
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/945627.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Vernon_Boyd/Erica_Reyes/Stiles_Stilinski,
      Isaac_Lahey/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Omega_Verse, Knotting, Rimming, Cunnilingus,
      Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Fisting, Alpha_Derek, Omega_Stiles_Stilinski, Top
      Derek, Bottom_Stiles_Stilinski
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-28 Words: 11115
****** i need your sway ******
by thatworldinverted
Summary
     Stiles always figured it would be Scott who saw him through his first
     heat. They pinky-swore on it, in fact, when they were eleven and
     newly-presented. There haven’t exactly been an abundance of offers
     between then and now.
     What there is now, though, is the pack, and pack takes care of each
     other.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Stiles always figured it would be Scott who saw him through his first heat.
They pinky-swore on it, in fact, when they were eleven and newly-presented.
There haven’t exactly been an abundance of offers between then and now.
Instead there’s been, in no particular order: werewolves. Kanimas. Stiles’ ten-
year plan for wooing Lydia Martin. A freaking manticore. Scott dating Allison.
And breaking up with Allison. And dating her again. The kitsune. That one time
with the potion about which they Do Not Speak, ever.
Not to mention his epically unrequited thing for the leader of their little
band of merry wolves, going all the way back to the days when Derek Hale was
just the Hottie McMurderSuspect in the back of his dad’s patrol car.
That was bad enough. It’s approximately a milliontimes worse now that he’s seen
Derek fight for his pack, and bring them together as a family, and stumble out
of bed at 6AM with the most ridiculous case of bedhead. Who could be expected
to resist that, seriously?
And the way he smells, Jesus. He should not be allowed within one hundred feet
of Stiles when he smells that good.
Completely unsurprisingly, he hasn’t looked twice at Stiles. For research?
Sure. Need a car to bleed all over? Call Stiles. He’s got a key to Derek’s
loft, but so does the rest of the pack.
Stiles has accepted the fact that “unobtainable” is basically his kink.
: : :
He’s three days into his pre-onset cycle when he realizes what’s making him so
fucking irritable.
Okay, he doesn’t figure it out so much as the rest of the pack starts making
snippy little remarks about the wicked case of Preheat Syndrome he’s rocking.
Stiles takes himself to the doctor after school, who verifies that he is, in
fact, about to go into heat.
Doctor Haydon also makes sure to remind Stiles that, for the first few months,
at least, it’s not medically advisable to spend one’s heats alone. Does he need
the phone number for a reputable matching service?
Well, thanks, doc, for that reminder that no one’s in a hurry to climb aboard
the Stiles train.
: : :
Eventually his hormones will stabilize and he’ll be able to go on suppressants,
but for now he gets a doctor’s note, a birth control shot, and a week’s
vacation.
He texts Scott as soon as he gets home.
Dude, going into heat. U + me, bro?
can Allison come?
Can Allison come. To his heat. What. The. Fuck.
WHAT? WHAT EVEN, SCOTT?
it was her idea
This is not a conversation he can have via text.
“What the fuck, Scott? It was her idea, seriously?”
“I could smell that you were going into heat, man, and we made a deal, but
Allison’s my girlfriend, you know?”
Does he ever.
“She said it’s okay, though, as long as she gets to watch or something, and
everyone says it’s better if your first time’s with an alpha anyway, so...”
Scott trails off, and Stiles can just see the puppy-dog expression on his face.
Allison is pretty hot. But he’s never really thought about it, because, as
previously mentioned, she’s Scott’s girlfriend.
“Um, you don’t think that’ll be... weird?”
“No, dude, heat fucking is different. Don’t get any ideas about afterward,
though.”
Yeah, these days his ‘ideas’ tend more towards leather and stubble than any
words that could be used to describe Allison.
Except for maybe BAMF.
“I don’t know, Scott. Um, let me think about it, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
: : :
He’s up until two in the morning thinking about it. He just can’t get past the
idea of Allison naked.
Allison.
Naked.
Some things are ingrained, apparently, and one of them is the idea of not
screwing your best friend’s girlfriend. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.
He does try; tugs his boxers down, wraps slick fingers around his dick. He
imagines peeling Allison’s dress off, her standing over him in nothing but a
lacy bra, black tights, and a pair of heels.
Somewhere in the middle, it morphs into Stiles wearing the heels, panties
shoved to the side as Derek slams into him relentlessly.  
Fucking, fucking, shitting, fucking hell.
He’ll just find someone else. In two days. Sure. Not a problem.
: : :
By lunch the next day, Stiles is wound so tight he’s actually vibrating. Every
brush against his skin makes him nauseated, caught somewhere between the need
to submit and the desire to not have anything touch him ever again.
Not even Derek’s strong, broad, hot palms, running down his-
“Stiles.”
He blinks at Lydia’s fingers, snapping sharply in front of his nose. Pulls the
spoon he’s apparently been- Christ- practically fellating out of his mouth.
Erica’s open-mouthed and pink-cheeked, and he could swear she actually
whimpers.
God damn omega pheromones. He’s surprised they’re getting to Erica, though;
betas are usually more resistant to that sort of thing.
“Oh my god, you guys, I’m fucking doomed. Or doomed not to fuck. Either way. No
offense to you, Allison, it’s just too, too weird and I’m going to be one of
those freaks who goes insane during their first heat and humps the sofa or
something, Jesus Christ...”
His head thunks onto the table. Maybe he can just concuss his way into skipping
his heat entirely.
“Maybe you should ask Derek?”
Stiles yanks himself up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. “Scott,” he
hisses between his teeth, “I don’t know what you’re talking about- Derek- who’d
want to spend their heat with Derek, all broody and growly and shit. Um, how
about no? Ha. Ha, I say.”
Jackson snorts. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling. We can smell you
slutting it up for him even when you’re not in heat.”
“Jackson.”
Okay, he might be all about the D lately, but his kink list also includes “mean
as sin” and Lydia’s bitch-voice never fails to do it for him.
Stiles laments that fact when her focus shifts back to him.
“As much as I hate to say it, Scott has a point. Maybe you should ask Derek.”
“Do you all secretly hate me? Why do you want to put me through the level of
actual, physical trauma that Derek would undoubtedly release on my defenceless,
omega ass?”
Erica chokes on her Pepsi, she’s laughing so hard, and Scott, that fucking
traitor, laughs right along with her.
“NOT LIKE THAT, you fucking pervs.” He snatches up his tray and storms to the
trash; not even a double chocolate pudding cup can fix this shithole of a day.
Isaac finds him sulking in the basement stairwell twenty minutes later. It’s
next to the boiler room and always smells like sweaty ass, even to Stiles,
which should make it prime werewolf-free territory.
Who’s he kidding? He’s not that lucky.
And of course they had to send Isaac to track him down. Isaac and his stupid
freaking baby face.
“Hey,” he says quietly, slinging an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. Damn it, why
did he ever admit that he enjoyed the fuzzy wolf cuddles?
“It doesn’t have to be a thing, with you and Derek, if you’re not ready or
whatever. But he’s your pack leader too, remember? Pack takes care of each
other.”
“Yeah, Isaac?” He hears the nasty twist in his voice and suddenly doesn’t give
a shit. “Because I don’t see the rest of the pack volunteering.” He moves fast,
throws a leg over and spills himself into Isaac’s lap.
He grinds his ass down into Isaac’s thighs, and this close to his heat, the
pressure makes him whimper, dirty little sounds that he drops into Isaac’s ear.
“You going to do it, then?” Isaac’s hands clamp down on his hips, fingers
flexing like he can’t decide whether to pull Stiles in or shove him away.
Stiles’ mouth trails up Isaac’s neck, filth interspersed with tight pulls of
his teeth. “You going to put me on my hands and knees, fuck me, knot me, hmm?”
Isaac’s breath is wet, panting, his pupils blown wide, but he locks eyes with
Stiles, sweet, serious expression on his face.
“Yeah, Stiles. Talk to Derek first, okay, but yeah. If you need me to, I will.”
: : :
He sits in his car, telling himself he’s just waiting for the parking lot to
empty. He’s certainly not avoiding the drive to a certain pack leader’s
apartment.
Nope.
No sir.
Yes. Okay, fine, yes. He had planned to avoid the shit out of Derek this whole
week. Probably the next one too, just for good measure. His body’s begging for
it, he can practically feel his ass go loose and slutty at just the thought of
Derek, which is all the excuse he needs to stay as far away as possible.
Some things are stereotypes for a reason. If he knocks on the door and starts
begging incoherently for Derek’s knot like an omega from a ‘60s porno, Stiles
will never be able to look himself in the face again.  
He can do this. Hey, Derek, can you do me a solid? Nothing serious, just, you
know, screw my brains out, that’s all. If you ask Doctor Haydon, it’s a serious
medical issue. Derek’s the one who drove Stiles to the hospital after he broke
his wrist wrestling with Scott. It’s the same sort of thing. Basically.
That little burst of self-delusion gets him all the way to the front door. And
no further. Instead he just stares at the door, wondering how long he has to
wait here before he can legitimately tell Lydia that he’d tried, but damn,
Derek wasn’t home.
There are forty-five seconds left on his internal clock when the door swings
open. Then he just gives up, because Derek’s standing on the other side,
shirtless and damp, towel in hand, eyebrows scrunched up as he stares at
Stiles.
“Forget your key?”
“Mm.” Non-committal sounds, the key to prevaricating with werewolves.
Derek waves Stiles in and goes back to toweling his hair. Still shirtless, head
dropping down, a stretch in his arms as his torso dips into a long, smooth arc.
Suddenly Stiles is feeling a little light-headed, which is the only way he can
explain how his mouth opens and “I’mgoingintoheatwannafuck?” spills out.
The towel hits the floor with a wet smack as Derek jerks upright, eyes wide.
Oh god. Oh. God. Why does no one ever try to kill him when he really needs it?
Derek takes a deep breath and immediately looks like he regrets it. Stiles can
only imagine what he smells like- the stink of ripe omega and utter, complete
humiliation.
“Sooo, that’s a no, then? Okay, well, I’m just gonna go down to the river and
make a hole in it, k? Good talk.”
Fingers latch onto his arm, and Stiles resolutely ignores the thrill that runs
through him as they grind down, the way Derek’s hand circles his entire wrist.
He definitely does not picture the way they’d look pinning him to the bed.
“Stiles.”
He turns slowly, feet scuffing across the floor. Examines the window, the
couch- is that Stiles’ copy of Abarat?- anything but the blatant rejection
scrawled across Derek’s face. Stiles pulls sharply away from Derek’s grip,
loathing the fact that it only works because Derek chooses to let go.
There’s color high in Derek’s cheeks, but he’s wearing the blank mask that
never fails to put Stiles on edge. Derek’s face is only ever that
expressionless when he’s trying to hide something; pity, probably, for the
little sad sack omega in front of him.
“Why.”
“Um, can I get that in the form of a question?”
“Why are you asking me?”
God, Stiles can’t believe Derek’s going to make him come out and say it. “Ugh,
seriously? You do look at yourself in the mirror, don’t you?” He flushes at the
way his voice breaks when he waves a hand at the still-damp torso in front of
him, the freshly-shaven cheek bones and tight, denim-clad thighs.
Those thighs have featured prominently in his imagination lately.
“And, you know, everyone says it’s better with an alpha, right?”
“So you thought you’d just come over here and see if the hot alpha was up for a
heat fuck, is that it?”
He almost feels bad for what he’s about to do, but Derek’s fists are clenching,
white-knuckled, and he’s not willing to go down for this fucking stupidass
plan.
“It was all Scott’s idea!”
“Get. Out.” Wolf-red eyes flash and suddenly Derek’s not the only one who’s
pissed. It’s not like sharing a heat with Stiles would be such a hardship.
Derek doesn’t have to act so damn... insulted about the whole thing.
“Okay, okay, I’m going, slow your roll, buddy. I don’t know what the fuck your
problem is, it’s just a heat, it’s not a big deal.”
The way he collides with the wall of the loft doesn’t really come as a
surprise. The way the feel of it slams through him, though, makes every muscle
go lax and his skin fever-bright, forcing a whimper up into his mouth, that’s
unexpected.
“Derek,” and it’s just a whisper, a hush that he can barely hear over his own
heartbeat, “c’mon, Derek, please-”
“I said get out, Stiles. Don’t make me say it a third time.”
: : :
The trip back to his house is a haze, force of habit making the drive for him.
It shouldn’t... it’s not a surprise. Of course Derek said no. Derek was always
going to say no.
It’s just hormones, the pressing need to pull over and sob until it all goes
away. Just biology, amping up his emotions, and fuck his endocrine system,
anyway.
The rejection has his body primed, determined to attract an available alpha, to
be bred. To mate. The weight in his chest battles a desperate need to spread
his legs and rut; he wants to stuff his fingers inside himself and come until
he passes out.
Stiles sits in his driveway and breathes, in, count to five, out, count to
five, in again, until he feels like he can move without screaming.
His dad meets him at the door and he’s never been so grateful in his entire
life as he is now, when his dad doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any
questions. Doesn’t even try to hug him, just  understands that Stiles couldn’t
take the skin-on-skin contact right now.
Instead they walk through the house silently, wooden steps creaking as he
follows his dad into the basement. His parents- both betas- never used it for
anything but storage, but the space was designed as a fully-functional heat
room. Sound-proofing and scent-dampers in the insulation, a separate bathroom,
a reinforced bed... even a full-sized refridgerator. He was twelve when they
moved here, and Stiles knows they bought it with him in mind.
Tears finally make their appearance when he realizes that his dad’s been busy-
there’s fresh sheets on the bed, bags of fruit and his favorite almond &
apricot Kind bars on the shelves. He’d be willing to bet the fridge is full of
Smartwater and purple Gatorade.
Stiles curls into a ball on the bed and lets the shudders run through him. As
much as his body needs it, the thought of touching himself makes him want to
puke, so instead he just pulls his knees closer to his chest and tries not to
shake apart.
: : :
The scent of alpha jolts him awake. It curls into his nose and burns in the
back of his throat, throbs in his pelvis and tightens his calves.
The lock on the door clicks. There’s a faint twist of hope that Derek’s changed
his mind, which he crushes before he even slits his eyes open.
“Isaac?” He hears the plaintive, needy tone in his voice and doesn’t care;
there’s not much room for anything in his head beside the pulsing call of
alpha, alpha, alpha.
“Stiles- is this still okay? I need you to tell me if you still want this.”
He rolls to his feet, reveling in the way Isaac’s face flushes as Stiles gets
closer. There’s a sleek, sinuous sway to how his body moves now; every step a
dance genetically designed to entice.
He crowds Isaac into the wall, palms pressed to the cool cement. He wants to
roll in Isaac’s scent, bathe in it, needs it in his mouth and on his skin.
“C’mon, Isaac, don’t you want to fuck me?” Isaac’s hand creeps up his thigh,
pulling Stiles’ knee firm against his hip. It brings their cocks tight together
and Stiles lets out a hiss as the feel of it prickles through him, teasing
pressure so close to where he actually needs it. He chases the sound into
Isaac’s mouth, eats up the gasp he gets in response.
His hips roll, each brush of heat winding him tighter. His own scent is thick
in the air, pervasive and sweet.
Stiles’ skin aches where Isaac’s palms hover over it, one clamped on his leg,
the other cupping his nape. God, why won’t Isaac just take charge? Stiles needs
it, needs to be pressed down, opened up, taken and knotted and owned.
He doesn’t realize he’s begging until Isaac hushes him, tongue slick against
his lips.
Isaac leads him to the bed and he goes willingly, peeling himself out of his
jeans, sticky-wet where he’s hot and leaking. Stiles rolls to his knees, splays
himself wide open, fingers pulling his cheeks apart as his face drops into the
mattress.
Fingers trail across his ankle, up his thigh, brush soft over his hole. “Slow
down, Stiles, I don’t want to hurt you. You’re not ready yet.”
“Am, am, please, Isaac, please, I need it, god-”
“Just wait, shh, I’ll give it to you, but you have to be good, okay?”
He can do that. He can be good for his alpha. Stiles nods frantically, trying
not to thrust backwards as two slender fingers press inside him. It’s a sweet,
slick stretch, gentle nudges against his prostate that make him pant and plead.
The third finger makes him whine, tight pressure against his inner walls.
The fourth makes him scream. It’s toomuchtoomuchtoomuch, licking through his
brain until all he can feel is the bare expanse of his skin, every nerve ending
blasted open and exposed.
Isaac gentles him through it, pulls Stiles’ hips back into a slow, rocking
rhythm until he’s riding Isaac’s fingers. He’s shaking, fingers digging into
the sheets so hard that his knuckles burn. Desperation creeps like sweat across
his skin; he’s too empty, why, why won’t his alpha take him?
“Fill me up, Isaac, knot me, I can take it, goddamnit, fucking please-”
“No, Stiles.”
He’s babbling out delirious apologies before he can stop himself. Isaac drapes
himself along Stiles’ back, a smooth, sweat-slick glide of skin on skin,
pebbled nipples teasing along his shoulder blades. It’s an instinctive move,
calming, something in the back of Stiles’ brain relaxing at the sense that he’s
about to be mounted.
“We’re almost there, Stiles, I just need you to take a little bit more for me,
can you do that? Can you take another finger, let me stretch you out all wide
so that you can take my knot?”
All he can do is keen out a wordless agreement, back bowing into a perfect arc.
It pushes his ass out, drives all five of Isaac’s fingers deep inside and he
wails, mindless and hazy. His own wetness drips down his thighs, trickles over
his balls, and he’s so close, so goddamn ready, now, Isaac, now, please, jesus.
Teeth nip across his ear, tug at the lobe, sharp little bites that almost
distract from the sloppy, gaping feeling that comes when Isaac’s fingers slip
out of him. There’s a breath, a moment, sick sobbing loss in the back of his
throat and then everything, everything goes white as Isaac’s cock shoves into
him.
All that exists is the press and burn of it, the uncontrollable roll of his
hips in response. Slick fingers jacking his cock in tight, hard jerks. Every
muscle pulls tight and he claws for his orgasm, needing it more than he’s ever
craved anything in his life. It builds and builds and builds until he can’t
scream, can’t shout, wordless pressure choking in his throat, dark flares
behind his eyes, but it’s not enough, he’s just hanging on the edge-
Isaac’s growing knot catches on his rim as fang-edged teeth dig into Stiles’
shoulder and the orgasm pulls him under, a rip-tide of sensation that drags him
down into soft, hazy oblivion.
: : :
The next three days pass in a come-soaked, pheromone-driven haze. Stiles only
gets snatches, sense-impressions: the salt tang of Isaac’s collarbone; a bloody
purple bruise over the thin skin of his hip; hot, damp breath ghosting over his
jaw.
It slows eventually, calms, and by the fifth day they’re curled together in the
ruin of the sheets, trading sips from a bottle of Gatorade. He’s a little
amazed they haven’t died of dehydration in the interim. Everything seems easy
and warm, all his muscles lax, the desperation fading into soft affection. He
bumps his fingers down the knobs of Isaac’s spine, smiling at the hum it earns
him.
Stiles rolls onto his belly and stretches until his toes curl. There’s a deeply
pleasant fucked-out ache down the length of his spine, and something about the
feeling triggers a sudden hammer-smash of realization.
He had sex. A lotof sex. With Isaac.
Holy fucking shit, dude.
They are naked right now.
He flails upright, managing to tip himself off the side of the bed in the
process. Christ, his ass did not need that.
Isaac’s head appears over the edge of the mattress, all rumpled curls and
quizzical expression. All Stiles can do is wheeze, trying to force out the
words past hysterical laughter.
“You- me-” he gestures between the two of them, trying to capture the fact that
their dicks touched. “We had sex, man, sex,” and then he loses it again, too
caught up in the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
Isaac grins, upside down, before plastering a self-important expression on his
face and saying, in his best Jackson impression, “Dude. No homo.”
: : :
Unfortunately, a week’s worth of medically sanctioned sex-cation doesn’t excuse
Stiles from any of the homework he missed. He’s researching renunciation of the
self in The Bhagavad-Gitawhen his phone buzzes.
He knows exactly who it is, as he’s ignored three other texts from Derek
already.
Stiles.
Stiles.
Answer your phone, Stiles.
How ‘bout no. He’s still pissed about Derek’s attitude problem. There’s also
some insulted and a fair bit of hurt and ashamed thrown in the mix.
He just doesn’t want to go there. At all. Ever.
Stiles is the King of Avoidance Land for a reason, and this particular reason
is being annexed to the bottom of the Pit of Not Touching It with a Ten-Foot
Pole.
Answer your phone or I’m coming in the window.
According to the clock on his phone, it’s fifteen minutes later when there’s a
scrabble of claws against his roof and then a solid, meaty, thudding noise.
Sort of like the sound a body would make bouncing off a mountain ash-reinforced
second-story window frame.
Stiles doesn’t even look up from his computer screen.
“And stay out, bitch.”
: : :
The next month goes by as Stiles tries to pretend that there’s not a timer on
his phone counting down to his next heat. Luckily, he lives in Beacon Hills,
up-and-coming Hellmouth of the Year, so there’s plenty of other shit to focus
on.
Jackson’s heats finally stabilize enough that he goes on suppressants, and the
hormone adjustment makes him even more of a prissy little bitch than usual.
They come within inches of an actual slap-fest over the last bag of Ruffles at
lunch. Scott and Allison get in another fight, and no one’s sure what it’s
about except that Isaac is involved somehow.
Scott may be his BFF, but Stiles isn’t getting anywhere near that.
Oh, and then, of course, there’s the poltergeist outbreak. Werewolves, as it so
happens, give off more metaphysical energy than ordinary humans, which
basically turns the pack into fancy ghost-nip.
It’s little things at first- broken glasses, misplaced books. The wolves’
senses going nuts, trying to track something that can’t be seen. Nothing
serious.
It escalates when Erica’s hair dryer joins her in the bathtub. And then again
when Derek loses control of the Camaro and puts it into a tree.
Boyd’s parents find him in a coma on the living room couch.
Lydia and Stiles spend sixty-four hours closeted in her bedroom, splitting a
bottle of Adderall and a case of Rock Star, translating and compiling and
plumbing the shady-ass depths of ghost hunting forums.
They blow out the power to half the town by the time they manage to banish the
swarm. Stiles is shaking so hard when it’s finished that he can’t manage to
unlock his Jeep; instead he just stands there, looking from the keys to the
lock and back again. Why isn’t it working?
Hands cup his chin, turn him to meet green eyes.
“Jesus, Stiles, what did you do to yourself?”
He thinks maybe he shrugs in response. He thinks about shrugging, at any rate.
There are words in his head, but he can’t push them off his tongue. It’s the
last thing he remembers, the weight of them in his mouth.
He wakes up two and a half days later, clutching Scott like a pillow in Derek’s
crisp gray sheets. There’s a mess of blond hair spilling across his chest, Boyd
tucked in on Erica’s other side.
Stiles tries to disentangle himself from the twist of limbs and linens, but
only manages to tumble directly onto both Erica and Boyd. Erica wakes with a
snap and a snarl; Boyd just pushes Stiles off the side of the bed and digs back
into the sheets. Scott, as always, continues to sleep like the freaking dead.
He pads his way out to the coffee maker, hoping against hope that there’s some
real breakfast food in the cupboards instead of the organic, whole-grain,
tasteless muesli Derek claims to enjoy.
Apparently the universe likes him today, because he finds a half-empty box of
Pop-tarts tucked away on a shelf. They’re cherry, but what can you do?
“Isaac’ll kill you if you finish those off,” Erica says, coming up behind him.
She hooks her chin over his shoulder, reaching around to break off a piece of
the Pop-tart. Sometimes he forgets how much shorter she is when she’s not
wearing murder-heels.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.” He pulls another out of the package, splits it
with her. She jumps onto the counter, swinging bare feet and eyeing him
contemplatively.
“You know you’re about to get your heat, right? I can smell it.”
Turns out werewolf strength really comes in handy when you’re choking. It only
takes one good, solid smack to clear out the chunk of Pop-tart that he
aspirates.
She smirks and hands him a paper towel.
“Ah, yeah, I know. I mean, I’d sort of lost track, actually, but-”
The sudden application of her lips to his mouth cuts off that train of thought
at the station.
Erica pulls back, just enough that all he can focus on are brown eyes and long
lashes, the smug twist to pink lips.
“Boyd and I were thinking that maybe this month, we’d join you. Isaac told me
you hadn’t asked him, yet.”
“You and-” he has to pause, swallow past the sudden dryness in his throat, “you
andBoyd, with me? Really?”
Recent Derek-obsession notwithstanding, it isn’t as if he’s never thought about
Erica that way. She’s hot and she knows it, makes it work for her- makes it her
bitch, really. Even in someone else’s boxers and wifebeater, hair a disaster
area, with fake cherry filling barely covering her morning breath.
“We may be betas, but I think we can work something out, don’t you?” Her mouth
is positively wicked, and he watches a lot of porn, okay? Stiles knows what
sort of... accessories exist for an enterprising beta.
He’s suddenly very aware that he’s only wearing his boxer shorts.
She sniffs the air, a smirk pulling her lips wide. Damn werewolf senses. Erica
leans in to kiss him again and his hands flail at her shoulders in a sudden
panic.
“Wait, wait- you did talk to Boyd about this first, right? ‘Cause his hands are
bigger than my whole face, and I know I’m pretty badass, but try to remember
that I don’t heal like you do, and if he punches me it will hurt.”
Erica’s eyes roll in an exasperated expression that is the spitting image of
Derek. Apparently he rubs off on all his betas- no, no, that thought does not
need to go any further. No.
“Of course I talked to Boyd first.” Her voice drops into a purr and he knows
it’s a put-on, he knows it, but what’s happening in his pants just doesn’t
care. “He likes the idea of you in the middle, taking his whole fist while you
lick me. I’ll bet you look so sweet when you're giving it up, don’t you?”
She bites at his mouth, licks him open, and suddenly she’s wrapped around him
like a python and he doesn’t know what’s happening.
He was just trying to have breakfast, damn it.
“Erica, give the boy a break, it’s not even noon yet.”
Adrenaline bursts in his spine as Boyd’s voice rumbles behind him. That’s it,
he’s about to get pummeled.
Instead what he gets is warm arms wrapping around the both of them, Boyd
nuzzling along his jaw before stretching over his shoulder to kiss Erica.
Wow, that is a lot of tongue action right there. He’s... feeling a little weak-
kneed, actually, grateful for the solid wolf-strength bracketing him. He leans
into it and realizes that Boyd is definitely happy to see at least one of them.
Long, manicured fingers skate down his happy trail and this has to stop, right
now, before he’s coming against Derek’s kitchen cabinets.
Not like he hasn’t jacked off to that particular scenario a time or three, but
he’d always pictured it a little bit differently. Derek was there, for
instance, instead of-
Instead of staring at them from the door of Isaac’s bedroom, color high in his
cheeks, fingers curled tight around the door frame.
Motherfucking shit.
Stiles scrambles, sliding out from between Boyd and Erica. There was only one
rule set down when Derek handed out keys to his loft, and that was No Sex in My
House. Isaac got a free pass on account of paying half the rent, but the last
time Derek had caught Allison and Scott on the couch he’d nearly dropkicked
them out the window.
Stiles can't blame the guy. If he had super-senses, he wouldn’t want them
smothered in the scent of teenage spunk either.
“Heeey, Derek. Coffee? Can we get you a bowl of muesli, maybe?”
Derek just grunts, scrubbing his hands over his face on the way to the
bathroom. All three of them flinch at the way the door slams behind him.
Not a morning person, their fearless leader.
“Well, that wasn’t awkward at all.”
Erica just laughs, hopping down from the counter. She quirked an eyebrow at
him. “So, is that a yes, then, Batman?”
“I guess I can’t say no to my Catwoman, can I?”
: : :
Stiles is on his back, spread wide open and burning with it. Pinned, wrists and
ankles, strong hands keeping him in place. The tips of Erica’s nails score a
sharp, bright point of pain across the thin skin over his ankle bone and a
shudder runs down his whole body.
Erica’s magnificent, all flushed, slick skin and sleek, rolling hips. He can’t
drag his eyes away from the sway of her breasts as she fucks into him. The head
of the dildo just barely dips in before she’s pulling it back in a dirty,
teasing little rhythm that’s making his head spin.
He’s come three times already and it’s still not enough.
Stiles doesn’t realize he’s whimpering until Boyd’s hands leave his wrists to
cup his face.
“You need more, don’t you? It’s okay, we’ve got you.”
A thumb presses his mouth open, long fingers stretching his jaw wide as his
head tips back, throat a long, pale line. Scarlet marks punctuate it, blood
pounding, close to the surface. Sweat pools near his collarbone.
He’s panting around Boyd’s fingers, caught between the two of them, keening as
Boyd’s fingers slip from his mouth and leave him empty. It’s only a moment,
though, before a cock slides between his lips, thick and heavy, blood-hot.
It’s a different sensation, taking it like this, upside-down, and he can’t do
much more than relax into it, let it happen, let Boyd fill his mouth, his
throat, cover his tongue.
The two of them work together, falling into a pattern, a push-pull that empties
the thoughts from Stiles’ head until he’s nothing but his body, open and
receptive, twisting hips and arching spine, soft wet mouth.
Boyd loses control first, shoving into Stiles in stuttering thrusts that cut
off his air and force tears to his eyes.
The hot spill of come, the tight, hazy sensation in his chest, dark spots in
front of his eyes, is what finally drives Stiles over the edge.
: : :   
He’s lost track of the days, doesn’t know what time it is; doesn’t even know
his own name.
His entire focus has narrowed, razor-fine, to two points of contact: the thick
knuckles curling into his ass, and the salt-sweet folds presented to his mouth.
Wide open and loose, drenched in lube and his own sticky juices, his ass
flutters around Boyd’s fingers. He’s practically purring with the warm pleasure
of it, too stretched to feel any sort of pain; instead it’s a honey-thick glow
as three fingers twist and reach, Boyd’s thumb pulling at his rim, dragging him
even further open.
There’s a prickling along his neck, sharp nails punishing him for getting
distracted. He hums, apologetic, licking between Erica’s fingers where she’s
spread herself wide for him. Her gorgeous little cunt is drenched, pulling him
in, clamping tight around his fingers when he crooks them upward. He’s watched
so much porn that the soft blond curls around her cunt were a surprise, but he
loves it, loves how they’re damp and sticky and musky, smelling of all three of
them.
Erica likes it hard, likes nails and the scrape of his teeth against her clit.
He drives another finger into her just to hear the muttered fuck yeah it earns
him; echoes her gasp a moment later when Boyd slips in his pinky.
There’s five fingers in him now, slippery-wet and searching. They skate over
his prostate and he melts, easy and sloppy like he’s taking an alpha’s knot.
And then Boyd’s entire hand pushes into him, slow, steady nudges and a strong,
smooth curl and then it’s a fist, and it’s beyond what he'd imagined, so much
betterthan a knot, so much more. Boyd’s wrist turns, rolling knuckles across
his prostate, pulsing and twisting.
The sensation is enough to drive a man mad, and it does, has him biting and
sucking at Erica, frantic, mindless, his whole face pressing into her as he
rides Boyd’s hand. She’s swearing at him, moaning, and finally she digs her
hands into his hair and holds him still, fucking her hips up into his mouth.
She comes hard, a silent, indrawn breath and a flash of claws. There’s a hot
flare of pain along his cheekbone, a counterpoint to the orgasm that expands
outward from his center, molten and inexorable.
: : :
This time around it’s not quiteas hilarious when he wakes up to find himself
sandwiched between his friends.
Okay, there’s still a holy shit naked moment, but he manages to handle it with
a minimum amount of flail. Increasing maturity; his dad would be so proud.
Speaking of, Stiles is pretty sure his dad has been hitting the How to Parent
Your Teenage Omega books lately. When informed about Stiles’... arrangement for
this heat, he’d merely raised both eyebrows, asked about their favorite snacks,
and picked up an extra case of granola bars. He’d also made a pointed remark
about wanting to see permission slips, which made all three of them grateful
that Erica just turned eighteen. Her parents are of the extremely old-fashioned
opinion that spending heat with anyone but a licensed medical professional is
only one step away from street walking.
“The heat must be fading- I can hear his brain working again,” Boyd says to
Erica from where he’s sprawled at the foot of the bed.
Erica knocks lightly on the side of Stiles’ head. “Back with us, Stilinski?”
She’s pulled on Boyd’s boxers again, rolled down over her hips.
“Do you even own any pajamas, or do you just steal from Boyd?”
“Don’t make me push you off the mattress, bitch. You’re lucky I’m feeling
generous right now.” A pink tongue pokes in his direction.
He leers, big and over-exaggerated. “Yeah, you are.” He probably deserves the
way she pins him down and digs her fingers into his sides until they’re both
gasping with laughter and Boyd has to separate them.
: : :
Erica falls asleep halfway through as Dark City plays on his computer, head in
Boyd's lap, feet propped up on Stiles' thigh. They're wrapped in blankets and
pajamas, splitting a bowl of grapes and staving off the inevitable return to
real life responsibilities.
Stiles is half asleep himself, dozing as Rufus Sewell runs through the city.
He's been listing steadily to the right for half an hour- when he notices that
he's nearly horizontal, Stiles just gives in and drops his head onto the swell
of Erica's hip.
The sound of his own snore jerks him awake, and Boyd chuckles as his head pops
up.
"Shit, man, my bad. Didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
"It's okay. It's the only time the two of you are quiet."
"If I had more energy I'd so be poking you right now."
"That could be arranged, if you wanted."
He expects Boyd to follow it up with a laugh, a snort, anything that changes it
from an impossible offer to a believable joke.
Instead it's just quiet and the sound of Jennifer Connelly's smoky torch voice.
"Next month? For my heat? Um, okay, that would be... good."
Boyd's mouth quirks. "Next month, sure, but we were thinking more in-between.
Erica and I, we wouldn't mind making this an outside-of-heat thing."
Oh.
Oh.
Wow.
It's tempting. It's... Christ, is it tempting. His fierce, funny, perfectly
bitchy Catwoman, and Boyd, quiet and strong enough to maybe finally give Stiles
some grounding.
But- Derek.
What kind of fucking masochist is he, that he can never make it easy on
himself? No wonder people are always smacking him in the head with things.
Boyd beats him to the punch. "Look, we all know you're waiting around until
Derek pulls his head out of his ass. You don't have to do it alone, though.
Erica likes you, a lot." Boyd grins, a flash of teeth in the dim glow of the
computer. "And she's not the only one who thinks you're pretty."
: : :
So he starts hanging out with Erica and Boyd a little more often. Most of it’s
the same stuff they would have done anyway: movie nights and Arby’s binges, the
pack dinner every couple of weeks. Some of it is decidedly irregular: a handful
of interesting three-way gchats, a few very distracting makeouts. They’ve
agreed to keep it quiet, for now, nobody wanting to deal with nosy parents and
even nosier werewolves as they feel each other out (or up, ha).
Schedules align and the entire pack turns out for Erica’s swim meet, Stiles
waving a sparkly sign and dripping glitter everywhere.
Boyd swipes it off his scalp with a sigh and promises, in a low, filthy voice,
to get Stiles for that later. The tone sends a shiver straight to Stiles’ dick,
and Boyd knows it, the fucker.
Four werewolf heads swivel in response.
Well, shit. So much for keeping it on the DL.
: : :
“You. And Erica. And Boyd.”
“For the third time, Scott, yes. Me and Erica and Boyd.”
“Are... dating.”
Stiles throws himself down next to Scott, back bouncing on the mattress.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“So you’re just fucking.”
“Ugh, I just said I don’t even know. We haven’t exactly done anything since my
last heat, and I like them and all, but...”
Scott rolls over to look at him, all soft, sympathetic, puppy eyes. It’s a look
that makes Stiles simultaneously want to both pet him and wallop him about the
head. Two separate people want to get all up on it, what’s there to be sorry
about?
“But Derek, right?”
Oh, yeah. That.
“Fuck Derek. Even if he wasn’t interested, he didn’t have to be such a total
douchebag about it, so just, screw him, seriously. I’m over it.”
For once Scott doesn’t call him on the lie.
: : :
Another month goes by, and Stiles’ dad stocks Oatmeal Clif bars for Boyd and
Erica’s favorite Vitamin Water without being asked. PHS has Stiles’
temperamental and so teary that even Scott is afraid to talk to him.
It doesn’t stop Derek from blowing up his phone at 3am until Stiles agrees to
research incubus feeding patterns. How does Derek even find out about this
shit, honestly? Does he get anonymous tips from sort of supernatural red phone?
And, because fuck his life, seriously, it turns out that exhaustion, residual
werewolf vibes, and a shit ton of omega pheromones are the perfect chemical
cocktail to act as incubus-bait.
“No. No no no no, no no. Jackson’s an omega, make him do it! And then when the
incubus attacks, he can be all grr, and boom, done, no more incubus.”
Lydia speaks up, and he’s too cranky to even appreciate the razor-sharp tone of
her bitch voice.
“Jackson’s already taken his suppressant, and there’s not enough time to flush
them out of his system. Besides, Stiles, you’re the one who told us that the
incubus wouldn’t be attracted to a mated wolf.”
He waves a hand at Erica and Boyd, snickering at each other across Derek’s
couch. He’s going to kill them.  “I could smell mated! There’s been... things!
Definite, mating-type things.”
“No.” Derek’s up and in his space, sniffing a long line along his neck, nose
dragging from collarbone to ear. It’s the closest he remembers being to Derek
since that disastrous conversation about his first heat, and fuck, it’s
exhilarating. Stiles’ pulse is throbbing, so high and fast he knows Derek can
see it pounding under his skin. “No, you’re ripe for it, aren’t you, but you
haven’t been claimed.”
This close to his heat, his body is responding to the presence of an alpha
with... well, willingness would be putting it mildly. Stiles can feel himself
getting wet, ready, and every wolf in the room knows it. Goddamnit, why does he
hang out with these people?
“Derek, what the hell?”
Screw their friendship, Stiles is going to run Scott over with the Jeep for
interrupting.
And just like that, Derek’s six feet across the room, face pale, mouth a thin,
tight line. “We stick to the plan,” he growls.
Stiles sinks into an armchair, weak-jointed and hazy.  Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
He pulls his knees up close and tries to ignore the way his blood is pumping in
his veins. Voices fade into the background as the group discusses, presumably,
how best to offer Stiles up on a platter.
God, he hates the way his body responds to Derek. He can’t even write it off as
biology; yeah, some of it’s alpha hormones and werewolf dominance, but the rest
of it’s just Derek. The cinnamon taste of Boyd’s mouth, the teasing brush of
Erica’s hair on his thigh- it doesn’t compare. Doesn’t curl into his abdomen
the way even a hint of Derek’s Old Spice and leather scent does, tangling up
his insides. Making him pant for more.
He doesn’t want this anymore, doesn’t want to be this hung-up on another person
who’s only interested when Stiles is reeking of horny omega. Of course Derek
responds when Stiles’ whole body is shouting takemefuckmebreedme, that’s the
way the genetic cookie crumbles, but it doesn’t mean shit any other time.
Understanding his own biology doesn’t make the temptation to sob into the
upholstery any easier to resist.
Wrung out and exhausted, he tugs the blanket off the back of the chair and just
lets himself float.
: : :
Everything’s warm, comfortable, and it’s ages before Stiles actually bothers to
drag his eyes open.
“Hey.”
He feels so good, and his mouth stretches into a sleepy grin as he turns to
look at Derek. Stiles must have been asleep for a while; the loft is dim and
quiet, light spilling out from the lamp over Derek’s shoulder, limning his
profile.
Derek smiles, finger propped in the book he’s reading, and for just a moment,
Stiles lets himself pretend that this is something different. That they are
something different. That he could cross to the sofa, tuck himself into the
curve of that chest; that Derek would press a kiss to his lips before returning
to his book.
“Kettle should still be hot if you want tea.”
It takes a minute to uncurl from his blanket cocoon and stretch up onto his
toes, force feeling back into dozing limbs. He heads into the kitchen, tugging
his shirt down from where it’s rucked up around his belly.
There’s a slip and a thump as Derek’s book hits the floor; apparently he’s not
the only one who’s tired. Derek only drops things like that when he’s nearing
exhaustion.
“Careful there, butterfingers. Am I interrupting your sleepy time?”
“No, it’s- it’s fine.”
He goes through the motions mechanically, pulling a stool up to the kitchen bar
and watching twists of steam fade into the air as his tea brews.
A finger tips his chin up, and he must still be half asleep, because he didn’t
even hear Derek cross the room.
“This thing, with the incubus- you know we’ll keep you safe, right?”
Every so often he really regrets that Derek’s learned to open up with the pack.
King of Avoidance Land, remember?
“No, yeah, I know. It’s just... you know us useless human omegas, only good for
bait and babies, apparently. Right?”
Ugh, he hasn’t heard that bitter drive in his own voice for a while.
“Stiles.”
“Ignore me.” He gives himself a shake. “I’m seriously PHSing right now, dude,
you don’t even know.”
“Oh, I know,” Derek mutters.
“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to be bitchy earlier.”
“That’s not- okay.”
“Did everybody else go home?”
“They went out to eat, but Boyd said you hadn’t been sleeping lately, so we
figured it’d be better to let you rest.”
The mention of food makes Stiles appallingly aware that he hasn’t eaten in
hours.
“Don’t make that face, I told them to bring you back a burger.”
“Without-”
“Without anything but cheese, I know, Stiles.”
Derek knows his burger order? It’s not like it’s complicated or anything, but
still. He hadn’t realized Derek was paying that much attention.
Any attention.
Derek coughs, an odd, pinched look on his face until it smooths out into his
patented I’m Your Pack Leader and We Need to Have a Discussion expression.
Balls.
“So, you and Boyd and Erica. That’s going... well?”
Oh dear god, it’s the Relationships Affect Pack Dynamics lecture. The last time
Derek gave this damn spiel to Isaac it took forty-five minutes. Scott’s version
was an hour and a half (although it was the third time he’d broken up with
Allison in a month, so, valid). It goes along the lines of (a) don’t get your
drama all over the pack, no one’s picking a side, (b) for fuck’s sake use a
condom, and (c) no sex in the loft ever, ever, ever.
Derek’s scowling at him, elbows propped on the table, one eyebrow raised
expectantly.
The universe hates him. That is the only reason he can see that he’s forced to
have this conversation with Derek.
“Sure.” For a given value of well, at any rate. One where it actually means
‘the kissing is nice but I’m sort of pathetically into with someone else.’
“And the three of you are being safe?”
Stiles can feel the blood rush to his cheeks, burning across the bridge of his
nose. Derek looks just as uncomfortable; must be awkward to think about your
puppies having sex.
“Yep. Yes. Safe as houses, that’s us.”
Not that they’d done anything outside of his heat that they’d need to be safe
for, but if they had, there would have been some wrapping before the tapping.
Derek’s eyebrows go up. “Really? Because you don’t sound sure.”
“Of course I’m sure. Totally sure! But we’re not... we aren’t... after my heat,
we haven’t really-” Jesus Christ, why is he still talking about this, shut up,
Stiles, shut up- “but you know, that’s good advice, Derek, I’ll take your word
for it.”
“Oh. Well. That’s good, taking your time is healthy. It’s important to take
things slowly. Very slowly. Pause and reflect.”
“Ooookay, Papa Bear.” He would actually rather be incubus-bait than be having
this conversation.
Derek takes a deep drink of his tea. The mug obscures his face, so that all
Stiles can see is the long, flexing line of his throat, the tight bob of his
Adam’s apple as he swallows.
He bets Derek could take him deep, slide those plush lips down Stiles’ dick
until his throat was fluttering around it. Fuck, his mouth would be hot from
the tea, lips already wet, so sweet and ready to take it, to let Stiles feed
his cock into all that slick suction.
He wants to lick his come off Derek’s chin.
Please, please, if there is a god, let the smell of the tea cover up the way
that Stiles’ cock twitches when he thinks about Derek swallowing.
The mug hits the countertop with a heavy, ceramic click as Derek stares at him.
That’s a no on the god question, then.
“Derek, I-”
“It’s fine.” Derek stares at his own fingers, tracing circles on the counter.
“You’re almost to your heat; it’s just hormones, right? Can’t be helped.”
“Right.” Stiles shoves his stool back and stumbles upright. “I’m going to the
bathroom.”
He stares at his feet in their Green Lantern socks the entire way there, trying
to will his erection down. It’s a less than successful endeavor.
God. Damn. It.
Stiles watches his face in the bathroom mirror. He can’t keep doing this. He
looks himself in the eye and admits the word he’s been avoiding for nearly a
year.
He’s in love with Derek. He’s in love, and it’s not a phase, it’s not a crush,
it’s not going away. Hasn’t gone away, even though he’s had sex with other
people, even though other people are into him. Sweet, hot people who would
probably be far better for him than a cranky, issue-laden older man.
But who the fuck cares. He’s in love with Derek.
Time to nut up or shut up, Stilinski.
He throws the bathroom door open and stomps across the living room. Derek spins
around at the clamor, eyes going wide.
“Stiles?”
“Shut. Up. Derek.”
“What? Hey-”
“I. Said. Shut. Up.” He gets right up in Derek’s face, pokes him in the chest.
Derek’s eyes flash, but Stiles doesn’t lose a finger, like he’s half-expecting.
“I’m going to say this once, get it over with, and then we’re just going to
pretend it never happened, okay? I’m into you. Really, absurdly, totally into
your stupid angry brow crinkle and the way you steal my books- yeah, I noticed-
and the fact that you’re secretly a tech junkie.”
Derek’s mouth opens and Stiles rides right over the top of him.
“Yes, you are, don’t even front with me. But whatev, it doesn’t matter. This
thing with Boyd and Erica- they liked me, and you didn’t, and that was nice,
for a change. People don’t... they just don’t, usually.”
He swallows down the lump that’s creeping up into his throat. He can say this.
He can. He’s just going to say it, just to put it out there, and then... steal
from his dad’s liquor cabinet until he can’t remember his own name, probably.
“I love you. And if you don’t love me, or you don’t think you could love me,
well, that blows, but just tell me so I can deal with it and move the fuck on,
alright?”
Derek settles careful palms on his hips. “You going to let me get a word in
edgewise?”
“So funny. So funny right now, seriously.”
The tips of Derek’s fingers edge up under Stiles’ t-shirt and his breath
catches in his chest. This can’t- they’re not- what?
“I’m really, absurdly into you, too.”
Um, no. No, that’s not how this conversation is supposed to go.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I- are you really going to argue with me about this?”
“If you wanted me, why the hell would you turn me down when I practically
begged you to have sex with me?”
That’s right, Stiles, remind him of how he rejected you. Good move.
Derek shrugs, and the movement rolls down his arms, twists his wrists until his
thumbs are brushing against the hair under Stiles’ navel.
“I don’t do casual sex.”
“So if I’d showed up and said ‘I love you, please deflower me,’ you would
have?”
Hazel eyes go dark. “Yeah, probably.”
Oh my god, he’s been cockblocking himself for months. He’s going to have a
stern discussion with himself later.
In a move so smooth Stiles can hardly believe he’s attempting it, he leans
forward and slides his lips across Derek’s ear.
“I still haven’t had sex outside my heats, and I hardly even remember those.
Want to help me with that?”
“We don’t have time-”
“Oh, I think we do-”
Hands tighten around his waist, and between one blink and the next he’s
straddling Derek’s thighs, pressed hotly against- fuck- against the bulge of
Derek’s cock.
“No, we don’t, Stiles. You don’t have any idea what I want, do you? You think
that a couple of fucking teenagers have come anywhere close to showing you what
your body can do?”
Nails catch and scrape across his nipples and Stiles’ whole torso jerks. It
pushes his balls up against Derek’s dick and god, he’s so wet, pre-come
slicking his dick, his ass dripping.
“Oh, baby boy, I’m going to twist you up and listen to you scream for me.”
He’s panting for it and Derek’s barely even touched him.
“Give me your mouth, Stiles.”
Black tea and lemon, the sugar-slick slip of tongues, the bright flash as
Derek’s teeth sink into his bottom lip and tug; it breaks over Stiles like a
wave, lust and longing and sweet relief.
He hears himself begging against Derek’s lips, dirty little pleads and moans,
sharp, tiny gasps as his hips roll. He can’t keep quiet, and Derek doesn’t seem
inclined to make him, which is regrettable when the loft door slides open and
suddenly the entire pack is watching them grind against each other.
Stiles jerks back so quickly he nearly spills onto the floor; only Derek’s
hands, clamped on his ass, keep him upright. He clambers off Derek’s lap,
tugging his shirt back into place.
“Heeey, guys.”
The silence broken, everyone scrambles to pretend nothing out of the ordinary
is happening. Isaac drops the food on the table, smirking to Scott and
whispering something that makes Derek growl.
Erica beckons Stiles with a crooked finger, Boyd unreadable behind her. He
manages one step towards the living room before Derek’s fingers wrap around his
wrist.
Those hazel eyes are wide, teeth digging into the lips that Stiles was recently
enjoying.
He leans over, pushing his luck to drop a kiss on Derek’s cheek.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. Sometimes when dealing with werewolves, he’s
discovered, the illusion of privacy is what counts. “I’ll be right back, I just
owe them an explanation.”
How do you tell your sort-of-boyfriend-and-girlfriend that you’re kind-of-but-
not-really dumping them for your apparently-not-that-emotionally-unavailable
pack leader, anyway?
Erica’s hips sway as she leads them out of the apartment, and he’s almost
certain she’s putting an extra twitch into it.
He’s sure when the door swings shut and she immediately throws her arms around
him, smacking a red-lipped kiss onto his temple.
“Stiles, you dog, you!”
What.
Boyd, steady, unflappable Boyd, gets one look at Stiles’ face and laughs until
he runs out of breath.
“Did the front door get turned into a portal? Am I in an episode of the
Twilight Zone now, is that what’s happening?”
Erica shrugs. “I wouldn’t rule it out.” She slips an arm around Boyd’s waist,
still grinning sunnily at Stiles.
“You aren’t... mad?”
They look at each other, and then out at Stiles, and the sly smirks remind him
of why he liked them in the first place.
“Go get him. Oh, and make sure to let us know if Derek needs any pointers. Like
that thing with Boyd’s fist, the one that made you practically mewl like a
kitten.”
The crash that comes from inside is fairly predictable.
: : :
The encounter with the incubus turns out to be surprisingly anticlimactic.
Apparently “my bros call me Steve” hadn’t even realized that he was sucking the
life out of his partners; he’d just assumed it was his mad skillsthat had his
girlfriends barely able to get out of bed the next morning.
Oh, Steve.
One really uncomfortable study session, several diagrams, and a handful of
herbal supplements later, the sorority population of Sacramento is safe. Stiles
refers him to a witch doing her doctorate at CSU. She offers to keep Steve on a
steady supply of wheatgrass-and-monkspepper smoothies, which should put a
damper on the whole magical-death-libido thing.
Although the way she was eying him over the webcam seemed to imply she’d be
taking care of things in a, ah, wheatgrass-free kind of way.
So there’s not really a problem, exactly, but the whole thing takes time, and
when Steve’s finally on his way out of town, Stiles is three hours into full-
blown heat.
He’s clinging to his sanity- and, honestly, his pants- with white knuckles.
Derek’s eyes are blown wide, nostrils flaring, steps jittery. Stiles watches a
muscle in his jaw flex and aches to cover it with his mouth.
Then Erica’s hustling everyone out of the loft- god bless that girl- and
suddenly they’re staring at each other in silence, alone for the first time in
days.
It’s a collision.
There’s no time for soft, or slow, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t give a shit,
because he needs Derek inside him, now, right now, needs Derek fucking him,
owning him. He wants to drown in it.
They come together in two steps, Derek’s hands hauling him up, holding him in
place. Stiles hooks his ankles into the small of Derek’s back and lets himself
writhe, trusting, knowing that Derek has him. Derek’s growling, the rumble of
it vibrating along his bones, down to where he’s loose and wet and so goddamned
ready he knows Derek can taste it in the air.
Derek’s hand slips down, presses a thumb against his jeans, tight against wet
denim.
“Fuck, you’re so ready for me, aren’t you? Need my cock, my knot, my come
filling you up, don’t you, baby?”
All Stiles can do is gasp and twist, rock back into Derek’s hands and forward
against the hot pressure of his cock.
“Derek, please, ah, fuck, please, now, fucking fuck me, I can’t, I need-”
They slam into the wall outside Derek’s bedroom. One broad arm pins Stiles in
place as the other comes up and grabs his jaw.
“Look. At. Me.” The wolf is in his voice, and this, this is what Stiles has
been craving. “I know what you need, baby boy, and you’re going to be quiet and
let me give it to you, aren’t you? I’m going to take care of you like I know
they didn’t.”
Stiles nods, slow, locked on the slow bleed of red into hot hazel eyes. His
blood pumps lust and adrenaline and the urge to mate through his veins, and for
once it’s as much challenge as submission. If his alpha wants him, he can work
for it.
His mouth trails up Derek’s neck, brushes the shell of his ear, slick and
dirty-sweet.
“Are you sure about that? Did I smell dissatisfied, or did I smell, mmm, sated
and well-fucked?”
Derek snarls.
“You wouldn’t know well-fucked if it held you down and claimed you.”
Blunt teeth dig into the curve of Stiles’ shoulder where his shirt’s pulled
wide; Stiles wants more, wants the prick of fangs and the threat of blood in
the air. He’s about to lose control, spin out into the mindless haze of his
heat, and he intends to drag Derek down with him.
“Erica did that, you know. Held me down. Fucked me.”
It happens fast- Derek sucks in a breath with a hiss and then they’re moving,
two hundred pounds of furious alpha bearing him down into Derek’s bed. He’s
twisted, stripped, claws making fast work of his clothes.
Then he’s on his knees, thighs splayed wide, ass exposed and dripping, the back
of his neck bared to Derek’s teeth.
A drop of slick works its way out of his hole, trailing over his balls, and a
stinging, claw-tipped finger follows after it.
“Remember... you asked for this. I would have taken the edge off, so that you
could enjoy it, given you what you wanted, but now, now I think maybe you need
to ride it a little longer. You’re mine, Stiles, and you need to learn it.”
The first touch of Derek’s tongue to his hole draws every muscle in his body
tight, orgasm already building at the base of his spine.
Until fingers clamp tight around the base of his cock, hard, pulling him
sharply back into place.
“No. You’ll come when I say so, and not before.”
Derek’s face is buried in between his thighs, tongue lapping at his hole,
thumbs stretching at his rim, pulling him open. He’s loose already, craving the
knot, and it isn’t enough, it isn’t, he’s going to go mad with it.
“Derek- ah, fuck- Derek, please-”
Fingers slip inside him where he’s gaping, empty, tongue lapping wetly around
them. It’s a sloppy, dirty sound that crawls into Stiles’ bones, digs deep into
the heart of him. He tries to thrust, begs for more with each roll of his hips,
but Derek won’t be moved.
He feeds Stiles his fingers an inch at a time, thick fingers rolling and
twisting their way into his body. It feels like hours as Derek works him
towards orgasm, sparks building, eyes fluttering shut, and then slams him back
into his body with the sharp-edged prick of fangs against his skin. He’s lost,
caught in the relentless, never-ending crest, hanging on Derek’s fingers and
the burning, ripe scent of an alpha ready to rut.
Derek’s breath is loud, panting in the quiet of the room, only audible because
Stiles has begged himself hoarse. He must be losing time, because Derek is a
sweat-soaked expanse of hot skin against him and he can’t remember Derek even
taking off his shirt.
A voice says something, something, but he can’t tell what, can’t turn the
sounds into something with meaning. It doesn’t matter.
What matters is the way he’s stretched around Derek’s wrist, full of Derek’s
fingers, the broad expanse of his palm, the twisting toofullbutnotenough
pressure of his knuckles.
“Who do you belong to, Stiles?” Warm air puffs against his skin. He tosses his
head, frantic, past understanding anything but the pulsing need in his core.
Derek’s hand slips out, slowly, gently, leaving him gaping and empty and
sobbing. Derek rolls him over, pulls him close.
Licks the tears from his eyelashes.
“Who do you belong to, baby boy? You’re mine, aren’t you? It’s going to be me
filling you up, my scent on you, isn’t it?”
It escapes him on a whimper, sweet and strung-out and pleading.
“You, yours, Derek, please. Please.”
He shakes himself apart at the first push of Derek’s cock inside him. He’s not
the only one; Derek’s knot is already full and flushed, tightly swollen. Stiles
comes, and comes, digging into Derek with bloody teeth and nails, taking each
sharp thrust and riding it until the knot fully expands.
Derek grinds into him, filthy little twists that rub his prostate. His back
bows into an arch, uncontrollable, the knot catching and tugging in tiny,
electric sparks.
“Too much, too much-” he can’t, he can’t come again, he can’t.
“Take. It.” The words are bitten off, sharp, and he stares up into red-washed
eyes and gives himself over.
: : :
Deep, deep into his heat, time jumps in smoky, lust-edged flashes.
He’s on top of Derek, riding the jolt and thrust of his hips, one hand
stretched behind himself, fingers pressed to Derek’s hole, wet with Stiles’ own
slickness-
Curled into damp sheets, sleepy and well-used, nipping bites of mango from his
alpha’s fingers, licking and sucking as juice runs down Derek’s wrist-
Derek’s cock, twitching inside him, as he whispers for Derek to fuck him full
of come, to breed him, so that everyone can see who Stiles belongs to-
Biting marks into Derek’s flesh just to watch them fade-
Clawing, screaming towards orgasm, splayed across the kitchen counter,
shattered glass at their feet-
A soft tongue and a softer voice, licking him clean, drifting promises across
abused skin.
: : :
The fog of his heat finally clears, and Stiles finds himself tucked in the warm
curve of Derek’s chest, bracketed in strong arms. He waits for the hysteria,
the startled realization. For Derek’s arms to pull back and his lips to turn
down.
Instead a nose nudges against the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, Derek’s
fingers splay out across his belly. He turns to meet a sleepy smile with his
own, and kisses the sound of his name off Derek’s lips.
 
End Notes
     As always, hugs and gratitude to my fabulous beta 1lostone, and to
     casualpahoehoe, without whom this story would be but a gleam in my
     hard drive's eye.
     Title from "Sway," by the Kooks.
  Works inspired by this one
      (Podfic_of)_I_Need_Your_Sway_by_Thatworldinverted by chemm80
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