Jackson’s a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag who’s been feeding Stiles drinks. Stiles leans closer, rubbing shoulders with him and grinning fuzzily. “You’re warm.”
Jackson snorts. “I’m warm? You’re burning up, dude.”
That brings Stiles up short because he is feeling a little too warm. A little too fuzzy-brained, too, for someone who only had one beer. He thought it was maybe because he didn’t have anything to eat today (he wasn’t hungry at all, didn’t even want coffee either), because he didn’t sleep well the night before.
All of this, in retrospect, rings all kinds of warning bells in Stiles' head. He groans. “I’m in fucking heat. Shit.”
“Yeah, no duh.” Jackson eyes him.
Stiles blinks. “Wait. You knew.” He doesn’t need to wait for Jackson’s nod of confirmation. “You knew. How did you know? I didn’t know.”
Jackson snorts. He’s standing up now, supporting Stiles’ increasingly unsteady perch on the bar stool. “That’s because you’re a freaking astronaut, Stilinski. You’re regular as clockwork.”
“Shut up,” Stiles mumbles, face heating to match the rest of him. He rubs his face in Jackson’s neck. He smells disconcertingly good. “You fucking asshole, you went and got me drunk when you knew I’m in heat?”
“I got you one beer,” Jackson says. His fingers find the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles leans back into the touch, humming. “You need to get laid. You always bitch about spending heats alone.”
It’s true. While Stiles would defend to his last breath the right of his fellow Omegas to spend their heats un-partnered, he himself hates the frustration of it, the empty loneliness.
Stiles rallies his thoughts. “Are you putting yourself up as an option?” he says. “Remember last time we tried?”
The rhythm of Jackson’s fingers on his nape is slow, hypnotic. “C’mon, I wasn’t prepared. I know better now.”
Stiles’ eyes slip closed of their own volition. “No,” he says, but it lacks conviction. “You’ll come after five minutes and run away, I really don’t need that.” Having a taste of companionship before being abandoned is actually worse than being alone for the whole thing, something Stiles didn’t think possible.
Jackson replaces his fingers with his lips, feathering little kisses along Stiles’ neck and trailing to his jaw. His hand moves down to play with the hem of Stiles’ shirt. “I won’t run,” he says, low and persuasive. “I’ll think about baseball stats. Whatever. Keep it up for your freakish bodily needs.”
“Ugh, you asshole.” Stiles pushes Jackson, unsurprised when Jackson doesn’t give an inch. He tries again, this time with a little more force. “Seriously, Jackson, that’s a shitty idea, let’s not.”
“Let’s yes,” Jackson breathes against his ear. Stiles pulls away, about to protest that that wasn’t even a sentence, but Jackson’s eyes have gone glazed and his breathing has changed.
“Fuck my life,” Stiles mutters as Jackson’s hands lock around his forearms. He could break free, probably, Jackson’s a Beta and not as strong as he thinks he is. But struggling goes against every urge in him just now, everything in him calling for him to yield, to lie and take it.
He’s on the verge of surrendering to the inevitably shitty lay that is Jackson when someone shoves Jackson so he falls flat on his ass, standing up firm in his place behind Stiles. Stiles can’t see this person but he can feels his heat, smell him.
Alpha. Stiles’ nostrils flare, his mouth watering. He turns and finds himself faced with a wall of sheer muscle covered in a black Henley, and he doesn’t think, just faceplants right into that luscious warmth.
“Jackson,” Stiles vaguely hears from behind him, recognizes Danny’s despairing voice. “Really?”
Stiles mumbles something, he’s not sure whether in defense or condemnation of Jackson. It doesn’t really sound like anyone is listening to him. His hands catch in the unfamiliar Alpha's jacket lapels. Said Alpha keeps doing his impression of a wall, rigid and unmoving against Stiles. Not even the fun kind of rigid, as far as Stiles can tell.
“You know him?” the guy rumbles. Stiles feels his voice all the way to his bones. He gives a happy little shiver.
“Both of them.” Danny’s probably shaking his head in disapproval. “Okay, I guess I can take Stiles home.” Would it kill Danny to sound a little bit less like Stiles is homework and washing the dishes rolled into one? “Someone’s gonna have to keep an eye on Jackson, though.”
“You can do that,” the guy says after a pause. “I’ll take Stiles home, if you tell me where he lives.”
That ought to get Stiles protesting – he doesn’t even know this guy, Danny really shouldn’t just hand Stiles off to him – but he smells good. Really, really good.
To his credit, Danny does hesitate. “I don’t know, Derek…” But then Jackson takes care of Danny’s distraction to lunge at Stiles, growling. Danny curses, hauling Jackson’s back. “You’re a menace to society,” Danny reproaches. “Fuck. I should probably see he doesn’t attack anyone.” From the sound of it, Danny is giving Jackson a sound shake.
Having Alpha friends is a good thing. “You’re a good friend, Danny,” Stiles calls out, slurring slightly.
“Better than this asshole deserves,” Danny says with a sigh. He gives the guy – Derek – Stiles’ address, and adds: “he’s buddies with Allison Argent and Lydia Martin, so I’m just saying, take care.”
Stiles pouts. “I take it back,” he says. “You’re a terrible friend. A cockblocking friend. Assblocking.” He frowns. “Wait, assblocking is the opposite of—“
“Still want to take him?” Danny asks, amused.
For a moment, Stiles thinks Derek is going to heave Stiles onto his shoulder and carry him away. In the end, no such drastic measure is necessary. Stiles’ refusal to disentangle himself from Derek’s side helps.
Stiles interprets this as a positive sign, up until he attempts to nuzzle under Derek’s shirt collar only to have his face pushed away by a huge hand on his forehead.
“C’mon,” he pants, not actually trying for coherence, just something in the vague vicinity of English. “Want, please.”
“No, you don’t,” Derek says, low and annoyed. “You’re in heat and some Beta asshole got you wound up.”
“Oh.” Stiles becomes really aware of everywhere he’s pressed up against Derek. Aware of how one-sided it is, Derek standing immovable and not pressing back. Stiles grits his teeth, gathers his strength and manages to detach himself from Derek.
For about one second. Stiles has reached that stage of the heat where his bones are rubber, and he collapses back against Derek as though Derek generates his own private gravity field. “Sorry,” Stiles mumbles.
He’d probably mean it more if Derek’s arm didn’t wrap around his waist, holding him securely in place. “Don’t strain anything,” Derek says. Stiles slumps against him, resigned to indignity.
Every time, Stiles tells himself that next time he’ll be organized and plan in advance for his heat. His phone has five different cycle-tracking apps, and none of them do any damned good because Stiles never remembers the date of his last heat to input it.
So every time, Stiles ends up taking the stairs up to his apartment hissing and stumbling and swearing that next month he’ll move someplace with an elevator. The ascent is not as bad as it could be, though; Derek is reassuringly firm at Stiles’ side.Once at his door, Stiles leans against Derek for a moment, just to get his bearings and fish the keys out of his pocket. When he gets the door opened, Derek starts retreating, and Stiles’ palm snaps around Derek’s wrist before he can think better of it.
“Don’t go,” Stiles says, small. His hand is sweaty where he’s gripping Derek, his voice and knees unsteady. “Don’t.”
Derek’s quiet long enough for doubts to permeate Stiles’ heat-addled brain. Then he says, “Okay.”
Stiles barely makes it to his bed, dumping his clothes behind him and burrowing in. Usually familiar and welcome, the cool sheets feel too cold against his skin, impersonal. He reaches under the bed with shaking hands, fishing out his toy box and scattering the contents all over the floor in his haste to find his biggest plug.
It hurts going in. Stiles isn’t as wet as he could be, but he’s too impatient to reach for the lube. He squirms around the plug, making low sounds and twisting to lie on his belly, grinding his cock against the sheets. Then he lets go, dives headfirst into sensation, writhes on the sheets without even the pretense of grace.
The first couple orgasms hit hard and fast—always do, even when Stiles tries to draw it out. Right now he's not bothering, hissing low at the friction against his skin, crying out as he comes. He can hear Derek in the living room, his jeans that brush against the fabric of the couch. The ghost of Derek's touch lingers over Stiles' skin, a burnt imprint, and it makes Stiles feel lit up like a Christmas tree.
But the initial urgency only takes him so far. After that it's difficult, arousal in his belly like lead, Stiles grinding into the mattress in a desperate attempt to let it out already. He's sweating, his muscles aching, driving back against the plug until he collapses in a tired heap against the bed… only to start the whole thing again a moment later.
He notices he’s speaking, at some point. A soft, constant, miserable stream of, “Fuck this, hate this, hurts,” that he can’t seem to stop. Then he hears movement from the living room and bites down on his pillow, flushing.
“Stiles?” Derek doesn't enter the room.
Stiles wishes he would. The only thing he can say in reply is a pitifully weak, “Sorry. I'm okay, really.”
Derek's quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Can I come in?”
Stiles' “Yes!” is more of a yelp than a normal answer. It's going to be embarrassing when he's not achingly hard and soaking in his own sweat.
Just by opening the bedroom door, Derek makes a world of difference. His scent fills the room. Stiles breathes deep, greedy gulps of incense-smelling air, and finally he's coming in a series of long, languorous thrusts.
"No, don't leave,” Stiles croaks as Derek steps back. “Just. Come here? Please?”
Derek sits at the edge of the bed, eyeing Stiles like he's a venomous snake. Stiles has no idea what Derek's scared of; Stiles can barely even move right now.
No, that's a lie, Stiles' hips haven't really settled yet. He's still humping the bed like an awkward teenager. But Derek's close enough now that Stiles can feel the warmth coming off his body. It's soothing him and jacking him up at the same time.
"Yeah,” Stiles sighs, eyes slipping closed. He fucks the mattress slowly, at a measured pace. Derek's hand is right next to his face. It would take nothing to reach out and--
Stop it, Stiles tells himself, biting his tongue. Then he makes a muffled sound of protest because ow.
Derek's leaning closer, Stiles can tell even with his eyes closed. “What is it?” he says, low and sharp.
"Sure you won't fuck me?” Stiles regrets that as soon as it leaves his mouth. He knows he's pathetic already, no need to add fuel to the fire. Apprehensive, he opens his eyes to look for Derek's response.
For a long moment, Derek's as still as stone. “You're out of your mind,” he says, but it's soft, like a sigh.
"I kind of am,” Stiles confesses. “I want to lick your fingers. God.”
He closes his eyes again after that, mortified, so he's surprised by the touch at his lips. His tongue comes out before he thinks better of it, and finds salt skin to lap at. Derek startles at that first contact, but doesn't flinch away. Stiles grows bolder, drawing the tips of Derek's fingers into his mouth to lightly suck on them.
Derek's fingers twitch, push with a sudden forceful surge until Stiles has the second knuckle in his mouth.
Stiles arches against the bed and keens, coming again. It lasts a long time, and when it's done, he can think. He looks up at Derek, blinks wetness from his eyes and tries to smile. “Th--” he starts saying, cut off when Derek gets up and leave without a backward glance.
"Rude,” Stiles mutters without conviction. He wraps himself up in the covers and falls asleep before he can work up a good rage.
A week later, Stiles is back at scene of the crime, and because someone up there hates him, so is Derek.
"Oh God,” Stiles says, moving to stand behind Danny. “Hide me.” Danny just frowns and moves away. Seriously, worst friend.
Stiles didn't really get a good look at Derek before, so it just figures that in addition to that addictive scent he's smoking hot. Just to add insult to abject humiliation. Stiles groans. “Just kill me. Dig a hole and bury me in it.”
"That sounds like work,” Lydia says, because she is too perfect a being for mundane things like sympathy. “What's wrong?”
Danny picks that moment to follow Stiles' line of sight. He frowns again, this time with worry. “Stiles, did he--?”
"He was a perfect gentleman,” Stiles says glumly.
A collective grin of understanding breaks out among his friends. Stiles hunches down in his seat. Normally he doesn't give thought to hanging out with mostly Alphas, but moments like this, it's a bitch. They could at least try to pretend that anyone could find Stiles appealing, ever.
"I'm sure he was just trying to be decent,” Allison says gently. Stiles pastes on a smile for her; Allison means well, but she's a Beta and therefore doesn't get it.
"You could've just come with me,” Jackson huffs.
Lydia raises an eyebrow at him. “You honestly thought it was a good idea to get an Omega drunk and halfway into heat before hitting on him?”
"God, you're making it sound sleazy,” Jackson complains.
"That's because it is.” Lydia smiles sweetly and takes a sip of her drink.
The conversation degenerates into an exchange of increasingly personal insults between Jackson and Lydia (who thought it was a good idea for them to date? Oh, that's right, no one). Stiles extricates himself with the excuse of needing another drink.
He could, theoretically, just get his drink and go back. But he can smell Derek, even in the crowded room, and the scent's grabbing Stiles by the nose and leading him like a cartoon character. He winds up within touching distance of Derek.
"What,” Derek says, not even looking up from his drink.
Stiles flinches. “Sorry, I'll just.” He takes a step backward, but then Derek turns and Stiles has no idea what his expression is supposed to convey.
"I thought you were someone else.” Derek's posture stiffens. “I didn't-- are you alright?”
That just makes Stiles feel like ten kinds of pathetic. “Man, you're not, like, in charge of me. Wait, that came out wrong. I meant, you don't need to worry. I'm fine.”
"But you wanted something,” Derek says.
Stiles shuffles his feet awkwardly. “To offer to buy you a drink,” he says. “And maybe a blowjob.” Shit, why did he say that, why did he-- “Not buy you a blowjob! Any blowjobs on the table would be original and handcrafted. Mouth-crafted.” It's all Stiles can do to not literally stuff his fist in his mouth to shut himself up, God.
On the other hand, the way Derek's face scrunches in response is kind of hilarious. “You always talk like that? I thought it was just heat.”
"Pretty much,” Stiles says with a sigh.
He's steeling himself for an awkward parting when Derek says, haltingly, “My heat is this weekend.”
Stiles nods. He gets it, it's better to be left alone the few days before a heat starts. Then he gets it. “Wait. Are you asking me--?”
"You don't have to,” Derek says, a little too quick. Way to boost Stiles' confidence. Then Derek shifts in his seat and adds, almost under his breath, “I get heat bonds.”
It's all Stiles can do not to sigh in relief, or say, Is that it? “That's fine,” he says instead. “I can clear my schedule.”
The expression Derek gets is almost a smile. He takes Stiles' hand, pulls a pen out of his pocket, and scribbles the address on his wrist. Stiles would point out that he has a phone that is much more suited for writing notes, but that would mean losing Derek's firm grip on his forearm and the maddening tickle of the pen across his skin.
Stiles takes ages deciding what to wear. It doesn’t matter much in the end, because Derek opens his door stark naked and starts tearing the clothes off Stiles pretty much the moment he walks in.
"Oh my God,” Stiles mutters, pulling the door shut and squirming out of his shirt before Derek actually rips it off.
The air in the apartment is so thick with Derek's scent Stiles can almost taste it, sweet and intense. Then Derek's mouth is on Stiles', and there's no almost to it anymore.
"Fuck.” Stiles pulls away, gasps for air, and dives right back into the kiss. Derek kisses like he's staking claim, hands cradling Stiles' face, thumbs catching in the soft skin behind Stiles' ears. Stiles closes his eyes and hangs on to Derek's shoulders.
They fall slowly, sinking against the door until they're a mess of limbs on the floor. Derek's moving frantically against Stiles. “Should've told me,” Stiles says when he comes up for air. “I'd've gotten here sooner, didn't mean to leave you--”
Derek cuts him off by shoving his tongue into Stiles' mouth. Stiles agreeably stops talking to suck on it.
He's wet already, can feel it messing up his boxers. He squirms when Derek peels off his pants, embarrassed despite himself. Derek stares at Stiles' bared crotch like it's the holy grail, though, proceeding to spread Stiles' legs and muscle in between them.
"Oh,” Stiles squeaks when he feels Derek kiss his cock, open-mouthed. “For the record, when I offered a blowjob, I meant the other way 'round.”
Derek raises himself up with what looks like a lot of effort. “Complaining?” He – growls, there's no other word for it.
Stiles gulps. “Really, really not.”
Derek holds his gaze for a moment before descending on Stiles' cock again. He's sloppy about it, licking Stiles rather than sucking him, detouring to take Stiles' balls in his mouth then breathing hotly on the shaft. He holds Stiles' hips down, and growls when Stiles wriggles against his hands.
"If that's supposed to make me stop moving,” Stiles starts, but before he finishes Derek is swallowing him down, all of him down to Derek's tight hot throat and Stiles comes with a sound embarrassingly like a squeal.
Then Derek heaves Stiles over his shoulder, for real, the bones of his shoulder digging into Stiles' soft stomach. Stiles would probably protest if he weren't already 100% percent fucked out.
Also, Derek's taking them to his bedroom. Stiles is in favor of this.
Stiles gets deposited face-down on the bed, Derek crawling to cover him like a really heavy blanket. He pushes Stiles' legs open, grips Stiles by the waist and pushes in without preamble.
"Whoa,” Stiles croaks, mostly surprised. Derek stills. “No, hey, keep going. Just. Warn a guy next time.”
Derek grunts and, finally, thrusts into Stiles.
Stiles hums, letting his body melt into the bed as Derek fills him up, fucking him relentlessly. He's getting hard again already, responding to Derek's need and his scent. Readying himself for Derek's knot, half-anticipating, half-dreading it. Stiles may be an Omega, but his butt isn't a Bag of Holding.
Then Derek pulls out, and Stiles yelps. Derek just flips him over, though, bending to kiss Stiles. Stiles is definitely on board with that, and he wraps his arms and legs around him – basically doing his best impression of an octopus, clinging to Derek for all he's worth. Derek's mouth meanders down Stiles' jaw to his throat, laying a sucking bite there. Stiles groans.
"Okay?” Derek's voice is rusty, and it makes Stiles shiver.
"Definitely,” he pants. Then Derek bites the side of his neckhard and Stiles yells, going, “Ah, fuck, fuck,” as his come spills up against Derek's belly.
Derek growls and rubs his dick through the mess Stiles made. He kneels, lifts Stiles as though he weighs nothing and pushes into him again. Stiles just barely has the presence of mind to hold on to Derek, mindlessly nuzzling Derek's sweat-slick shoulder as Derek finally swells up in him and comes.
Knotting hurts, no way around it, but it's a good hurt. Stiles whimpers. Derek's hand cups the back of his head, fingers trailing through Stiles' short hair. Stiles sobs, just once. “Why you Alphas gotta be so fucking big,” he says.
"Sorry,” Derek says into the side of Stiles' neck.
Stiles tries a to wiggle his hips, find a better position. “Nah, don't be. Your dick brings all the Omegas to the yard.”
Derek stills, and Stiles is wondering what the hell he did wrong now when Derek says, “It's not just heat, is it? You never make any goddamned sense.”
It startles Stiles into laughter. “Never did, never will.”
He's a little distracted then – Derek's knot is subsiding, Derek making tiny little thrusts that shift the pain back into arousing territory – but he thinks maybe he hears Derek replies, “I can live with that.”
They fuck pretty much straight through the night, only pausing just before dawn for a long nap. Stiles wakes up with Derek's knot stuffing him, softened into a mere pleasant pressure, and Derek mouthing his nape.
"Hm, again?” Stiles says, torn between sex and sliding back into sleep.
Instead of answering, Derek pulls out, moving down and biting hard on Stiles' ass. Stiles yelps, but moves up into the pressure of teeth. “Do that again,” he says breathlessly. Derek ignores him in favor of licking Stiles' rim.
Stiles is sore from a long night of fucking, puffy and tender, used. He spreads his legs a little further, gives Derek space to work.
Derek's heat is broken, Stiles can tell from his scent, but he's pretty enthusiastic about eating Stiles out even so. The less charitable parts of Stiles' mind chalk this up to Derek seeing Stiles' (admittedly fairly awesome) ass before looking at his face. Self-esteem: not Stiles' strongest suit.
He pushes that thought away, moaning when Derek puts a finger in him. Moaning again when Derek takes it out, this time in complaint. “Is this when you fuck me? It better be.”
"You're sore,” Derek says, but he slides two fingers into Stiles anyway, brings him off like that and jerks off all over Stiles' ass.
"This is like, a vicious cycle,” Stiles says when Derek's licking his ass clean again. “Not that I'm complaining or anything.”
"Shut up,” Derek says, softening it with a kiss to the dip of Stiles' spine. “Breakfast?”
"I thought you'd never ask,” Stiles says dreamily.
Derek wasn't lying about the heat bond. Stiles isn't prone to them himself, but the immediate distress as soon as Derek moves away is unmistakable. Stiles shrugs it off, pulls a shirt and boxers on and joins Derek in the kitchen.
Derek actually pauses from flipping bacon when he looks at Stiles. Then he frowns. “You're dressed.”
"Thought I'd spare your eyes,” Stiles says lightly. “Plus, I get cold easily.”
"I could turn the heating on.” Derek appears to be addressing the bacon now. He looks fairly intent on getting it done just to the right crispness.
That's a cause Stiles can get behind. He boosts himself up to perch on the counter near where Derek is working. “There's a pun somewhere in there and I can't find it. I need coffee.” He head-butts Derek's shoulder lightly. It works when Scott's cat does it, no reason it shouldn't work for Stiles. Derek does respond favorably, pausing his cooking to lay a quick kiss on Stiles' mouth.
Then he adds, “Get your ass off my counter,” accompanied by a quick swat at Stiles' hand when he attempts to filch a slice of bacon from the pan. “Quit it before you burn your fingers.”
"Hey, you were literally eating off my ass ten minutes ago,” Stiles says, but he slides down. “And y'know what they say. No pain, no gain.”
"No bacon,” Derek says firmly, and shoves Stiles away with one hand.
They eat in Derek's living room. Now that Stiles is more or less back in his right mind, he can appreciate Derek's apartment, which is nice. It's on the non-intimidating side of fancy, tidy, with prints hung up on the wall. Derek puts his plate aside when he finishes, exchanging it for a laptop.
The sound of typing is kind of relaxing. Stiles gets up, finds his overnight bag where he dropped it by the door and fishes his e-reader out. He goes back to the couch, shoves his cold toes under Derek's thighs. Derek grunts and puts a hand on Stiles' ankle.
"What are you doing?” Stiles says after half an hour, having finished the chapter he was reading.
"Work,” Derek says, but he lets Stiles lean up and take a curious look at his computer. There's a lot of women laughing at salads there, for some reason.
"I'm majoring in folklore and geology,” Stiles volunteers. That at least gets him Derek's slightly baffled glance. Stiles grins and says, “Thanks.”
"Not asking if they teach me how to say do you want fries with that?” That joke got old, like, the first time he heard it.
"There's money in geology, though,” Derek says. “Oil and all that.”
Stiles gives half a shrug. “Not really my area.” He goes back to reading after that. Derek goes back to work. As ways to spend a morning go, it's not half bad.
The heat bond dissipates before lunch. “That was quick,” Stiles says, impressed and a little sorry. Derek's couch is soft, and Derek's butt is very nice at warming Stiles' toes.
"Is how it is,” Derek says with something like a shrug. He's starting to look tense again, like he finally realizes that Stiles is in his space.
Surprised as his friends may be to hear that, Stiles knows when not to outstay his welcome. He jams his hands in his pocket. “Uh, it's been great. Ten out of ten, would spend heat with again.”
Derek just sort of hunches and grunts.
"So.” Stiles draws the sound out. Then stops, because he feels like an idiot. “Okay. Bye. Call me anytime.” He flees the scene, holding his shirt closed because a couple buttons flew away when Derek wrestled it off him. He shivers all the way home.
"Dude, nobody's seen you for a week,” Scott says when Stiles finally feels like picking up his phone. Takes him a while to get there.
"I've been studying,” Stiles says. It's true. Few things are as effective in making Stiles productive as having to distract himself from a broken heart.
Scott makes a doubtful noise, but lets it go, because Scott is the best. "Come out with us tonight."
In spite of Stiles' first instinctive response, which is something along the lines of "No thanks, I gotta drown my misery in books," staying at home another night would probably not make him feel better. So he says, "Sure," and chooses his outfit for the evening with care.
The downside of Scott being the best is that everyone else seem to be actively competing for the title of worst.
"Looking good, Stiles," Erica says with a grin. "What's the occasion? All your comics tees in the wash again?"
"I'm just trying to be decent to Boyd," Stiles says. "I know you can't resist me in my Batman shirt."
Erica rolls her eyes. "It's my kryptonite."
Jackson makes kissy faces at Stiles when Lydia's back is turned; he is an eight year old at heart.
Then, when Stiles is almost starting to relax and have fun, Danny says, "Looking for someone?"
Alright, yes, Stiles has been turning reflexively every time someone walked in. That doesn't mean anything.
Danny's expression softens, which just makes things worst. "Is this about Derek?" When Stiles' fervent headshake transparently fails to convince anyone, Danny says, "He never goes home with anyone," not unkindly.
"But," Stiles starts.
Danny cuts him off. "I mean, he's a decent guy, don't get me wrong. Don't take it personally if he's not into you, as far as anyone can tell the dude's completely celibate."
"Huh," Stiles says, breaking out in a grin.
For the next week, Stiles keeps fishing out his phone, staring at Derek's number, and putting it back in his pocket. Whatever. Stiles just wants to keep his hopes up for a little while longer before they're dashed again by cruel reality.
He's in the library, which is good for talking him out of calling certain people, when someone leans against his back.
"Yo, Stilinski,” Jackson says. Open-mouthed. His breath makes the hair at Stiles' nape rise. “Heads up, you're in heat again.”
"Say that a little louder,” Stiles grumbles, but he's kind of pleased. Normally nobody can even tell. Other Omegas inspire riots during their heats, Stiles makes people's noses scrunch and ask if somebody's making popcorn.
"Offer's still on if you're up for it,” Jackson says, slapping him on the shoulder. Stiles grimaces. “You don't know what you're missing.”
"I really do,” Stiles says to Jackson's retreating back. He then cringes in his seat as the librarian gives him a death glare.
He waits until he's home to call Derek. Then he's too chicken to call, so he texts instead: in heat please come by asap. Even that makes him feel needy and gross, so Stiles puts his phone firmly away, takes his clothes off and lies on the bed. The heat is just starting, so Stiles has the presence of mind to both get the lube and feel awfully self-conscious about it.
It's bullshit that getting wetter makes you, what, a real Omega or whatever, but Stiles still feels like a cheap imitation whenever he has to use lube. Derek's probably used to guys who could fuel fountains out their asses.
He's not coming, stop being pathetic, Stiles tells himself, just as someone knocks on the door.
In his hurry to answer Stiles stubs his toe against the couch. He's hopping on one leg as he opens the door, and fully naked except he still has his socks on. He wouldn't blame Derek for taking one look at him and closing the door right back in Stiles' face.
What Derek does, though, is take one look at Stiles, shove his way in, close the door, and pin Stiles up against it. He does it so fast that Stiles dick barely has time to catch up, so it's still hardening when it makes contact with Derek's clothed hip.
"Fuck,” Stiles says, dizzy, clings close to Derek and kisses him.
Derek growls, nosing behind Stiles' ear almost aggressively. He picks Stiles up, like it's nothing, like Stiles is just inconveniently placed so Derek will put Stiles where he wants him.
Which is kinda objectifying but also really hot.
Stiles ends up face-down on his bed, with a definite sense of deja-vu as Derek settles over him. “Gonna fuck you,” Derek says, positioning Stiles more to his liking.
And, yeah, that's the point of the entire event, isn't it? Stiles really wishes he was more lost in heat than he is. Derek's bruising grip on him doesn't even feel good, just sort of aches. Stiles sighs, closes his eyes tight and buries his face in the pillow.
Above him, Derek stills. One big hand leaves Stiles' waist and settles over Stiles' shoulder. Stiles pushes up into it before he can think, and Derek uses the momentum to turn Stiles over.
He thumbs at the wetness at the corner of Stiles' eye. “It's just hormones,” Stiles mutters, before looking up at Derek.
Derek looks devastated, like he accidentally broke something priceless and has no idea where the glue is.
It makes Stiles' heart clench. “Aw, no, don't look like that.” His hand goes up to Derek's face, touching his cheek. “It's not your fault, I'm just,” he gestures at himself, “me, and you're you, if you'd rather be looking at my butt than my face that's fine.”
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?” Derek demands. He pulls Stiles up by the armpits. He's strong enough that Stiles doesn't need to hold himself up at all, just hang limply in Derek's grip like a ragdoll, so he does. It feels good.
"You're hot, I'm not,” Stiles says plainly.
Derek looks like he longs to shake Stiles. “You're an idiot,” he says, lays Stiles back down and lies over him. Derek's fingers trace shaky lines over Stiles' cheek. His lips touch the corner of Stiles' mouth. “Sexy idiot, though.”
"Shut up,” Stiles says, face pinking. “Am not.”
"Not your call,” Derek says, and kisses Stiles before Stiles can make further protests.
He keeps doing that, kissing Stiles and rubbing circles over his back, until Stiles can't take it anymore. He climbs on top of Derek, clumsy with eagerness, rubs his ass against Derek's cock.
"Fuck,” Derek says, unbuttoning his pants with one hand as the other wraps tight around the back of Stiles' neck.
Stiles draws a sharp breath, reveling in the contact, and lowers himself onto Derek's cock.
He's more than ready now, wet and open. He rides Derek like that for long minutes, eyes closed, mouth open, hands resting on Derek's chest. Derek keeps his grip on Stiles' nape, doesn't try to move him, just holding on. His other hand is fluttering over Stiles' face, like Derek's trying to map his features.
Stiles opens his eyes, looks down on Derek, and smiles. Orgasm is easy, natural, come flowing out to wet Derek's stomach.
Derek's hand moves downwards to touch Stiles' chest. “Gonna come soon,” he says, quiet.
Then he picks Stiles up and off his dick. Stiles wheezes, “That is not using your powers for good, Derek,” and clenches almost painfully around the sudden emptiness in him.
"You got hurt last time.” Derek's got a little furrow between his eyebrows.
Stiles succumbs to the urge to kiss it. Then he opens his mouth to argue, but makes the mistake of looking down.
Derek's cock is wet, hard, jutting out from a nest of flattened dark curls. The base is pulsing, red, kind of looking angry at being denied Stiles' hole. Stiles can smell him, smell them, and he wants.
He crawls down the bed on hands and knees and licks at the head of Derek's cock. It twitches.
So does the rest of Derek, although apparently for a different reason, since the next thing out of Derek's mouth is, “My dick was just in your--”
"Birth canal,” Stiles says quickly. “Didn't you listen in sex ed?” He sucks Derek in without waiting for a reply.
It's not the first time Stiles has tasted himself, but mixed with potent Alpha scent, it's... God. Makes Stiles' mouth water, shocks happy little moans out of him, like Derek's cock is the best thing that ever happened to him.
Which is a total exaggeration. It's maybe in the top five.
Then he looks up, and Derek's face is amazing, all screwed up in pleasure, teeth gritted like he's in actual pain. Stiles looks down to where Derek's knot is swelling, and for a minute he's almost sorry Derek isn't in him, filling him up.
He wraps his hand around the base of Derek's cock then, squeezing until Derek grunts and the knot stills in Stiles' fingers. Stiles holds on, feeling the blood pulse under the skin, and tastes the come that spurts out into his open mouth until Derek shudders and goes limp.
Derek moans a little when Stiles lets go, a high soft sound, and Stiles winces. “Sorry.” He moves to put his hand back on Derek when Derek pins his wrist to the sheets.
"It's fine,” Derek says. “Just. Sensitive.”
Stiles nods. “Kinda naked, right?” He doesn't have a knot, but he does know what it feels like to pull out of someone before he's ready. He can extrapolate. Derek nods.
They lie apart for a moment, cooling off. Then Stiles shuffles closer, kissing Derek's shoulder and collarbone until Derek's hand settles back on his nape. “Greedy,” Derek murmurs, kissing Stiles forehead.
Stiles flushes and rubs his cheek against Derek's chest. “Still in heat, because someone didn't fuck it out of me.”
"Is that a challenge?” Derek says, and suddenly they're flipped, Stiles with his back on the bed and Derek looming over him.
"Yes,” Stiles says, and kisses the tip of Derek's nose, because he can.
The second time around, Derek does knot him, licks Stiles thoroughly before guiding his cock inside and then fucking him for what feels like hours. It's slow. Stiles could swear he feels Derek's cock expand, sealing him shut.
He shivers, and Derek kisses his temple. “Fuck, you're big,” Stiles says. It's not a complaint, exactly. His voice is shaky.
"Told you we don't have to,” Derek says, but his voice isn't steady either.
"Wanted to,” Stiles says, then he moans when Derek's cock jumps inside him. “Ah, fuck, you feel good.”
"I feel good,” Derek says, a little incredulous. His hands rove all over Stiles, a firm pressure on his skin. Derek's hands are cool, which ought to feel unpleasant because Stiles is kind of chilled, but instead feels wonderful.
Stiles puts his cheek against Derek's and closes his eyes. He thinks he could maybe come again if he just focuses on how Derek feels inside him, on the patient course that Derek's hands chart. “Yeah, you do.”
Derek nuzzles Stiles shoulder in reply.
Stiles' heat breaks after that. Having company does that to him, makes the rut short and sweet, and for once Stiles is almost sorry. Derek's head rests on Stiles' chest, and Stiles occupies himself messing Derek's hair even further.
"No bond,” Derek says, but makes no move to break away from Stiles.
"Yeah, I don't usually get them.” Stiles laughs a little. “I'm practically a Beta. A Beta who gets really horny once a month,” he amends.
Derek goes quiet and still. Stiles looks down, wary. “Who told you that?” Derek says, and he sounds kind of angry.
"Um, no one.” Stiles frowns. “It's just that I'm--”
"Fishing for compliments?”
Stiles snorts, gesturing at himself. “You'd think if I did that, I'd use a better bait.”
Then Derek is towering over him, glaring. “Stop talking about yourself like that.”
"Or you'll what?” Stiles smirks. “Stop coming over to ease my horniness?” Then he considers it. “Okay, that's a legitimate threat. I'll stop.”
Derek doesn't look like he won the argument, though. He looks... defeated, climbing off Stiles, reaching for his shirt.
"Whoa.” Stiles places a hand on Derek's arm. “What's the rush?”
Derek just sits there, still holding his shirt, looking at Stiles. “Do you want me to go or not?”
"Not,” Stiles says promptly, laughing when Derek's shirt falls back to the floor, Derek's fingers hanging in the air. He takes advantage of Derek's surprise to pounce on him. Derek's hands go right to Stiles' hips, securing him in place, and Stiles grins. “Stay awhile,” he whispers in Derek's ear. Then he flops over Derek with a groan. “I'm gonna need to get my energy up before I fuck again, though. Have dinner with me?”
"That's a question?” Derek sounds doubting, but he's petting the back of Stiles' head again.
"I don't know, was that an answer?” Stiles can ignore the rumbling in his stomach for a little while longer. Even without a heat bond, he seriously doesn't want to leave this bed.
Stiles' phone starts buzzing in the middle of a Sedimentology lecture. He covertly examines the text he just received: wanna go out tonight.
God help Stiles, he finds the lack of a question mark endearing. What the actual fuck.
He hesitates before answering, types, I'm going out with friends tonight. He reaches, self-conscious, to touch the bruises fading all along his neck and adds, Come join us? before he can lose his nerve.
Five fairly tense minutes pass before Stiles' phone buzzes again, and when he sees Derek's reply, his grin is wide enough to prompt Scott to toss a paper ball at his head.
Later, he's sitting between Danny and Jackson and trying not to sneak longing glances at the door.
"Looking good,” Jackson tells him, grinning. “Someone overlook your face long enough to fuck you?”
Stiles rolls his eyes and shoots, “Worked for your mom, didn't it?”
Jackson's not replying, though, staring fixedly behind Stiles.
Something land on the table beside Stiles' elbow. Stiles squints at it – it's a glasses case. When Stiles turns to look, Derek is behind him. “These yours?”
Then Derek just stands there and stares until Danny and Jackson both move away from Stiles like magnets twisted to the same pole. Derek slides in besides Stiles, arm snaking around Stiles waist and pulling him until he's halfway in Derek's lap. He hooks his chin over Stiles' shoulder. Stiles can feel Derek's eyebrows bunching up against his cheek, probably still glaring at Jackson.
Who is pulling the glasses to him in a gesture that's almost defensive. “Yeah,” he says. “Why?”
"Figured you're damn near blind without them,” Derek says, giving Jackson the widest, least sincere smile Stiles has ever seen.
There's a brief silence as the table parses what Derek just said. Danny's the first to react, groaning and saying, “Not actually funny.”
Stiles snickers because it kind of is, in a weird backwards way. He also socks Derek in the shoulder saying, “Dude, you don't have to butter me up to get me into bed.”
Derek just tightens his grip on Stiles and says, “I know.”
And Stiles subsides, content to move on with the flow of conversation. With the strength of Derek's hold on him, compliments are almost believable.