly, fucking himself on Derek’s cock. He shifts his hips, trying out different angles, keeping his eyes on Derek the whole time.

Derek is watching him, raw hunger in his eyes. His lips are parted and wet, and he’s panting shallowly as his eyes roam over Stiles’ body, lingering where their bodies are joined. He reaches a hand toward Stiles, then hesitates, looking up at Stiles’ face like he’s asking permission.

“You can touch me, Derek,” Stiles says. “I want you to.”

Derek reaches his hand down to their joined hips, pressing a finger to Stiles’ stretched rim, feeling his cock sliding in and out of Stiles’ body as Stiles rides him.

“It feels good,” Stiles tells him. “I love how your cock feels inside me.”

The finger pushes in alongside Derek’s cock, and Stiles keens. Derek crooks his finger, twisting it until he finds a spot that makes Stiles’ hips stutter while the omega groans appreciatively.

“How do you do that?” Stiles gasps as he writhes on top of Derek. “How do you know how to make me feel so good?

Derek surges up, both his arms wrapping around Stiles’ back as he brings their mouths together in a biting kiss. Stiles drapes his arms over Derek’s shoulders and leans against his chest, still fucking himself on Derek’s cock as the alpha’s knot begins to swell.

Derek bites at Stiles’ bottom lip as he pushes himself deeper into Stiles, his knot locking them together. Stiles feels shaky and overstimulated. He presses his forehead to Derek’s, his eyes slipping closed as he tries to ground himself.

Derek tilts his chin and kisses him, and it’s soft and sweet and almost painfully comforting.

“Derek, I --” Stiles hesitates, unsure of what he wants to say. He pulls back just a bit, and notices suddenly that his chest is wet. His nipples are puffy and red, and there’s a thin stream of white liquid trailing from each one. “I’m leaking,” he says, puzzled.

It’s not milk, Stiles knows. It can’t be. For one thing, omegas don’t start producing milk for their cubs until just before the cubs are born, and as likely as it is that Stiles is carrying Derek’s cubs right now, it’s way too soon for his milk to come in. For another thing, omega’s milk is fatty and rich and full of nutrients. It looks nothing like the thin, mostly clear liquid trickling its way down Stiles’ chest right now.

Derek looks at his chest in wonder, before leaning down and licking up the sticky trail, his tongue lingering as he sucks gently on each of Stiles’ nipples.

“Do you know what this is?” Stiles asks, and Derek nods as he rolls one of Stiles’ nipples between his fingers, letting the sweet liquid run in rivulets down his arm.

“What is it? Why is it coming out of me?” Stiles asks.

Derek smiles at him, dopey and proud. “I pleased you,” he says, before turning his face back to Stiles’ chest to lap up his reward.


 

Stiles takes to quizzing Derek, slowly drawing him out. It’s still sort of unclear how much Derek remembers about himself or his life before going feral, but Derek’s acting more and more human with each passing day.

At first, he mostly just repeats words that Stiles says. Stiles will say, "I'm hungry, are you hungry?" and Derek will nod and repeat, "Hungry," before standing to find them something to eat. Or Stiles will say, "Get off me, I have to pee," and Derek will pout and repeat, "Off?" in such a wounded, pitiable tone that Stiles is half-tempted to just lay with him until his bladder explodes, but rationality wins out and instead he says, "Yes. Off. Unless you want me to pee all over you and make us both sleep in wet, stinky blankets," and Derek will huff and pout, but lift his arm off Stiles to let him stand.

But Stiles keeps coaxing him, getting him to answer questions by remembering words on his own. He'll offer Derek two options from the cart of food Isaac brings them each day, and when Derek tries to get his way by pointing or grabbing for the food he wants, Stiles will playfully dance out of his reach and remind him to use his words, until Derek finally gives in and says, "I want chicken," in a grumpy, resentful tone. To which Stiles will delightedly reply, "Good, I wanted the potatoes for myself anyway," and hand Derek his food.

It’s slow progress, especially since Derek always seems to revert to his animal instincts every time Isaac comes.

“Hey now! We like Isaac,” Stiles tries to remind him on a daily basis while Derek growls and casts distrustful glances in Isaac’s direction. “Isaac feeds us and helps us keep our nest clean so we aren’t wallowing in our own filth.”

Isaac has a tendency to look kind of disgusted by that last part. Whatever, it’s true.

Anyway, the point is that progressively-more-human Derek has a tendency to revert to growly Derek from the time Isaac enters the room until after Isaac has left and Derek has thoroughly fucked Stiles to re-establish his claim. Stiles just kind of rolls his eyes and goes with it, because the faster he gets Derek’s knot in him the faster they can get back to Derek practicing using words.

“Why are you so weird about Isaac?” Stiles asks while he sits on Derek’s knot. If he can manage to keep Derek from falling asleep, these post-coital times are great for getting answers out of him. The alpha’s too sated to be grumpy or stubborn, and Stiles likes to press the advantage as much as he can.

“Scent,” Derek answers. “Don’t trust him.”

“He’s just a beta,” Stiles says. “He smells like a beta. He’s not a threat to you.”

Derek growls and shakes his head. “Smells like bad alpha.”

Bad alpha? The only other scents Stiles has ever picked up on Isaac are the other members of the household. Boyd and Erica and …

“Do you mean Peter?” Stiles asks, and is taken aback by how fiercely Derek growls at the name.

“Hey! Hey,” Stiles soothes, “It’s alright. He’s not here. It’s just you and me, big guy. Calm down. Why don't you like him, anyway? Is it just because he keeps you locked up in here?"

Derek shakes his head, not looking at Stiles.

"Did he do something before you were locked up?"

Derek whines, and nods slightly.

"Bad," Derek repeats. "Bad, bad, bad."

"Can you tell me what he did that was so bad?”

Derek’s eyes squeeze shut, pain and grief overtaking his features.

“Fire,” he says, his voice rough and broken.

“Peter’s responsible for the fire?” Stiles asks, shocked. If it was true, it meant that Peter was responsible for the death of his entire family, his whole pack.

“They died,” Derek says, distraught. “They all died.”

After that, Stiles abandons his quest for information and turns his attention to comforting his alpha.

Chapter Text

He skirts the topic for a few days, not wanting to disrupt Derek’s progress by upsetting him with memories of his murdered family.

And Derek is making progress. He’s started making sentences when he speaks, albeit short ones, and he becoming more and more capable of conversation as long as Stiles does most of the talking. Stiles is pleased, and makes sure to show it. He flirts with Derek, teases him. Rewards him for his progress with kisses and touches and sweet words.

Still, as much progress as he’s made with Stiles, the alpha reverts to his subverbal state the moment Isaac comes to tend to them. Every day, the door opens, and Derek ushers Stiles into the far corner of the room and plants himself firmly between Isaac and the omega.

It makes telling Isaac about Derek’s progress a little disheartening, because Isaac is pretty clearly convinced that Stiles is making it all up. He looks at Stiles with pity while Stiles tries in vain to tell him about how Derek and Stiles had a full conversation that morning about breakfast foods.

Stiles tries to explain how Derek’s vocabulary is coming back in unpredictable patches -- like how this morning Derek couldn’t remember the word for bacon so he had told Stiles that he liked the “crispy meats” best and then had pouted when Stiles laughed his ass off -- but it’s getting better every day. He tries to explain that Derek thinks best when he’s relaxed and happy, and that all the growling he does when Isaac is there is just because he’s agitated and nervous.

Still, all Isaac seems to see is the same feral alpha he’s been cleaning up after for years.

“You shouldn’t get your hopes up,” Isaac says to Stiles. “The statistics for werewolves recovering from their feral states drops to nearly impossible after just a couple of weeks. Derek’s been feral for a lot longer than that.”

“But he is recovering!” Stiles insists.

“Just -- don’t expect too much from him,” Isaac tells him sadly. “I don’t think it’s fair to either of you.”

Then he casts a last look to Derek, who’s growling and crouched defensively between Isaac and Stiles and looks more like a wild animal than a person, shakes his head and leaves them.


 

Later, when he and Derek are cuddled together in their nest, Stiles asks, “Am I expecting too much from you?”

Derek doesn’t answer right away, and Stiles almost stops thinking he will when he says, soft and sad, “I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” Stiles says. “I know.”

“I like trying,” Derek says, “I want to try.”

Stiles purses his lips. “You don’t have to. Not for me, not if it’s too hard for you.”

“You like when I talk, when I understand,” Derek says simply. “I like pleasing you.”

“I do,” Stiles admits. “I like when you talk, when you show me how much you’re thinking.” He pauses, taking a few moments to find the right words, before continuing, “The betas, they think you’re dangerous. They think that if they let you out of this room, you’ll hurt people. If we can show them you’re getting better, I think they might let you out.”

Derek shakes his head fervently. “He won’t, he won’t,” Derek protests. “He put me here because I was angry at him. I’m still angry at him. He won’t let me out.”

“You’re talking about Peter, not the betas,” Stiles points out.

Derek starts to growl at Peter’s name, but catches himself. Stiles is proud, because they’ve been working hard on Derek using words instead of growling, even when he doesn’t like something.

“Same,” Derek says. “They’re his.”

“I don’t think they are,” Stiles says. “Not pack, anyway. I think if they knew you were better, they’d let you out whether Peter wanted it or not.”

Derek gives him a sceptical look.

“Just -- humor me, ok?” Stiles pleads. “Can you try to show Isaac next time he comes?”

Derek furrows his brow. “You want to leave,” Derek says. “Why? I can please you. I can try more.”

“Oh, Derek, no,” Stile says. “I don’t want to leave you . I want us both to leave this room. Together.”

Derek looks unconvinced.

“You know I’m yours no matter what, Derek,” Stiles says. He rests his hand over Derek’s on his belly, “We’re yours.”

Derek’s arm tightens, pulling Stiles closer. “Mine,” he hums happily.

Stiles nods, and promises, “Always.”

Derek doesn’t say anything else, but he holds Stiles close for the rest of the night.


 

When Isaac comes back the following day, the first thing he does is toss a small box to Stiles.

It’s another home pregnancy test.

“It’s been two weeks?” Stiles asks. Part of him is asking already? , and the other part wonders how it’s been that short a time.

Isaac nods. “I'm supposed to stay until you have the result."

Stiles twist the box in his hands nervously. He heads toward the bathroom while Derek darts suspicious glances between him and Isaac.

"Derek," Stiles calls softly, "Come with me."

Derek slants a pointed, distrustful glance toward Isaac. He hasn’t growled yet, or crouched into a fighting stance. He also hasn’t said anything that Isaac can hear, and is still standing defensively between Stiles and Isaac. Still, it’s progress, and Isaac has just given Stiles more important things to worry about than proving Derek’s regained sanity to Isaac today.

"Please," Stiles says, and that's enough for Derek to follow him. Though not without a final glare in Isaac’s direction.

"What is it?" Derek asks as soon as the curtain flutters closed behind them, peering curiously at the box.

"It's a pregnancy test," Stiles says. At Derek’s puzzled look, he clarifies, "It will tell us if I'm carrying your cubs."

Derek frowns, and his hand drifts to Stiles' belly. "You are," He says.

"I know," Stiles says, "this is just to confirm it. You know, with science and stuff."

He tears open the box and quickly reads through the instructions. He pees on the stick, and ignores the weird look Derek gives him.

"Now we have to wait," he says, putting the stick down on the counter. "C'mere. Distract me for a couple minutes."

Derek kisses him. It's hot and messy and exactly what Stiles needs. Their hands roam as they kiss, and soon enough both their cocks are hard and their hips are jerking restlessly against each other with the need to fuck.

Derek scoops Stiles up and sits him on the edge of the counter, and Stiles eagerly cants his hips forward so that Derek can push inside. One of Stiles’ hands is fisting his own cock eagerly while the other clings tightly to Derek. Derek’s hips snap sharply as he fucks Stiles fast and rough and perfect.

Stiles lets out a needy moan, utterly uncaring that Isaac is in the next room waiting for them.

“Give me your knot,” Stiles begs breathlessly. “Please, Derek. I want it so bad.”

Derek’s knot starts to swell, and he presses Stiles’ thighs further apart as he pushes it in. As he gives a final shove and locks them together, Stiles comes between them, painting Derek’s abs in messy streaks.

They pant together, both breathless, and exchange sloppy, graceless kisses until Stiles gets uncomfortable with the way his ass is digging into the edge of the bathroom counter.

“This was maybe not the most comfortable place to knot me,” he says wryly.

Derek gives the counter a considering gaze, then grabs Stiles’ ass and lifts, leaving Stiles scrambling to wrap his legs and arms tightly around the alpha.

Stiles giggles. “You just gonna hold me like this until we separate?”

“I can,” Derek says. He sounds proud of himself.

“I know you can, big guy,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “ Can doesn’t always mean should.

Derek blows a raspberry under Stiles’ chin, and Stiles shrieks in surprise.

“Is, uh. Is everything alright in there?” Isaac calls from the other room. “I think the test should be showing a result by now.”

“Shit,” Stiles says, laughing. “I totally forgot he was still here.”

“He shouldn’t be,” Derek growls.

Stiles snorts. “C’mon, help me reach the stupid test. We’ll tell him the result and kick him out.”

Derek grumbles, but obligingly shifts Stiles’ weight to one arm and picks up the test, handing it to Stiles.

Stiles grins as he reads the little plus sign on the display. “It’s positive!” he calls to Isaac. “Which hopefully does not come as a surprise to you. Derek and I are gonna be daddies. Now go report to your evil overlord or whatever. I’m pretty sure my baby-daddy wants me all to himself.”

He kisses Derek joyfully. Seeing the positive test makes it all seem so much more real, and suddenly Stiles can’t wait to be holding his and Derek’s babies in his arms. He knows, now more than ever, that Derek will keep getting better, that Isaac and the other betas will see it and let them out, that he and Derek can make a real family together out in the real world.

Derek pushes him up against the wall and kisses him breathless.

“Is Isaac still in our room?” Stiles asks.

Derek listens for a few moments, then shakes his head.

“Good,” Stiles grins, “now take me to bed. I wanna see how many times you can make me come before your knot goes down.”

Chapter Text

It can’t be more than an hour or two later when their peaceful post-coital cuddling is interrupted by the door banging back open.

Derek leaps up immediately to defend Stiles, roaring viciously at the intruders. He’s preparing to charge them when Erica raises a gun and shoots Derek straight in the chest.

Stiles screams.

“Derek,” he cries, rushing to the alpha’s side as he staggers and falls to his knees. “Oh my god, Derek!”

He turns to Erica and shouts, “What the hell, you crazy bitch?”

The beta rolls her eyes. Apparently she’s decided she likes Stiles even less than when she first brought him in.

“Stop squealing, omega,” she says. “It’s just a tranquilizer. He’s had them before. The beast will be fine in a few hours.”

“He’s not a beast!” Stiles says, as Isaac and Boyd pull him off Derek’s drugged form and force him into a robe. It’s silk, and clearly expensive. Stiles realizes it’s the first item of clothing he’s worn since he was put in with Derek. It feels weird and wrong against his skin. He struggles against them, trying to get to Derek, to make sure he’s still breathing.

True to Erica’s word, Derek is laying prone on the floor with a tranquilizer dart in his chest, not a bullet wound like Stiles had feared.

“What the hell are you even doing here? Where are you taking me?” He demands as he’s dragged from the room.

“We weren’t gonna keep you trapped in there forever,” Isaac says. “I told you we were gonna let you out once you had a positive pregnancy test.”

“This isn’t letting me out ,” Stiles says frantically. “This is abduction with a side of shooting my alpha in the fucking chest!”

Erica laughs meanly. “Oh don’t tell me you’ve gotten attached to him!” she says, “It wasn’t that long ago you were crying to Peter about how he raped you.”

Stiles glares at her. “That wasn’t Derek’s fault. You’re the one who locked an omega in heat in a room with a feral alpha. If anyone is to blame, it’s you. And Peter for ordering it.”

“Oh, but you stopped complaining when you decided you like it when the big feral alpha sticks it in your tight omega hole,” Erica sneers.

“He’s not --” Stiles wrenches his arm, trying to pull free of her grip. “He’s not feral anymore. He’s getting better.”

Boyd snorts. The first sound he’s made since he, Isaac, and Erica tranqed Derek and abducted Stiles.

“He is! ” Stiles snarls at him. “He just doesn’t trust any of you. And I don’t blame him after you’ve kept him locked up for years.”

“He’s dangerous, Stiles,” Isaac says. He makes it sound like Stiles is being the unreasonable one. “Just because your pregnancy pheramones make him dociles with you doesn’t mean he’s safe to let out.”

“I keep telling you, Isaac,” Stiles protests, “he’s speaking. He understands things. He’s getting better every day. There’s no reason to keep him locked up in that room, isolated from everyone. Isolation is probably the reason he’s stayed feral this long. I mean, have any of you even tried to talk to him?”

“Unlike you, apparently, not everyone likes to waste their breath on people that can’t understand them,” Erica says, tugging Stiles along.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I can prove it!” Stiles pleads, “He’s told me things. He told me -- he told me how Peter set the fire that killed his family.”

That startles the betas to a halt. They exchange nervous glances, until finally Isaac says, “That -- that can't be true. An alpha would never do anything to harm their pack.”

“You're not going to convince us that Derek is somehow sane again by making up nonsense,” Erica adds.

“He was jealous! That's what Derek told me,” Stiles says. “He wanted to be head of the Hale pack, but his sister was stronger. He tried to kill her and make it look like an accident, but the fire got out of hand and killed every except Peter and Derek.”

Peter emerges from the room the betas had been dragging Stiles toward, a cruel smirk on his face.

“That’s a pretty dangerous accusation to be throwing around, omega,” Peter says, leaning sickeningly close.

Stiles snaps his mouth shut.

“Leave him with me,” Peter says to the betas. They shove him forward, sending him stumbling into the study where Peter is waiting for him. Stiles can hear their footsteps fade as they hastily retreat.

“What on earth could have given you the notion that I was the one responsible for my family’s murder?” Peter presses. He lifts a hand to Stiles’ face, a finger trailing across his cheek, urging Stiles to look at him -- and Stiles isn’t stupid enough to try and refuse him.

“Derek told me,” Stiles says, proud of the way his voice hardly wavers.

“Derek hasn’t spoken in years,” Peter scoffs. “His body may have healed, but he lost his mind in that fire.”

“He’s been recovering,” Stiles says stubbornly. “Keeping him isolated in that room is what’s made him stay feral all these years.”

"Recovering? After all this time? Come now, Stiles," Peter tuts. “Any child knows the longer a wolf is feral, the harder it is for him to recover. Do you really expect me to believe that after six years, all it’s taken to pull Derek from his feral state is two weeks of fucking you? You're hardly behaving like you're worth what I paid for you."

"I'm not the idiot who threw away 17 million dollars on a chew toy for his feral nephew," Stiles spits back.

Peter raises his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Is that all you think you are? A bauble for my mentally disturbed nephew to play with or destroy on a whim? I must admit, Stiles, I thought you a were smarter than that."

"If that's not what you bought me for then..." Stiles starts, but there's too many questions, too many things he wants to know.

“You are an investment , Stiles, in the future of this pack,” Peter tells him. “I may have needed Derek to seed you, but those are my pups you carry. My heirs.”

“No,” Stiles protests, his arms crossing protectively across his stomach. “No, they’re Derek’s cubs. Derek’s and mine. You can’t have them.”

“I think you’ll find I can,” Peter smiles, and Stiles feels a chill run down his spine. Peter raises a hand to caress Stiles’ face as he says, “My sweet omega, you belong to me. Not to Derek, or anyone else. You are my property, and those,” he waves a hand toward Stiles’ belly, “are my cubs.”

“No, but you gave me to Derek,” Stiles protests frantically. “I’m his. I belong to him, not you.”

Peter pauses, his gaze assessing. “Have you become fond of the beast?” he sneers. “I must admit, Stiles. I didn’t take you for the type of omega to be a slave to breeding hormones. You omegas are such pleasure-driven creatures. So simple in your lust-filled desires. So let me assure you, I am every inch as capable as he of satisfying your more carnal urges.”

***

 

 

Stiles twists away, recoiling from Peter’s touch.

“Now, now, Stiles,” Peter says, grasping his arm tightly. “Don’t run from your alpha, if you know what’s good for you.”

Stiles looks frantically for help from the betas, but they’re long gone with the door shut firmly behind them, leaving Stiles and Peter alone.

“No need to look so scared, omega,” Peter says, tearing off the flimsy robe Stiles is wearing. “I assure you, if you took satisfaction from my nephew’s mindless rutting, you will find your time with me even more pleasurable.”

He throws Stiles to the couch, and begins to undress. Stiles watches in horror as Peter reveals the mangled mess of scar tissue marring his torso.

Peter glances ruefully at his body. “Ah, yes,” he says, “I suppose it is rare to see such an obvious sign of past injury. Our bodies have remarkable healing powers, especially alphas, who have evolved to fight and kill in defence of our packs.” He stalks toward Stiles as he speaks, continuing to undress himself and reveal even more scarred flesh. “But even we have limits. When a part of our body is so completely ruined that we cannot grow it back, the best our body can do is crudely stitch together the parts that remain. It’s why I couldn’t have poor Derek put out of his misery years ago, you see? I needed him to find an omega he could breed, so that the Hale line could continue.”

“Out of his-- You can’t kill him,” Stiles protests, horrified. “You wouldn’t! He’s the only family you have left!”

“Are you worried for him?” Peter asks. “It would be a kindness, I assure you. His body living on without a rational mind to inhabit it -- I can’t think of anything more terrible. Or are you simply worried that he won’t be able to satisfy you anymore?” He pulls Stiles to him, his twisted form pressing against Stiles’ skin. “If that’s the case, let me assure you: I may have needed Derek to breed you, but I am more than capable of satisfying your carnal lust.”

“Stop,” Stiles begs. “Please stop. Let me go.” He writhes and twists beneath Peter, trying to break away, but the alpha’s grip is too strong.

“Aren't you the little fighter?” Peter smirks. “You’re lucky I like a little struggle.”

His fingers slip inside Stiles’ entrance, oddly cold and utterly unwelcome. Stiles whines, fighting back the tears pricking up behind his eyelids.

“Not very slick, are you?” Peter says, disappointed. “Ah, well, I don't mind a touch of friction.”

He flips Stiles over, pressing him face-down onto the couch. The mangled mound of flesh that was once his cock presses up against Stiles’ ass.

As his fingers press back into Stiles, too roughly, there's a roar of anger from the hallway.

 

 

 

***

The door to the study shatters, giving way to the furious, shifted beast that Stiles hasn't seen since he was first given to Derek.

His eyes are glowing red, and his huge claws viciously tear into Peter’s flesh as he throws the rival alpha across the room.

When Peter stands, he’s shifted, too. His form is twisted and frightening and he rushes at Derek with seething rage.

Stiles is not proud, but he covers his eyes, unable to watch the alphas fight. He hears the roaring and snarling, the sound of crashing as their fight destroys any object in its path. He listens unwillingly, praying for the fight to end, until finally there's a sickening, wet sound of ripping flesh and a howl of victory.

Slowly, Stiles lowers his hands away from his face and opens his eyes.

Peter lies dead on the floor, his throat torn out. It's a horrible sight, yet it fills Stiles with a sudden rush of relief.

Derek stands over Peter’s body, his shoulders still squared like he’s preparing for another attack. He’s still half-shifted, his eyes glowing red. Stiles stares at him for a few moments, unsure of what to do next.

He smells like Peter, he realizes suddenly. After weeks of sharing no one’s scent but Derek’s, Stiles now reeks of a rival alpha. Derek is possessive, and Stiles has no idea what traces of slowly earned rationality the alpha might still have. He drops his gaze and bares his neck in submission as Derek lifts his head to look at him.

“Stiles,” Derek says. It’s the first time Derek has said his name, and Stiles wishes it was happening at any moment but this one. “You’re scared,” Derek says. It’s a statement, but Derek still sounds puzzled by it.

“You killed him, alpha,” Stiles replies, maintaining his submissive stance and praying Derek doesn’t decide to kill him now that he’s been tainted with Peter’s hands and Peter’s scent.

“He was hurting you,” Derek says, like it’s simple.

Stiles nods, a little frantic. “He was, alpha. He was hurting me, and you stopped him.”

An unhappy whine escapes Derek’s throat, and Stiles finally looks up at Derek. The alpha’s eyes are clear and hazel green. No sign of red. He looks sad and hopeful and scared all at once, but utterly human and aware. He hasn’t backslid to his feral state like Stiles had feared.

“Don’t be scared of me,” Derek pleads, and Stiles feels the fear gripping him loosen and slip away.

“I’m not,” he tells Derek, and it’s true now even if it wasn’t just moments ago. “Not of you, my alpha.”

Derek rushes to him, and Stiles practically swoons into his alpha’s arms. He would roll his eyes at himself for being such an omega cliche were the moment not completely worthy of such a dramatic gesture.

“How did you get out?” Stiles asks. “That room’s held you for years. How did you--?”

“I used my words,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t need to look up to know he’s smirking.

“Isaac just let you out?”

“I was convincing.”

Stiles snorts a laugh. He’ll have to ask Isaac for his version of the events later.

His skin still itches where Peter touched him, and he rubs his cheek against Derek’s chest, trying to rid himself of Peter’s scent.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks.

“I smell like Peter,” Stiles tells him. “I want to smell like you. I want to smell like yours.”

Derek’s arms tighten around his waist. “Mine,” he says. “My mate.”

“Claim me, alpha. Please,” Stiles pleads. “Show me I’m still yours.”

“Always,” Derek growls. He lifts Stiles by the hips and presses him into the bed. “Always mine, Stiles. Always my perfect mate.”

“Show me,” Stiles pleads. “Mark me. Show me I’m yours and no one else’s.”

Derek growls and bites him, hard enough to mark the skin. He sucks bruises along Stiles’ neck as he pushes himself into Stiles, and his cock chases away all phantom touches of Peter’s unwelcome fingers. Derek’s hands roam Stiles’ body, fingers scraping roughly at any place where Peter’s hands had rested for too long. All traces of Peter are pushed away as Derek reclaims Stiles’ body.

Stiles gasps out Derek’s name and a litany of encouragements as Derek fucks him, pressing every possible inch of their skin together.

“Mark me,” Stiles begs as Derek approaches orgasm. “Claim me, Derek. Make me yours.”

Derek pulls out, working his cock with his fist as he spurts hot ropes of come across Stiles’ chest. Stiles opens his mouth to catch some on his tongue, and moans at the taste of it.

Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ chest, rubbing his come into the omega’s skin.

“Now no one will doubt you’re mine,” Derek promises.

Stiles smiles. “Good,” he says, his voice soaked in contentment.

He pulls Derek down for a kiss. It’s slow and lazy, all urgency to claim and be claimed now sated.

“What are we gonna do about…” Stiles starts to ask, eyes drifting to where Peter lies lifeless on the floor.

Derek shrugs. “I’m an alpha. I challenged the head of my pack. I won.”

“That’s it? No police, no investigation?” Stiles says, incredulous, “You’re not going to be accused of murder?”

“A leadership challenge isn’t murder,” Derek says, like it’s something everyone should know. And maybe it is among the more structured packs of the upper class. The betas and lone alphas Stiles grew up among hardly formed any pack structure at all, never mind establishing formal leadership.

“So you’re the head of the Hale pack now?” Stiles asks.

“No pack left,” Derek says sadly. There’s regret on his face as he looks at Peter, but Stiles understands that it’s for more than just his uncle. It’s for everyone he’s lost.

“That’s not true,” Stiles insists, drawing Derek’s gaze back to him. “Right now our pack is just you and me, but it’s already growing.” He picks up Derek’s hand and places it over his belly. He watches as Derek’s face softens and transforms into something like adoration.

“You and me, big guy,” Stiles promises, “we’ll grow the Hale pack big and strong again.”

Chapter Text

“That’s the turn! Derek, right there!” Stiles says, gesturing frantically at the street Derek should be turning down as Derek calmly drives straight past it.

“The GPS says the turn isn’t for another 400 feet,” Derek insists stubbornly.

“Who are you gonna trust, that stupid computer or me?” Stiles snipes.

Derek rolls his eyes, and turns down the street the GPS tells him to. Which yes, ok, will also get them to Stiles’ dad’s house, but not as quickly as the street Stiles had said to take.

It's been a long four months since Stiles was first sold and given to Derek, and everything is different now from those first few weeks. After Peter's death, Derek had officially become head of the Hale pack, which was made difficult by the fact that Derek had not yet fully recovered from his feral state. Since Stiles didn't know much about pack politics, they'd had to rely on Erica, Isaac and Boyd for much of their information. It had been hard at first. None of them had known how to trust each other. But they had somehow made it work, and had come together enough to tentatively form an actual pack.

Derek still doesn't speak much, but now it's because he's reserved rather than because he can't. He isn't a slave to his instincts anymore, and has actually become incredibly fond of reading since he remembered how.

Today, though. Today is exciting, because he's finally going to see his dad in person for the first time since he left home. Stiles has spoken with his dad by phone a lot since Peter's death. It had been hard, having to explain everything that happened and convincing his dad that he was ok now. He's finally ready for them to meet, confidant that Derek will make a good impression on his father, and that his father will have had enough time to process everything to be able to accept Derek.

“We could have been here 90 seconds ago,” Stiles gripes as they pull into his dad’s driveway.

“Well then I promise we’ll stay a full two minutes longer than we otherwise would have to make up for it,” Derek promises.

“You’re bitchy when you’re nervous, did you know that?” Stiles says.

“I’m meeting your father. I’m allowed to be nervous,” Derek replies. He looks apprehensively at the house until Stiles gets impatient and starts to undo his seatbelt.

“Hold on, let me help you,” Derek says, scrambling out of the car and rushing around to Stiles’ door.

Stiles glares at him. “I’m not an invalid, you know. I could get out of this car on my own.”

Derek takes a step back, the invitation clear. Stiles struggles for a moment, his enormous belly weighing him back down each time he tries to stand. He sighs, defeated, and holds out an arm for Derek’s assistance. Derek obligingly hauls him up, and leaves a supporting hand around his waist as they walk towards the house.

Stiles’ dad opens the door for them before they reach it, and his eyes widen almost comically as he takes in the sight of his heavily pregnant son.

“Kid, are you sure you should be up and about like this?” he asks.

“Don’t!” Stiles orders, holding up a warning finger. “This dictator is looking for any excuse to put me on bedrest early,” he says, hooking a thumb in Derek’s direction, “and I will not have you encouraging him.”

“Yes, I’m the unreasonable one,” Derek says dryly, as he guides Stiles carefully up the steps to the front porch since Stiles can’t see them past his belly. “I want you to actually follow the doctor’s orders and take care of yourself. I’m such a tyrant.”

“I see my son’s found himself an alpha with a firm hand,” the Sheriff teases.

“What, this softy-wolf?” Stiles grins.

As soon as they get Stiles settled on the couch, the Sheriff gives Derek and assessing once-over. “So you’re my son’s alpha, the mysterious Derek Hale.”

Derek shuffles his feet nervously, and replies, “I, um. I prefer the term mate, sir. With regard to my relationship with your son.”

The Sheriff slants a puzzled look to Stiles, then looks back to Derek. “Mate? Isn’t that a bit, er… antiquated?”

“It’s an old family tradition,” Derek says. “Loosely translated, it’s supposed to mean beloved, or cherished one. My mother’s side of the family has pair-bonded for longer than anyone can remember, each member of the bonded pair equally devoted to the other. That’s the kind of relationship Stiles and I are striving for. Not alpha ruling over omega, just… mates.”

Stiles grins dopily at Derek as he explains. The omega’s heard it all before, of course. Has slowly pulled story after story out of Derek during their months together, forming a picture of the alpha’s life before the fire. He wishes he could have met the rest of Derek’s family, and more than that wishes they were still here for Derek.

Still, they’re happy together. And will be happier still when their pack grows with the birth of their cubs.

The doorbell rings, and the Sheriff looks at them with heavily affected surprise. “I wonder who that could be?” he asks, obviously knowing the answer.

“Dad, really?” Stiles asks, suddenly ten times more excited than he was a moment ago.

From the door, Stiles hears his best friend frantically ask, “Is he here? What’s his alpha like? Can I see him?”

“Scotty, I’m in here!” Stiles calls, struggling in vain to push himself off the couch while Derek urges him to settle. “Scott, I can’t get up! You have to come to me!”

The young alpha rushes around the corner, looking older than when Stiles left him. His hair is shorter, and it makes him look more mature than the floppy-haired boy Stiles left behind.

Then Scott, of course, immediately shatters all illusions of gained maturity by exclaiming, “Holy shit, dude! You’re pregnant!” and staring wide-eyed at Stiles’ protruding belly.

“You knew that,” Stiles says rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but… you’re like really pregnant.”

“Which is why you have to come over here and hug me, because it’s, like, super hard to stand up like this, bro. You have no idea.”

Scott’s eyes dart to Derek, and then back to Stiles. “Your alpha’s not gonna, like, bite me or anything if I try to get near you?”

Derek makes a vaguely permissive gesture while Stiles snorts and says, “Derek only bites when I ask him to.”

“Ew. TMI, dude,” Scott complains, but bends down to hug Stiles anyway.

“So how many little dudes am I gonna be the honorary uncle of, anyway?” Scott asks while Stiles moves his hand around to feel for the babies kicking.

“Five,” Derek says proudly. “And all healthy, so far.”

“Dude, you should be on bedrest!” Scott says, eyes going wide in alarm.

“Not you, too!” Stiles groans.

“No, seriously! I’ve been doing this internship Mom got me at the hospital, and the baby doctor I did a rotation with said bedrest is mandatory for omegas carrying litters of four or more,” Scott says earnestly.

“I still have a month before the doctor says I have to!” Stiles declares, “And I’m going to make use of every day of it!”

“Maybe he’ll complain about bedrest less if you promise to come visit him while he’s laid up,” Derek suggests.

Scott gapes at him. “You… you’d let me do that?”

“Of course,” Derek says. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’m an alpha,” Scott says, “and I’m not in your pack. Most alphas wouldn’t want me near their territory, never mind visiting their pregnant omega.”

“From what Stiles tells me, you two are practically brothers,” Derek says. “Pack is family. My mate’s family will always be welcome in our home.”

Stiles smiles softly and leans into Derek. Since he was last in this house, he’s been sold, claimed, and bred by an alpha. A young omega’s biggest fears, realized in the most frightening way Stiles can imagine.

Still, he can’t bring himself to regret a single one of the circumstances that brought him here, to this moment. Reunited with his dad and his best friend, with his mate at his side. He thinks back to the beginning, to the moment HALE was scrawled across his chest and the other omegas tried to predict his fate.

I hope you’re happy, whatever your name was, with your boring middle class pencil pusher. He thinks smugly, I’ll take my tortured billionaire any day.

“What are you thinking?” Derek asks softly.

“Just how lucky I am,” Stiles replies. “I have you. I have my dad. I have my best bro. And soon we’re gonna have five little babies and I’m gonna name all of them Scott Jr.”

Derek pinches his nose and sighs. “You can’t name all our babies the same thing,” he says tiredly. Because this is not the first time they’ve had this discussion today . Any other alpha would have eaten him by now, but Stiles got so lucky. So, so lucky that Derek probably wouldn’t eat him even if he actually named all five babies “Scott Jr.”

“I want them to have a tangible connection to their godfather,” Stiles pouts.

“You can name one of the babies after Scott,” Derek concedes. “But you need to call the rest something else so we can tell them apart.”

“Hey, why don’t I hear any lobbying to get the kid named after me?” the Sheriff complains.

They bicker over baby names for the rest of the afternoon, and when it’s finally time for Stiles and Derek to leave, they do it with promises to have Stiles’ dad and Scott come visit the Hale manor.

Stiles’ dad fusses over him as he and Derek walk back toward the car, and Stiles hugs him tightly before getting into his seat. He remembers the last time they said goodbye here, the marshals rushing them along, the future completely uncertain, the aching fear that they would never see each other again.

“I’ll see you soon,” Stiles promises.

“I know, son,” his dad smiles back at him. “I can’t wait.”