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Stiles always figured it would be Scott who saw him through his first heat. They pinky-swore on it, in fact, when they were eleven and newly-presented. There haven’t exactly been an abundance of offers between then and now.

Instead there’s been, in no particular order: werewolves. Kanimas. Stiles’ ten-year plan for wooing Lydia Martin. A freaking manticore. Scott dating Allison. And breaking up with Allison. And dating her again. The kitsune. That one time with the potion about which they Do Not Speak, ever.

Not to mention his epically unrequited thing for the leader of their little band of merry wolves, going all the way back to the days when Derek Hale was just the Hottie McMurderSuspect in the back of his dad’s patrol car.

That was bad enough. It’s approximately a million times worse now that he’s seen Derek fight for his pack, and bring them together as a family, and stumble out of bed at 6AM with the most ridiculous case of bedhead. Who could be expected to resist that, seriously?

And the way he smells, Jesus. He should not be allowed within one hundred feet of Stiles when he smells that good.

Completely unsurprisingly, he hasn’t looked twice at Stiles. For research? Sure. Need a car to bleed all over? Call Stiles. He’s got a key to Derek’s loft, but so does the rest of the pack.

Stiles has accepted the fact that “unobtainable” is basically his kink.

: : :

He’s three days into his pre-onset cycle when he realizes what’s making him so fucking irritable.

Okay, he doesn’t figure it out so much as the rest of the pack starts making snippy little remarks about the wicked case of Preheat Syndrome he’s rocking. Stiles takes himself to the doctor after school, who verifies that he is, in fact, about to go into heat.

Doctor Haydon also makes sure to remind Stiles that, for the first few months, at least, it’s not medically advisable to spend one’s heats alone. Does he need the phone number for a reputable matching service?

Well, thanks, doc, for that reminder that no one’s in a hurry to climb aboard the Stiles train.

: : :

Eventually his hormones will stabilize and he’ll be able to go on suppressants, but for now he gets a doctor’s note, a birth control shot, and a week’s vacation.

He texts Scott as soon as he gets home.

Dude, going into heat. U + me, bro?

can Allison come?

Can Allison come. To his heat. What. The. Fuck.

WHAT? WHAT EVEN, SCOTT?

it was her idea

This is not a conversation he can have via text.

“What the fuck, Scott? It was her idea, seriously?”

“I could smell that you were going into heat, man, and we made a deal, but Allison’s my girlfriend, you know?”

Does he ever.

“She said it’s okay, though, as long as she gets to watch or something, and everyone says it’s better if your first time’s with an alpha anyway, so...” Scott trails off, and Stiles can just see the puppy-dog expression on his face.

Allison is pretty hot. But he’s never really thought about it, because, as previously mentioned, she’s Scott’s girlfriend.

“Um, you don’t think that’ll be... weird?”

“No, dude, heat fucking is different. Don’t get any ideas about afterward, though.”

Yeah, these days his ‘ideas’ tend more towards leather and stubble than any words that could be used to describe Allison.

Except for maybe BAMF.

“I don’t know, Scott. Um, let me think about it, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

: : :

He’s up until two in the morning thinking about it. He just can’t get past the idea of Allison naked.

Allison.

Naked.

Some things are ingrained, apparently, and one of them is the idea of not screwing your best friend’s girlfriend. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

He does try; tugs his boxers down, wraps slick fingers around his dick. He imagines peeling Allison’s dress off, her standing over him in nothing but a lacy bra, black tights, and a pair of heels.

Somewhere in the middle, it morphs into Stiles wearing the heels, panties shoved to the side as Derek slams into him relentlessly.  

Fucking, fucking, shitting, fucking hell.

He’ll just find someone else. In two days. Sure. Not a problem.

: : :

By lunch the next day, Stiles is wound so tight he’s actually vibrating. Every brush against his skin makes him nauseated, caught somewhere between the need to submit and the desire to not have anything touch him ever again.

Not even Derek’s strong, broad, hot palms, running down his-

Stiles.”

He blinks at Lydia’s fingers, snapping sharply in front of his nose. Pulls the spoon he’s apparently been- Christ- practically fellating out of his mouth. Erica’s open-mouthed and pink-cheeked, and he could swear she actually whimpers.

God damn omega pheromones. He’s surprised they’re getting to Erica, though; betas are usually more resistant to that sort of thing.

“Oh my god, you guys, I’m fucking doomed. Or doomed not to fuck. Either way. No offense to you, Allison, it’s just too, too weird and I’m going to be one of those freaks who goes insane during their first heat and humps the sofa or something, Jesus Christ...”

His head thunks onto the table. Maybe he can just concuss his way into skipping his heat entirely.

“Maybe you should ask Derek?”

Stiles yanks himself up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. “Scott,” he hisses between his teeth, “I don’t know what you’re talking about- Derek- who’d want to spend their heat with Derek, all broody and growly and shit. Um, how about no? Ha. Ha, I say.”

Jackson snorts. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling. We can smell you slutting it up for him even when you’re not in heat.”

“Jackson.”

Okay, he might be all about the D lately, but his kink list also includes “mean as sin” and Lydia’s bitch-voice never fails to do it for him.

Stiles laments that fact when her focus shifts back to him.

“As much as I hate to say it, Scott has a point. Maybe you should ask Derek.”

“Do you all secretly hate me? Why do you want to put me through the level of actual, physical trauma that Derek would undoubtedly release on my defenceless, omega ass?”

Erica chokes on her Pepsi, she’s laughing so hard, and Scott, that fucking traitor, laughs right along with her.

“NOT LIKE THAT, you fucking pervs.” He snatches up his tray and storms to the trash; not even a double chocolate pudding cup can fix this shithole of a day.

Isaac finds him sulking in the basement stairwell twenty minutes later. It’s next to the boiler room and always smells like sweaty ass, even to Stiles, which should make it prime werewolf-free territory.

Who’s he kidding? He’s not that lucky.

And of course they had to send Isaac to track him down. Isaac and his stupid freaking baby face.

“Hey,” he says quietly, slinging an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. Damn it, why did he ever admit that he enjoyed the fuzzy wolf cuddles?

“It doesn’t have to be a thing, with you and Derek, if you’re not ready or whatever. But he’s your pack leader too, remember? Pack takes care of each other.”

“Yeah, Isaac?” He hears the nasty twist in his voice and suddenly doesn’t give a shit. “Because I don’t see the rest of the pack volunteering.” He moves fast, throws a leg over and spills himself into Isaac’s lap.

He grinds his ass down into Isaac’s thighs, and this close to his heat, the pressure makes him whimper, dirty little sounds that he drops into Isaac’s ear. “You going to do it, then?” Isaac’s hands clamp down on his hips, fingers flexing like he can’t decide whether to pull Stiles in or shove him away.

Stiles’ mouth trails up Isaac’s neck, filth interspersed with tight pulls of his teeth. “You going to put me on my hands and knees, fuck me, knot me, hmm?”

Isaac’s breath is wet, panting, his pupils blown wide, but he locks eyes with Stiles, sweet, serious expression on his face.

“Yeah, Stiles. Talk to Derek first, okay, but yeah. If you need me to, I will.”

: : :

He sits in his car, telling himself he’s just waiting for the parking lot to empty. He’s certainly not avoiding the drive to a certain pack leader’s apartment.

Nope.

No sir.

Yes. Okay, fine, yes. He had planned to avoid the shit out of Derek this whole week. Probably the next one too, just for good measure. His body’s begging for it, he can practically feel his ass go loose and slutty at just the thought of Derek, which is all the excuse he needs to stay as far away as possible.

Some things are stereotypes for a reason. If he knocks on the door and starts begging incoherently for Derek’s knot like an omega from a ‘60s porno, Stiles will never be able to look himself in the face again.  

He can do this. Hey, Derek, can you do me a solid? Nothing serious, just, you know, screw my brains out, that’s all. If you ask Doctor Haydon, it’s a serious medical issue. Derek’s the one who drove Stiles to the hospital after he broke his wrist wrestling with Scott. It’s the same sort of thing. Basically.

That little burst of self-delusion gets him all the way to the front door. And no further. Instead he just stares at the door, wondering how long he has to wait here before he can legitimately tell Lydia that he’d tried, but damn, Derek wasn’t home.

There are forty-five seconds left on his internal clock when the door swings open. Then he just gives up, because Derek’s standing on the other side, shirtless and damp, towel in hand, eyebrows scrunched up as he stares at Stiles.

“Forget your key?”

“Mm.” Non-committal sounds, the key to prevaricating with werewolves.

Derek waves Stiles in and goes back to toweling his hair. Still shirtless, head dropping down, a stretch in his arms as his torso dips into a long, smooth arc.

Suddenly Stiles is feeling a little light-headed, which is the only way he can explain how his mouth opens and “I’mgoingintoheatwannafuck?” spills out.

The towel hits the floor with a wet smack as Derek jerks upright, eyes wide.

Oh god. Oh. God. Why does no one ever try to kill him when he really needs it?

Derek takes a deep breath and immediately looks like he regrets it. Stiles can only imagine what he smells like- the stink of ripe omega and utter, complete humiliation.

“Sooo, that’s a no, then? Okay, well, I’m just gonna go down to the river and make a hole in it, k? Good talk.”

Fingers latch onto his arm, and Stiles resolutely ignores the thrill that runs through him as they grind down, the way Derek’s hand circles his entire wrist.

He definitely does not picture the way they’d look pinning him to the bed.

“Stiles.”

He turns slowly, feet scuffing across the floor. Examines the window, the couch- is that Stiles’ copy of Abarat?- anything but the blatant rejection scrawled across Derek’s face. Stiles pulls sharply away from Derek’s grip, loathing the fact that it only works because Derek chooses to let go.

There’s color high in Derek’s cheeks, but he’s wearing the blank mask that never fails to put Stiles on edge. Derek’s face is only ever that expressionless when he’s trying to hide something; pity, probably, for the little sad sack omega in front of him.

“Why.”

“Um, can I get that in the form of a question?”

“Why are you asking me?”

God, Stiles can’t believe Derek’s going to make him come out and say it. “Ugh, seriously? You do look at yourself in the mirror, don’t you?” He flushes at the way his voice breaks when he waves a hand at the still-damp torso in front of him, the freshly-shaven cheek bones and tight, denim-clad thighs.

Those thighs have featured prominently in his imagination lately.

“And, you know, everyone says it’s better with an alpha, right?”

“So you thought you’d just come over here and see if the hot alpha was up for a heat fuck, is that it?”

He almost feels bad for what he’s about to do, but Derek’s fists are clenching, white-knuckled, and he’s not willing to go down for this fucking stupidass plan.

“It was all Scott’s idea!”

“Get. Out.” Wolf-red eyes flash and suddenly Derek’s not the only one who’s pissed. It’s not like sharing a heat with Stiles would be such a hardship. Derek doesn’t have to act so damn... insulted about the whole thing.

“Okay, okay, I’m going, slow your roll, buddy. I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, it’s just a heat, it’s not a big deal.”

The way he collides with the wall of the loft doesn’t really come as a surprise. The way the feel of it slams through him, though, makes every muscle go lax and his skin fever-bright, forcing a whimper up into his mouth, that’s unexpected.

“Derek,” and it’s just a whisper, a hush that he can barely hear over his own heartbeat, “c’mon, Derek, please-”

“I said get out, Stiles. Don’t make me say it a third time.”

: : :

The trip back to his house is a haze, force of habit making the drive for him. It shouldn’t... it’s not a surprise. Of course Derek said no. Derek was always going to say no.

It’s just hormones, the pressing need to pull over and sob until it all goes away. Just biology, amping up his emotions, and fuck his endocrine system, anyway.

The rejection has his body primed, determined to attract an available alpha, to be bred. To mate. The weight in his chest battles a desperate need to spread his legs and rut; he wants to stuff his fingers inside himself and come until he passes out.

Stiles sits in his driveway and breathes, in, count to five, out, count to five, in again, until he feels like he can move without screaming.

His dad meets him at the door and he’s never been so grateful in his entire life as he is now, when his dad doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any questions. Doesn’t even try to hug him, just  understands that Stiles couldn’t take the skin-on-skin contact right now.

Instead they walk through the house silently, wooden steps creaking as he follows his dad into the basement. His parents- both betas- never used it for anything but storage, but the space was designed as a fully-functional heat room. Sound-proofing and scent-dampers in the insulation, a separate bathroom, a reinforced bed... even a full-sized refridgerator. He was twelve when they moved here, and Stiles knows they bought it with him in mind.

Tears finally make their appearance when he realizes that his dad’s been busy- there’s fresh sheets on the bed, bags of fruit and his favorite almond & apricot Kind bars on the shelves. He’d be willing to bet the fridge is full of Smartwater and purple Gatorade.

Stiles curls into a ball on the bed and lets the shudders run through him. As much as his body needs it, the thought of touching himself makes him want to puke, so instead he just pulls his knees closer to his chest and tries not to shake apart.

: : :

The scent of alpha jolts him awake. It curls into his nose and burns in the back of his throat, throbs in his pelvis and tightens his calves.

The lock on the door clicks. There’s a faint twist of hope that Derek’s changed his mind, which he crushes before he even slits his eyes open.

“Isaac?” He hears the plaintive, needy tone in his voice and doesn’t care; there’s not much room for anything in his head beside the pulsing call of alpha, alpha, alpha.

“Stiles- is this still okay? I need you to tell me if you still want this.”

He rolls to his feet, reveling in the way Isaac’s face flushes as Stiles gets closer. There’s a sleek, sinuous sway to how his body moves now; every step a dance genetically designed to entice.

He crowds Isaac into the wall, palms pressed to the cool cement. He wants to roll in Isaac’s scent, bathe in it, needs it in his mouth and on his skin.

“C’mon, Isaac, don’t you want to fuck me?” Isaac’s hand creeps up his thigh, pulling Stiles’ knee firm against his hip. It brings their cocks tight together and Stiles lets out a hiss as the feel of it prickles through him, teasing pressure so close to where he actually needs it. He chases the sound into Isaac’s mouth, eats up the gasp he gets in response.

His hips roll, each brush of heat winding him tighter. His own scent is thick in the air, pervasive and sweet.

Stiles’ skin aches where Isaac’s palms hover over it, one clamped on his leg, the other cupping his nape. God, why won’t Isaac just take charge? Stiles needs it, needs to be pressed down, opened up, taken and knotted and owned.

He doesn’t realize he’s begging until Isaac hushes him, tongue slick against his lips.

Isaac leads him to the bed and he goes willingly, peeling himself out of his jeans, sticky-wet where he’s hot and leaking. Stiles rolls to his knees, splays himself wide open, fingers pulling his cheeks apart as his face drops into the mattress.

Fingers trail across his ankle, up his thigh, brush soft over his hole. “Slow down, Stiles, I don’t want to hurt you. You’re not ready yet.”

“Am, am, please, Isaac, please, I need it, god-”

“Just wait, shh, I’ll give it to you, but you have to be good, okay?”

He can do that. He can be good for his alpha. Stiles nods frantically, trying not to thrust backwards as two slender fingers press inside him. It’s a sweet, slick stretch, gentle nudges against his prostate that make him pant and plead. The third finger makes him whine, tight pressure against his inner walls.

The fourth makes him scream. It’s toomuchtoomuchtoomuch, licking through his brain until all he can feel is the bare expanse of his skin, every nerve ending blasted open and exposed.

Isaac gentles him through it, pulls Stiles’ hips back into a slow, rocking rhythm until he’s riding Isaac’s fingers. He’s shaking, fingers digging into the sheets so hard that his knuckles burn. Desperation creeps like sweat across his skin; he’s too empty, why, why won’t his alpha take him?

“Fill me up, Isaac, knot me, I can take it, goddamnit, fucking please-”

No, Stiles.”

He’s babbling out delirious apologies before he can stop himself. Isaac drapes himself along Stiles’ back, a smooth, sweat-slick glide of skin on skin, pebbled nipples teasing along his shoulder blades. It’s an instinctive move, calming, something in the back of Stiles’ brain relaxing at the sense that he’s about to be mounted.

“We’re almost there, Stiles, I just need you to take a little bit more for me, can you do that? Can you take another finger, let me stretch you out all wide so that you can take my knot?”

All he can do is keen out a wordless agreement, back bowing into a perfect arc. It pushes his ass out, drives all five of Isaac’s fingers deep inside and he wails, mindless and hazy. His own wetness drips down his thighs, trickles over his balls, and he’s so close, so goddamn ready, now, Isaac, now, please, jesus.

Teeth nip across his ear, tug at the lobe, sharp little bites that almost distract from the sloppy, gaping feeling that comes when Isaac’s fingers slip out of him. There’s a breath, a moment, sick sobbing loss in the back of his throat and then everything, everything goes white as Isaac’s cock shoves into him.

All that exists is the press and burn of it, the uncontrollable roll of his hips in response. Slick fingers jacking his cock in tight, hard jerks. Every muscle pulls tight and he claws for his orgasm, needing it more than he’s ever craved anything in his life. It builds and builds and builds until he can’t scream, can’t shout, wordless pressure choking in his throat, dark flares behind his eyes, but it’s not enough, he’s just hanging on the edge-

Isaac’s growing knot catches on his rim as fang-edged teeth dig into Stiles’ shoulder and the orgasm pulls him under, a rip-tide of sensation that drags him down into soft, hazy oblivion.

: : :

The next three days pass in a come-soaked, pheromone-driven haze. Stiles only gets snatches, sense-impressions: the salt tang of Isaac’s collarbone; a bloody purple bruise over the thin skin of his hip; hot, damp breath ghosting over his jaw.

It slows eventually, calms, and by the fifth day they’re curled together in the ruin of the sheets, trading sips from a bottle of Gatorade. He’s a little amazed they haven’t died of dehydration in the interim. Everything seems easy and warm, all his muscles lax, the desperation fading into soft affection. He bumps his fingers down the knobs of Isaac’s spine, smiling at the hum it earns him.

Stiles rolls onto his belly and stretches until his toes curl. There’s a deeply pleasant fucked-out ache down the length of his spine, and something about the feeling triggers a sudden hammer-smash of realization.

He had sex. A lot of sex. With Isaac.

Holy fucking shit, dude.

They are naked right now.

He flails upright, managing to tip himself off the side of the bed in the process. Christ, his ass did not need that.

Isaac’s head appears over the edge of the mattress, all rumpled curls and quizzical expression. All Stiles can do is wheeze, trying to force out the words past hysterical laughter.

“You- me-” he gestures between the two of them, trying to capture the fact that their dicks touched. “We had sex, man, sex,” and then he loses it again, too caught up in the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

Isaac grins, upside down, before plastering a self-important expression on his face and saying, in his best Jackson impression, “Dude. No homo.”

: : :

Unfortunately, a week’s worth of medically sanctioned sex-cation doesn’t excuse Stiles from any of the homework he missed. He’s researching renunciation of the self in The Bhagavad-Gita when his phone buzzes.

He knows exactly who it is, as he’s ignored three other texts from Derek already.

Stiles.

Stiles.

Answer your phone, Stiles.

How ‘bout no. He’s still pissed about Derek’s attitude problem. There’s also some insulted and a fair bit of hurt and ashamed thrown in the mix.

He just doesn’t want to go there. At all. Ever.

Stiles is the King of Avoidance Land for a reason, and this particular reason is being annexed to the bottom of the Pit of Not Touching It with a Ten-Foot Pole.

Answer your phone or I’m coming in the window.

According to the clock on his phone, it’s fifteen minutes later when there’s a scrabble of claws against his roof and then a solid, meaty, thudding noise.

Sort of like the sound a body would make bouncing off a mountain ash-reinforced second-story window frame.

Stiles doesn’t even look up from his computer screen.

“And stay out, bitch.”

: : :

The next month goes by as Stiles tries to pretend that there’s not a timer on his phone counting down to his next heat. Luckily, he lives in Beacon Hills, up-and-coming Hellmouth of the Year, so there’s plenty of other shit to focus on.

Jackson’s heats finally stabilize enough that he goes on suppressants, and the hormone adjustment makes him even more of a prissy little bitch than usual. They come within inches of an actual slap-fest over the last bag of Ruffles at lunch. Scott and Allison get in another fight, and no one’s sure what it’s about except that Isaac is involved somehow.

Scott may be his BFF, but Stiles isn’t getting anywhere near that.

Oh, and then, of course, there’s the poltergeist outbreak. Werewolves, as it so happens, give off more metaphysical energy than ordinary humans, which basically turns the pack into fancy ghost-nip.

It’s little things at first- broken glasses, misplaced books. The wolves’ senses going nuts, trying to track something that can’t be seen. Nothing serious.

It escalates when Erica’s hair dryer joins her in the bathtub. And then again when Derek loses control of the Camaro and puts it into a tree.

Boyd’s parents find him in a coma on the living room couch.

Lydia and Stiles spend sixty-four hours closeted in her bedroom, splitting a bottle of Adderall and a case of Rock Star, translating and compiling and plumbing the shady-ass depths of ghost hunting forums.

They blow out the power to half the town by the time they manage to banish the swarm. Stiles is shaking so hard when it’s finished that he can’t manage to unlock his Jeep; instead he just stands there, looking from the keys to the lock and back again. Why isn’t it working?

Hands cup his chin, turn him to meet green eyes.

“Jesus, Stiles, what did you do to yourself?”

He thinks maybe he shrugs in response. He thinks about shrugging, at any rate. There are words in his head, but he can’t push them off his tongue. It’s the last thing he remembers, the weight of them in his mouth.

He wakes up two and a half days later, clutching Scott like a pillow in Derek’s crisp gray sheets. There’s a mess of blond hair spilling across his chest, Boyd tucked in on Erica’s other side.

Stiles tries to disentangle himself from the twist of limbs and linens, but only manages to tumble directly onto both Erica and Boyd. Erica wakes with a snap and a snarl; Boyd just pushes Stiles off the side of the bed and digs back into the sheets. Scott, as always, continues to sleep like the freaking dead.

He pads his way out to the coffee maker, hoping against hope that there’s some real breakfast food in the cupboards instead of the organic, whole-grain, tasteless muesli Derek claims to enjoy.

Apparently the universe likes him today, because he finds a half-empty box of Pop-tarts tucked away on a shelf. They’re cherry, but what can you do?

“Isaac’ll kill you if you finish those off,” Erica says, coming up behind him. She hooks her chin over his shoulder, reaching around to break off a piece of the Pop-tart. Sometimes he forgets how much shorter she is when she’s not wearing murder-heels.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” He pulls another out of the package, splits it with her. She jumps onto the counter, swinging bare feet and eyeing him contemplatively.

“You know you’re about to get your heat, right? I can smell it.”

Turns out werewolf strength really comes in handy when you’re choking. It only takes one good, solid smack to clear out the chunk of Pop-tart that he aspirates.

She smirks and hands him a paper towel.

“Ah, yeah, I know. I mean, I’d sort of lost track, actually, but-”

The sudden application of her lips to his mouth cuts off that train of thought at the station.

Erica pulls back, just enough that all he can focus on are brown eyes and long lashes, the smug twist to pink lips.

“Boyd and I were thinking that maybe this month, we’d join you. Isaac told me you hadn’t asked him, yet.”

“You and-” he has to pause, swallow past the sudden dryness in his throat, “you and Boyd, with me? Really?”

Recent Derek-obsession notwithstanding, it isn’t as if he’s never thought about Erica that way. She’s hot and she knows it, makes it work for her- makes it her bitch, really. Even in someone else’s boxers and wifebeater, hair a disaster area, with fake cherry filling barely covering her morning breath.

“We may be betas, but I think we can work something out, don’t you?” Her mouth is positively wicked, and he watches a lot of porn, okay? Stiles knows what sort of... accessories exist for an enterprising beta.

He’s suddenly very aware that he’s only wearing his boxer shorts.

She sniffs the air, a smirk pulling her lips wide. Damn werewolf senses. Erica leans in to kiss him again and his hands flail at her shoulders in a sudden panic.

“Wait, wait- you did talk to Boyd about this first, right? ‘Cause his hands are bigger than my whole face, and I know I’m pretty badass, but try to remember that I don’t heal like you do, and if he punches me it will hurt.”

Erica’s eyes roll in an exasperated expression that is the spitting image of Derek. Apparently he rubs off on all his betas- no, no, that thought does not need to go any further. No.

“Of course I talked to Boyd first.” Her voice drops into a purr and he knows it’s a put-on, he knows it, but what’s happening in his pants just doesn’t care. “He likes the idea of you in the middle, taking his whole fist while you lick me. I’ll bet you look so sweet when you're giving it up, don’t you?”

She bites at his mouth, licks him open, and suddenly she’s wrapped around him like a python and he doesn’t know what’s happening.

He was just trying to have breakfast, damn it.

“Erica, give the boy a break, it’s not even noon yet.”

Adrenaline bursts in his spine as Boyd’s voice rumbles behind him. That’s it, he’s about to get pummeled.

Instead what he gets is warm arms wrapping around the both of them, Boyd nuzzling along his jaw before stretching over his shoulder to kiss Erica.

Wow, that is a lot of tongue action right there. He’s... feeling a little weak-kneed, actually, grateful for the solid wolf-strength bracketing him. He leans into it and realizes that Boyd is definitely happy to see at least one of them.

Long, manicured fingers skate down his happy trail and this has to stop, right now, before he’s coming against Derek’s kitchen cabinets.

Not like he hasn’t jacked off to that particular scenario a time or three, but he’d always pictured it a little bit differently. Derek was there, for instance, instead of-

Instead of staring at them from the door of Isaac’s bedroom, color high in his cheeks, fingers curled tight around the door frame.

Motherfucking shit.

Stiles scrambles, sliding out from between Boyd and Erica. There was only one rule set down when Derek handed out keys to his loft, and that was No Sex in My House. Isaac got a free pass on account of paying half the rent, but the last time Derek had caught Allison and Scott on the couch he’d nearly dropkicked them out the window.

Stiles can't blame the guy. If he had super-senses, he wouldn’t want them smothered in the scent of teenage spunk either.

“Heeey, Derek. Coffee? Can we get you a bowl of muesli, maybe?”

Derek just grunts, scrubbing his hands over his face on the way to the bathroom. All three of them flinch at the way the door slams behind him.

Not a morning person, their fearless leader.

“Well, that wasn’t awkward at all.”

Erica just laughs, hopping down from the counter. She quirked an eyebrow at him. “So, is that a yes, then, Batman?”

“I guess I can’t say no to my Catwoman, can I?”

: : :

Stiles is on his back, spread wide open and burning with it. Pinned, wrists and ankles, strong hands keeping him in place. The tips of Erica’s nails score a sharp, bright point of pain across the thin skin over his ankle bone and a shudder runs down his whole body.

Erica’s magnificent, all flushed, slick skin and sleek, rolling hips. He can’t drag his eyes away from the sway of her breasts as she fucks into him. The head of the dildo just barely dips in before she’s pulling it back in a dirty, teasing little rhythm that’s making his head spin.

He’s come three times already and it’s still not enough.

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s whimpering until Boyd’s hands leave his wrists to cup his face.

“You need more, don’t you? It’s okay, we’ve got you.”

A thumb presses his mouth open, long fingers stretching his jaw wide as his head tips back, throat a long, pale line. Scarlet marks punctuate it, blood pounding, close to the surface. Sweat pools near his collarbone.

He’s panting around Boyd’s fingers, caught between the two of them, keening as Boyd’s fingers slip from his mouth and leave him empty. It’s only a moment, though, before a cock slides between his lips, thick and heavy, blood-hot.

It’s a different sensation, taking it like this, upside-down, and he can’t do much more than relax into it, let it happen, let Boyd fill his mouth, his throat, cover his tongue.

The two of them work together, falling into a pattern, a push-pull that empties the thoughts from Stiles’ head until he’s nothing but his body, open and receptive, twisting hips and arching spine, soft wet mouth.

Boyd loses control first, shoving into Stiles in stuttering thrusts that cut off his air and force tears to his eyes.

The hot spill of come, the tight, hazy sensation in his chest, dark spots in front of his eyes, is what finally drives Stiles over the edge.

: : :   

He’s lost track of the days, doesn’t know what time it is; doesn’t even know his own name.

His entire focus has narrowed, razor-fine, to two points of contact: the thick knuckles curling into his ass, and the salt-sweet folds presented to his mouth.

Wide open and loose, drenched in lube and his own sticky juices, his ass flutters around Boyd’s fingers. He’s practically purring with the warm pleasure of it, too stretched to feel any sort of pain; instead it’s a honey-thick glow as three fingers twist and reach, Boyd’s thumb pulling at his rim, dragging him even further open.

There’s a prickling along his neck, sharp nails punishing him for getting distracted. He hums, apologetic, licking between Erica’s fingers where she’s spread herself wide for him. Her gorgeous little cunt is drenched, pulling him in, clamping tight around his fingers when he crooks them upward. He’s watched so much porn that the soft blond curls around her cunt were a surprise, but he loves it, loves how they’re damp and sticky and musky, smelling of all three of them.

Erica likes it hard, likes nails and the scrape of his teeth against her clit. He drives another finger into her just to hear the muttered fuck yeah it earns him; echoes her gasp a moment later when Boyd slips in his pinky.

There’s five fingers in him now, slippery-wet and searching. They skate over his prostate and he melts, easy and sloppy like he’s taking an alpha’s knot.

And then Boyd’s entire hand pushes into him, slow, steady nudges and a strong, smooth curl and then it’s a fist, and it’s beyond what he'd imagined, so much better than a knot, so much more. Boyd’s wrist turns, rolling knuckles across his prostate, pulsing and twisting.

The sensation is enough to drive a man mad, and it does, has him biting and sucking at Erica, frantic, mindless, his whole face pressing into her as he rides Boyd’s hand. She’s swearing at him, moaning, and finally she digs her hands into his hair and holds him still, fucking her hips up into his mouth.

She comes hard, a silent, indrawn breath and a flash of claws. There’s a hot flare of pain along his cheekbone, a counterpoint to the orgasm that expands outward from his center, molten and inexorable.

: : :

This time around it’s not quite as hilarious when he wakes up to find himself sandwiched between his friends.

Okay, there’s still a holy shit naked moment, but he manages to handle it with a minimum amount of flail. Increasing maturity; his dad would be so proud.

Speaking of, Stiles is pretty sure his dad has been hitting the How to Parent Your Teenage Omega books lately. When informed about Stiles’... arrangement for this heat, he’d merely raised both eyebrows, asked about their favorite snacks, and picked up an extra case of granola bars. He’d also made a pointed remark about wanting to see permission slips, which made all three of them grateful that Erica just turned eighteen. Her parents are of the extremely old-fashioned opinion that spending heat with anyone but a licensed medical professional is only one step away from street walking.

“The heat must be fading- I can hear his brain working again,” Boyd says to Erica from where he’s sprawled at the foot of the bed.

Erica knocks lightly on the side of Stiles’ head. “Back with us, Stilinski?” She’s pulled on Boyd’s boxers again, rolled down over her hips.

“Do you even own any pajamas, or do you just steal from Boyd?”

“Don’t make me push you off the mattress, bitch. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous right now.” A pink tongue pokes in his direction.

He leers, big and over-exaggerated. “Yeah, you are.” He probably deserves the way she pins him down and digs her fingers into his sides until they’re both gasping with laughter and Boyd has to separate them.

: : :

Erica falls asleep halfway through as Dark City plays on his computer, head in Boyd's lap, feet propped up on Stiles' thigh. They're wrapped in blankets and pajamas, splitting a bowl of grapes and staving off the inevitable return to real life responsibilities.

Stiles is half asleep himself, dozing as Rufus Sewell runs through the city. He's been listing steadily to the right for half an hour- when he notices that he's nearly horizontal, Stiles just gives in and drops his head onto the swell of Erica's hip.

The sound of his own snore jerks him awake, and Boyd chuckles as his head pops up.

"Shit, man, my bad. Didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

"It's okay. It's the only time the two of you are quiet."

"If I had more energy I'd so be poking you right now."

"That could be arranged, if you wanted."

He expects Boyd to follow it up with a laugh, a snort, anything that changes it from an impossible offer to a believable joke.

Instead it's just quiet and the sound of Jennifer Connelly's smoky torch voice.

"Next month? For my heat? Um, okay, that would be... good."

Boyd's mouth quirks. "Next month, sure, but we were thinking more in-between. Erica and I, we wouldn't mind making this an outside-of-heat thing."

Oh.

Oh.

Wow.

It's tempting. It's... Christ, is it tempting. His fierce, funny, perfectly bitchy Catwoman, and Boyd, quiet and strong enough to maybe finally give Stiles some grounding.

But- Derek.

What kind of fucking masochist is he, that he can never make it easy on himself? No wonder people are always smacking him in the head with things.

Boyd beats him to the punch. "Look, we all know you're waiting around until Derek pulls his head out of his ass. You don't have to do it alone, though. Erica likes you, a lot." Boyd grins, a flash of teeth in the dim glow of the computer. "And she's not the only one who thinks you're pretty."

: : :

So he starts hanging out with Erica and Boyd a little more often. Most of it’s the same stuff they would have done anyway: movie nights and Arby’s binges, the pack dinner every couple of weeks. Some of it is decidedly irregular: a handful of interesting three-way gchats, a few very distracting makeouts. They’ve agreed to keep it quiet, for now, nobody wanting to deal with nosy parents and even nosier werewolves as they feel each other out (or up, ha).

Schedules align and the entire pack turns out for Erica’s swim meet, Stiles waving a sparkly sign and dripping glitter everywhere.

Boyd swipes it off his scalp with a sigh and promises, in a low, filthy voice, to get Stiles for that later. The tone sends a shiver straight to Stiles’ dick, and Boyd knows it, the fucker.

Four werewolf heads swivel in response.

Well, shit. So much for keeping it on the DL.

: : :

“You. And Erica. And Boyd.”

“For the third time, Scott, yes. Me and Erica and Boyd.”

“Are... dating.”

Stiles throws himself down next to Scott, back bouncing on the mattress.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“So you’re just fucking.”

“Ugh, I just said I don’t even know. We haven’t exactly done anything since my last heat, and I like them and all, but...”

Scott rolls over to look at him, all soft, sympathetic, puppy eyes. It’s a look that makes Stiles simultaneously want to both pet him and wallop him about the head. Two separate people want to get all up on it, what’s there to be sorry about?

“But Derek, right?”

Oh, yeah. That.

“Fuck Derek. Even if he wasn’t interested, he didn’t have to be such a total douchebag about it, so just, screw him, seriously. I’m over it.”

For once Scott doesn’t call him on the lie.

: : :

Another month goes by, and Stiles’ dad stocks Oatmeal Clif bars for Boyd and Erica’s favorite Vitamin Water without being asked. PHS has Stiles’ temperamental and so teary that even Scott is afraid to talk to him.

It doesn’t stop Derek from blowing up his phone at 3am until Stiles agrees to research incubus feeding patterns. How does Derek even find out about this shit, honestly? Does he get anonymous tips from sort of supernatural red phone?

And, because fuck his life, seriously, it turns out that exhaustion, residual werewolf vibes, and a shit ton of omega pheromones are the perfect chemical cocktail to act as incubus-bait.

“No. No no no no, no no. Jackson’s an omega, make him do it! And then when the incubus attacks, he can be all grr, and boom, done, no more incubus.”

Lydia speaks up, and he’s too cranky to even appreciate the razor-sharp tone of her bitch voice.

“Jackson’s already taken his suppressant, and there’s not enough time to flush them out of his system. Besides, Stiles, you’re the one who told us that the incubus wouldn’t be attracted to a mated wolf.”

He waves a hand at Erica and Boyd, snickering at each other across Derek’s couch. He’s going to kill them.  “I could smell mated! There’s been... things! Definite, mating-type things.”

No.” Derek’s up and in his space, sniffing a long line along his neck, nose dragging from collarbone to ear. It’s the closest he remembers being to Derek since that disastrous conversation about his first heat, and fuck, it’s exhilarating. Stiles’ pulse is throbbing, so high and fast he knows Derek can see it pounding under his skin. “No, you’re ripe for it, aren’t you, but you haven’t been claimed.”

This close to his heat, his body is responding to the presence of an alpha with... well, willingness would be putting it mildly. Stiles can feel himself getting wet, ready, and every wolf in the room knows it. Goddamnit, why does he hang out with these people?

“Derek, what the hell?”

Screw their friendship, Stiles is going to run Scott over with the Jeep for interrupting.

And just like that, Derek’s six feet across the room, face pale, mouth a thin, tight line. “We stick to the plan,” he growls.

Stiles sinks into an armchair, weak-jointed and hazy.  Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. He pulls his knees up close and tries to ignore the way his blood is pumping in his veins. Voices fade into the background as the group discusses, presumably, how best to offer Stiles up on a platter.

God, he hates the way his body responds to Derek. He can’t even write it off as biology; yeah, some of it’s alpha hormones and werewolf dominance, but the rest of it’s just Derek. The cinnamon taste of Boyd’s mouth, the teasing brush of Erica’s hair on his thigh- it doesn’t compare. Doesn’t curl into his abdomen the way even a hint of Derek’s Old Spice and leather scent does, tangling up his insides. Making him pant for more.

He doesn’t want this anymore, doesn’t want to be this hung-up on another person who’s only interested when Stiles is reeking of horny omega. Of course Derek responds when Stiles’ whole body is shouting takemefuckmebreedme, that’s the way the genetic cookie crumbles, but it doesn’t mean shit any other time.

Understanding his own biology doesn’t make the temptation to sob into the upholstery any easier to resist.

Wrung out and exhausted, he tugs the blanket off the back of the chair and just lets himself float.

: : :

Everything’s warm, comfortable, and it’s ages before Stiles actually bothers to drag his eyes open.

“Hey.”

He feels so good, and his mouth stretches into a sleepy grin as he turns to look at Derek. Stiles must have been asleep for a while; the loft is dim and quiet, light spilling out from the lamp over Derek’s shoulder, limning his profile.

Derek smiles, finger propped in the book he’s reading, and for just a moment, Stiles lets himself pretend that this is something different. That they are something different. That he could cross to the sofa, tuck himself into the curve of that chest; that Derek would press a kiss to his lips before returning to his book.

“Kettle should still be hot if you want tea.”

It takes a minute to uncurl from his blanket cocoon and stretch up onto his toes, force feeling back into dozing limbs. He heads into the kitchen, tugging his shirt down from where it’s rucked up around his belly.

There’s a slip and a thump as Derek’s book hits the floor; apparently he’s not the only one who’s tired. Derek only drops things like that when he’s nearing exhaustion.

“Careful there, butterfingers. Am I interrupting your sleepy time?”

“No, it’s- it’s fine.”

He goes through the motions mechanically, pulling a stool up to the kitchen bar and watching twists of steam fade into the air as his tea brews.

A finger tips his chin up, and he must still be half asleep, because he didn’t even hear Derek cross the room.

“This thing, with the incubus- you know we’ll keep you safe, right?”

Every so often he really regrets that Derek’s learned to open up with the pack. King of Avoidance Land, remember?

“No, yeah, I know. It’s just... you know us useless human omegas, only good for bait and babies, apparently. Right?”

Ugh, he hasn’t heard that bitter drive in his own voice for a while.

Stiles.”

“Ignore me.” He gives himself a shake. “I’m seriously PHSing right now, dude, you don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” Derek mutters.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to be bitchy earlier.”

“That’s not- okay.”

“Did everybody else go home?”

“They went out to eat, but Boyd said you hadn’t been sleeping lately, so we figured it’d be better to let you rest.”

The mention of food makes Stiles appallingly aware that he hasn’t eaten in hours.

“Don’t make that face, I told them to bring you back a burger.”

“Without-”

“Without anything but cheese, I know, Stiles.”

Derek knows his burger order? It’s not like it’s complicated or anything, but still. He hadn’t realized Derek was paying that much attention.

Any attention.

Derek coughs, an odd, pinched look on his face until it smooths out into his patented I’m Your Pack Leader and We Need to Have a Discussion expression. Balls.

“So, you and Boyd and Erica. That’s going... well?”

Oh dear god, it’s the Relationships Affect Pack Dynamics lecture. The last time Derek gave this damn spiel to Isaac it took forty-five minutes. Scott’s version was an hour and a half (although it was the third time he’d broken up with Allison in a month, so, valid). It goes along the lines of (a) don’t get your drama all over the pack, no one’s picking a side, (b) for fuck’s sake use a condom, and (c) no sex in the loft ever, ever, ever.

Derek’s scowling at him, elbows propped on the table, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

The universe hates him. That is the only reason he can see that he’s forced to have this conversation with Derek.

“Sure.” For a given value of well, at any rate. One where it actually means ‘the kissing is nice but I’m sort of pathetically into with someone else.’

“And the three of you are being safe?”

Stiles can feel the blood rush to his cheeks, burning across the bridge of his nose. Derek looks just as uncomfortable; must be awkward to think about your puppies having sex.

“Yep. Yes. Safe as houses, that’s us.”

Not that they’d done anything outside of his heat that they’d need to be safe for, but if they had, there would have been some wrapping before the tapping.

Derek’s eyebrows go up. “Really? Because you don’t sound sure.”

“Of course I’m sure. Totally sure! But we’re not... we aren’t... after my heat, we haven’t really-” Jesus Christ, why is he still talking about this, shut up, Stiles, shut up- “but you know, that’s good advice, Derek, I’ll take your word for it.”

“Oh. Well. That’s good, taking your time is healthy. It’s important to take things slowly. Very slowly. Pause and reflect.”

“Ooookay, Papa Bear.” He would actually rather be incubus-bait than be having this conversation.

Derek takes a deep drink of his tea. The mug obscures his face, so that all Stiles can see is the long, flexing line of his throat, the tight bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

He bets Derek could take him deep, slide those plush lips down Stiles’ dick until his throat was fluttering around it. Fuck, his mouth would be hot from the tea, lips already wet, so sweet and ready to take it, to let Stiles feed his cock into all that slick suction.

He wants to lick his come off Derek’s chin.

Please, please, if there is a god, let the smell of the tea cover up the way that Stiles’ cock twitches when he thinks about Derek swallowing.

The mug hits the countertop with a heavy, ceramic click as Derek stares at him.

That’s a no on the god question, then.

“Derek, I-”

“It’s fine.” Derek stares at his own fingers, tracing circles on the counter. “You’re almost to your heat; it’s just hormones, right? Can’t be helped.”

“Right.” Stiles shoves his stool back and stumbles upright. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

He stares at his feet in their Green Lantern socks the entire way there, trying to will his erection down. It’s a less than successful endeavor.

God. Damn. It.

Stiles watches his face in the bathroom mirror. He can’t keep doing this. He looks himself in the eye and admits the word he’s been avoiding for nearly a year.

He’s in love with Derek. He’s in love, and it’s not a phase, it’s not a crush, it’s not going away. Hasn’t gone away, even though he’s had sex with other people, even though other people are into him. Sweet, hot people who would probably be far better for him than a cranky, issue-laden older man.

But who the fuck cares. He’s in love with Derek.

Time to nut up or shut up, Stilinski.

He throws the bathroom door open and stomps across the living room. Derek spins around at the clamor, eyes going wide.

“Stiles?”

“Shut. Up. Derek.”

“What? Hey-”

“I. Said. Shut. Up.” He gets right up in Derek’s face, pokes him in the chest. Derek’s eyes flash, but Stiles doesn’t lose a finger, like he’s half-expecting.

“I’m going to say this once, get it over with, and then we’re just going to pretend it never happened, okay? I’m into you. Really, absurdly, totally into your stupid angry brow crinkle and the way you steal my books- yeah, I noticed- and the fact that you’re secretly a tech junkie.”

Derek’s mouth opens and Stiles rides right over the top of him.

“Yes, you are, don’t even front with me. But whatev, it doesn’t matter. This thing with Boyd and Erica- they liked me, and you didn’t, and that was nice, for a change. People don’t... they just don’t, usually.”

He swallows down the lump that’s creeping up into his throat. He can say this. He can. He’s just going to say it, just to put it out there, and then... steal from his dad’s liquor cabinet until he can’t remember his own name, probably.

“I love you. And if you don’t love me, or you don’t think you could love me, well, that blows, but just tell me so I can deal with it and move the fuck on, alright?”

Derek settles careful palms on his hips. “You going to let me get a word in edgewise?”

“So funny. So funny right now, seriously.”

The tips of Derek’s fingers edge up under Stiles’ t-shirt and his breath catches in his chest. This can’t- they’re not- what?

“I’m really, absurdly into you, too.”

Um, no. No, that’s not how this conversation is supposed to go.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I- are you really going to argue with me about this?”

“If you wanted me, why the hell would you turn me down when I practically begged you to have sex with me?”

That’s right, Stiles, remind him of how he rejected you. Good move.

Derek shrugs, and the movement rolls down his arms, twists his wrists until his thumbs are brushing against the hair under Stiles’ navel.

“I don’t do casual sex.”

“So if I’d showed up and said ‘I love you, please deflower me,’ you would have?”

Hazel eyes go dark. “Yeah, probably.”

Oh my god, he’s been cockblocking himself for months. He’s going to have a stern discussion with himself later.

In a move so smooth Stiles can hardly believe he’s attempting it, he leans forward and slides his lips across Derek’s ear.

“I still haven’t had sex outside my heats, and I hardly even remember those. Want to help me with that?”

“We don’t have time-”

“Oh, I think we do-”

Hands tighten around his waist, and between one blink and the next he’s straddling Derek’s thighs, pressed hotly against- fuck- against the bulge of Derek’s cock.

“No, we don’t, Stiles. You don’t have any idea what I want, do you? You think that a couple of fucking teenagers have come anywhere close to showing you what your body can do?”

Nails catch and scrape across his nipples and Stiles’ whole torso jerks. It pushes his balls up against Derek’s dick and god, he’s so wet, pre-come slicking his dick, his ass dripping.

“Oh, baby boy, I’m going to twist you up and listen to you scream for me.”

He’s panting for it and Derek’s barely even touched him.

“Give me your mouth, Stiles.”

Black tea and lemon, the sugar-slick slip of tongues, the bright flash as Derek’s teeth sink into his bottom lip and tug; it breaks over Stiles like a wave, lust and longing and sweet relief.

He hears himself begging against Derek’s lips, dirty little pleads and moans, sharp, tiny gasps as his hips roll. He can’t keep quiet, and Derek doesn’t seem inclined to make him, which is regrettable when the loft door slides open and suddenly the entire pack is watching them grind against each other.

Stiles jerks back so quickly he nearly spills onto the floor; only Derek’s hands, clamped on his ass, keep him upright. He clambers off Derek’s lap, tugging his shirt back into place.

“Heeey, guys.”

The silence broken, everyone scrambles to pretend nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Isaac drops the food on the table, smirking to Scott and whispering something that makes Derek growl.

Erica beckons Stiles with a crooked finger, Boyd unreadable behind her. He manages one step towards the living room before Derek’s fingers wrap around his wrist.

Those hazel eyes are wide, teeth digging into the lips that Stiles was recently enjoying.

He leans over, pushing his luck to drop a kiss on Derek’s cheek.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. Sometimes when dealing with werewolves, he’s discovered, the illusion of privacy is what counts. “I’ll be right back, I just owe them an explanation.”

How do you tell your sort-of-boyfriend-and-girlfriend that you’re kind-of-but-not-really dumping them for your apparently-not-that-emotionally-unavailable pack leader, anyway?

Erica’s hips sway as she leads them out of the apartment, and he’s almost certain she’s putting an extra twitch into it.

He’s sure when the door swings shut and she immediately throws her arms around him, smacking a red-lipped kiss onto his temple.

“Stiles, you dog, you!”

What.

Boyd, steady, unflappable Boyd, gets one look at Stiles’ face and laughs until he runs out of breath.

“Did the front door get turned into a portal? Am I in an episode of the Twilight Zone now, is that what’s happening?”

Erica shrugs. “I wouldn’t rule it out.” She slips an arm around Boyd’s waist, still grinning sunnily at Stiles.

“You aren’t... mad?”

They look at each other, and then out at Stiles, and the sly smirks remind him of why he liked them in the first place.

“Go get him. Oh, and make sure to let us know if Derek needs any pointers. Like that thing with Boyd’s fist, the one that made you practically mewl like a kitten.”

The crash that comes from inside is fairly predictable.

: : :

The encounter with the incubus turns out to be surprisingly anticlimactic.

Apparently “my bros call me Steve” hadn’t even realized that he was sucking the life out of his partners; he’d just assumed it was his mad skills that had his girlfriends barely able to get out of bed the next morning.

Oh, Steve.

One really uncomfortable study session, several diagrams, and a handful of herbal supplements later, the sorority population of Sacramento is safe. Stiles refers him to a witch doing her doctorate at CSU. She offers to keep Steve on a steady supply of wheatgrass-and-monkspepper smoothies, which should put a damper on the whole magical-death-libido thing.

Although the way she was eying him over the webcam seemed to imply she’d be taking care of things in a, ah, wheatgrass-free kind of way.

So there’s not really a problem, exactly, but the whole thing takes time, and when Steve’s finally on his way out of town, Stiles is three hours into full-blown heat.

He’s clinging to his sanity- and, honestly, his pants- with white knuckles. Derek’s eyes are blown wide, nostrils flaring, steps jittery. Stiles watches a muscle in his jaw flex and aches to cover it with his mouth.

Then Erica’s hustling everyone out of the loft- god bless that girl- and suddenly they’re staring at each other in silence, alone for the first time in days.

It’s a collision.

There’s no time for soft, or slow, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t give a shit, because he needs Derek inside him, now, right now, needs Derek fucking him, owning him. He wants to drown in it.

They come together in two steps, Derek’s hands hauling him up, holding him in place. Stiles hooks his ankles into the small of Derek’s back and lets himself writhe, trusting, knowing that Derek has him. Derek’s growling, the rumble of it vibrating along his bones, down to where he’s loose and wet and so goddamned ready he knows Derek can taste it in the air.

Derek’s hand slips down, presses a thumb against his jeans, tight against wet denim.

“Fuck, you’re so ready for me, aren’t you? Need my cock, my knot, my come filling you up, don’t you, baby?”

All Stiles can do is gasp and twist, rock back into Derek’s hands and forward against the hot pressure of his cock.

“Derek, please, ah, fuck, please, now, fucking fuck me, I can’t, I need-”

They slam into the wall outside Derek’s bedroom. One broad arm pins Stiles in place as the other comes up and grabs his jaw.

“Look. At. Me.” The wolf is in his voice, and this, this is what Stiles has been craving. “I know what you need, baby boy, and you’re going to be quiet and let me give it to you, aren’t you? I’m going to take care of you like I know they didn’t.”

Stiles nods, slow, locked on the slow bleed of red into hot hazel eyes. His blood pumps lust and adrenaline and the urge to mate through his veins, and for once it’s as much challenge as submission. If his alpha wants him, he can work for it.

His mouth trails up Derek’s neck, brushes the shell of his ear, slick and dirty-sweet.

“Are you sure about that? Did I smell dissatisfied, or did I smell, mmm, sated and well-fucked?”

Derek snarls.

“You wouldn’t know well-fucked if it held you down and claimed you.”

Blunt teeth dig into the curve of Stiles’ shoulder where his shirt’s pulled wide; Stiles wants more, wants the prick of fangs and the threat of blood in the air. He’s about to lose control, spin out into the mindless haze of his heat, and he intends to drag Derek down with him.

“Erica did that, you know. Held me down. Fucked me.”

It happens fast- Derek sucks in a breath with a hiss and then they’re moving, two hundred pounds of furious alpha bearing him down into Derek’s bed. He’s twisted, stripped, claws making fast work of his clothes.

Then he’s on his knees, thighs splayed wide, ass exposed and dripping, the back of his neck bared to Derek’s teeth.

A drop of slick works its way out of his hole, trailing over his balls, and a stinging, claw-tipped finger follows after it.

“Remember... you asked for this. I would have taken the edge off, so that you could enjoy it, given you what you wanted, but now, now I think maybe you need to ride it a little longer. You’re mine, Stiles, and you need to learn it.”

The first touch of Derek’s tongue to his hole draws every muscle in his body tight, orgasm already building at the base of his spine.

Until fingers clamp tight around the base of his cock, hard, pulling him sharply back into place.

“No. You’ll come when I say so, and not before.”

Derek’s face is buried in between his thighs, tongue lapping at his hole, thumbs stretching at his rim, pulling him open. He’s loose already, craving the knot, and it isn’t enough, it isn’t, he’s going to go mad with it.

“Derek- ah, fuck- Derek, please-”

Fingers slip inside him where he’s gaping, empty, tongue lapping wetly around them. It’s a sloppy, dirty sound that crawls into Stiles’ bones, digs deep into the heart of him. He tries to thrust, begs for more with each roll of his hips, but Derek won’t be moved.

He feeds Stiles his fingers an inch at a time, thick fingers rolling and twisting their way into his body. It feels like hours as Derek works him towards orgasm, sparks building, eyes fluttering shut, and then slams him back into his body with the sharp-edged prick of fangs against his skin. He’s lost, caught in the relentless, never-ending crest, hanging on Derek’s fingers and the burning, ripe scent of an alpha ready to rut.

Derek’s breath is loud, panting in the quiet of the room, only audible because Stiles has begged himself hoarse. He must be losing time, because Derek is a sweat-soaked expanse of hot skin against him and he can’t remember Derek even taking off his shirt.

A voice says something, something, but he can’t tell what, can’t turn the sounds into something with meaning. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is the way he’s stretched around Derek’s wrist, full of Derek’s fingers, the broad expanse of his palm, the twisting toofullbutnotenough pressure of his knuckles.

“Who do you belong to, Stiles?” Warm air puffs against his skin. He tosses his head, frantic, past understanding anything but the pulsing need in his core.

Derek’s hand slips out, slowly, gently, leaving him gaping and empty and sobbing. Derek rolls him over, pulls him close.

Licks the tears from his eyelashes.

“Who do you belong to, baby boy? You’re mine, aren’t you? It’s going to be me filling you up, my scent on you, isn’t it?”

It escapes him on a whimper, sweet and strung-out and pleading.

“You, yours, Derek, please. Please.”

He shakes himself apart at the first push of Derek’s cock inside him. He’s not the only one; Derek’s knot is already full and flushed, tightly swollen. Stiles comes, and comes, digging into Derek with bloody teeth and nails, taking each sharp thrust and riding it until the knot fully expands.

Derek grinds into him, filthy little twists that rub his prostate. His back bows into an arch, uncontrollable, the knot catching and tugging in tiny, electric sparks.

“Too much, too much-” he can’t, he can’t come again, he can’t.

Take. It.” The words are bitten off, sharp, and he stares up into red-washed eyes and gives himself over.

: : :

Deep, deep into his heat, time jumps in smoky, lust-edged flashes.

He’s on top of Derek, riding the jolt and thrust of his hips, one hand stretched behind himself, fingers pressed to Derek’s hole, wet with Stiles’ own slickness-

Curled into damp sheets, sleepy and well-used, nipping bites of mango from his alpha’s fingers, licking and sucking as juice runs down Derek’s wrist-

Derek’s cock, twitching inside him, as he whispers for Derek to fuck him full of come, to breed him, so that everyone can see who Stiles belongs to-

Biting marks into Derek’s flesh just to watch them fade-

Clawing, screaming towards orgasm, splayed across the kitchen counter, shattered glass at their feet-

A soft tongue and a softer voice, licking him clean, drifting promises across abused skin.

: : :

The fog of his heat finally clears, and Stiles finds himself tucked in the warm curve of Derek’s chest, bracketed in strong arms. He waits for the hysteria, the startled realization. For Derek’s arms to pull back and his lips to turn down.

Instead a nose nudges against the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, Derek’s fingers splay out across his belly. He turns to meet a sleepy smile with his own, and kisses the sound of his name off Derek’s lips.