Archive of Our Own ^beta

Damn Stiles Stilinski. Damn him to hell.

It’s completely and totally his fault that this has suddenly happened.

Derek has never, never once in his life, felt like this before.

He knows what it is. It happens once a year, in winter. His body gets hot and tight all over and his instincts rule his actions.

Rut.

His mother had told him all about alpha rut--how any alpha could control himself despite his baser needs. How no alpha could tackle an omega into the dirt and blame it on the fever. Rut was not an excuse or a substitute for consent.

And Derek had never even touched an omega with ill intent, let alone found himself on top of one. Rut or heat or otherwise. Derek, in fact, had never claimed an omega, for fear it would be an abuse of his power.

Derek was a strong alpha. He would go through his ruts with a fist wrapped around his dick, squeezing his knot.

But even during rut, it was never a full knot. It never stretched the base of his cock wide enough to pop inside a mate and stopper up the essential component to mating. And during sex--which he never had during rut, not once--he didn't swell at all.

Derek has never knotted.

No. Derek would sweat out the fevers alone, panting while he jerked off so much a human dick would have long since chaffed and fallen off.

But last year was a bit different. Last year when he holed himself up in his loft for just under a week, he was dazed. He was… different.

He panted against his pillow, claws tearing his sheets as he pictured long, narrow limbs and soft, lean muscle. He imagined laving his tongue over freckles and beauty marks. Imagined flushed lips finally at a loss for words as he fucked into a warm, tight hole… So wet. Just for him.

Derek's rut ended violently that year, with his muscles wrung out and sore and his wolf feeling…

Unfulfilled.

Derek had never in his life felt so empty and hungry after a rut. He had never before felt like he had been hit by a truck, like his muscles had been trampled and his bones splintered… He was so tired, so angry.

He had been robbed of his right, to truly rut, to claim, to fuck.

The next time he saw the object of his lust, however, Derek had sobered and calmed.

Stiles was not, and could never be, his… Not like that. At the time Stiles had barely turned nineteen. Not like it was illegal anymore, but Derek just felt… wrong, still.

Derek quickly pushed those fever-induced thoughts aside, and they were long forgotten before the year had ended.

As the summer air turned from dry to damp, and the leaves shifted in the breeze, Derek grew restless. Fall wasn’t going to last long.

Winter was coming to Beacon Hills rapidly this year, and his pack would be without him for a week.

A week like last year…

A week plagued by terrible thoughts of wonderful things.

It comes a bit earlier than last year, Derek realizes, when the first wave hits him the second week of November. Derek is sitting in Scott's living room reading something that is completely forgotten when the scent hits him, just after the door slams. It’s the first wave of rut, easily controlled, but Derek has never felt it so fully… So deeply. That scent--

Oh… oh.

His entire body tenses, nerves sparking under his skin as his mouth waters almost instantly. His hackles raise, and Derek’s teeth grind as he clenches his jaw.

That scent… Usually, it’s softer; nearly comforting. Now it’s strong and dangerous; powerful and cloying as Derek inhales it. The heat climbs, constricts around his lungs and makes his throat feel tight.

He hears that laugh--that laugh he won't admit he needs to hear more often--and Derek curses.

He curses, and he sets the book down and gets up as the voices draw closer and--

“Oh, Derek, hey,” Stiles says, and he’s grinning as he stumbles into the living room with an armful of books and a grocery bag of assorted candies hanging off his arm. “Scott said you were here--but I figured you’d left already.”

Derek swallows.

Stiles smells sweeter than usual; rich and almost smoky, close to burning sugar… Derek wants it all over him.

What?

“Want some Skittles?”

Derek snaps his head up. “No,” he growls.

Stiles flinches back from Derek’s sudden tone. “Uh… Okay.”

His eyes are never this amber. Derek has never seen them so golden and warm and inviting. He could fall into them right now.

The door slams again, and Derek can smell the alpha sharpness of Scott walking into the house. It’s so bitter, compared to Stiles’ scent.

Not good. Usually, Scott smells warm and almost spicy. Derek catches his scent, so close to Stiles, and thinks challenge.

“Whoa, smells funny in here,” Scott says absently, and then he comes into the living room and sees Derek. His eyes widen, and Derek sees the moment Scott stands up a bit taller, puffing his chest out. Derek hears the growl, though he knows Stiles can’t. “Uh… Derek?”

“I have to go.”

A heartbroken expression pinches Stiles’ face. “But we were gonna see if you wanted to watch--”Stiles starts.

“Not tonight, Stiles. I have to go. Now,” Derek snaps, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Stiles smells so inviting, so heady, so fucking right.

“Alright…” Stiles sounds so defeated.

Derek can’t look at him, or Scott, for that matter. Looking at Scott could trigger Derek, and the last thing he needs is to have a pissing contest with an alpha he shares a pack with. He can’t fight Scott, especially over something he can’t--and won’t--explain. He can’t.

He just walks to the front door and shoves it open, aching and suddenly sweating.

He’s already so messed up. When he climbs behind the wheel of the Camaro he presses his forehead to the heated leather wheel and snarls.

Damn Stiles Stilinski.

**

Derek controls himself for the next week and a half, though constantly avoiding Stiles’ company during pack gatherings. Every time he gets a hint of that scent, even just a whiff, his wolf growls with want, and his brain goes a bit hazy.

Nobody mentions the scent. No one comments on how Derek’s alpha essence grows sharper and thicker, cloying and heavy in the room whenever Stiles makes an appearance.

Well, almost nobody. Isaac says something two days in when Derek’s eyes follow Stiles out of a room. Isaac smells like heat season, even though he's not an alpha; Jackson, too. Their scents make him anxious, like he needs to roll them over and bite at their bellies. He knows that's ludicrous though. His pack is well mannered--family. And his co-alpha is mated. Derek should not feel challenged like a dog on a leash.

But Isaac…His comment instantly riles Derek, and Boyd and Erika have to tear Derek off of him, teeth snapping in Isaac’s face, hands fisted in his shirt. Allison says something Derek doesn't hear.

When Stiles comes back, Scott stands between him and Derek, and Derek--Derek’s wolf, and only the wolf--gets so fucking pissed at the sight, he has to leave before he does something really stupid.

Stiles still has no idea what’s happening.

Derek also grows rapidly more irritable and volatile. He snaps his teeth and clenches his fists when anyone gets too close to him, or speaks to him for too long. The only person he can stand is Allison--funnily enough. She smells gentle on his senses--which are raw like skin that’s been held to a cheese grater--and when Scott gives Derek those I’m an alpha, too, looks, Allison gives him a look that clearly tells Scott to back off. Derek sits beside her during pack gatherings and fumes, watching Lydia toss her hair and set her hands on Stiles and just generally be too fucking close to him.

Allison makes no comments. Derek likes that.

But it does get worse.

Derek is cold and nearly cruel to Stiles when the boy tries to speak to him, and Derek runs away from every sign of a possible conversation before one can start.

His wolf wants to nuzzle into Stiles’ chest and give him his affections, however.

Derek can't have that. One night when Derek is in Stiles’ kitchen tidying things up after a pack hang-out, Stiles reaches beside him and their forearms brush.

Derek’s blood sparks, an electric current short circuiting him from the contact outward, and he bares his teeth at Stiles and backs away like a frightened dog.

Stiles splutters, immediately trying to apologize, though he doesn’t know what for, but then Scott is there, pressing his alpha presence against Derek’s.

Any other time, Derek knows it would have started a fight. But this time, his senses are overwhelmed with the fire of Stiles’ touch scalding his forearm, and Derek leaves without a proper goodnight.

The next night, despite Derek’s better judgement, he joins the pack for movie night. (Blame his wolf, for all he cares--Derek wants to be with his pack.)

Stiles is sitting on the couch by Lydia, talking normally as usual, when Jackson sits on the sofa’s arm and grins down at Stiles.

He’s saying something, but then Derek can’t hear over the sound of blood in his ears when Stiles laughs, tilting his neck back.

And Jackson leans down and presses his face into the juncture between Stiles’ throat and shoulder.

He scents him. Involuntarily, by the way his pheromones flood the room with musky intensity, but he's done it nevertheless.

Jackson has scented Stiles.

A few of the others turn their heads in their direction, catching the strange smell.

Derek’s wolf howls, mate, mate, no!

Derek has Jackson against the wall, snarling at him with his claws out, face half-changed, and his wolf is screaming, No, no, no!

Scott and Boyd drag them apart, and Derek is snapping and clawing as Jackson cowers back, shoulders hunched. A good omega, submissive, obviously confused by his alpha’s sudden violence.

Stiles has no idea what the hell is going on when Derek leaves then, but Scott certainly does.

The next day, Scott pulls him aside.

“...Derek… You’re going into rut. Aren’t you?” Scott says, nearly two weeks after that day in the living room, when Stiles’ scent had made Derek’s gut twist.

Winter is coming. Stiles would love the reference.

Derek knows what that means for him--he’s always been rather regular, ever since he was a teen--but for Scott to bring it up?

Derek growls through his teeth. “I’m perfectly capable of functioning through a rut cycle.”

Scott laughs, almost bashfully. “Derek, you’ve been a walking death threat to the pack for nearly a week already. They're uneasy as it is--just because they're not alphas. You think when the fever hits you full strength you won’t be tearing limbs off?”

Glaring, Derek says, “I know what I’m like in rut. And I know the pack needs me right now. A little sweat and sexual arousal isn’t going to stop me.”

“Derek, I know how it feels. And you’re older and stronger than me--you can’t seriously think you can function normally through this. I mean--you’re really strong, yeah, but you’re gonna go into fever, and you’re gonna be dangerous. To some of us more than others,” Scott mutters, and Derek snarls.

He knows Scott means Stiles. Everyone knows by now… Don’t they?

Isaac, obviously. Allison, more than likely. And, of course, Scott. Ever observant, ever protective Scott--like he has some claim over Stiles. Always there.

Derek shakes his head. It’s not Scott’s fault he comes off as a challenging alpha male protecting an omega. He is, and Derek knows it’s just a friend thing, but…

Well. Anyhow, everyone knows.

That is, not Stiles, obviously. Freaking oblivious idiot wouldn’t know Derek wanted him if Derek scented him and rolled him and mounted him, and for God’s sake, Derek doesn’t need to imagine that.

“If something happens--”

“I’ll call. Or text. But right now, you need to be alone.”

Derek groans. “And you? What about your rut?”

Scott shrugs. “I’m not too familiar with it yet. But it happened closer to Christmas last year, so--”Scott blushes. “Look… We need you coherent and in control. Especially when I go into mine. Your system has to be clear. It’s in the pack’s best interest if you--”

“Basically fuck off for a week?”

Smiling, Scott pats Derek’s shoulder. He squeezes, the warmth in his eyes something primal, something alpha. “If you jerked off till you felt better for a week.”

Derek laughs, the sound dry and unpleasant. “You kids are so straightforward these days. No filter.”

“Filter doesn’t have anything to do with it. If you don’t get your--as Stiles might put it--werewolf rocks off, you’re gonna go Werewolf in Paris.”

Derek shudders. “Don’t try to talk like him, ever again. And don’t you mean… London?”

“No, but don’t watch either,” Scott says, and, finally, he drops his hand away from Derek’s shoulder.

“Fine. I’ll go,” Derek says, “If it’ll get you to stop trying to emulate Stiles.”

“Only in an attempt to get you to have some Derek happy time.”

“It’s not too late for us to tear each other up, you know,” Derek warns.

Scott nods. “I’ll keep everyone away from the loft.”

Growling, Derek’s wolf disagrees with the idea. But he just gives Scott a firm nod and leaves before the rest of the weekend movie marathon party shows up.

Stiles included.

**

Derek battens down the hatches, so to speak, when he gets home that night. He closes and locks all the windows, and plugs in some air fresheners that stink like clean linens and flowers. Derek used to be able to leave a window open while he was in rut--needed the cold air on his skin at night while he was caught in between shifting. But now, it’s too risky. One deep inhale of one particular scent, and Derek could be busting out of his house and tearing the town apart to find the source.

He’s fine, for now. Everything is a bit fuzzy at the edges while Derek makes his dinner, eats it, watches a movie on Hallmark--because he really isn’t paying attention--and then gets ready for bed.

Derek goes into the kitchen,  turns half a bag of bread into toast and eats it, and carries all the water bottles he can fit in his arms--which is a lot, jesus fuck--back to his bedroom.

He’s changed the sheets to a thicker cotton blend, and folded and put his favorite comforters away, leaving him with a few gray cable-knit blankets and a single pillow.

His claws used to get caught on them, but now, they’re the only blankets light enough yet warm enough for the crashes between Derek’s flaring fever and his shivering, post-orgasm states.

After changing into a t-shirt and sweats, Derek crawls into bed, dropping his head against the pillow with a heavy huff. He drinks half a water bottle and rolls over, staring out the window. It’s only nine o’clock, but Derek needs to sleep.

But that seems like it won’t happen any time soon the moment his wolf growls, a deep ache behind Derek’s ribs as heat pools in the pit of his stomach.

He winces.

Already, his hormones are out of control.

He rolls onto his side and tries to steady his breathing. He’s panting within an hour, and achingly hard and leaking a wet spot in his briefs. It turns into a patch, and then Derek is fighting not to squirm against the slick, sticky feeling. His claws extend and then contract, and he’s sweating while he presses his face into the pillow and whimpers.

“Fuck,” he chokes.

Derek howls in pain for the next ten hours, trying to stave off the desire to touch himself. If he becomes too incoherent too quickly, he could shift and bust out the window. Could run through the forest terrorizing innocent animals, or worse--he could hunt down Stiles.

Stiles.

For some reason, the thought of Stiles washes Derek with a wave of peace… And he falls right to sleep.

The loft smells like Derek’s musk when he wakes up dry mouthed with his cock hard between his belly and the sheets. The sun is high, so it could be noon or later, but Derek can barely move.

He growls, experimentally thrusting his hips against the mattress.

The friction of his cock through fabric makes his stomach twist up, and he whines through clenched teeth. It feels so fucking good, Derek does it again. is hands twist in the blankets, and he should really be ashamed of himself, he’s fucking against his mattress like some adolescent Beta.

He comes just under a half hour, sticky and thick all over his thighs, and he ignores the fact that his whimpering and whining had tapered off into a single name right at the edge of his orgasm.

It’s another hour before Derek drags himself out of bed and into the shower. He sets the water somewhere between really fucking cold and lukewarm, and he cleans himself off with perfunctory focus. He stays under the spray longer than he needs to, gasping as he lazily fucks his fist.

The water splashes on the crown of his head, drips down his face and makes everything feel cool and Derek doesn’t even remember when he took himself in hand.

It takes Derek a bit longer to come in the shower. His nerves are tighter, and he’s more on edge, and he just can’t get his fist to feel right. His palm is too rough, his squeeze too loose. He growls and gnashes his teeth, and he presses his forehead to the tiles and bites back a howl when he finally comes.

He hates everything.

More than anything, though, he hates Stiles.

**

The next day is just as bad, and Derek is rolling in his sheets, half-hard and aching all over, when he hears the distant sound of something crunching on gravel.

He cracks his eyes open, one blanket half thrown across his stomach, and his mouth falls open. He inhales, panting as the sound of rocks being crushed dies off, a sound like… The ocean?

Derek knows he’s in the fever, lost in the haze, but he knows he is nowhere near the ocean, and so he assumes he’s imagined it all.

Despite the windows being sealed, Derek can smell faint traces of the outside world. Yesterday, he caught a whiff of a herd of deer moving deep along the trees. Then a rabbit in his front yard.

Now, Derek smells something strange and new, yet entirely familiar. It’s familiar in its intensity; nearly sweet, soft and warm and calling to Derek from somewhere beyond the safety of his walls.

Derek can’t place the smell--he’s never inhaled it before, never tasted it in the back of his throat.

He crawls out of bed, drunk with that scent, desperate for more. His legs shake as he stumbles across his room, all his muscles taut and sore from just two days of rut. Derek feels run over, spread thin, but a hunger turns in his gut at that smell.

His wolf growls anxiously, as if it knows something Derek doesn’t. When he gets to the doorway of his room, he leans heavily against it and gasps, dragging in more lungfuls of that scent. His mouth waters, heat pooling low in his stomach.

There's a pounding sound somewhere beyond him, and he stumbles to the landing and groans. Why is the fever making him hear things? That’s never happened before.

But Derek really can’t stop to care right now. He needs more of that smell, fogging his brain as it paints his throat and lungs like pollen. He follows the scent, chuffling and sniffing as he drags his nails over things.  He has to stop to lean into the wall every now and then, his back tight from lack of sleep.

Inside him, his wolf urges him on. So he keeps dragging his feet, stopping where he can survey the loft.

There's a sound, muffled by something… A door.

The front door.

The sound is… A voice.

Yelling at him?

“Derek, open the freaking door!!”

Derek's jaw drops. Clarity slaps him across the face. He’s suddenly aware he’s wearing a pair of sweat/semen soaked sweats and nothing else, two days into his rut, with Stiles pounding on his front door.

Stiles.

He stops breathing. Derek shuts down right there, autopilot disengaged, abort, abort. His nails dig into the wall, and he’s clenching his jaw shut so hard it’s hurting the sides of his skull.

He's going to kick Scott's ass when he gets out of this. How could he let Stiles of all people slip through his watch? How could he let Stiles get to the loft?

How can Stiles be here?

“Derek! I know you’re in there, you ass, come on. The Camaro’s here!” Then a pause. “Well, I mean, I know you could totally leave the house on foot to do some wolf shit, but I know you’re in there regardless!”

Derek groans helplessly, slumping against the wall. The paneling is cool on his flushed skin, and he opens his mouth to yell at Stiles to leave…

When his wolf whimpers.

Derek makes a choked sound, reaching down and pressing the heel of his palm to his groin in order to stop the sudden surge of pheromones drawing his blood south.

Stiles gasps beyond the door. “You are in there--I was right! Let me in!”

“Son of a fuck,” Derek pinches his brow.

“Are you naked, is that it? Can’t let Stiles see ya naked, can ya?”

The image that nearly creates for Derek is tempting. Applying more pressure to his neglected dick with his palm gets rid of those happy thoughts right away.

Stiles makes a desperate sound, and Derek hears a thump. Did Stiles smack his head into the door? “Derek, come on… I’m really, really worried about you. I don’t wanna bother you--I just wanna check on you. Just a checking in; the morning report, the 411, gimme the down low. Please…”

Another whine emerges from Derek’s throat, and he clears it, letting his head fall to the side, thunking against the wood. “... Give me a minute.”

He hears Stiles’ intake of breath, can smell the wave of delight that comes off of him in the form of pheromones. “Yas!”

Derek ignores whatever else Stiles says in favor of going back to his room. He pulls on a shirt and clean sweats and drinks a whole bottle of water, then splashes his face with icy water and shakes out his nerves.

A small mental pep talk in the mirror reminds Derek this is a terrible fucking idea and that he’s an idiot and he can’t pull this off.

Then he goes back to the front door and leans against it for a very long time before he decides to let Stiles in.

The second the door swings open, Stiles is marching in, one finger high in the air. “Alright, so here’s the deal. You don’t get to disappear whenever you feel like it anymore, alright? What if I needed you for something? Like, for example, you ditching pack movie weekend? I needed you to sit between me and Isaac because Jesus, Isaac. Another example? Some random werewolf comes to Beacon Hills looking to chew on some human bait danglin’ around the local pack? This ass needs all the alpha protection it can get here.” Derek shuts the door, listening to Stiles walk through the loft.

He was trying to listen, really, he was.

But that smell.

That scent flooding Derek’s lungs, swelling to soak through his whole loft, cloying and sweet and warm and sticky--it’s Stiles. That is one hundred percent undiluted Stiles, and the second Derek opened the door, it was attacking him. Sugar, smoke, everything Derek has ever wanted--to taste, to claim. Fuck him, he’s nearly drowning in saliva.

Derek’s head spins on its hinges, and somewhere inside him, his wolf makes a sound that Derek really hopes Stiles doesn’t hear. The room tilts. Derek can’t feel his hands.

He twists his body, slowly, catching sight of Stiles.

He’s still talking, so Derek’s pretty sure he’s safe.

For some reason, Derek locks the door, and when he turns around, Stiles is already by the farthest window, scratching at the metal triskele and still talking.

Derek’s jaw clenches.

Stiles is wearing those jeans he can’t stand, so tight on that perfect little ass, and a red flannel that screams take me, fuck.

No. The shirt isn’t saying anything. Plaid cannot talk.

Derek’s eyes drag from Stiles’ feet up, over all the smooth, long lines that make up his body, to the perfect mess of his hair. It’s grown so much since Derek first met him… He knows it has to be soft. Knows it would feel so good to twist his fingers up in it and tug.

He also knows that’s the rut talking, that he’s probably clinically insane, and that Stiles needs to leave.

The back of his neck looks so… So tempting.

“I mean, you just go off all stoic Alpha asshole and shit, and I…” Stiles turns around, and stops.

And so does Derek’s heart.

It’s like in the span of almost three days, he’s forgotten how gorgeous Stiles is. The constellations in his skin, so pale and smooth, those huge brown eyes, that soft jaw, that mouth… That mouth, oh.

Derek snaps himself out of it by digging his claws into his palms.

It’s the fever talking. Stiles isn’t any more ethereal or immutably beautiful than any other day.

But that means Derek found him ethereal and beautiful before...

Stiles’ brows pinch. “Derek… Are you sick?” He asks, and Derek tenses.

“What?”

Stiles walks over to him--oh shit, oh fuck, no, no, no, retreat--and Derek goes ramrod straight when Stiles stops right in front of him.

A fresh wave of that scent beats against him, and Derek can taste it on his tongue as Stiles stares up at him intently. “You’re sick… Oh my gosh, you have to be. You’re all flushed, and sweaty, oh wow--”he lifts a hand and touches Derek’s forehead.

Oh.

His wolf whines, sharp, high… Pathetic. Desperate.

Hungry.

Stiles grabs Derek’s shoulder. “This can’t be normal. Why are you here all alone? You have a severe fever, Derek. We need to call Scott--talk to Deaton. Jesus, you should have said something--”Derek stops Stiles before he can get into his contacts to call Scott. He takes the phone and tugs it away, staring down at the floor when Stiles tries to object.

“Scott knows, Stiles. He knows what’s wrong with me…” Derek feels himself flush hotter.

Stiles shakes him by the shoulder. “Huh?”

Derek reaches up and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Scott knows what’s wrong, he knows why I’m holed up here,” and he was supposed to keep everybody the fuck away from me--especially you, remains unsaid.

Stiles’ brows shoot up, and his eyes narrow. It’s such a fucking unbearably cute expression, Derek wants to grab Stiles’ face and kiss it all over.

….What the literal fuck?

Stiles holds his hands up and takes a step back. “Oh my god…”

Derek frowns at him, tilting his head to the side.

“...It’s nearly winter. The bitchy attitude, not wanting to be around us, the excessive glaring,” Stiles pauses. “Well, more excessive than usual.”

“Are you about to make a point?” Derek chides.

Stiles gapes up at him.

His eyes are so fucking gorgeous; amber and honeyed chocolate,, and his lashes are so long--shit, stop!

“You’re on your werewolf period!” Stiles exclaims.

Derek’s libido, no matter how powerful in his rut state, drops by nearly seventy percent hearing Stiles say those words in a full sentence.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “What?”

“Your wolf period! Shit, Scott told me about his last winter. He said alphas and omegas have wolf periods--”

“Stop calling it that.”

“Oh, right, he said it was, uhm… Heat! You’re in heat!”

Derek’s head snaps back up and he glares down at Stiles. “Omegas go into heat. I’m an Alpha.”

“So, you go into, what, a chill? Cause you need to freaking chill.”

Growling, Derek twists away from Stiles and swipes his hand down his face. “I’m in rut… It’s a heightened sensory period of time for wolves when--”

“They and their mate breed. Baby makin’ season. Oh, yeah--Stiles has Discovery Channel,” Stiles says, like it’s the best thing in the world that he knows what’s up with Derek now. “Also? Google,” Stiles adds, snatching his phone back from Derek.

Derek blinks at him as Stiles opens his browser and flicks through his open tabs. “Wolf mating season,” he narrates.

Derek’s eyes narrow. “Why is that on your open tabs?”

Stiles shushes him.  “Wolves breed once a year, in mid winter or, more rarely, late fall, so the pups can be born in the spring, when food is plentiful and the weather is warmer to sustain their frailty.” At that, Stiles looks up at Derek and raises his eyebrows. “Even as a human? Werewolf? You start so late in the year, the pups wouldn’t actually be born until--”

“They’d be born in the spring,” Derek says, walking over to his couch. “Even in a human uterus, werewolf fetuses would grow faster than a pure human baby. That’s why many purebloods have spring birthdays--rut and heat occur within the same season, for most mated pairs.” Derek sits on the couch arm and puts his face in his hands.

“Grows faster? Like Twilight? Ew?”

Derek groans. “Why am I talking to you about this?”

“Anyways, let’s look at more of the wolf period--”

Derek death glares him.

Stiles blinks. “Rut facts… Wolves actually begin an increase in sexual hormone production around October, but obvious breeding behaviors begin to show in December as a general increase in dominance among the hierarchy. Both alpha-male and alpha-female step up their dominance frequency and severity toward all submissive members in an effort to reaffirm their breeding rights. Well… You were a bit late to the game, huh? I didn’t see any signs.”

Clawing his hands down his face, Derek lets out a pained snarl.

“No… Oh wait! That thing with Isaac! And then Jackson! That was your rut?”

“Stiles, go home,” Derek says, rising from the couch.

And then he sees white spots and black shadows as he nearly falls face first into the floor.

“Whoa, Derek!” Stiles exclaims, and somehow, he catches Derek with an arm around his shoulders before Derek can completely eat the ground.

He catches himself, with Stiles’ aid, and then wobbles like his kneecaps have up and left him.

“You’re seriously in need of whatever the opposite of a viagra is.” Stiles leads Derek over to the couch, where his body sags and then collapses. He slumps over, from sitting to half lying on the couch, with his feet slipping on the floor.

Derek sucks in a hard breath, and he tastes Stiles as the scent coats his tongue and throat. God, Derek wants to bury his face in Stiles’ neck. He wants to scent him; hold him close and mark him up so that no one will ever touch Stiles again, ever. No one would dare. He’s alpha property--Hale alpha property. Derek wants everyone to know it.

Good god, he’s sweating, a slick and uncomfortable sheen all across his skin that makes the loft feel small and stuffy.

Stiles brushes his palm across Derek’s forehead, sweeping his slightly damp bangs away.

Derek barely holds himself still, desperate to chase the contact, to nuzzle into the touch.

“You’re burning up. Is that part normal?”

Derek nods. He swallows, mouth dry, and then coughs.

Immediately, Stiles is up. “Water. Right, you’re sweating like crazy--you need water,” he says, almost to himself, and then races off to the kitchen.

Derek hears stumbling, something breaks…

Stiles comes back with a bottle of water in his hand. “I broke a cup, I’m sorry. I broke it tripping over the case of water bottles. You should really move that stuff.”

Derek makes a sound low in the back of his throat.

“Alright, alright, I’ll move them later. Don’t worry, Derek. Stiles is here--to the rescue.” He shakes his head. “No. Never fear, Stiles is here. Yeah. That’s better.”

“Stiles, please,” Derek growls. Tries to growl. He’s not sure why his voice is so weak. And that sentence could end in a thousand ways, only one of which can work--please go away.

Stiles laughs, uncapping the bottle and climbing onto the couch. “You’re very articulate like this. Do you need chocolate? Midol? Wanna watch Win A Date With Tad Hamilton?”

“Stiles.”

“Too obscure? Fine, how about Bridget Jones’ Diary? Gotta love Colin Firth. Maybe 27 Dresses. Eh?”

Derek grumbles, a long, growly sound before Stiles is shifting him about. Derek’s head winds up in Stiles’ lap, and he holds dangerously still as Stiles presses the mouth of the bottle to Derek’s lips.

“Drink up.”

Derek does.

He drains half the bottle before Stiles stops him, quickly pulling the bottle back and then wiping his sleeve under Derek’s chin.

His wrist touches Derek’s lips.

Derek wants to lick it. To bite it--to just press his nose there and breathe against Stiles’ thin skin.

“There we go. This is so weird. I’ve never…” Stiles says, then laughs, twisting the cap back onto the bottle. “It’s gonna be alright. I promise, you’re not gonna die.”

“Stiles… It’s just rut,” Derek says, but he’s shivering now, a wave quaking through his body in an endless tremble. “I… I’ve always done this alone. Just go home. I can take care of myself.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No way. I know the pack would be here if they could, but,” he pulls his phone back out. “Even wolves in a very close pack will become rigid and volatile towards each other during rut season. The alpha male falls into a state of mind where every member of his pack, save his mate, are almost enemies. He will start fights over the smallest things, from an unfair share of food to another male being too close to him.” Stiles arches his brows. “See? Clearly, you need me. I’m not a wolf.”

Derek reaches up and curls a fist in Stiles’ shirt, tugging. “You’re not…” He stops.

Wolf or not, Stiles is pack…

But he’s not Derek’s. And that’s more upsetting that any other part of the rut. Derek’s wolf growls, thunder behind his ribs, and Stiles’ eyes widen.

“Whoa… It’s okay, Derek. I wanna help. No need to be a sourwolf.”

At that, Derek laughs. He’s cold, and sore, and horny as all holy hell, but he laughs. Stiles laughs, too, and then Derek feels a blanket being dragged over his body from the back of the couch.

He curls into himself slightly, tugging on Stiles’ shirt and burying his face into Stiles’ stomach.

“Hey, don’t tear out my intestines, okay? Cause I’d really appreciate if they stay inside me, where they belong,” Stiles says, and Derek is still shivering and is getting colder the longer he resists this wave…

But Stiles smells so good. It’s still drugging, and maddening, but Derek’s wolf is in one of those fuck-being-a-werewolf-rut drops where even his alpha strength has deserted him.

“I won’t tear anything out of you… I promise,” Derek sighs, jolting when a particularly harsh shudder passes through him.

Stiles curls around him, just lightly, and Derek feels a hand curling round his shoulder, a thumb brushing arches over the muscle there. Then another hand gently cups his skull, and fingers brush against the hair behind his ear.

“Are you…”

“It’s okay. Just let it happen,” Stiles says, and when Derek goes rigid in his arms, he laughs and runs his fingers through Derek’s hair. “This will help. I promise--I’ve done my reading. And David Attenborough is a very reliable source.”

“Wolf sanctuaries don’t send humans into cages with males in rut and have them give them a scratch behind the ears,” Derek grumbles.

“Just take a nap… You’re gonna go through another fever wave later, right? Wanna be well rested for it.”

“I need to get to my bed. My room--it’s better in there. Water… My bed,” My den, my nest, come with me, Derek thinks. He needs Stiles to leave before the fever comes. He needs to be locked up, away from this scent.

He shifts, and his half-hard cock moves against his thigh. Derek whimpers, and Stiles scratches his nails across his scalp.

“It’s okay… Just rest for a bit. I’ll get you to your room before my phone dies,” Stiles says. “That’s a good indicator. I’m playing this game, maybe--Derek? Sleep. Seriously. Stiles isn’t going anywhere.”

No, shit, goddamnit--go away. Please get out of here, Stiles.

Derek’s wolf purrs, and he presses his face harder against Stiles’ stomach. It’s so soft and warm, and Derek can feel the muscle tense with each inhale. Stiles breathes so slowly… Unnaturally slow.

“Stiles…” Derek murmurs, biting the inside of his lip as the cold begins to take hold in his bones. It makes him feel immobile… So heavy and helpless as Stiles practically hugs him, still doing that thing with his fucking nails against Derek’s scalp.

“I’m right here. Go to sleep, big bad,” Stiles says, his voice warm and soft, like laughter. Like he’s smiling.

Derek does… He falls asleep halfway on his couch, twisted up awkwardly with his head on Stiles’ lap, a hand in his hair.

That scent is all over him.

That scent owns him.

Derek wants to make that scent his.

Derek wakes up a few hours later, and Stiles helps him finish the rest of the water bottle. When Stiles helps Derek drag himself off the couch, Derek leans on him a little more than he needs to--just to breathe him in.

Derek's bedroom still smells like sweat and cum and the pheromones of rut, and he wonders vaguely if Stiles can smell it. He falls onto his bed, glad that the pale gray of the knit blankets and white sheets don't show the evidence of what he's been doing for the past two days.

"There we go, sourwolf," Stiles says, ushering Derek down onto the softness of the mattress. "If you need anything, text me. Or, howl, whatever. I'll be in the kitchen raiding your fridge."

"Stiles... Go home," Derek sighs.

Stiles shakes his head. "No can do. I'm the only one who can do this for you, and I've always prided myself on being the only one who can help Derek Hale out when he's in trouble."

Derek presses his face against his pillow. "Go away."

"As far as the kitchen," Stiles replies, and then Derek feels his warmth fade as Stiles leaves the room.

The scent lingers, however, and Derek drinks it in until he falls asleep again.

He's in and out for the next few hours, Stiles petting his hair and telling him to drink the only thing disturbing his sleep.

It goes on like that until late evening, when Derek wakes up alert.

It’s not clarity, not the kind of ease he will feel once the rut is over. This is an acute sensory experience brought on by a new wave of fever--by his wolf drinking in the scent of their mate.

Not mate, just Stiles. Stiles isn’t my mate, Derek tries to correct.

His muscles are no longer sore, the strength from the new fever making him tense and sure. He doesn’t tremble when he pushes the blankets back, doesn’t see the tent in his sweats with the damp patch leaking through.

He feels the ache though, the sweet and fiery need to be buried and tied and sated in his mate.

“No,” Derek whimpers, but his mind and body aren’t on equal wavelengths.  He’s out of his bed and walking down the short hall, following that scent.

The scent.

Derek growls through his teeth, claws clutching at the wall as he catches sight of Stiles sitting on the couch,

“Derek, you--”Stiles stops, eyes dragging down Derek’s body, stopping right at his groin. “Holy werewolf dick, Batman.” His eyes flick back up to Derek’s. His pupils have dilated. “Derek, are you okay?”

Derek growls, stalking forward on sure feet.

Stiles stands up, dropping his phone on the couch. “Derek?” His hands flutter uselessly in front of him. “You should really be lying down right now. Do you need more water? Cause I--eh!”

Stiles is cut off when Derek grabs him by the wrists and tugs him forward. Their bodies press together in a seamless line, and Derek pushes his face against Stiles’ shoulder and throat and breathes. He opens his mouth, panting and drinking that smell in as his lips drag over Stiles’ pulse point.

It beats against his lips, desperate, frantic, and Derek traces Stiles’ throat with his tongue, shirt-collar to ear.

“Mine,” Derek purrs.

Stiles jolts, the action brushing their crotches together.

Derek growls approvingly through his teeth, drawing Stiles closer, rocking against him. “Stiles, you…” He shakes his head, but licks Stiles’ throat again. “You have to leave,” he says, nuzzling the juncture of soft flesh. The spot where he would bite, where Stiles would scar, wearing Derek’s claim.

Stiles shudders. “Fever,” he says, almost to himself. “Derek, I can’t leave you like this.”

Derek squeezes Stiles’ wrists, then lets them both go. He takes an unsteady step back, his cock throbbing at the lack of pressure. Behind his ribs, there’s a rumble, and Derek feels the shift coming on. His knuckles crack, claws extended, and he curls his lips back, fighting the feel of his face rearranging.

“Stiles… You have to leave. Please--just go away,” Derek begs, taking another step back.

There a thousand warning bells going off in his head, but absolutely none of them are as strong as the two bells that aren’t negative. Derek’s wolf--mate, claim, mine. And Derek’s own heart--Stiles, please, fuck.

“Go home,” Derek says again, and he feels a wall against his back suddenly, and how long was he backing up?

How did Stiles get him cornered like this?

Stiles is so close, so warm, and Derek smells…

Want.

Arousal curls through Stiles’ scent, turning that sticky, burning sweet smell musky and salty-sharp. Derek’s mouth falls open, and he takes Stiles’ hips in his hands without meaning to.

Stiles gasps. “It's okay, buddy… We're gonna get through this.” He touches Derek's chest with his own, fingers brushing Derek's neck. “I'm here.” Stiles shudders, pressing himself tightly to Derek’s front. The sigh that falls from his lips is warm on Derek’s jaw, and he looks down, bleary-eyed and burning up.

Chewing his lip, Stiles looks up at him through his lashes. “Let me help.”

Derek jerks back at that. “No.”

It’s not right, it’s wrong, wrong. I can’t touch him--I can’t have him, he’s not mine. Think, Derek, think. It's the wolf talking. Stiles is a kid. He's not your mate.

Stiles leans up on his toes, and one of his hands is touching Derek’s jaw. The touch sends sparks through Derek’s blood, and one of his hands flies up and covers Stiles’.

“I’m not scared, Derek… I know how to say no.” Stiles looks down, rocking his hips forward. His thigh brushes Derek’s hard cock, pressing it between them.

Derek keens.

“Apparently, you do, too. You’re not so lost that you’d throw me down and just take me,” Stiles gulps. “Even if I didn’t mind that.”

Derek’s brows furrow. “What?”

“Derek, I… I want you. God, I want you so bad--do you have any idea what you are? Have you seen yourself? Heard yourself talk? Ever? Even if you weren't sex in jeans and a leather jacket, you are the most selfless, brave, beautiful person I've ever known. Wow, I just said that.” Stiles laughs, but the sound is stained by lust. He tugs at Derek’s tank with one hand. “I wanna help, I want you.”

Derek grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t look at Stiles like this--eyes hooded, mouth pink and bitten, flushed and sweet and open.

“Stiles, this isn’t the same as treading water for hours or slapping me back into consciousness.” Derek wheezes. “We… I--”

“We’re both consenting adults for the moment, Derek,” Stiles says, practically moans as he rocks his hips against Derek’s, his thumb touching the corner of Derek’s mouth. “But the fever is gonna take you, and I’m not gonna go anywhere, and before this rut is over, I’m gonna be under you.”

Derek groans at the thought.

“You can accept my offering or you can not. Either way, I’m not leaving you--not alone, not now. I just want you to know,” Stiles pauses, taking a deep breath. “Since the moment I laid eyes on you, I’ve thought of nobody else. And maybe it’s a weird werewolf thing--I know, I’m not a wolf--but I feel like… I’m supposed to be here. I’m meant to be here with you.”

“Stiles, go. Get out, before I can’t think,” Derek sighs. It’s already getting hard to focus on right and wrong and decency. Derek can smell the salt of Stiles’ precum slicking the head of his cock, can hear his heartbeat climbing slowly, slowly.

“Derek--”

“You are a virgin. I'm not going to lose control and pounce you for your first time.”

Stiles grins. “That's kinda how I imagined my first time. With you. But we were in the woods.”

Derek snarls. His wolf sings. “Just get the fuck out, Stiles--go.”

Stiles grins up at him. “Is that an order, alpha?”

Derek’s eyes snap open, and his wolf stills.

A calm before the storm.

Derek looks down at Stiles, those gorgeous lips pulling up in a smirk. “You want to send me away, alpha? Don’t make me leave…” Stiles nuzzles his face into Derek’s neck, kissing at his pulse. “Please, alpha. Please.” Stiles’ scent is flooded with adrenaline and arousal and fuck. He's nervous; shy. Derek can smell his self-doubt, the fear of rejection. It makes a sharp, salty, almost sour scent cloud Stiles’ otherwise heat-sweetened scent.

Derek can't have that. His mate should only ever smell warm and honeyed and ready and ripe.

Derek--and his wolf, simultaneously--snap.

He digs his nails into Stiles’ hips and spins them around, crushing Stiles against the wall and ducking his head.

Stiles rises to meet him, and their mouths collide with a pinch of pain from the ferocity.

Derek almost recoils, to ask if Stiles is okay.

But Stiles is moaning into Derek's mouth as he parts his lips, and he’s overcome with another wave of Stiles’ arousal. The need, the aching want, so sweet and dense as Derek’s tongue plunges into Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles likes this. Derek should have pegged him as a sexual deviant who had a thing for this kind of thing.

He’s careful not to bite, even as Stiles’ hands all over him distract and excite him.

“Derek. Derek!” Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders, tangles a hand into his hair and tugs. Stiles’ kiss lacks finesse, lacks experience, but he's a quick study. And his desire and enthusiasm are all Derek cares about right now anyways, as their tongues slide together and their lips bruise and their teeth clack.

Stiles moans, writhing between the wall and Derek’s body, and his nails scratch down Derek’s chest as he yanks on Derek’s hair harder with the other hand.

Derek tears their mouths apart with a snarl, burying his face into Stiles’ throat. “Need you, Stiles, please. Tell me it's okay.”

Stiles wheezes. “It's okay, Derek. Please--I want this. I want you--it's so okay.”

Derek nods. “Want this… Want you so bad. Wolf, too.”

“Hah?” Stiles shudders.

“My wolf. Wants you as bad as I do--fuck, Stiles, you're sure--”

Stiles grabs Derek's face in both hands and yanks his head up. He kisses him on the mouth, a firm press of closed lips that sparks Derek's blood almost hotter than their wet, demanding kisses had.

Derek whimpers, and then he pulls back and tilts his head up.

Baring his neck...

The implication is not wasted on Stiles, and he feels a rush of blood go southward even as his heart stutters at how touching this moment is.

“Fuck, Derek. Easy; it's alright,” Stiles moans, kissing and licking at Derek's neck. He nuzzles and sniffs at Derek's jaw, tugging Derek as close as he can.

Derek grinds their hips together, the friction on his dick making him growl.

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's neck and whimpers. “We're really doing this, aren't we? Oh shit, Scott's gonna kill me. My dad is gonna kill me.” He kisses the joint of Derek's jaw again. “You're so gonna kill me. Why did I instigate this?”

Derek growls, snarls, lifting Stiles bodily off the floor. Stiles yelps, and the sound goes right to Derek's cock before he claims those already kiss-swollen lips.

“Won't let anybody touch you. Ever again. Mine,” Derek says, coherent enough to see the surprise in Stiles’ gaze as those lanky limbs wrap around him.

“Jesus, Derek, you're gonna fuck me.”

Derek snarls, scenting Stiles’ neck again as he shoves him against the wall. “Fuck, yes.”

“I don't think it needs to be said again that I'm a virgin--but I'm a virgin and we're gonna have sex and shit, your dick feels so big. I'm gonna die.” Stiles’ voice gets higher and higher, and Derek laughs. It's closer to thunder, so rumbly and low, but he nuzzles his face into Stiles’ throat and thumbs his hip bone gently.

“I won't hurt you. I'll take good care of you--I promise. Mine, my Stiles.” He nips Stiles’ jaw and then twists away, expertly getting them to the bed where he tosses Stiles down with a snarl.

Stiles bounces lightly on the mattress, and then Derek is on him, kissing him again, one hand roughly palming Stiles through his jeans.

Stiles’ hips buck into the contact, and he mewls against Derek’s lips.

Cool hands touch his abdomen, and Derek pulls back and kneels up on the bed.

Not cold hands--just Stiles. Just the fever making Derek too hot.

Stiles drags Derek's shirt up and over his head, tossing it to the floor and then sitting up.

He drags his palms across Derek's chest, down to his abs, fingers catching on the grooves between muscle, heaving as Derek pants.

“You're fucking gorgeous, Der,” Stiles groans, curling his fingers around Derek's hips to tug himself forward.

Derek trembles as Stiles rubs his face against his abs, licking the sweat from Derek’s skin.

“It's a dream,” Stiles laughs. “You can't--it's a dream. There's no way you and me--”

Derek curls his knuckles under Stiles’ chin, forcing him to look up.

“You're perfect, Stiles. You're so beautiful; damn it, you're gorgeous, inside and out,” Derek sighs, dipping down to kiss Stiles’ lips lightly. “Nobody I want but you. No one I need like you.”

Stiles’ lids droop, and Derek smiles at him.

“Kay… Way to boost a guy’s self esteem,” Stiles says on a laugh, and then Derek takes his face in his hands and kisses him. “Must be the fever talking.”

“This is me talking to you. You're beautiful,” Derek groans, kissing Stiles cheek.

His wolf is purring contentedly, every swipe of bare fingers on Derek’s skin electricity transmuted into pleasure.

Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s hips and grinds, and Derek fists the blankets in his hands and fights it because holy shit. He was about to come.

Derek nips Stiles’ throat, tugs at his shirt until the buttons either slip through their holes or pop off.

Stiles, of course, finds time to protest that before Derek grabs his undershirt by the hem and presses his face to Stiles’ stomach. He breathes in his scent, the softness of his soap, the light sweat on his skin.

Derek’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he laps at Stiles’ skin, chasing every drop of salt.

Stiles moans, stomach trembling as he tugs at the sheets and rolls his hips. “Lemme take care of you, Derek, please. I wanna take care of you,” Stiles says, almost mindless.

Derek glances up at him, grinning wickedly as he drags his teeth across Stiles’ flat stomach. “What did you have in mind?”

Stiles gulps. “I wanna…”

Then Stiles scolds himself, because if you can't say it, you shouldn't be doing it.

“Please, let me suck you,” Stiles says, face a brilliant shade of rose.

Derek’s wolf grumbles approvingly. Derek, on the other hand, feels a wave of blood slosh around in his head, and he feels dizzy and drunk as he lies down on top of Stiles and kisses him again.

“You want that, Stiles? You wanna suck my cock, pup?” Derek teases, the arousal coiling low in his gut making him bold.

Stiles writhed against him. “Y-yes,” he squeaks, eyes squeezed shut.

Derek nuzzled Stiles’ cheek with his nose. “Say it again.”

Stiles groans. “Ass.”

Derek snarls at him, a warning.

Stiles dick twitches, Derek can feel it under him, and he digs his nails into Derek's shoulders and looks up at him. “I wanna suck your cock, alpha; let me taste you, oh god, Derek, please.”

Derek--proud of himself for not coming with a desperate Stiles saying such things to him--kneels up and drags Stiles into his lap. He turns, setting his feet on the floor.

“I'll return the favor, if you do a good job,” Derek says, but he was going to suck Stiles’ cock regardless. He wants it so bad.

When Stiles crawls off of him and kneels on the floor between his thighs, Derek hooks his finger into Stiles’ shirt. He drags it up, and Stiles helps him fight it off and then drops it on the floor.

“Gorgeous,” Derek whispers, biting the inside of his cheek.

Stiles catches the action. “Ground control to Major Tom?”

Derek snorts. “I'm fine… I just want to stay. I want…”

Stiles undoes the tie on Derek’s sweats. “You wanna stay sane--here with me.”

“My wolf could hurt you,” Derek explains.

“But you never would…” Stiles says knowingly. “You and your wolf are one, yeah?”

Derek doesn't know how to answer that.

“At least right now? You both want the same thing,” Stiles continues. “It would be okay--if you let go a bit. I can handle you, sourwolf.”

Derek shakes his head. “Stiles, the fever--”

“Don't be scared,” Stiles says, even though his hands are trembling, like it's that easy.

Derek blinks at him.

He's always been astounded by Stiles; his intelligence, his bravery and kindness.  He is astounded yet again by how this human, this boy, can overwhelm him with such calm while simultaneously making him feel more feral than ever.

Stiles smiles up at him. “I'm not scared of you, Derek…”

He drags Derek's sweats off, but needs Derek's help more than he would admit, and then Derek is leaning back on his hands, Stiles kneeling between his legs, only a pair of soft, worn boxers between Stiles and his cock.

Derek shudders.

“Jesus fuck, Der,” Stiles wheezes, palming Derek’s thighs, dragging his nails through the coarse, dark hair. “Now I'm kinda scared,” he laughs.

Derek’s eyes droop, and his hips rock up under Stiles’ touch.

“You're a fuckin’ animal. Jesus, werewolf alert--you should come with a warning,” Stiles continues, and then he nuzzles his face into the crook of Derek’s thigh, and his cheek presses snugly against Derek’s cock as he breathes in deep.

Scenting… Stiles is imitating scenting.

In fact, it hasn't been the first time tonight… Stiles has been well read.

Derek’s dick throbs, and Stiles breathes deeper. “I smell that,” he whispers, then turns his face, just slightly, and brushes his lips against Derek’s head.

He suckles the wet spot that Derek’s precum has made, and Derek whines.

“God, Derek, you taste so good,” Stiles murmurs, pressing the flat of his tongue to Derek’s cockhead. He drags it up, spreading the dampness with his own spit. “Tell me if I do anything wrong. Or if there's anything you want me to do specifically. Remember--Stiles = virgin.”

“Stiles… shit,” Derek moans, and Stiles kneads his thighs, spreading them further apart. “You don't have to do--any of this.”

I've got no claim over you, you're not mine--don't give me this.

Stiles nuzzles deeper into Derek’s thigh, fingers playing through his thigh hair. “I want to. Want you to be the one,” Stiles whispers. “Have for forever, I told you. Don't make me say embarrassing stuff twice.” He lightly nips at Derek's inner thigh, and Derek bucks and whimpers.

“Stiles.” Derek swallows. “I want you… I want to make this so good for you. You shouldn't have to--this isn't--”

“I've got you,” Stiles says, and Derek reaches up with one hand, leaning back on the other. “Don't worry about me. Let's take this as a learning experience, huh? That way I'll be better next time,” he grins, and Derek's brain shorts.

Next time.

He tangles his hand into Stiles’ hair and tugs, thrusting up at the same time. The motion drags Stiles’ face across his crotch, and Stiles moans as he rises higher on his knees. “God, Derek. Whatever you want. I'll give you whatever you want..”

“Want you so bad. Need to be in you,” Derek whimpers.

“Fuuuuuuuck, say that again,” Stiles commands, digging his nails into Derek’s thighs. Derek inhales, can feel Stiles thrumming with energy. Those words alone nearly made him come.

Stiles exhales hot and wet along Derek’s throbbing length, mouthing from his balls back to the slick head.

The friction is driving Derek mad, cotton and damp against his throbbing cock. He needs to get the fuck out of his briefs. He needs Stiles’ heat and wet and fuck, he needs to be buried in him.

“I need to be in you, Stiles. Please,” Derek growls. He tugs at Stiles’ hair, a small gasping sound following the pull. “Don't make me ask again.”

“I might, just to hear you say it,” Stiles groans, and then his hands are off Derek's thighs and on Derek's hips and he's tugging Derek’s underwear down around his thighs.

Derek’s dick springs free, smacking against his heaving stomach, and Stiles makes a sound Derek has never heard before.

It's high and sweet and short and sharp and the look on Stiles’ face is nothing short of reverent. Like he's been blessed--born again.

His pupils are blown, black swallowing the amber, and Derek watches Stiles lick his lips.

Derek kicks his boxers off, and then has to hold down his wolf with all his might because holy fucking hell Stiles is--Stiles is--

“Ahh, Stiles, what--”

Stiles curls his fingers around the base of Derek’s dick--so sure and tight for someone who's only ever seen their own equipment--and nuzzles the head. He whimpers and moans, brushing cheeks and lips against Derek’s leaking head, tongue darting out for a taste.

So timid, yet so sure.

More scenting… Whimpers, Derek realizes, soft sounds coming from Stiles kneeling before him.

His precum leaves glossy streaks on Stiles’ face, and he wants to drag Stiles up and lap it off.

Derek chokes on his own breath, the snarling behind his ribs vibrating up his own throat, escaping through his clenched fangs.

Fangs?

His teeth and claws have grown out, Derek realizes, and he clenches his fists in the mattress instead of touching Stiles.

“Derek, your dick is so fucking huge. It's gorgeous--oh my god. I just called your dick gorgeous,” Stiles gasps, staring down at Derek’s dick before giving the head a kitten lick.

Derek’s whole body spasms.

He releases Stiles in favor of tearing his claws into his blankets, clamping his teeth shut as he makes a desperate, feral sound.

“Again, score for Stiles’ self esteem,” Stiles says, and then he wraps his lips around the head, suckles, and then pops off.

Derek feels his sanity shred thin, like threads snapping and claws worrying the earth.

“Derek, God. Knew you'd taste good,” Stiles rasps, then licks the head. Stiles sinks his open mouth down Derek’s length, pumping his hand to meet him halfway.

Derek groans, throws his head back and gasps, on the verge of tears as he holds his wolf down while simultaneously holding himself back.

Stiles sucks and bobs, slathering Derek's cock with an embarrassing amount of saliva as he makes these tiny, desperate moans as he does. He pulls off, laughing, and Derek cannot take the sight of his lips slick and shiny like that, his hot breath kissing the crown of Derek's cock.

“I don't think there's any way it can all fit. But I'll try,” Stiles says, licking a stripe from Derek's balls up to the head. He repeats the action, all around Derek's cock.

Derek wriggles and gasps as Stiles pumps his dick with a tight fist while Stiles nuzzles his face against Derek’s sack.

“Stiles, what--”

Derek stops when Stiles tongue laves across his balls, before Stiles draws one between his lips as sucks. He repeats the treatment with the other, and Derek feels tremors and tingling aches race up and down his legs. He's going to lose his mind.

Stiles relents, after a high keening sound on Derek's part, and then resumes sucking Derek’s dick like he was made for it.

And it seems Stiles’ gag reflex has vanished in the presence of Derek's dick, because after sucking for about ten minutes, Stiles takes a breath and sinks down, down.

His nose brushes the thatch of dark hairs at the base, and Derek feels him swallow around the length of him in Stiles’ throat.

“Stiles, I need to fuck you, right now,” Derek finally snaps, and he tugs at Stiles’ hair in a not entirely gentle manner.

It drags Stiles off of his cock, and before Derek can say anything else, he's overcome by the lust-struck look in Stiles’ eyes,

Then Stiles digs his thumbs into Derek’s hips and whines. It's too high, too sharp and submissive to be an accidental sound…

Derek’s cock jumps, and his wolf snarls and roars and threatens to throw him out of his own body with its ferocity.

Stiles drags Derek close and licks at his abs again, nuzzling as he fucking whimpers like a bitch.

Derek is off the bed and across the room the next moment, his back against the cold wall, Stiles’ face planted on the edge of the mattress.

“Rude?” Stiles barks, but then he blinks, and he looks nervous through the haze of his ecstasy.

Derek snarls at him. “Stiles, you can't.”

“Derek?”

“Don't… Don't make sounds like that. Ever again,” Derek commands. And he has no right to be demanding anything of Stiles, with how ridiculous he looks. His boxers are stuck around his thighs, his cock slick and straining for the warm body across the room. He's panting, burning up, and the wolf paces along the edges of his control.

Stiles wiggles, the motion releasing a fresh wave of sweet, warm scent from between his legs.

And fuck, he's still wearing pants. Too much clothing for Derek's taste.

Stiles grins, devious little shit. “You don't like it, alpha?”

Derek squeezes his eyes shut, his wolf snarling, humming with approval. “Yes, I do. But you can't--”Derek stops, sighing as he thumps his head against the wall. “You have no idea how fucking hot that was--how sexy you are to me.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide, and he blushes high on his cheeks. His mouth literally drops open.

“God,  Stiles. You want to be good for me, don't you?”

Stiles nods desperately.

“Then keep the whimpering to a minimum. It's too much for me,” Derek sighs.

Stiles grins softly at that, and he nods. “Okay. Okay, I'll keep it down.”

Derek's gaze sharpens. “Oh no. I wanna hear all of it. Don't hold back on me, Stiles.”

Fussing with his jeans, Stiles shimmies on the bed. “So I can make all the pornographic sounds that I want, just minimal dog noises.”

Derek crinkles his nose, resisting the urge to smile. “Exactly.”

Stiles hums. Thoughtful. Then he drags his zipper down. “I've never done this before.”

Derek swallows. The sound of metal teeth dragging open, the sight of Stiles’ hands opening his jeans dizzying him.

“Yeah. We've established the concept of virginity,” he grates out.

Stiles won't be a virgin after Derek's done with him.

At Derek's words, Stiles shivers. “No… I mean,” he blushes furiously.

Without saying amount word, Stiles shoves down his jeans and his boxers, struggling and kicking in the bed to flick them off of his ankles.

Derek doesn't know why, but the effort and the embarrassed blush on Stiles’ chest is incredibly fucking hot.

And now Stiles is naked, sprawled on Derek's bed. Panting, smooth and soft and so pale, so beautiful.

Compact muscle is hidden under his flesh, strength that Stiles still carries awkwardly. It makes Derek's jaw ache, Stiles offering himself up helplessly when Derek knows he could defend himself from more than a normal human should handle.

He's beautiful.

Derek would lie if he said he never fantasized about Stiles’ cock, but never in his wildest dreams did he ever do it justice. It's smaller than Derek’s, but long and  decently thick, flushed red at the tip.  A perfect mouthful that Derek's knows would make his throat just the right amount of sore. It's leaking, enough precum to slick the V between Stiles’ thighs. It's perfect, suited for the rest of Stiles’ body.

Derek drinks him in, mouth falling open to taste the air.

He can smell Stiles’ musk, the earthy, warm smell of him beneath soap and body spray. He can…

Shit, Jesus, fuck!

Derek can smell--

Stiles takes a shuddering breath, and turns over.

He's all lean muscle, long limbs, so gorgeous and lovely and Derek’s.

Derek’s pupils dilate, taking in the random smattering of freckles, constellations of moles across Stiles’ body. He doesn't even realize what's happened until he feels the bed beneath one knee.

Stiles is on all fours, resting on shaking limbs with his ass tilted in Derek's direction.

When Derek kneels on the bed, he can smell Stiles’ shame, his warm and sweet embarrassment as his desire coats Derek's tongue in that sticky, rich flavor.

Derek lays a hand over the small of Stiles’ back, just above the curve of his ass. His skin is so warm, and the soft sheen of sweat already clinging to him isn't clammy or sticky. Derek growls in pleasure, raking his claws up Stiles’ spine.

Stiles mewls, bowing down so he's resting on his forearms with his ass high in the air.

The sudden motion makes Derek's hand curve down across his ass, and God, Derek’s dick has never been so hard. Stiles’ ass is a gift from God; perky and soft, perfect for Derek's teeth and claws and cock.

Derek shoves off the bed, his wolf’s growls and sudden urge to mount becoming clear.

What Stiles is doing…

He… Jesus fuck, Stiles is presenting. He has his head down, neck bared, his back a soft bow, his knees spread apart so Derek can drool when that scent hits him again like a colossal wave.

“Please, Derek,” Stiles whispers, so softly a human wouldn't have heard. Maybe Stiles didn't mean for even him to hear.

Derek's wolf wants to claim, wants to be rough and fast and filthy. Like an animal.

Digging his claws into his palms, Derek shakes his head to clear it. He breathes Stiles in deeply through the nose, ignores his body’s urges and desires and thinks only of Stiles.

He won't hurt Stiles. He won't lose control--he will make this so, so good for his mate.

Derek shucks off his boxers, steps out of them and kneels on the bed behind Stiles.

Stiles makes a soft noise of surprise when Derek's hands cup his hips, tilting him up slightly, pushing his knees further apart.

Derek sighs, damp and hot against Stiles’ thigh. “Don't move,” Derek says, and Stiles’ fingers tangle in the gray blankets.

Palming his hands down Stiles’ ass, Derek's jaw clenches so tightly it should hurt.

He cups and squeezes, digging his fingers into the muscle, listening to Stiles’ hitching breaths and tiny, high sounds.

Derek is the first person to touch him.

His wolf snarls; he'll be the last.

Sighing, Derek presses his thumbs to Stiles’ crack, making Stiles suck in a breath.

“Don't move,” Derek says again, and he spreads Stiles’ cheeks apart, baring his dusky hole.

Stiles’ hips twitch on reflex, and he makes a long, desperate sound as he presses his face into his arm.

Derek can smell the precum beading and dripping from Stiles’ cock.

More than that, he can smell Stiles. The purest, most secret part of him.

Derek spreads him open wider, leaning forward to drag his nose along the cleft. Stiles’ scent is rich here, and Derek growls in approval as he drags in another breath. It's musky; sweat and salt and heat, and it's Stiles.

That cloying sugary scent rises in the air again, and if Derek didn't know any better, he would think Stiles was in heat.

Deliberately, slowly, Derek swipes his tongue from the back of Stiles’ balls over his hole, all the way to his tailbone. His tongue leaves a sloppy wet shine across Stiles’ skin.

Stiles moans, oh, so beautifully as his hips rock and his back bends tighter. He turns his face out of his arm, gasping loudly as he quivers.

“Derek! Oh jeez--shit,” Stiles whines. “I c-can… You--don't. Derek, sto--”

Derek doesn't listen beyond that point.

The wolf has pressed tight against the surface, and Derek can feel the shift in his blood. He lets instinct take the forefront of his mind, just for a moment, and he eats Stiles out like a starved dog.

He laps at his hole in broad, wet strokes, stops to flick just the tip around his rim, to swirl and stroke Stiles’ puckered entrance.

Derek is drooling, saliva running down the back of Stiles’ thigh, and he can't stop growling.

As if the sounds will keep Stiles pinned beneath him, open and writhing, making those sweet, broken sounds.

Derek is violently pleased with how Stiles is responding to him, considering he has never stuck his tongue in someone’s ass before. He thrusts his tongue into Stiles’ slick hole, fucking in and out, slicking him up as he probes as deep as he can.

Derek is pleased by his own stamina, and by that of his mate. He's been tonguing Stiles for a good twenty minutes and his jaw doesn't even ache, nor has Stiles given up.

But God, he's beautifully damaged now. Stiles is gasping, hips rocking and cock swinging between his spread thighs. Every breath is a hitching moan, and most of his exhales become Derek's name.

Derek growls, turns his face and runs his tongue over the curve of one perfect cheek. His fangs lightly brush the skin. “So wet for me, Stiles. Need to fuck you so bad,” Derek growls. He takes one index finger and swirls it around Stiles’ hole before sinking it in to the knuckle.

Stiles’ back bows and he keens. “Fucking heck, Derek.” He rocks back onto the finger, forcing it deeper. “I want it. I want it, I wanna,” Stiles slurs, arching his back and rolling his hips.

Derek sighs, dragging his finger over Stiles’ prostate as he pulls it out. “Lube. Bedside drawer.”

Stiles is shaking, but he climbs up the bed and drags the drawer open. His hands fish around until he finds the long bottle, and then he yelps as Derek grabs his ankles and drags him back down the mattress.

Stiles is rolled onto his back, Derek climbing over him and claiming his mouth while taking the bottle.

Sighing into the kiss, Stiles runs his hands up Derek's sides and palms his back. He feels the lightly raised edges of the triskele between Derek's shoulder blades, moaning into the kiss.

“You're hanging on surprisingly well for a wild animal,” Stiles teases when Derek pulls back.

“I have a fairly strong anchor,” Derek says, his voice warm.

Stiles flushes, staring up at Derek, dazed. The words sink in, through flesh, to bone, and Stiles shrinks against the mattress. “I…”

Derek smiles, taking one of Stiles’ hands between his. He presses a kiss to Stiles’ racing pulse, his lips warm and gentle. “Is that alright?” Derek whispers.

Stiles nods, unblinking. He's overwhelmed, barely able to breathe as Derek kisses his palm and then nuzzles his nose against it.

Derek kneels between Stiles’ legs, spreading them open and resting them over his thighs. Those eyes drag over Stiles’ body, and Stiles feels himself flush all over when they gleam red. And holy shit, all of Derek is huge.

Stiles wants to reach out and touch every inch of him, God, he's incredible and he's between Stiles’ freaking legs, naked and flushed and Stiles is prey.

“You're stunning. Gorgeous.” Derek opened his mouth, exhaling shaking as he runs his palms up Stiles’ thighs and grips his hips. “My mate is perfect.”

Stiles blushes hotter, darker, and he squirms under Derek's gaze. It's not judgemental, not even scrutinizing. It's not as if Derek is searching for flaw. More like… He finds none. Like he can't get enough of looking at Stiles laid bare under him.

It's just so intense, as if Derek's is really in awe of what he's seeing.

Stiles feels exposed and desperate, and when he grabs at some of the gray blankets and tries dragging them over his body, Derek outright snarls.

Stiles freezes.

Derek's eyes are blazing, brilliant red as he crawls up, up, pushing Stiles’ legs further apart as he brings their mouths together.

“Mine,” Derek scolds, and Stiles trembles.

“Der, c’mon… It's embarrassing, I--”

Derek grumbles--pouting?--and presses his face to Stiles’ neck. “Mine. Mine, I…” Derek's voice goes less growly, and Stiles realizes he may have been talking to the wolf.

Derek's hands run down his thighs, one sliding between them to palm Stiles’ stomach. He runs it up Stiles’ side, pressing his fingers into Stiles’ fine ribs.

“Wanted this so long… Don't hide from me. You're so beautiful Stiles, so… Please,” Derek sighs into his collarbone, and Stiles whimpers when Derek’s hands tighten their grip and his tongue traces the bone line.

“Okay, okay, ah! Ah, alright. Whatever you want. Whatever, anything--please touch me,” Stiles hurries out, and Derek grins, licking over the fine bone again.

“I intend to. Everywhere.” He drags his teeth over Stiles throat, then latches on and sucks a bruise into the pale skin.

Stiles bucks up under him.

Derek pulls back to observe the stain, the wolf purring in contentment. “Your skin is perfect… So pale, soft. It's an invitation for me to mark you up.”

Stiles shudders.

“No… Nobody else is ever gonna touch you, Stiles,” Derek snarls, digging his thumbs into Stiles’ hips. “Mine.”

Mine, my mate. Claim, fuck, fuck--mine.

The wolf claws at Derek, dragging him down, down Stiles’ body until he's panting hot and wet against one flat hipbone.

He slides his hands up, rubbing his thumbs in circles against Stiles’ pebbled nipples.

Stiles gasps, arching up into the touch. Derek makes a note of that, pinching and twisting lightly at the soft pink nubs until Stiles is writhing and making sounds he cannot control.

“I swear, I’d go mad if anybody ever,” Derek stops, pressing his forehead against Stiles’ prominent hipbone. Stiles makes a broken sound, and Derek exhales against the head of his cock. “Nobody but me, right, Stiles?” He flicks his red eyes up to Stiles’ face, and Stiles shakes his head.

“Just you. Nobody else--ever,” he gasps, and Stiles smells salt.

Tears?

Stiles’ eyes are watering.

Derek kisses the tip of his cock, making Stiles buck and gasp and groan out a long, aching sound.

“Fuck,” Derek rasps, and then he's sucking Stiles’ length down to the root.

He was right; it feels amazing at the back of his throat.

Stiles keens, high and sweet, and fuck, Derek wants to live in this moment forever.

His wolf is desperate, impatient, so hungry. The fever of rut means pinning a mate and fucking them until satisfied, hard and fast.

Derek will not let his animal nature hurt Stiles. He refuses, suckling the precum from Stiles’ cockhead, to rush this.

It's painful, however, dragging it out like this. Derek's cock is leaking and sore, the head purpling where it drips thick, pearly fluid. His jaw aches, his shoulders tense, and he wants so badly to flip Stiles over and fuck right into his unprepped hole.

But Stiles’ sweet moans as Derek tongues him and sucks him while he plays with his nipples ground him. Derek's anchor is wildness and serenity crushed into fine bones and desperate hands.

Derek takes one hand and reaches between his legs, finding the bottle of lube against his thigh. He pops the cap and a generous amount oozes into his palm. He slicks his fingers, still sucking Stiles’ dick like he's starved for it.

His eyes flick up to Stiles ‘ face, and Derek's heart pounds against his ribs. Stiles is gorgeous in pleasure, his mouth slack, eyes screwed shut, hands fisting the sheets.

He's exquisite. Derek has never seen something so amazing.

He brings his slick fingers to Stiles’ hole, smears some of the line across his perineum and rim, and then sinks two fingers in to the second knuckle.

He's so soft inside, so hot. Derek moans wantonly around Stiles’ cock, the sound mixed with a growl that vibrates up from his ribs.

Stiles’ eyes fly open, his entire body giving a great spasm before his hands fly off the bed. One tangles in Derek's hair, the other flutters across the blankets as Stiles breathes desperately.

“Derek! Derek!” Stiles cries, meeting Derek's gaze as Derek crooks his fingers inside him.

Call it a werewolf gift, but when Stiles outright screams and his cock jumps against Derek's tongue, Derek knows he has successfully found his mate’s prostate on the first try. Lucky guess.

“Derek, holy shit, oh, aaaah, fuck. I'm gonna come. Derek, Derek, I'm gonna come,” Stiles pleads, frantic as he tugs on Derek's hair hard enough to hurt a lesser being.

Derek pulls off his mate’s cock, growling out a sound he's never made before. “You gonna come, Stiles?” Derek wraps his free hand around Stiles’ dick, squeezing the base.

Stiles looks absolutely appalled, as if he's never been denied release the moment he reached it.

Derek hums, a sound like thunder. “Not yet…” His voice is fucked, raw and gravelly, and Stiles rocks down against his fingers. “How does it feel?”

“It feels diff--I mean. Oh,” Stiles’ face burns red.

“What was that?” Derek says, plunging his fingers in deeper, purposefully rubbing that bundle of nerves on the drawback.

Stiles mewls, biting his own lip. “I… I--you're fingers… They're bigger,” he says.

“Bigger than?”

“M-mmm-mine,” Stiles whispers, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving.

Derek responds to that with a satisfied growl. “You've done this before then… Touched yourself--fingered yourself,” Derek teases, slowly fucking Stiles’ hole with his two fingers.

Stiles writhes, the velvet softness of his inner walls trembling around Derek's digits.

“Dereeeeek,” he begs. “Don't. Don't stop.”

“I won't,” Derek promises. “If you tell me how good it feels.”

Stiles’ blush darkens. “Feels sooo fuckin’ good. God, I want your dick so bad.”

The wolf wants to lunge, happy to oblige.

Derek is content to continue teasing Stiles’ sanity. “You feel full? You like this?” Derek presses his fingertips to Stiles’ prostate and strokes his cock at the same time. “My dick is much bigger. You'll feel full then; I promise.”

Stiles bucks, whimpering. “Please, I wanna come. Wanna come on your cock.”

“How often have you fingered yourself? Hn, often enough to feel the difference. Did you think of me?”

Writhing, Stiles nods. “Yeah, yes, mm. Thought of you every time--fingered myself and pictured you doin’ it. Never fingered myself before we met--didn't know I wanted it.”

Derek growls, releasing Stiles’ cock before readjusting. He shifts onto his knees, and then, without warning, starts fucking Stiles’ hole in earnest. He holds him steady by pressing his hip down into the mattress, fixated on the sight of his fingers slipping in and out, the sudden clench of Stiles’ muscles making Derek's dick throb.

“Yes, Derek, fuck. Please!”

“Come for me, Stiles. Come on,” Derek sighs, bruising Stiles’ hip as he digs his fingers in deep and presses them against Stiles’ prostate.

Stiles’ back bows, his hands clutching the blankets, pulling, and his head falls to the side as he cries out.

It sounds like pain, but Derek can smell and feel Stiles’ pleasure all around him. Stiles’ voice cracks, beautifully, and Derek watches the red tip of Stiles’ cock spurt out ropes of cum.

It paints Stiles’ stomach, which is trembling, and the scent makes Derek whimper and moan.

“Stiles,” he gasps, and Stiles shudders and cries out again when Derek withdraws his fingers.

He takes his hand and rubs it through the mess on Stiles’ stomach, smearing his cum across his chest, rubbing it in.

“I'm gonna come,” Derek gasps, and it's a surprise to him just as it is to Stiles.

But Stiles reaches out for him, dragging Derek down on top of him. He makes a desperate sound when Derek's blood-hot cock thrusts against his over sensitive length, but Stiles holds Derek close and pants heavily against his ear.

Stiles guides Derek's hips to thrust his cock against the soft space at his inner thigh, their bodies held tight together.

“Fuck,  Stiles, I’m gonna come,” Derek says again, desperately, and he holds onto Stiles for dear life.

“Come on, Derek, that's it,” Stiles whispers, and Derek thrusts twice against the soft skin of Stiles stomach before he's burying his claws in the mattress.

He drops his head against Stiles’ throat and groans, snarling as his cock splashes cum all over Stiles’ stomach and hip.

Stiles moans, running his palms up Derek's back, burying a hand in his hair and pulling on the sweat-damp threads.

“Yes, fuck,” Stiles sighs, rutting his hips up against Derek’s, riding him through his orgasm.

Derek is whining, wrapping one arm tightly around Stiles’ waist to drag him close. He thought he'd be satisfied, but now, he's even more on edge.

More awake, more sensitive, more desperate and hungry for Stiles.

“Mate,” he whispers, kissing Stiles’ throat. “I…”

Derek props himself up on one arm, marveling down at the mess of himself on Stiles’ skin, still smeared across his dick.

He's still hard. He hasn't relaxed at all.

Stiles notices.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, nails scratching across Derek's scalp and shoulder.

“Gonna fuck you now,” Derek slurs, and he feels like the wolf is at the back of his throat, pressing just beneath his skin.

Stiles’ eyes flick up to his face, shocked and nervous and so beautifully brown. “Now?”

“Now,” Derek growls, and he finds the lube and squirts a generous helping into his palm, slicking himself up, fucking his fist while watching Stiles’ face.

Stiles sags against the bed and whimpers, thighs squeezing Derek's hips. He releases Derek in favor of gripping the pillow above his head with one hand. With the other, he runs his fingers through Derek's cum.

Derek's eyes bleed red, bright and dangerous as he watches Stiles rub his cum, his scent, into his skin.

Stiles eyes droop, then close as he brings two messy fingers to his mouth and sucks the sticky fluid off.

Derek squeezes the base of his slippery dick and chokes back a moan.

Stiles repeats the action twice, moaning obscenely, before he palms the remaining mess on his stomach and drags the scent up his chest and all over his throat. He rubs and smears Derek’s cum into his skin until all shine and slick is gone.

Derek purrs, a thunderous sound of approval humming in his chest.

Stiles is blushing crimson down his throat.

“There must be something severely fucked up in my head,” Stiles gasps, “if I find that fucking hot.”

“No,” Derek protests firmly, using his clean hand to cup Stiles’ jaw. “My mate is perfect.”

Stiles smiles, the action crinkling his eyes and flashing his teeth. He laughs, and the sound hits Derek right behind the ribs. “You are the craziest idiot I've ever met.”

Derek rests on his elbow so he can kiss Stiles lips, chaste and soft. He can smell himself lingering on Stiles’ tender flesh, the mixed scent of him and Stiles cloying and thick in his nose.

Derek snarls, a sound so far from human anyone but Stiles would have been frightened.

But Stiles just runs his palms up Derek's chest and over his shoulders, wrapping his legs around Derek's waist tightly.  “C’mon, alpha. Don't keep me in suspense here.”

Derek bumps their foreheads together. “I'm pretty big.”

“I fucking noticed.”

Derek reaches between them and takes hold of his dick in one hand. He hooks the other under one of Stiles’ knees, spreading his legs open, baring his hole.

“Stiles, I…” Derek halts, the head of his cock catching on Stiles’ rim.

Stiles hisses, thrusts down against the contact. “I'm here. I've got you,” he says, more to himself than to Derek really.

Derek pushes, the head popping in.

Stiles’ eyes fly open, hands pawing across Derek’s skin before latching onto his biceps. “Fuck.”

“Mate,” Derek whispers. “Shit, Stiles. You okay?”

“Keep going,” Stiles nods fervently.

Derek exhales, growling, and thrusts deeper.

Stiles’ heat is velvet and honey, and Derek’s head drops forward as he releases his cock in favor of holding Stiles open with both hands under his knees.

Stiles writhes against the mattress, gasping, sucking in huge lungfuls of air as Derek pulls back and then fucks forward again.

“Ah, oh god, Derek,” Stiles exclaims, and Derek fucks deeper the next time.

It takes a few minutes, but when Derek finally thrusts in so deep his hips are flush to Stiles ass, he snarls. A howl presses against the back of his throat, his eyes glowing as he stares down at where he's completely seated inside of Stiles.

Inside his mate.

“You're so tight,” Derek sighs, rocking his hips up, dragging Stiles down onto his cock.

Stiles moans, loudly, and Derek wants every sound branded into his skin. “You're so huge. Derek, Jesus, you've gotta be kidding me.”

Derek releases Stiles’ legs in favor of ushering them back around his waist. Like this, he can get down on his elbows, nuzzle his face into Stiles’ neck, and kiss him.

Stiles moans against his lips, turning the kisses into messy licks. And then Stiles is just panting against Derek’s jaw on each inward stroke as Derek holds him down and fucks him. He curves one arm under Stiles, cradling his head in his hand and tugging his hair. With the other, he strokes Stiles’ thigh and cants his hips up and leverages himself on the mattress to fuck deeper and harder.

“This is insane. I’m dead. I’ve died, I am dead, this can’t be real,” Stiles rambles, and his voice is broken into a helpless sob when Derek tugs on his hair, arching his throat.

“It’s real,” Derek hums, licking Stiles’ throat. He dips in close and bites the tender flesh of Stiles’ pulse, then sucks another dark bruise there. Stiles will be covered in his claims and he’ll smell of Derek, and the next time anybody sees him, they’ll know without a doubt the boy is alpha Hale property.

“Derek, c’mon; give it to me,” Stiles gasps, clawing at Derek’s biceps. “Fuck, you’re perfect. F-faster. Oh, shit, hn. Harder.”

Derek bites down, his teeth clacking as he tries to focus through the haze Stiles’ words create in his head.

But his hips obey, pistoning into Stiles’ willing, eager body with more force, more speed.

Stiles reaches an arm up and braces his hand against the headboard so he can fuck back against Derek’s thrusts. He keeps making these gorgeous sounds; perfect little ah, ah, ahs with each thrust. Like they’re being forced from his lips.

Then Derek’s dick hits his prostate a certain way, and Stiles tosses his head back and keens. The sound is so wolflike, so wild and bright, Derek feels a snap go through his body from head to toe.

It makes Derek’s hips snap up hard, and Stiles’ eyes fly open and he cries out. Broken, needy; almost pained, his hands flying back to Derek’s neck, clinging to him.

Oh.

That sound has the hair prickling across Derek’s body, his hackles raising, and his wolf claws at the surface; tearing through.

Derek releases Stiles in favor of taking his hips in his hands. He licks up Stiles’ chest and bites the rounded curve of his shoulder, teeth leaching a crescent bruise.

Stiles exhales shakily, his cock twitching against his stomach, the scent of his arousal clouded by pain and the shame of enjoying it.

Derek bruises Stiles’ hips, fucking back into him hard, rough, chasing that sound.

Sure enough, Stiles cries out again, nails digging into Derek's shoulders. “Derek, Derek!”

Derek snarls, licking a path up Stiles’ throat, biting his way back down to the curve of his shoulder. Each new mark left from his teeth makes Stiles buck and gasp, and God, he sounds and feels and tastes amazing.

Derek pulls back, sitting up on his knees as he drags Stiles into his lap. He fucks him harder, watching his pretty cock bounce against his belly.

“Derek, please,” Stiles gasps, whimpers, and Derek thrashes his head in a sharp shake.

Something feels wrong, a distant buzz in his nerves that has him feeling thirsty and aching to run.

But he's here with Stiles, sinking in and drawing out, pressing claims of purple flowers all over his mate’s fine skin.

Derek flinches but doesn't slow when Stiles’ hand cups his cheek. The other hand brushes his ear, and Derek can feel it's… Pointed.

His jaw is sharp and hairy beneath Stiles’ palm, and Derek feels the sharp ache in his jaw that means his fangs are elongated.

Everything is focused, colors bright and the edges of objects clear, the warmth of Stiles’ skin flushing him and making him glow golden. The scent of rut and sweat and cum, the sound of Stiles’ heart beating anxiously against his ribs… Everything is right at the forefront of Derek’s mind, pressing like a weight.

He's shifting. That's the buzz. He's going full alpha, his muscles and joints already changing beneath his skin, preparing to support a wolf’s form.

Derek stutters, hips faltering as he catches his breath.

“It's okay. I'm here--it's Stiles. Come here, gorgeous; stay with me.” Stiles tangles a hand in Derek's hair and pulls him close, sitting up on one arm so he can reach Derek's jaw with his lips.

He kisses Derek slowly, mindful of his teeth, and rolls his hips slow and sweet against Derek's lap. The tiny noises Stiles makes as he rocks on Derek's cock make Derek feel like the moon is waxing in his skin.

“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice that of an animal.

“Stay here. C’mon; you said you wanted to stay with me,” Stiles moans, and Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist and hoists him up.

Stiles gasps, shuddering as Derek settles him back in his lap, cock driving deep as Stiles bears down on him.

“I'm here,” Derek says, barely breathing as he takes Stiles’ hips in his hands and lifts him up.

Stiles’ arms wrap around Derek's shoulders as if by instinct, legs doing the same, and he moans and whines against Derek's neck as Derek fucks him down on his cock over and over.

“Did I hurt you?” Derek gasps, and Stiles rocks back against the next thrust, head falling back as pleasure spikes through his nerves.

“No. No way,” Stiles groans, and Derek kisses his bared throat. Stiles picks his head back up and presses their foreheads together, touching Derek's cheek. “The scruff was insanely hot though.”

Derek sighs, kissing the corner of Stiles’ mouth.

“How long can you keep this up?” Stiles moans, and Derek gives him a particularly rough and precise thrust against his prostate.

“As long as you want me to,” Derek murmurs, smirking. “Longer, the deeper into the change I am.”

“So,” Stiles laughs. “You have levels of werewolf stamina?”

Derek rocks into him, groaning, and Stiles chokes. “Quiet, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head, sitting up so he can look down at Derek's body while he's easily fucked in Derek's strong arms. “I'd… Uhm.”

Derek arches a brow, dips forward to lick sweat from Stiles’ chest. “What is it, baby?”

“I'd like… It. I’d let you, you know.”

“I don't know, really.”

Stiles is flushed a beautiful shade of rose, rising up his throat and across his cheekbones. His ears practically glow.

“I'd let you fuck me in your alpha form. As a wolf,” he blurts out, blushing darker.

Derek's body burns, and he looks up into Stiles’ eyes.

“I'd like it. I'd let you pin me down against the forest floor and fuck me like a bitch, Der. I'd take it so good for you, I promise. I'd beg and whine and howl if you wanted me to. Bet your cock is so pretty as a wolf; bet you'd split me right in--aaaah!”

Derek sets a brutal pace, fucking his hips up as he slams Stiles down, and he's snarling, squeezing his eyes shut.

Stiles can't stop moaning, each sound punctuated and broken up by the quick, hard thrusts as he bounces on Derek's lap.

“Next time,” Derek snaps, licking Stiles jaw, biting the spot just beneath his ear.

Stiles nails score down his back, and Derek can feel them graze the edge of his triskele ever so perfectly.

“Yes, please. Fuck, Derek. You're so good, fuck me,” Stiles chokes out, turning his face into Derek's neck and biting the corded muscle hard.

Something in Derek's brain goes static and wild at that, an instinct he didn't know he had crawling to the surface with tooth and claw.

He feels it at the base of his cock, a pressure he's never experienced before flooding his stomach with blinding arousal.

When he says it, he's not exactly thinking. Derek only knows that there's one thing he needs in this world right now, and it's Stiles. It's Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, his mate, his own, his everything.

And one thing more.

“Take my pups,” Derek whines, and Stiles’ eyes snap open. He jerks back from his place hugging Derek tightly, looking into his eyes. “My mate, mine, please, please have my pups.” Derek’s expression is all pinched brows and red puppy-dog eyes and kiss-swollen lips, and Stiles’ heart skips a beat or two as it thunders on behind his ribs.

Stiles stares down at him, Derek’s thrusts not slowing. His arms just tighten around Stiles’ waist, looking into Stiles’ face reverently.

Instantly embarrassed by how open and desperate Derek looks, Stiles hugs him, hiding his face in Derek's neck.

Stiles laughs, the sound distorted by a moan. “Well, scientifically speaking, that's impossible.”

Derek makes a low, rumbling growl--no, a whimper in his chest, hugging Stiles tighter. Something in his back pops.

Stiles groans, shaking his head. He sits back a bit. “Not that that matters at all.”

He takes Derek's face between his hands, forces those red-hued eyes up to his.

Derek stops breathing.

“Please, alpha. Derek. My Derek. Gimme your pups. I wanna have your pups, please--come inside me. Mate me,” Stiles begs, pleads, and Derek's wolf howls.

The room spins, and Stiles finds himself on his back again with Derek kissing him with all he has.

Derek says something quickly, but he's still kissing Stiles, so it sounds like garbled groans.

“What?” Stiles gasps.

“Hands and knees,” Derek growls, and Stiles shudders and chokes back a scream as Derek pulls out of him and takes his hips in his hands. “Now.”

Stiles nods eagerly, twisting himself around and doing his best to get up onto his hands and knees.

Derek smooths a hand over the curve of Stiles’ ass, then drags him up by his hips. Stiles moans.

Derek presses his thumbs against Stiles’ crease and spreads him open.

He wants to tell Stiles how gorgeous he looks, loose and slick and pink, but he can't find words. He just leans forward and laps at Stiles’ hole until the boy is bucking back against his face and shaking his head furiously.

“Please, Derek, fuck. Need you back in me. Mate, please. Breed me,” Stiles pleads, and Derek groans.

He can't speak, just lines himself up and takes Stiles hips. He's balls deep in one fluid thrust, setting a punishing pace that immediately knocks Stiles from his hands down onto his elbows, hands clutching at the blankets as his knees spread further apart.

“Fuck, Derek. Oh yeah, yeah, God. Ohh,” Stiles rocks back into Derek's thrusts, and Derek marvels at the smooth plain of his back, his bowed shoulders, the damp hairs at the back of his neck.

He covers Stiles’ body with his own and licks the nape of his neck, nuzzling his nose into the hair and breathing deep.

“Stiles,” Derek finally manages to say, like it’s the only word he still knows.

Stiles reaches between his legs with one hand and Derek can smell the slick of precum and feel Stiles shaking beneath him as he strokes himself.

Derek snaps his teeth, the sound like a bark, and he grabs Stiles’ arms and drags them back, pinning them just above his ass.

Stiles mewls against the mattress, turning his face to cry, “Derek.”

Derek fucks him harder, blinking against something bright taking over the edges of his vision.

That pressure at the base of his dick grows, swelling, and it blooms heat up Derek's abdomen into his chest.

Every thrust forces a beautiful sound from Stiles, a stream of ah, ah, ahn, ah, that Derek can't get enough of.

“Stiles, I'm…” He chokes, fucking Stiles faster.

“Derek, I'm gonna come. Oh fuck, oh god; shit! Fuck!” Stiles breaks off then, each thrust punching a high pitched whine out of him.

Stiles doesn't even care about the “no dog noises” rule anymore. He's so raw and sensitive and Derek's fucking his prostate like he's trained to it. He can't help that he sounds the way he sounds.

Derek doesn't slow down, but he does notice when it starts getting harder to pull back.

He growls through his teeth, “Holy god.”

“Ahn?” Stiles gasps in way of question.

“I'm… I'm knotting you. I'm gonna knot you, Stiles,” Derek chokes.

“Like a dog? Shit,” Stiles sounds like he's smiling. “Fuck yes. Gimme, give it. I want it, Derek. Please. Gimme your knot.”

“Stiles,” Derek starts, and then he's held in place by Stiles’ gravity and the knot tying them together, waxing fuller like the moon. “This… I’ve never--”

Stiles goes quiet, still, and then he cries out desperately. “Fuck, Derek, oh my god!”

Derek pulls Stiles flush to him, covering him like a blanket with his weight as he thrusts frantically without gaining any ground.

The second he releases Stiles’ hands, Stiles is reaching back and tangling one into his hair, yanking hard.

“Derek, holy shit!”

“So tight. So fuckin’ tight, baby,” Derek groans, his knot swelling, swelling.

Derek smells salt; Stiles is crying. Again.

“Feels so good,” Stiles says, shaking Derek's sudden fear away. “Derek, I'm gonna fuckin’ come. Gimme your knot; fill me with your pups.”

Derek whimpers, sliding one arm under Stiles, wrapping it across his chest and holding onto his shoulder.

“Please,” Derek breathes. “Stiles, I’ve never done this before.”

Stiles wriggles. “It's ok. It's alright, I'm here, Derek, I-- God. Fuck!” The swollen bulb of Derek's knot is still growing, pressing on Stiles’ prostate relentlessly.

He sees stars and blurs of shadow.  His body feels like fire. Something tickles in the back of Stiles neck, and he opens his mouth and blurts out--

“Bite.”

Derek squeezes him. “What?”

“Bite me, Derek. C’mon,” Stiles fucks back against the knot, baring the right side of his throat as he tilts his head. “Mark me. Claim me. You want to--I know you do.”

Derek’s wolf croons in his chest, and he blinks back stars and tears.

This is bad. This is the worst case scenario. He's stuck inside of Stiles, fever-struck, with this beautiful boy offering him something he can't comprehend.

“Stiles,” he chokes.

“Please, tell me you feel it, too. Please, I can't…” Stiles turns his face, just enough to look up at Derek and show him those tears. “Please…”

Derek whimpers high in his throat. He cups Stiles’ face in his hand and bows over him, kissing his cheek where the tears have dampened it.

“I want you more than anything. More than I've ever wanted something before,” Derek promises, eyes softening, burning like embers.

Stiles sniffles, smiling as he lets his head fall to the side again. “Please…” He shivers. “Mine. Make me yours.”

Derek feels it. Behind his chest, like the full moon itself, white and wild and blinding.

He kisses Stiles’ shoulder, sighs against the warm skin.

And then he bites, teeth blunt on Stiles skin before fangs break flesh and blood paints his tongue.

It tastes like moonlight and sun-warmed grass and a thousand summer nights in Derek’s mouth, burnt sugar and Stiles and mating bond.

Stiles screams, the sound ecstasy and pure passion and then Derek feels his walls clamping up on him and smells Stiles’ cum soaking the blankets.

Stiles’ orgasm is an ocean wave, drowning Derek with blinding intensity.

Before he even releases Stiles from the bite, Derek is coming inside him.

He howls, teeth clamped in Stiles’ flesh, and floods Stiles with jet after jet of cum. His dick throbs, his knot finally fully blown, forcing pleasure upon Stiles that his human body shouldn't respond to so well.

But he's still moaning, both of his hands in Derek's hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, as if he's holding Derek's bite in his skin.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, shaking apart in Derek's arms.

Derek releases the bite, lapping his tongue across the wounds until Stiles’ bleeding stops and his skin seals up. Derek is trembling, his wolf content and yet somehow stronger and fiercer than ever before. There are bells and howls echoing off Derek’s bones, boiling in his blood. For the first time in his life, he feels something taking place in his chest that wasn’t there before. Like finally, an empty place that has always been inside of him is filled.

He kisses the marks of his teeth, holding Stiles against him tight enough to break.

But Stiles doesn't bend, doesn't snap or shatter in Derek's arms. He's warm and sure, safe. He's coming down from the high, his sweat and gasping breaths smelling sweet and warm.

Derek scents the wound, rubs his face against it so gently as he soaks in the afterglow.

It's warm here now. The fever is still in Derek's bones; his rut isn't over. But he feels content, and loved, and his entire body is humming and alive.

He's mated. He's claimed his mate, his and his alone.

Stiles shudders, exhaling a ragged sound as he releases Derek's hair, hand falling limp on the pillow.

“Well, fuck,” he laughs breathlessly. “Am I dead?”

Derek chuckles at that, kissing Stiles’ smooth shoulder blade. “Not yet, we’re not.”

After a few minutes, Derek wraps Stiles in his arms and rolls them to the side, settling in behind Stiles and curving against him with his arms still around his shoulders and waist.

“You’re spooning me,” Stiles says.

“Yes, that’s what this is called,” Derek replies.

“Derek Hale is spooning me,” Stiles laughs. He shifts slightly, a breathless sigh falling from his lips. “And he’s knotted inside me.”

Derek grumbles approvingly at that.

“So when you said you’ve… never. I mean, you’ve--never?” Stiles mutters, and Derek runs his hand up Stiles’ arm and cups his shoulder gently.

“That’s usually what ‘I never’ means,” Derek says, smiling.

Stiles stiffens against him slightly, and Derek can hear the sudden quickening of his pulse, which was coming down steadily from the high. “Oh god… Derek, I’m--I’m sorry if you… Shit. I’m sorry.” Stiles sounds panicked, and he moves as if he’s about to attempt sitting up.

Derek yips, partially in pain, partially in fear. He pulls Stiles back down, flush against him, and holds him secure in his arms.

“Stiles, settle down. Breathe. It’s alright, just tell me what’s wrong, baby,” he says gently, and Stiles’ hands are white-knuckled on Derek’s forearm.

“I shouldn’t have… I mean, you were so… And then I just--I took advantage of you,” Stiles snaps.

Derek stills, blinks. He hugs Stiles tighter, smiling as he kisses one pale shoulder. “You took advantage of me, huh?”

“Mating is special. It’s like, for life, and you’ve never knotted, and that seems special, and also kinky, and I took that from you, and now--oh my god. I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to tie you to me, I was just talking in the heat of the moment, and something in my head said it would be a good idea if you bit me, and I thought you were just--”

“Fever talking? Rut making me say shit I didn’t mean?”

“Yes!” Stiles lifts his hands and covers his own face with them, even though Derek already can’t see him.

“Stiles?”

“Hmph…”

Derek kisses the nape of his neck, sighing heavily. “What I meant when I said I’d never knotted before meant I had never been with my true mate. And when I bit you, it wasn’t the rut. It was me--claiming my mate. Mine,” Derek says slowly, letting the words raise the fine hairs at the back of Stiles’ neck. “Wolves mate for life, Stiles. If anything, I tricked you.”

Stiles shakes his head, wrapping his arms across Derek’s arms, tangling their legs together. “You… Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. Haven’t you watched the Discovery channel?”

Stiles kicks at him, but it’s half-hearted. “Derek, I… I don’t want you to be chained down to me.”

“And I want you to know I can never belong to anyone else… And, if you… If you wanted to leave--”

“Never.”

If Derek didn’t know any better, he’d say Stiles sounded like a wolf just then. Ferocious, willful, determined.

It makes his stomach warm, and he presses his forehead to the back of Stiles’ neck.

“Then… We’re in agreement? This is… Alright?” Derek murmurs.

Stiles groans. “Very alright.”

It takes just under a half hour for Derek’s knot to go down, and as soon as he can slip out, he’s off to the bathroom. He comes back with a damp washcloth and a glass of water, which Stiles drinks while Derek wipes him down with gentle hands and broad strokes.

When the water is gone and Derek has climbed back into bed, Stiles lets himself be easily spooned. Derek curls around him, breathing warmly against his neck.

Stiles is quiet for a short time, allowing Derek a moment of peace while the fever brews quietly. His wolf will be sated until the next heat wave, and there won’t be a crash this time. Derek is content. Sleepy.

“Just a couple of questions…” Stiles says, running his fingers delicately across one of Derek’s forearms. “It’s about the Discovery channel.”

Derek grumbles.

“...You’ve been mean to the pack for a while now. But… With Jackson particularly--that was with me in the room. You attacked him because, even then, you knew I was your mate?” Stiles says slowly.

Derek stiffens. Shit, he hadn’t thought about the previous signs; didn’t think Stiles would find them. “...Yes. I lashed out at him because he scented you. He didn’t mean to, but. Well. The fever affects everyone differently. I didn’t know you were my mate, let alone my true-mate… I just wanted you, and I didn’t like what he did. At all.”

“And you were being mean to me to distance me?”

“A good mate would have been courting you,” Derek groused. “But… I’ve always been careful about you, Stiles. You’re soft, and breakable, and your father could have me put in a very deep hole for a very long time. Or better yet, he could shoot me.”

Stiles laughs. “Dad would never do that… He knows I,” he breaks off, and Derek can smell and taste the wave of his embarrassment.

“Hm?”

“My dad… kinda knows I’m in love with you,” Stiles says, too quiet for human ears to hear. “That I have been for, like, forever.”

Derek’s breath catches in his throat, his wolf running circles behind his ribs. “I…”

“Funny, how things just kind of don’t get fucked up, isn’t it?” Stiles says, lifting one of Derek’s hands to his face, kissing the calloused skin of his palm.

Derek feels like he’s about to shift, just so he can go running through the woods, howling to the moon, my mate is mine, my mate loves me.

Instead, he hugs Stiles tight enough for Stiles to wheeze in his arms. “Stiles… My mate.”

“I really do love you, sourwolf,” Stiles says gently.

“Stiles… I love you. I wanna tell you every morning, and every night. I want to love you and protect you, and I want our pack and our family, and I want to hold you and kiss you whenever I want, and--”Stiles laughs, twisting around and touching his fingertips gently to Derek’s stubbled jaw.

“You’re freaking adorable, you know that? And perfect. My mate is perfect,” Stiles says, echoing Derek’s words from before.

Derek preens, kissing the corner of Stiles’ mouth, then his lips. “Did you like the knot?”

“I fucking loved it.”

“Good, because I’ll be fevering again as soon as I have the strength, and my wolf will be knotting you at every chance it gets.”

Stiles nods. He looks over his shoulder at Derek. “So you just need some rest before you get into another hump zone, yeah?”

Derek closes his eyes. “If you wouldn’t call it that.”

“And then we can go again?” Stiles asks, eyes sparkling.

Derek blinks at him.

“What? You’re still rutting, right? Gotta get all that fuck-energy out,” Stiles waggles his brows.

“You’re god awful,” Derek says, kissing Stiles’ neck. “And just awesome.”

Stiles grins, arching his neck, baring the mark. It makes Derek’s skin tingle. “I am awesome.”

“In any case, I say we take a nap. Rest is good for recently deflowered virgins and mated werewolves,” Derek says, reaching down to drag a blanket over them. It wasn’t lying under them while they fucked, so Derek felt safe to say it was clean.

Stiles purrs, humming contentedly as he settles back in Derek's arms. “Derek Hale took my virginity,” he says, either to himself or to an imaginary crowd.

Either way, Derek rolls his eyes.

“Derek,” Stiles breathes, and Derek hugs him tighter.

“So, your rut lasts a couple days, right?”

“Closer to a week.”

“Hm,” Stiles nods. “So… it's been three now?”

“Stiles,” Derek grumbles, pressing his face against Stiles’ hair.

“Just askin’. You know, so I know how much time I have to do all the things I've fantasized about doing with you.”

Derek groans. “Jesus, Stiles.”

“What? I've an active imagination and you have a magic werewolf dick that can go for hours.”

“Please just sleep now.”

Stiles wriggles against Derek’s cock, soft but still heavy against his ass, sighing a rich, needy sound as he reaches back and palms Derek’s thigh. “Sure you can't go again right now?”

“I hate you,” Derek growls out, biting at the nape of Stiles’s neck.

“You love me,” Stiles says in a singsong voice. “My mate loves me.”

Derek crushes Stiles against him, curling his body up around Stiles’ smaller frame. “I do. God, I do, I do--I love you, Stiles.”

Derek can smell Stiles’ rush of embarrassment, the sweetness of his blush.

Stiles is breathing fast when he says, “I love you,” and even faster when he says, “I wanna kiss you.”

Derek kisses his neck, his shoulder, grumbling contentedly as he kisses Stiles’ mark. “Later. Right now, you need rest.”

“Then stop trying to work me up,” Stiles snaps, looking over his shoulder. The action makes his shoulder pinch, a bit of blood bursting out of the thin scab already forming. Stiles blinks, watching Derek’s eyes dance to the spot.

He leans forward and very gently drags his tongue over the mark again, lapping up the blood, closing the wound.

Stiles’ cock leaks.

Derek smiles. “You’ll have to give me one, too, you know,” he says, brushing his nose and lips over the crescent, paying close attention to the deep punctures of his fangs.

Stiles blinks. “I…”

“I’m yours, aren’t I?”

“But… I’m like an omega, right? And you’re still alpha. Isn’t that disrespectful? Or somehow, like, no Bueno? I’m still learning how these things work I guess, and that means I would have to bite you, which means you’d have to submit to me, and that’s—“

Derek tucks his fingers under Stiles’ jaw and tilts his head a bit further, sealing his mouth with his lips. He kisses Stiles slow and deep, until his breathing has steadied and the tense pull of his muscles is gone. “Mated means you are my equal. I would gladly offer you my throat, Stiles. I trust you; I love you.”

Stiles kisses him again, until the twist of his back and neck was too uncomfortable and he was forced to lay back down, nestling into the curve of Derek’s arms, his warm chest a solid line against Stiles’ back.

He grins. “Alpha Stiles,” he murmurs, and Derek’s lips curve into a smile against his neck. He falls asleep quickly after that.

Derek squeezes his mate to his chest, feeling the drop of the fever making him exhausted, finally. He can’t wait for Stiles to wake up, he can’t wait for the fever to leech into his blood again. More than that, Derek can’t wait for Stiles’ teeth in his neck, or to have Stiles without the haze of the fever.

He wants so many things, things he’s suddenly allowed to have now, because Stiles is his. Stiles wants to be his. Derek’s wolf grumbles, too fucking happy for words, and Derek lets the deep, content ache in his body drag him down to where Stiles is.

Alpha Stiles, Derek thinks, smirking. Then he thinks, Stiles Hale. He thinks pack and home and family and mate, and he already feels Stiles in his bones.

Stiles Hale, Beacon Hills alpha. Derek Hale’s mate. He likes the sound of that. So much.

Damn Stiles.