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Out in the Woods, Down in the Leaves

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Wind's cold tonight, whistling in the branches overhead. Stiles shivers, even though he's got layers and layers of flannel on, more than enough to save him from the brutal weather.

It's not going to save him from the brutal fucking he's due for – but for now, at least he's warm.

Leaves rustle under Stiles' feet. He's doesn't bother keeping quiet – the pack's given him a head start, but they can hear his heartbeat from miles away. His hands rub together, fingers clutching and releasing. At least the full moon means he's not stumbling in the dark. Should be a while before he ends up face-down in these leaves, anyway.

In the distance, a howl sounds. Stiles gives up thinking, surrenders to every instinct in him and runs.


Deaton had just finished giving them his review of the situation and oh boy, Derek was not a happy camper. "Think of something else," Derek told Deaton, muscle jumping in his jaw.

Deaton shook his head, crossing his arms. "There isn't anything else." He turned to leave. Derek tried grabbing him and ended up with a fistful of air for his troubles.

"No," he said, turning back to Stiles. "We're not doing that. There has to be another way."

"I don't know," Stiles said. He was sitting on Derek's kitchen counter, legs kicking in the air. "It sounds like a solid plan."

Something like fear sparked in Derek's eyes. "Stiles. No."

Stiles raised his eyebrows. "Because you're afraid of traumatizing me, or because you don't want to?"

Derek's glance aside, the bunching of his eyebrows was more eloquent than any words could be. Stiles grinned and slipped off the counter, insinuating himself into Derek's personal space.

"Let me tell you how we'll make this happen," he whispered into Derek's ear, and Derek shivered and listened, head bowed.


Autumn air burns in Stiles' lungs. His legs are doing okay, strong from running suicides and occasionally for his life. They can carry him a little bit further, they have to, just a few more steps of distance between him and the sounds of supernaturally strong jaws snapping at his heels.

Just across the stream, Stiles thinks,you can do it, just a across, just, dizzy with lack of air, turning when a shadow jumps out of trees and right at him.

Stiles hears the sound he makes hitting the ground before he feels it, a muffled thump. A moment later his entire body lodges a complaint, starting with his ass.

Don't even, Stiles would tell his ass if he had the breath to spare. If you think that's sore, buddy, just you wait a couple hours.

Then there's one set of teeth closing around Stiles' throat, another one holding his right wrist, and while neither of them is piercing skin yet, that's clearly an option. Stiles swallows and immediately regrets it when it makes the jaw holding his throat tenses the slightest amount, a clear warning to keep very, very still.


Deaton had said the pack, but apparently not all of them were necessary.

Not Scott. Even if he could get over his heterosexuality for this, even if he was single at the moment, Scott couldn't play these games. The second Stiles said no, Scott would have put an end to the scene. And probably to anyone who tried to continue. It just wouldn't have worked.

"Are we sure about Isaac?" Stiles asked Derek, frowning at the list. "Like, won't he–?" He made a series of gestures. When Derek just raised an eyebrow, Stiles made the effort to put it into words. "Freak out, or – I don't know."

"I'll talk to him," Derek said, and Stiles mentally put Isaac in a folder labeled worry about later.


The shirts rip off Stiles easily. He winces at the first touch of cold air against his stomach, yelps when a long, hot tongue rasps up his treasure trail. Whimpers when it lets up, leaving his skin freezing and exposed.

Not all that exposed, though. Furry bodies crowd around him, breaking the wind even as they strip him. They're not gentle about it; buttons snag against Stiles' wrists and his neck. He puts up a little struggle for form's sake, incidentally helping Boyd tear his jeans open without tearing Stiles' leg off.

Then he's spread-eagled on the ground, dick shriveled up small from the cold, tree roots digging into his back. There's a wolf on either side of him, too heavy to move, each pinning down one arm and one leg.

Another wolf is standing between Stiles' legs. He bares his teeth in a canine grin, lets out a sound between a snarl and a happy rumble much too close to Stiles' balls. That shouldn't make Stiles flush, shouldn't make his cock stir and his hips try to shove upwards. The wolf steps up, his feet bracketing Stiles' belly. He licks a stripe across each of Stiles' nipples, looking fucking amused as they tighten and Stiles maybe sobs a little because shit, between the sudden heat and the following cold they hurt.

Electric blue eyes shine down on Stiles, curious and utterly devoid of mercy.


"Isaac can handle it," Derek said. He frowned at the next person on the list. "Peter, though...."

Stiles licked his lips. "Yeah. Peter." Kind of hard to justify including him. Not that Peter would have a problem playing the game. The problem might be in getting him to stop.

Even so. "Tell the others to keep an eye on him," Stiles said. "They'll make sure he stays in line." He avoided Derek's gaze, reluctant to explain why he's so willing to keep Peter in the game when it would be so simple to take him out of the equation.

Suspension of disbelief. Stiles was saying something about it sooner, he can't remember who to. If Stiles is to go through with this, he needs the show, the act. Peter will make it believable, because unlike the rest of the pack, Peter won't be playing.


Stiles is still losing his staring competition with Peter when a hot tongue touches down against his balls. There's a touch of teeth, too, and Stiles whines and tries to move – into the touch or away from it, he's not sure. Not like it matters, anyway. The guardians on either side of him are making sure of that.

That tongue dips down, exploring. Stiles closes his eyes and whispers, “No.”

It gets him no reprieve, just a lupine jaw nudging against his – Isaac, or at least that's who Stiles thinks is on his right. Whoever's rimming Stiles is relentless, lapping broadly over Stiles' rim, wet and sloppy. Stiles twists and tries to pull away, to no avail. His cock's getting hard, lifting up from his belly. The wolf on his left – Erica? – leans and laps at it desultorily.

"Oh God, don't,” Stiles says, on the edge of hysteria, of coming. “Please don't.”

Peter puts a broad paw on Stiles' cheek, forcing it against the ground so that Stiles has no choice but to see Peter's dick sliding red and wet out of its sheath. Stiles can hear This is going inside you as clearly as if it were spoken.


Erica's enthusiasm about the idea, when Stiles and Derek asked her, was downright scary. Her suggestions... okay, Stiles can be honest, they did scare him. That was the appeal.

"Where did you even get this,” Stiles said, reverently running his hands across the toy Erica's shown him. He knows exactly where it's been, but hey, it's not like he's squeamish.

"I'll link you,” Erica said. “So, what do you say, can I use it?”

The idea of Erica using this little (not so little. Very not little, in fact) beauty on Stiles kind of took his breath away, to be honest, but he gave it a reluctant parting squeeze and handed it back. “Sorry,” he said, “but I'm going to need a, a narrative going? And this just doesn't fit in, sorry.”

Erica pouted. “How come all the boys get to fuck you and I don't?”

In the corner of the room, Derek glared silently. He'd been doing that for the past twenty minutes. Stiles took a moment to walk to him, cupped Derek's face and kissed him very thoroughly. “What,” Derek said as Stiles let him go, annoyed and out of breath, but his eyes were soft enough that Stiles felt comfortable making the request.

He perched himself on Derek's lap, ground down on him and grinned. Aw yeah, Derek could pretend all he wanted, but he wasn't impervious to this. “You'll get your chance,” Stiles told Erica, then turned back to Derek with a filthy grin. “Won't she?”


Stiles would shake his head if he could move it, make every denial he can offer. All of it is futile, anyway. He can feel himself loosening, opening up. Whatever these fuckers are going to do to him, Stiles' body is apparently 100% with them. He watches, distant, as a fat drop of precome wells at the head of his cock. Feels heat coiling in the bottom of his stomach, radiating, muscles clenching helplessly as Boyd's tongue slides inside him and flutters.

Stiles is almost there, almost

Erica whines, and she and Boyd trade places. Boyd faces the same direction as Isaac, looking Stiles in the face, and he bites gently at Stiles' jaw. His cock's pushing against Stiles' thigh. Peter's dick glistens malevolently less than a foot from Stiles' face.

He's distracted from that, though, because Erica has his balls between her teeth. Two very heavy wolves are the only thing keeping Stiles from the instinct to cross his legs. As it is, he yelps, “Ow! Hey! Sensitive equipment!”

Boyd huffs at Erica and nudges at Stiles' jaw, making an inquisitive whine. Kinda warms Stiles' heart, and he grins without thinking about it. “No, s'okay,” he whispers. “Green.”

Then he shouts, because Erica is tugging, and okay, he's not going to come in the next five seconds. Or ever, because fuck, this hurts. Stiles is aware his voice is settling into sobbing incoherence, getting slightly louder again when Erica lets go and licks the hurt area.

Stiles feels absence of pain like it's pleasure, potent when mixed with the actual pleasure of a deft tongue and hot breath surrounding his balls. Peter's paw lifts from his face so that Stiles can toss his head back and moan pathetically. He doesn't try to resist when Erica continues where Boyd left off, systematically opening Stiles up with her mouth.

Boyd's grinding down against Stiles' leg, heavy muscular body gripping on where Stiles is helpless, unable to move away or resist. He can't feel Isaac's cock but he can see his eyes, and there's definite hunger there. Stiles tries not to look at Peter, who seems to get a little bit closer every time Stiles breaks and glances at him.

This is just the warmup, Stiles knows. It's going to get much, much worse soon.


Derek blinked when Stiles presented him with the completed scenario. “That was fast.”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair and mumbled, “I might've been thinking about this. A lot.”

"About werewolves sticking their dicks in you?” Derek said, incredulous. “Wolf-shaped werewolves.” He sniffed, and his scowl intensified. “Are you getting off on this?”

"Yes!” Stiles spread his hands out. Then he flushed and cringed. “I mean. Um.” It's not like Stiles was entirely at peace with that specific fantasy, himself. “I mean, you know what, never mind, how about we just skip this ritual and die horribly instead.”

"Stiles.” Derek's hand was firm on the back of his neck, drawing him close. Stiles shoved his face into the crook of Derek's neck and spent a few seconds just breathing, getting his balance back.

"I know it's fucked up,” he told Derek's skin. Other parts of Derek may judge him – Derek's eyebrows were repeat offenders in that department – but Derek's skin was usually safe. “I'm sorry, okay? I get you probably don't want that, and you're weirded out that I'd sexualize it, I promise that in other circumstances you'd never have had to even hear about it–”

Derek cut him off with a well-placed “Stiles”, which is a good thing since Stiles was probably going to start talking about hentai and tentacles in a minute. “Whatever you're into, I don't mind, okay?” His arm tightened around Stiles. “I'd've done it for you if you asked. I was just surprised. That's it.”

If he'd asked – Stiles can't even imagine that. And he's got one hell of an imagination. (Case in point.) “Maybe,” Stiles said. “It's kind of a touchy subject. Seriously, if it were just you I could–” Ask for it. Do it without having to pretend I don't want to. “–handle it. But the rest of the pack....” He swallowed, mouth gone suddenly dry.

"If you don't want to,” Derek started, and Stiles shook his head.

"That's the problem,” he said. “I do.” He couldn't make the words come out any louder than a whisper, couldn't look anywhere but the floor.


Erica takes Isaac's place, again facing Stiles' crotch. She's just breathing on his dick for the moment, though her sharp canines are exposed, a warning grin. Isaac only gives Stiles a few licks before he nudges' Stiles' hip and barks.

"Whatever, dude,” Stiles mutters. ”Not like theres a lot I can do about it.”

Isaac isn't talking to him, though, which is obvious enough when Boyd and Erica get up. Peter's teeth hover around Stiles' neck before he can get any ideas about escape, though, and there's nothing he can do but let the other wolves push and snarl until Stiles is on his hands and knees. Stiles doesn't bother holding his head up, keeping his eyes fixed on the leaves underneath him.

Peter's panting in his ear, like soft laughter. His teeth make contact with the sides of Stiles' neck. If Stiles raised his face, he'd have a mouthful of belly fur. As it is he's got Peter's erection staring him in the face. Stiles doesn't think that's an improvement.

Then Isaac pushes in, and Stiles stops thinking, period.

Normally Stiles is quick to open up, his hole slutty and eager for penetration. Now, even with all the licking, adrenaline is making itself known, and Stiles' body is tensed for flight. The blunt head of Isaac's cock bumps against Stiles' hole. His forelegs tighten around Stiles' chest and he pushes again, forceful.

Stiles is breathing too fast, heart beating frantically, and it hurts to be opened, it hurts. Just the tip of Isaac's prick is inside him but it's too much, all of this is too much.

"Yellow,” he chokes out, and Isaac pauses. Waits while Stiles concentrates on inhaling and exhaling, slow and even. Stiles' eyes are squeezed shut, tears welling at the edges as he wills his body to cooperate, gasping wetly when it does and Isaac's cock slides an inch inside. “Green.”

Then Isaac is fucking him, rutting into Stiles quick and hard, and Stiles can't find the breath to say anything at all.


If telling Derek was hard, speaking to the others was impossible. Stiles nearly gave himself a panic attack just thinking about it.

"It'll be fine,” Derek said for the umpteenth time. “They'll understand we have to, and we'll do what you need us to do. You've got the hardest job.”

"Really,” Stiles said, voice dripping with skepticism. “All I have to do is lie there, not to mention it was my idea to begin with.”

He had to stop and take careful breaths at that, because yeah, the ritual was a little too much like some of Stiles' more depraved fantasies. Too alike to be a coincidence, almost – but surely even with spark powers or whatever the fuck Stiles had, he couldn't change reality itself to get off, could he?

And if he could, fuck, where was that little superpower during his desparately horny high school years?

Derek's hand rubbed at the small of Stiles' back, comforting despite everything. “You didn't make any of this happen,” Derek said quietly. “None of us did. We're lucky that you're willing to do this. If you want to, we're even luckier. Do you think I'd prefer you traumatized? That any of us would?”

"Well, Peter,” Stiles said, just to hear Derek laugh.


There's an animal's cock inside Stiles, and another animal's teeth around his throat. Freezing cold all around him, small pebbles digging into his knees. There's no way he's coming from this.

Shit, Stiles is going to come from this – and humiliatingly fast, too.

Someone's licking a steady, soothing stripe up his spine. Another sharp-toothed mouth closes around his cock, but it's gentle, a hot, broad tongue wrapping around Stiles' dick to protect it. Stiles whimpers and his hips jerk, moving him deeper into that mouth.

Of course, that just gives Isaac leverage to fuck deeper into Stiles, and he takes full advantage of that. Coarse fur rubs against Stiles' ass on the end of every thrust, against the backs of his thighs. Erica's tongue moves against the head of his cock, and Peter lets go just long enough to nip at Stiles' nape, just hard enough that Stiles can feel the sting.

Climax hits Stiles like a tidal wave, leaves him sobbing and limp, washed out. He's vaguely aware of being propped up as Isaac pulls out. Then Isaac is under Stiles, and Stiles clings to his back in a desperate bid to keep from collapsing completely.

Someone's licking Stiles open again, tongue rough against Stiles' sensitive entrance. Stiles shakes his head dumbly, too far gone for words. He closes his eyes and buries his face in Isaac's fur, muffling his cries when another cock fucks him open.


"But what if you want them to stop?” Derek said, smoothing his hand over Stiles' back.

Late afternoon light spilled across the covers, and Stiles contorted shamelessly to get as much of that light – and of Derek's hands – on his skin as possible. “Safewords,” he said. “We've been over this, dude.”

Derek hesitated. “What if you can't speak?”

Stiles stretched lazily, luxuriating in the post-coital hum running through his muscles. “I'll figure something out,” he murmurs. “Don't worry about it.” He kissed Derek's face in hope of making those concerned lines on his forehead fade. When that failed, Stiles kissed his mouth. At least that stopped Derek talking and harshing Stiles' buzz.


Boyd takes longer than Isaac. Or maybe it's just Stiles' perception of time gone wonky, but seriously, Boyd has stamina. Almost enough to make Stiles envious of Erica.

Good rhythm, too, hypnotic, which is how Stiles shifted from panicky to hurting all the way to loopy. It's like everything is happening to somebody else, and this way, it's nearly funny. Boyd just keeps rocking into him, slow and steady, in nothing like a hurry to come.

Stiles' balls hurt. He's not sure if it's because he needs to come again (and he does, feels the need burning up in his bones), or because of the cold, or because of Erica's less-than-tender ministrations earlier. He opens his legs a little further, swaying, clutching on to Isaac.

Breathing through his mouth, and even so it's like someone stole all the air and replaced it with some thin, oxygen-less substance.

Close your mouth, Stiles thinks nonsensically, before a fly lands in it, only. That's not the worse he has to fear, does he?

Because that's the moment Peter picks to come closer, closer, and slide the tip of his cock against Stiles' lips.

Stiles shudders – In revulsion, he tells himself firmly – and tries to pull away. Peter doesn't let him, coming closer still and throwing in a little growl.

This isn't, Stiles didn't sign up for this. Getting fucked, yeah, but nobody said anything about putting anyone's cock in his mouth. He can't go down on a fucking wolf, there's a limit right there and Stiles is not crossing it.

But this is Peter, who never saw a line in the sand that he wouldn't rub out just for the fun of it, and he's watching Stiles flinch with great apparent satisfaction. His dick pulses against Stiles' lips.

“R–,” Stiles starts, then stops. “Yellow,” he says instead. “Get your dick away from my face before I bite it off. I mean it.”

Underneath Stiles, Isaac is vibrating. Stiles realizes belatedly that Boyd has gone still in him, that he's growling and so are Isaac and Erica. Peter takes a step back and affects something like a shrug. Erica takes his place in front of Stiles and quietly washes his neck where Peter held him.

Boyd is going at him again, and now Stiles can't put away the feeling, can't ignore the way Boyd rubs against his prostate every single time. His hands shake, and he buries them deeper in Isaac's fur.

This time nobody helps push Stiles into coming. Boyd ruts into him a few more times, his broad chest shaking against Stiles' back before he retreats. Stiles' dick is left hanging – literally hanging, swaying in the wind, cold and untended.

It's Peter behind him, then. Just Peter. And then, and then–

Stiles closes his eyes, exhales and clings to Isaac harder.


"Maybe we should try it,” Derek said, halting. “We should. At least once, before. You know.”

"Mmm.” Stiles couldn't say the thought wasn't appealing. Or it would have been, if Derek didn't sound so miserable about it. “How about we wait until we have to before we do stuff you hate?”

There was a short, tense silence. “I don't,” Derek said, the rest lost as he sealed his mouth to Stiles' back.

Stiles blinked. Then he slowly, slowly smiled.

"Stop that,” Derek said behind him. “If you're allowed to get freaked out by this, so am I. I'm the Alpha.” It came out weirdly despondent. “I have a responsibility to my pack.”

Stiles turned around to rub the nape of Derek's neck until Derek exhaled and melted against him. “Well, we've established I'm into it.” He pushed his half-hard dick against Derek, just to make a point. “Isaac's into it, Erica's really into it, and Boyd's into anything that gets Erica off. And Peter–” Stiles paused. “Well, he's older than you, you're not actually twisting his arm and he's better at manipulation than the two of us put together, so.”

"I'm not worried about Peter,” Derek grumbled. Then he stiffened and bundled the blanket tight around Stiles.

"Perhaps you should be,” Peter said, walking in as though Derek's bedroom was his territory to roam. “I'm feeling neglected.”

"You'll be feeling worse if you don't get out,” Derek said. Peter left with a smirk firmly aimed at Stiles, who was trying his best to hide under the blanket.


Boyd is tense. Stiles can feel the wolf's muscles rippling against his side, restless. Erica's still, too, her breath sweeping in quick waves over the back of Stiles' neck. Isaac rubs his cheek against Stiles' shoulder.

"This is a very good look on you, Stiles,” Peter says, and Stiles stiffens.

The wolves around him snarl in unison, advancing on Peter. Stiles can all but hear him rolling his eyes. “Calm down, children. I'm not fucking him right now, am I? Can't a guy just want to talk?”

Boyd's answering growl is not approving, but he stays still. A hand – a human hand, and after all Stiles has done tonight, why is that making him flinch? – curves around Stiles' ribs. “I do wish we'd've been better friends,” Peter murmurs. Stiles doesn't have to look to know his eyes are alight, to see the shape of Peter's smile. Peter's teeth were never so dangerous as his words.

"Yeah, well, I wish you weren't a murdering psychopath,” Stiles says. “We can't all have what we want.”

Peter leans over him, not quite touching but close enough for Stiles to feel the warmth radiating from him. “You're dripping, Stiles.” He says it with relish. “Do you realize that?”

Stiles keeps his eyes shut and doesn't answer. If his dick's responding, so fucking what.

"I was never one for sloppy seconds,” Peter says. “Or thirds, as the case may be. But you make a particularly compelling case. Perhaps one of these days I'll ask my nephew–”

Stiles twists and looks back. For once, he manages to shut Peter up with a look. He's pretty impressed with himself.

Not for long – Peter is grinning. Of course he is. “Are you sure you wouldn't prefer me like this?” He gestures at himself, human and naked, pale skin gleaming in the moonlight. “I'm not bad with my hands, if I do say so myself. Can't twist those pretty nipples with a paw, can I?”

“That's enough,” Stiles snaps. “Either do what we asked you to do or fuck off.”

“Fuck or fuck off,” he says, as if he's actually considering his options. “I suppose that makes it a rather clear cut case.”

Then, thank fuck, Peter shifts, and Stiles breathes out at last.

He's slow sliding into Stiles, which is very much not the same as being gentle. Stiles is sore already (dripping, yeah, thanks a lot for that mental image) and Peter seems to take obscene delight in making Stiles feel every minute movement inside him, refusing to pick up the pace enough for sensations to blend together.

Stiles grits his teeth and hangs on to Isaac for dear life. He refuses to make a sound for Peter, and not just because he knows if he opened his mouth he'd beg. Peter's missing Stiles' prostate so completely that it has to be on purpose. Even so, the drag of cock inside Stiles, the feeling of it moving in and out of him, is more than enough to keep him hard.

Nowhere near enough to get him off, but really, what did Stiles expect?

Finally, fucking finally, Peter stills and pulls out. Or at least Stiles thinks he does – just before his dick is completely out of Stiles, Peter pauses. Then teeth set against Stiles' ribs, and Stiles can feel Peter's come washing wet against his rim. Stiles hisses and tenses, fingers clenching so hard Isaac actually whines.

It's a minute before Stiles can make himself let go, though, and by then Peter's retreated.

Peter is humming. Evidently, human again. He's just at the edge of Stiles' line of sight, leaning against a tree, apparently completely comfortable to let his junk swing in the cold wind.

(Stiles is not looking at Peter's dick. Definitely not making comparisons to Peter's shifted form. And if he is it's just that, hey, Stiles is over-analytic and his mind goes very weird places sometimes.)

Peter's just opening his mouth again – God, Stiles wishes he wouldn't do that, the world would just be a better place if someone installed a mute button on Peter Hale – when he's cut off by a growl.

Unlike before, though, the growl is singular. Even alone, it reverberates through Stiles, enough to rattle his bones. More than enough to rattle Stiles' already unsettled mind.

Peter's mouth snaps shut with a satisfying click. Stiles blinks, and Peter's gone.

Isaac slides out from under Stiles. He and Erica and Boyd all move a little way off, still watching over Stiles but keeping their distance. They don't need to be close. Stiles couldn't move now even if he wanted to.

The growl stops, and there's nothing else Stiles can hear. He knows the form drawing closer, though, he’s familiar with the weight of that gaze on his skin. Everything is silent but for the beat of Stiles' heart.

He buries his head between his hands, sticks his ass out, sore and open and wet as he is. Shame doesn't mean a thing anymore.

“Derek,” Stiles says. “Please.”


They left aside practicing knotting out of practical considerations – “You can't go all Alpha-shaped on the bed,” Stiles said, “I can't afford new sheets until next month's paycheck comes through,” – though Stiles did go to some lengths to stretch himself.

Erica wouldn't lend him her toy. Any of her toys, actually, which was seriously unfair. “Only if I get to watch,” Erica said, smug, but both Derek and Boyd looked kind of unhappy with the notion so they left it at that.

Of course, then Stiles realized that Derek had hands. Or, well, he was actually pretty aware of them – getting asked to cut one off was kind of a major hint – but he'd put some thoughts together and really looked to realize that Derek's fingers were thick and gorgeous, that his hands were strong and soft and his wrists were–

Well, something Stiles could want inside himself. Did want, once the thought occurred.

Want, actually, might have been a slight understatement. Was there a single word that meant “unable to stop thinking about or getting off to the mental image of something”? Maybe in German. Stiles should have known he'd regret taking French in high school.

He'd had a whole plan for getting Derek to agree, complete with charts proving that no, really, even fragile human parts could take a fist without injury. Instead, Derek folded alarmingly fast.

"It'll prepare you,” Derek said in response to Stiles' momentary shock. “For the,” his ears pinked, “knot. My knot.”

Stiles slipped his hand into Derek's and resisted slipping his tongue into Derek's mouth for good measure. Derek's adorably shy side was on the list of things that Stiles could not react to without losing coherence, like baby bats and kids in homemade Iron Man suits.

"And you want to,” Derek whispered, right into Stiles' ear. “I can tell. You should get what you want.”

Stiles responded by cupping Derek's face in his hands and thinking incredibly sappy thoughts at him until Derek snorted and threw Stiles on the bed.


The wolves are all big, unnaturally so, but Derek's bigger. Big enough that Stiles could probably use him as shelter in an earthquake. He's radiating heat like a furnace – or maybe it's just that the wind stopped, like even the weather doesn't dare approach Stiles right now.

Stiles lifts his ass a little higher. He can smell Derek, the smell of the bed Stiles sleeps in every night. Only not. This is wilder, just unfamiliar enough to make Stiles shiver.

Derek's teeth around his throat don't feel like a threat. They feel like they belong here. Like Derek's pack did their job well, breaking Stiles in, preparing him not just in body but in spirit to accept their Alpha.

Stiles' Alpha.

The moment lasts forever, Stiles presenting himself, displaying his submission. He knows what Derek's going to do to him, he’s past pretending otherwise, past pretending he doesn't want it. He'd beg for it, if Derek made him.

Derek doesn't. Stiles feels it, the tip of Derek's cock, resting against Stiles' rim. He knows how it must look, red and abused, wet – not just wet, overflowing with come. The pack was nothing if not thorough.

Wolf come, leaking out of him. Stiles' eyes might be leaking as well, just a little bit. “What are you waiting for?” he says, hoarse, when Derek moves no further.

The rest of the pack might be in wolf form, but Derek isn't. In his Alpha form, he does have hands, and they wrap securely around Stiles' shoulders, pushing him up into something between a kneel and a crouch. It's not the most steady position, except that Derek is right behind him, hot and strong and immovable.

One of Derek's arm wraps around Stiles' chest. With his free hand, Derek follows a tear track down Stiles' cheek, claw pressing down gentle enough not to break skin.

The Alpha form's not made for gentleness, not really. There's nothing kind about the heft of Derek's cock like this, nothing sweet about the way he pushes into Stiles, forces Stiles' body to make space for him. Moving inside him like it's Derek's birthright. It's not made for talking, either, lacking a human voice box and tongue.

Even so, Derek's snarled Mine comes out perfectly clear to Stiles, and it sounds like comfort. Like home.


Given his research, Stiles had expected a lot of things. He hadn't expected it to be easy.

He supposed, in a way, the logistics were complicated enough. They cleared an entire afternoon for it. Stiles'd cleaned himself epically beforehand, and then Derek took his sweet time getting Stiles opened up. Superhuman or not, Derek's jaw had to be aching by the time he was done rimming Stiles. Stiles wouldn't know for a fact; while appreciative, he was too glassy-eyed at the moment to tell exactly how Derek was holding up.

When Stiles tried to check, Derek just pushed him back down against the bed, rubbing at the skin just below Stiles' ear. Unfair.

The first three fingers went in quick enough that, high on pleasure as Stiles was, they barely even registered as anything but good stretch full. The fourth one took longer, Derek teasing at Stiles' rim until Stiles made the effort to spread his limp legs further and lean up into the pressure. Then it just... slid in. Like Stiles' body had allocated room for it in advance.

"Oh,” Stiles said, a little stunned. He'd expected at least a little pain. Looked forward to it, in all honesty. This – this sweet enduring pressure, pushing, edges all blunted by the ease of his body's reponse – he didn't quite know how to take it.

"Yes,” Derek said above him, quiet. His other hand cupped Stiles' cheek.

Stiles leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. "Wait,” he said, mind running slow, thick as molasses. “You're not, like, doing the werewolf painkiller mojo routine, right? Because I'm pretty sure that's a bad idea right now.”

"No,” Derek said. He sounded – it took Stiles a moment to place it. “That's all you. You're letting me, Stiles.”

That was awe in Derek's voice, soft and reverent, like Stiles was doing something more remarkable than just lying there and taking him.

"That's exactly what you're doing and it is, you don't get it,” Derek said, when Stiles voiced that sentiment. “You don't fucking understand how amazing you are, you never do,” and just like that, Derek's thumb slide inside him, too.

Stiles opened his eyes. Late afternoon light shone through Derek's dark hair, splintering into weird half-rainbows. Stiles suspected his eyes might be a little wet. Derek's hand was in him, all the way in. He was allowed to be a little overwhelmed.

Derek kissed him, slow and thorough. “I kept wondering why you weren't afraid,” he said. “I should've known. There isn't anything you can't take.”

Said like that, Stiles couldn't not believe Derek. There just wasn't room for doubt.

Of course, inside Stiles, there wasn't much room for anything at the moment. Derek was occupying all of it, solid all the way through. Stiles clenched and twisted, bearing down. “Now make a fist,” he said, low and out of breath, excited. “I want to feel it.”

Christ, did he ever. Stiles always loved watching Derek move, the fluid grace of him. Feeling it inside, taking it, was–

"Ah,” Stiles said, softly. Couldn't do anything else. Normally he flailed around a little when coming, but now he was still, hypnotized by the sight of come gushing out of his untouched cock. “Fuck,” he added, heartfelt. “Derek, you have to fuck me now, you have to.”

"Shut up,” Derek said. The words sounded dragged out. “Don't even say anything, or I won't be held responsible.”

"For what?” Stiles wiggled. He was just sensitive enough, post coming, that the pressure inside him felt like a pleasant tease. “Doing what I asked me to do? Maybe you could knot me in human form, have you ever tried? Just give it to me, I'm as open as I'll ever be, I want you to, yeah,” sliding off into a breathy little noise as Derek bowed his head, pressed the heel of his free hand against the bulge in his underwear and came, just like that.

"I'm not sure if I'm disappointed,” Stiles said once Derek extricated his hand and went through the basics of cleanup. Right now he was pressed behind Stiles, nose to Stiles' nape, his breath stirring the small hairs there. “I really did want you to fuck me. But that was really fucking hot.”

"I'll fuck you next time,” Derek said.

Stiles squeezed his hand. “Holding you to that.”


This rhythm is one Stiles knows. Rolling with it, answering back to it, is just muscle memory. Derek fucking him in deep, unhurried thrusts, the way he gets after Stiles has teased him past his inhibitions and the pretense of control. Hard pace, hard cock, hard body behind him.

Hard Stiles – or getting there fast.

It was easier being on his knees for this. His hands go down to his cock – not to jack himself off, but to hide. He's painfully aware of the image he's making, his skin pallid in the moonlight, the softness of his stomach, moved by Derek's strength like a ragdoll. His head lolls back against Derek's chest.

Then Derek's free hand swats Stiles' away, gripping around his cock hard enough to make Stiles cry out.

Once he's broken the silence, he can't hold his words back, and they come tumbling out. “Oh fuck,” he says, voice breaking. He can't care about that anymore. “Fuck, that hurts.” Derek's hand lets up a fraction, enough to let Stiles thrust into his grip. Then it tightens up again until Stiles sobs and returns to his limp noodle impression. He can take a hint.

"Fuck, you're big.” Stiles immediately wishes he hadn't said that, not just for the sheer cliché porniness of it. He loves porn clichés. It's just that saying it out loud makes him feel it so much more, how Derek is filling him ruthlessly, how he's growing bigger even as Stiles speaks.

Stiles doesn't realize he's shaking his head until Derek growls, hitching Stiles higher up on Derek's chest and nipping at his ear. Stiles stills but says, “I can't.”

It's a token effort at best, and Derek ignores it as such, but Stiles has to try. “No, really.” His voice is fucked-up and wheezy in a combination of arousal, terror and Derek squeezing his ribcage. “It's too much. There's a limit and we passed it, like, ten miles ago. I can't.”

Derek lets go.

Stiles is resigning himself to smashing nose-first into the ground when Derek catches him. Now Stiles is back to hands and knees, except his arms give way and he's just sort of lying there with his ass in the air.

Further up in the air when Derek takes hold of Stiles' hips, claws digging into Stiles' skin. Stiles has all of three seconds to register his sudden emptiness, clenching around all the useless space inside him, when something hot and wet breaches him.

Not Derek's dick. Derek's tongue, and Stiles cries out in a mixture of surprise and want. He's still shaking his head but Derek doesn't seem to notice or care, too intent on eating Stiles out.

The phrase never seemed more appropriate. It's like Derek wants to devour him. Stiles spreads his legs further and moans, hips thrusting back before he can think better of it, the movement only aborted by Derek's grip.

"It's too much,” Stiles says again, but now it's only a whisper, and for an entirely different reason. His cock is aching, pulsing. “Please. I can't. It's not enough.”

Derek ignores him. Stiles carries on spilling broken words, pre-come dripping from his poor neglected cock. Derek's tongue is longer like this, agile, and the things it's doing to Stiles cannot be described by mere words. Stiles can't come from it alone, but it's close, just close enough to make him whimper.

When Derek backs away, Stiles doesn't even have the strength to follow him. Instead he drops gracelessly, curling on his side, around his vulnerable stomach and the dull pain in his balls. Derek doesn't prop him up again, lying behind him instead. He holds Stiles' leg up and pushes into him like that.

Derek's forearm is placed just right for Stiles to use as a pillow. He's not shy about biting it as Derek fucks him, muffling sobs in Derek's flesh, heedless of fur in his mouth. Derek doesn't seem to care, content that Stiles is still, past fighting back or pressing for more. Derek's heartbeat is quick but steady against Stiles' back, and it's all too easy to lose himself in that.

When Derek's knot makes itself known, Stiles closes his eyes and lets it happen.

It doesn't fill him up all at once. Instead it grows in stops and starts, almost letting Stiles get used to the stretch before swelling further. Not quite, though, just enough to leave Stiles gasping and scrabbling at the dirt for purchase, for something to hang on to while it feels like his entire insides are being rearranged.

It's bigger than Derek's wrist. Bigger, Stiles is sure, than anything a human is supposed to have inside them like this, but it's too late to worry about and anyway it doesn't matter. Stiles gave up should when he walked into the woods tonight, when he went down and spread his legs and gave it up for animals

Derek moves behind him. Inside Stiles, the knot moves as well, pushing right against his prostate. Stiles can't be still, now, thrashing against Derek's hold, but it's no use. Every move just make the knot swell further, pushing him open, pressing hard. Derek's shaking now, too lost in his own orgasm to mind how Stiles is moving, and that's when Stiles realizes that the pressure inside isn't just Derek's cock – it's his come. That as soon as Derek lets go Stiles won't just be dripping, he'll be gushing; but until then Derek can just keep him corked up like this, so full he can't move, so full that his stomach is actually swelling a bit, what the fuck.

Stiles is full-on crying when he comes, the ugly kind that twists up his face, can't hold anything back – not the sounds he makes and not the way he moves, not the tears and definitely not his come, spurting like water from a firehose, more than Stiles thought his balls could ever hold.

Of course, that's nothing compared to what Derek just poured into him, and Stiles' orgasm starts all over again with that little thought.


Derek has to pretty much carry Stiles home. Every once in a while Stiles will attempt to take his own weight, straighten up, and Derek will let him for all the five seconds it takes for Stiles to collapse back into his arms in an exhausted heap.

Not like Derek minds. There's probably a word that's the opposite of mind, and that's what he is right now. He'll ask Stiles about it later. Stiles is good at words.

Keeps trying to slur them out, even now, half-coherent mumbles against Derek's shoulder. “Fuck, I stink,” is the most recent sentence Derek could make out.

He doesn't, not to Derek. He smells strongly – of sweat, some fear, but mostly of pack and Derek. And, overwhelmingly, of come. Derek shifts Stiles' weight as they wait for the elevator, pushes his face unsubtly into Stiles' hair. Stiles hums and leans even further into Derek, all but liquid against him. Relaxed, finally, sated and wrung out. It's a good look on him.

Getting the door unlocked with Stiles melting into him isn't as difficult as it sounds. Derek has experience in doing things single-handedly while holding up someone barely conscious, usually in much less pleasant circumstances. He gets the shower running, cranks it hot enough to scald, then rethinks and cools it down a little. Human skin.

Seems like a good temperature, because once he's got Stiles undressed and in there, Stiles groans like he does when he comes home from a long, hard, frustrating day and Derek's right there to take Stiles' cock in his mouth. It's conditioning: Derek associates that sound with him doing something to Stiles' dick, so he's gripping it before he even thinks.

Stiles doesn't appear overstimulated, though. Derek keeps his grip careful. Stiles' dick is soft, cupped in his hand, though it twitches a little at the contact. Derek kisses Stiles' nose and backs him up against the shower wall, grabbing soap and a washcloth.

Washing the concentrated scent of pack off Stiles makes Derek's heart twinge a little bit. But Stiles still smells like himself and like Derek, can't not; they wash in the same soap, eat the same food, sleep in the same bed. And Stiles is a cuddler. It's only a matter of time before he smells like Erica and Isaac and Boyd again, not to mention Scott.

Not Peter, though, and Derek is 100% okay with this.

"Fuck,” Stiles says, staring at the soapy water draining away. And then he grimaces. “Ow.”

Derek's got a hand against Stiles' hip, keeping him steady. “Sore?”

Stiles laughs, a hoarse sound that shouldn't make Derek want to fuck his mouth. “Like you wouldn't believe.” He's grinning, though. “That was awesome. When I'm ready to ever have sex again, we should totally do a repeat performance. I'm thinking six months. Maybe three if you're nice to me.”

Derek keeps his answering hum neutral. He'd been planning on distracting Stiles from wanting sex for the next three days or so, enough to let his body heal. If Stiles lasts more than 24 hours before he tries to talk Derek into fucking, Derek will eat Stiles' grotty lacrosse socks.

True to form, Stiles' resolution barely lasts long enough for Derek to get him in bed. He curls up around Derek, breathing hot into his collarbone, and intently places Derek's hand against his ass. Derek plays dumb and leaves it there, gently petting the skin with the tips of his fingers.

"Put 'em in me,” Stiles says. Quiet, not because he's trying to hide, but because he's too tired to make his voice carry and he knows Derek will hear him anyway.

He kisses Stiles. “Later.”

"Now.” Stiles squirms, insistent. When Derek stays still, he sighs. “C'mon. Please?”

Derek continues the petting motion. Won't take too long for Stiles to fall asleep. “I think you've had enough for one day.”

Stiles struggles to lean up on one elbow. His expression is serious, not the playful petulance Derek expected. “I really want you to,” Stiles says, low and earnest. “Please?”

There's not a lot Derek can refuse Stiles when he uses that tone of voice. Having it be something Derek wanted to do makes it easier, usually – self-denial: much easier than Stiles-denial – but right now, he can't.

Even after the shower, Stiles is still a little slick inside, enough that Derek can ease one finger in. Normally that's the part where Stiles starts pestering him for more. This time, though, he lets out a long breath and settles against Derek.

Derek's free arm comes to wrap around Stiles' side, an automatic gesture. “Okay now?”

"Yeah.” Stiles manages to move even closer, which Derek didn't think was possible.

Inside, Stiles is smooth. Running hotter than he usually would. Derek inspected him right after he was done, made sure of no tearing, but even so he's bruised. Used. The evidence is going to take some time to heal, and in the mean time Stiles is going to be walking slowly, careful when he sits down.

He'll bring Stiles breakfast in bed tomorrow. Stiles ought to like that. Derek will just enjoy knowing that he made Stiles barely able to walk, and now Stiles won't have to, not for a couple days.

"It's just, it feels right. Having you in me,” Stiles says. Derek looks away, willing himself to breathe evenly. Stiles' eyes are closed, he's probably three-quarters asleep already, nowhere near as observant as he normally is. “That's the point, do you get it? I'm yours, so you get to put anything you want in me. Your fingers, your knot, the other wolves' dicks.” Stiles fingers clutch Derek's biceps, tight enough to leave a bruise that will fade in a minute. “And you're mine, so you'll do it.”

Derek blinks. “Yeah,” he says, feeling weirdly light. Sudden clarity, like the way scent changes meaning and texture when Derek shifts from human to wolf. “That's right.”