SIAND - PDF - Four Times Stiles Calls Derek Alpha.pdf

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/3324263. Rating: Archive Warning: Category: Fandom: Relationship: Character: Additional Tags:

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Explicit No Archive Warnings Apply M/M Teen Wolf (TV) Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Cora Hale, Scott McCall Alternate Universe - High School, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, derek beats the shit out of someone and it's great, scott does as well, also this one gets kinda kinky but not really, Mates Part 3 of Thorns Published: 2015-02-10 Words: 10077

Four Times Stiles Calls Derek 'Alpha' by standinginanicedress Summary

four separate instances in which Stiles concedes power to his alpha or the one where Derek finally plucks up the courage to be the best possible alpha to his omega

Notes

enjoy this! it's simple and sweet, pretty much; a bit of angst, but nothing too serious - Stiles does get beat up, and Derek and Scott beat some people up themselves, but it's not too crazy I hope it does get a little bit kinkier than I normally write, but it's really nothing to write home about haha I promise; you'll probably read it and be like "this is it lmao" but eh I'm pretty vanilla if you haven't noticed that already

See the end of the work for more notes

I It's not a big deal. Stiles pulls his hood up over his head in his driveway, puts his sunglasses on, and makes sure to keep his head down as he walks up to the house; it's not a big deal. It just happens sometimes – he's an omega. He goes inside, beelines it for the stairs and calls a rusty, hoarse it was fine to his dad when he asks how his day was from the couch. Up the stairs, into the bathroom, door slammed and locked behind him. With shaking fingers, he takes his sunglasses off, flips the hood down, and stares at his reflection in the mirror. A purpling bruise around his eye; easy to cover up, he thinks. A patch of red, angry skin on his cheek, still bleeding; not easy to cover up. A split lip, inflamed and burning and horrible looking in the mirror. He sighs – there's no use with any of this, honestly. And – and it's not a big deal. Sometimes he winds up walking alone in the seedy part of town, against everyone's warnings to avoid doing stupid things like that, because, again, he's an omega. Sometimes he gets cornered by a couple of alphas from the lacrosse team, sneering down at him, mocking him, asking him where his big strong mate is or where his best friend is, if they're going to come out and protect him, now. Sometimes he gets beat up by alphas three times his size with strength and sense double what his are, who assume that he wouldn't dare to tell Scott or Derek because he's too much a little baby, it just – it's not a big fucking deal. It's been happening ever since he was a little kid, ever since he first started presenting as an omega. There's always bullies and there's always alphas who take advantage of the fact that he's weaker than them. It's just that it hasn't happened in a while. He usually always has Scott around with him, and if not him, then usually Derek – who, let's face it, is about a zillion times more intimidating than Scott could ever hope to be in his wildest dreams – so he's been safe, now, for a while. And ever since he mated with Derek, he's been especially safe, even when Derek's not around, because his scent is all over him. People recognize a Hale's scent pretty easily and learn to steer clear, especially an alpha Hale scent; Stiles had assumed you'd have to be a particular kind of stupid to get near an omega claimed by fucking Derek Hale; but, like he long suspected, most alphas don't have a brain at all. Because they didn't just get near him; they fucking beat the shit out of him and left him bleeding alone in an alley downtown in broad god damn daylight; no one tried to stop the alphas from dragging him down there, and people must've seen; but no one helped him. It reminds him, for the zillionth time, that as an omega, he's not treated the same as everyone else. He considered, for a minute, calling Scott to come and pick him up and take him home, but...he

knew Scott would call Derek. And he doesn't want Derek finding out before he heals. Or even after he heals. He doesn't want Derek finding out period, which plays into exactly what the two alphas assumed he would do, because he knows the stupid idiot is going to overreact when it's not even that big of a fucking deal! It's what comes with the birthright, you know? Derek isn't going to see it that way. He's going to be about sixty-five different degrees of pissed off, go off his rocker, and start threatening to fucking kill people. Stiles isn't particularly in the mood for going to jail as an accessory to murder, so he was more or less planning on mum's the word with this whole fiasco; avoiding Derek until the bruises heal (it takes omegas about four times as long to heal wounds as it does betas) and taking a shower to wash the scent of other alphas off of him and then Derek never has to know, and there doesn't need to be a jail cell involved. Every thing is perfectly fine, and Stiles is pretty happy with his plan – until he hears Derek's Camaro skid to a stop in his driveway. His heart skips a beat, and he whips around to stare at himself in the mirror again, an opened band-aid in his hand, and wonders if he has any time whatsoever to cover this shit up. The driver's door slams shut, and then Derek is stomping up the front porch steps; even if Stiles did cover it up, it's not like Derek wouldn't be able to tell; wouldn't be able to smell it on him. He can smell it right now, as a matter of fact, if the way he bursts through the door without knocking and comes storming up the steps is anything to go by. Stiles sighs through his nose, raises his eyes to the heavens, and convinces himself, for the thousandth time, that it's not a big fucking deal. Two hard knocks on the bathroom door. “Stiles.” Derek's voice is muffled by the wood. Stiles drops the band-aid down onto the sink, and tugs at his hair. “I'm not letting you in if you're not calm.” There's a pause; Stiles can hear Derek growling under his breath from the other side of the door, but he doesn't say anything. “If you're not calm, then you can't come in.” And it's not that Stiles would ever for even a fraction of a second think that Derek would lose control and be mad at him, or hurt him, or even yell at him for being so fucking stupid to walk around alone in that part of town without anyone with him. Derek wouldn't dream of doing any of those things. It's just that Derek has a tendency to truly and thoroughly enjoy beating the shit out of people, especially when Stiles' well-being is involved. He honest to God gets a happy out of pounding other alphas, asserting his dominance, proclaiming himself the alpha of alphas and making sure everyone knows not to go near his tiny omega.

It's more than one kind of insulting to Stiles, and if Derek lays eye on the way Stiles' fucking face looks right now, he'll grab him, catch the scent of the alphas, hunt them down, and go to town with an eager Scott tagging along. “I'm calm.” Derek's voice is shaking. “You're hurt. Let me look.” Stiles knows that once Derek goes into three words or less mode, there's no fucking turning back. He can smell Stiles through the door, he can smell the other alphas through the door, and maybe he'd never break the door down against Stiles' wishes to inspect him himself, but he would sure as fuck grab the metal baseball bat out of Stiles' closet and go searching for the cars of the alpha's responsible. Like a hurt something of mine and I hurt something of yours type of thing. See why that might be insulting to Stiles? Like his existence is somehow akin to a car? With a heavy sigh, he opens up the bathroom door. Derek stands there in the doorway for a second, tracing the bruising and blood with his eyes, and his jaw sets down hard as he grits his teeth. “I'm fine,” Stiles tells him, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Absolutely fine. It's not a big deal, see? Just some bruising, it's fine.” The alpha reaches his hand out, his thick, tan fingers reaching out for Stiles' face – and he runs one, gentle as a feather, down the bruising on Stiles' cheek. Stiles can't help it; he winces, and he knows that Derek can smell the burst of pain, knows that he can smell the blood. Can see the way Derek's veins turn black without him even trying to take some of Stiles' pain away, because the reaction is instantaneous. An alpha touching his harmed omega's skin. It happens. Derek catches the wince, subtle as it might've been, and his eyes start to glow red. “Derek...” “Are you going to tell me who did this?” He demands, taking his fingers off of Stiles' face to rest gently on his shoulder; still tugging on the pain, but keeping his hands away from the actual injuries. Stiles tries not to let his eyes roll back into his head at the pleasurable sensation of his alpha caring for him and licking his wounds like this, tries to stay focused and alert on the situation. "Or are you going to let me guess?" “No one, I – no one.” Derek leans in close to him, takes a great big, fat inhale, and then another, while Stiles can do nothing except stand there under the haze of Derek's fingers. Stiles knows that he's going to recognize the scents from school. He's going to recognize them from the lacrosse team, from his so-called friends Tyler and Brett, and he's going to go absolutely fucking batshit. The hand is removed from his shoulder, and Derek takes a step back. “Okay.” He says. In that

voice that Stiles knows means it's not okay. “Derek,” Stiles voice is a low warning growl, but it's pretty much too late. Derek steps out of the bathroom, and starts heading down the hallway. “Okay,” he says again, and Stiles follows him down the stairs, past his father, oblivious on the couch with a bowl of chips in his lap, snoring. The front door opens and out Derek goes – Stiles follows him onto the porch, down onto the grass, looks up to see that Scott is already sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro with his lacrosse stick sitting in his hands, that Derek didn't even turn the car off, and suddenly Stiles knows exactly how Derek found out about this so quickly. Scott must've smelled Stiles' blood all over those kids at Spring try-outs (because Scott thinks he's gotten good enough at Lacrosse to try out for the team, now, and he wants to have something on his transcript.) He must've put two and two together, and Derek only came down here to confirm what he already knew to be true. “Derek, don't you fucking-” “It's fine,” Derek says, ripping open the driver's side door, “I'm going to take care of it.” “I don't want you to take care of it!” “I'm going,” Derek's voice is a threatening growl – not quite his alpha voice, but almost, enough to make Stiles freeze in his steps. “...to take care of it.” Stiles blinks at him, tries to look at Scott for some kind of support, here, but Scott just sits tightening the net on his stick, probably excited at the prospect of getting to use it to beat the literal shit out of someone in a quest for revenge. This is what it takes to get his best friend and his mate to get along? Beating people up? Jesus fucking Christ. “Derek!” Stiles yells now, and the Camaro door is slamming closed. “I mean it! It's not worth it! Scott!” Neither of them even so much as flinch. Scott gives Stiles a vaguely apologetic look, and then the Camaro is peeling out of the driveway. Stiles stands there for a second, in complete and utter disbelief, and behind him in the open front door, his father – still groggy from his nap – appears. “What's goin' on?” The omega sets his jaw, fishes his car keys out of his own pocket, and leaps off the porch to run to his Jeep. “An alpha pissing contest, dad.” Stiles isn't sure where he's going to find them, but he has a pretty good idea. He doesn't have the super-scent like Derek and Scott do, all he has is pretty good intuition and half a brain – so he assumes that lacrosse practice is still going strong, that Derek and Scott are just fucking nuts enough to get into a practical gangfight on school grounds.

When he pulls up beside the lacrosse field and sees Derek's Camaro parked, Scott and Derek's backs as they're crossing the grass to where a gaggle of betas and alphas are tossing balls around and laughing, he leaps out of the Jeep without even bothering to turn it off; almost forgetting to put it into park. From a distance, he sees everyone stop laughing at Derek and Scott's approach. He senses the ripple of anxiety and oh-shit go through the small crowd, and coach looks on with an expression that could only be described as giddy. Stiles runs to catch up, snarling under his breath about what a pain in his fucking ass this is and why did he ever want to mate with an alpha in the first place, they're so much god damn work, and by the time he gets within ten feet, he thinks the fight has more or less already started. “...I said,” Derek, eyes red, canines extending, “did you, put your fucking hands, on my omega?” Silence. Scott beats his lacrosse stick against the ground in a steady rhythm, in a way that's meant to be threatening; and if the way Tyler and Brett flinch every single time the stick hits the grass is anything to go by, Stiles thinks it might actually be working. “Cut it out, Derek,” Stiles steps in, trying to angle his body in between the four boys, but Scott picks his lacrosse stick up and uses it to push Stiles back. He staggers a bit, no match for Scott's alpha strength, and then he presses forwards again. “Derek, this isn't a good idea.” “Maybe you should be the one beating on your fucking omega, Derek,” Tyler pipes up, sneering just as hard as he did when he was holding Stiles down and punching him in the face, “if you can't even control it.” “That...” Stiles begins, as a deep, feral growl starts up in Derek's throat, accompanied by a softer one from Scott's, “was not a smart thing to say.” It was probably the stupidest thing for a person in his position to say, and now Stiles is starting to wonder if there's actually any going back from this shit. On the sidelines, coach is wide-eyed, his mouth slack-jawed as his eyes flick between Derek and Scott and Tyler and Brett; the rest of the boys there all collectively take a step back, and it's like the only fucking person on the field who doesn't want this to turn into some kind of bloodbath shit show is Stiles. Too late, Stiles thinks, as Derek punches Tyler directly in the nose and sends him reeling back onto the grass. Scott thwaps Brett upside the head with his lacrosse stick, and things pretty much go to shit from there. A fucking crowd forms out of everyone on the field, circling around the four alphas as they rustle around on the ground, and Stiles gets effectively pushed out of the circle by the overpowering strength of all the betas and alphas shoving him out of the way. He can't fucking see anything from this angle – everyone's broader and taller frames is blocking him from view, and he actually has to try and stand on his god damn tip-toes like a kid to try and get a look at what's

going on. Coach does absolutely nothing to break the fight up; he just stands back and rubs at his forehead, muttering under his breath. Stiles can hear grunts and punches and flesh hitting flesh and Derek growling about I'll fucking kill you, you piece of shit and who the fuck do you think you're messing with and if you ever go near him again I'll rip your throat out while all Stiles can do is jump up and down to try and see who's winning. “You get off on that kind of thing, huh?” That's Scott – definitely Scott, which means that both Scott and Derek are talking, (threatening, more like), which probably means that they've both got the upper hand in their respective fights. “Beating on someone weaker than you?” Stiles grits his teeth, and starts actively trying to shove through the circle of betas and alphas – it's tough going. Most of them don't even notice him at first, shoving his arms through and trying to squeeze by, but finally, Isaac Lahey and Kira Yukimura back away, looking him up and down with vaguely apologetic smirks; Kira puts her hand on his shoulder and pushes him through the crowd, shoving everyone out of her way with just the right amount of strength, and then Stiles staggers into the middle of the circle, out in the open. Scott, for his part, is standing upright, his bloody lacrosse stick resting on the back of his shoulders – Brett is panting on the ground, one hand raised out in surrender, blood from his yethealed wounds pouring down his face. Because apparently Scott is lucid enough to know when to fucking stop before he kills someone. Derek, on the other hand. Derek, predictably, has lost all grip on reality; he's crouched over Tyler, holding him up by the collar of his lacrosse jersey, punching him – again, and again, and again, and again, while Tyler cries (no, actually, and literally, an alpha werewolf is crying right now) begging Derek to let him go, that he's sorry, so on and so forth. It's...disturbing, to say the least. Stiles pushes forwards, “Derek, stop it,” no response. The punching continues, and Stiles hears something crack – like bone. “Derek!” Still nothing. Like he's gone into wolfy neverland, the land where crazed alpha mates kill anyone who ever hurts their omegas. That just isn't going to sit right with him, and no one else around him is even thinking of stepping in – just standing back with huge eyes and hands over their mouths, unsure if they should laugh or not. Like with most alpha fights, not even coach can do anything about this except sputter. So, this is pretty much in Stiles' fucking hands now. He sucks in a deep breath, and yells, with as much ferocity as he can muster, “alpha, stop!” Derek freezes. His shoulders hunch a bit, like he's been chastised, and he turns to look at Stiles, slowly, his eyes fading from red back into a muddy green.

He stands up, Tyler still danging by his lacrosse Jersey in Derek's hand, and Stiles narrows his eyes. “Put him down.” Derek looks down at Tyler with moderate disgust, and unceremoniously throws him down onto the ground – Tyler groans, spitting blood out onto the grass. For a few seconds, there's nothing but dead air, the entire congregation gone completely silent. The lacrosse team at large, coach included, all flick their eyes between Stiles and Derek about a half dozen times, like...did an omega seriously just boss an alpha around like that? Apparently so. “Let's go.” Derek glares down at Tyler in the grass, and Scott does the same to Brett, before twirling his lacrosse stick a couple of times and saying, “clear out! Everyone back up!” Like this has awoken coach from some kind of weird dream, he shakes his head, stutters for a few seconds, and then says, “yeah, clear out! Back away, everyone, get back!” Derek sneers at Tyler one last time as he takes his first step away, towards Stiles, and apparently can't help himself – he growls, eyes flashing red once more, and says, “if you ever even so much as look at him again...” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Stiles cuts him off, rolling his eyes, “you'll rip his limbs off and beat him with them, grind his bones down to make his bread – now let's fucking go before they decide to expel you idiots.” Derek's shoulders hunch again, and he crosses the distance between himself and his omega – wrapping his hand around Stiles' shoulder again to suck some more pain out. II Derek doesn't mind that Stiles is willful. As a matter of fact, he prefers and enjoys Stiles' proclivity to not listen to Derek, to do whatever he wants to do no matter what Derek has to say about it, and has no problems with the fact that Stiles doesn't follow him around like some little slave. When he sees other omegas that kneel at their alpha's feet, rubbing their cheek against their mates' thigh with a litany of anything you say, alpha, right away, alpha, whatever you want, alpha it actually makes Derek feel a bit sick to his stomach. He's not Stiles' god damn owner, he's his provider – it's not Stiles' job to give his alpha anything except his time and attention, and asking for anything more from him would be capitalizing too much on his own power. Derek doesn't ever use his clout, his red eyes or his commanding voice, to make Stiles do anything that isn't about his omega's physical safety. He lets Stiles come and go as he wishes, lets Stiles get mad at him and ignore his phone calls; which is more freedom than most other omegas

could ever dream of having, honestly. And it doesn't bother him, or challenge his nature to give Stiles space and time and whatever else he needs. Stiles loves him; he cooks for Derek and drives Derek around and initiates kisses and sex and cuddling and will go see a movie that Stiles thinks looks boring if Derek claims that he really wants to see it. In return, Derek does much of the same, and more, for Stiles. It's how real relationships actually work, as far as Derek is concerned, and he's not interested in the power dynamics in their relationship at all. But he's still an alpha. That means that there is still a controlling nature inside of him. It doesn't usually show its face unless Stiles is in danger or is making him exceptionally angry, and even then he's learned to tamp it down and swallow it in favor of calming the hell down. Sometimes, though, he doesn't. It's hardest to control during Stiles' heat, when the omega is just so fucking pliant and desperate underneath his hands that Derek can't fucking help but go a little bit off the deep end to let his true nature absolutely take over. Normally it's just fucking Stiles with abandon, hard and fast, holding him down by his neck or pinning his hands down onto the bed to give Derek every bit of leverage while Stiles can do nothing but writhe around beneath him, panting and moaning and sputtering out curses. Derek likes that, a lot, and Stiles doesn't mind it either. But when Stile's heat comes around again, this time, Derek gets an idea. It's an alpha idea – completely fueled by Stiles' heat scent and Stiles' breathy voice on the other end of the phone begging Derek to come over and deal with this. They have sex down in Stiles' heat room like they normally do, and Stiles comes all over the sheets and rolls down onto his front and pants into a pillow, twitching and shaking like he always does after an orgasm. Derek leans over the side of the bed to paw around in the backpack he brought, filled with snacks and juice and some books, normally, but this time... He fishes out a length of soft rope, lets it slither across Stiles' bare back, eliciting a shiver from the omega. Stiles makes a noise of question in the back of his throat while Derek grabs gently as his pale hands and pins them together at the wrist. When he starts wrapping the ropes tightly around Stiles' skin, he pauses for a moment, leaning down and asking, “is this okay?” Stiles is lucid enough, now, post-orgasm, to know what's going on. He understands he's being tied up, and apparently this amuses him more than anything else, if the snort he lets out is anything to go by. “Yeah, all right.” He smiles up at Derek and lets the rope get tighter, less forgiving, until Derek gets it knotted perfectly and flips Stiles over on his back. “How long have you been wanting to do this?” Stiles still has the amused smile on his face, laying back on the bed and twisting his neck to stare at Derek as he pulls a book out for himself. “The better question is, how long have I wanted to duct tape your mouth shut to get some peace and quiet for once.” The omega mock gasps, pretending to be affronted, and sticks his leg out to kick at Derek lightly.

“You'd never.” Derek would actually, but...that's for another time. So, he just lays his book out on the bedside table and listens to Stiles' chatter, answers all his questions, tickles him a couple of times just because he's helpless to stop it, and things go on pretty much how they normally do during Stiles' heats. When Derek is focused on his book some twenty minutes later, Stiles starts twitching. Rubbing himself back against the sheets and pulling at the ropes, looking for some point of weakness in them, probably. Derek knew that having his hands tied behind his back wouldn't just be hard for Stiles because of his heat – Stiles loves to talk with his hands, to always be moving his arms around, loves to use them to play-push Derek away and tease his alpha. The problem is that omegas have little to nothing in the way of physical strength; Stiles couldn't break out of those ropes even if his life depended on it, yet the struggling goes on. He makes soft whimpers in the back of his throat, angling his body towards Derek's beside him, opens his mouth. “Derek,” his voice is hoarse, and when Derek turns to look at him he finds that pre-cum is already leaking out of the omega's dick, making a small mess of his chest. “I'm – I'm ready.” The alpha plops his book back down and climbs on top of Stiles, dropping his hands on either side of his head and being very careful to not brush up against Stiles' dick with any part of his body as he does so. He leans down and kisses him, slowly, swirling his tongue around inside his mate's mouth, feeling how desperate the poor thing is from the enthusiasm with which he responds to the stimulus. Derek pulls back, and raises his eyebrows before climbing down off of Stiles' body to push himself back against the headboard. He grabs Stiles by the hips and lifts him effortlessly down onto his body, until the omega's knees are straddling him on either side. “This is new,” Stiles says breathily, arching his back while he lets Derek push himself into his entrance. Stiles lets out a low moan and starts trying to fuck himself on Derek's cock, slow and easy and careful, which is probably the best he can do with his hands tied like that. Derek grabs his hips and pushes him down hard, all the way back to where he knows Stiles' prostate is, where he knows he'll be pushing Stiles to the limit, and does it again, and again, and again, watching Stiles' face contort in ecstasy. Stiles throws his head back, exposing that perfect fucking neck of his, and Derek nearly forgets what he's trying to do, here – until he starts feeling the telltale signs of Stiles' orgasm coming. He fucks Stiles down on his cock once more, hard, and then pulls him up off of it and drops him down on the bed beside him. Stiles lands on his front; so of course, immediately he starts bucking into the sheets, trying to get friction on his untouched dick, trying to come, but Derek isn't having any of that.

Again, Stiles gets flipped onto his back, his length hard and beat red, exposed to the open air, and he stares up at Derek in wonderment. “What...” The alpha grins down at him, and runs his index finger along Stiles' stomach about a single inch away from where his desperate dick is sitting. “Are you laughing now, baby?” Stiles blinks up at him, dazed, his heat making every thing come to him a bit slower. He tries bucking his hips forward, angling himself towards where Derek's hand is sitting on his chest, but Derek pushes him down and holds him with a single hand. The omega whimpers, pulling at the ropes again, exposing his neck to Derek, fighting to push his hips up; but Derek just stays perched on his knees in between his legs and watches, smirking to himself. This, he thinks, is just about as much control as he'll ever allow himself to have over Stiles. He appreciates the view for another few moments, before dropping himself down beside Stiles on the bed and opening his book up again. For the next five minutes, Stiles squirms. He squirms and simpers and keeps thrusting his hips up into the open air, as if there'll be something out there to give him friction and get him off – every time there's nothing, he lowers himself down onto the bed and whines. But it's only five minutes. “Derek,” he says again, squirming his body to get closer to where Derek is. “I need you.” The book is discarded again, and this time Derek puts Stiles down on his knees in front of him. With his hands tied, the best Stiles can do is press the side of his face into the sheets and puff out heavy breaths while Derek angles the omega's ass as high in the air as he can get it to ensure that his cock won't be touching anything aside from his own skin. Pulling Stiles' cheeks apart with his hands, he finds the typical slick – running down his thighs in an enticing sheen, while the hole itself clenches and unclenches to the rhythm of Stiles' own breathing. Derek leans down and starts at the thighs, licking long strips upwards to collect as much of the salty slick as he can get. It tastes good to Derek, of course, it has to, and Stiles doesn't appear to mind the attention at all. By the time Derek actually gets his tongue on Stiles' hole, the omega is shaking underneath him, moaning with every single flick of Derek's tongue against his sensitive, over-stimulated entrance. The fingers from Stiles' bound hands can reach Derek's head from this angle, just barely, and he starts scratching at Derek's hair gently, breathing out Derek's name and probably trying to get on his good side. All the same, right when Derek can sense the omega is about to come, he pulls off. Just like before, the second Derek's hands are off of him, he's flattening his lithe body out to rut into the bed with renewed fervor; like if he does it fast and quick enough, Derek won't be able to stop him in time.

Derek laughs as he throws his mate down onto his back, relishing in how flushed and hungry he looks, like this. Panting and red around the cheeks, cock hard and angry looking pressed up against his chest. “Please,” Stiles says, twisting his body upwards towards Derek's body, “please, please, please...” “Shh,” Derek soothes, running his fingers up and down that pale chest. Stiles does quiet down a bit, his pleas drowning out to whimpers held behind a lip he's biting down on, staring up at Derek with huge amber eyes. After another five minutes of writhing and moaning Derek's name and begging, the alpha perches on the side of he bed and asks his omega politely if he'd like to give him a blowjob. Stiles practically throws himself onto his knees on the ground, a little awkwardly without the use of his hands, and crawls in between Derek's legs. Stiles sucks him off enthusiastically, hollowing his cheeks out and flattening his tongue against the vein on the underside, making obscenely sexual slurping noises and moaning like this is the most fun he's ever had. And Derek knows he's just trying to please him as best as he can, thinking if he does a good job Derek will finally let him come. The problem is that Stiles still hasn't done the one thing Derek wants him to. At one point Stiles deepthroats him, opens up his mouth, and mumbles around Derek's dick in a muffled voice that would be funny in any other situation, “fuck it.” As if Derek needs to be asked twice. He grabs Stiles by the back of the head to hold him in place, and thrusts upwards into Stiles' mouth, fucking his lips and throat as gently as he can. He comes after a few thrusts of this, down Stiles' throat – and the omega swallows it dutifully; the secon Derek is out of his mouth, he leans down and licks it clean, every last bit of come collected onto his tongue. “Please,” he says when he's finished, gazing up at Derek with those huge fucking eyes again. Derek smiles at him, runs his fingers through his hair, palms his cheek, admires the way Stiles' lips are swollen from his alpha's cock, and shakes his head. Stiles keens, and starts doing the single most pornographic thing Derek thinks he's ever seen outside of the internet. The omega literally starts grinding himself up against Derek's leg – he's humping Derek's fucking leg, like an actual animal in heat, and Derek almost lets him finish that way. It's – it's fucking hot is what it is, and the control-hungry alpha inside of him groans in satisfaction in watching his omega this fucking torn up, this god damn desperate that he'd be willing to debase himself to this. With a heavy sigh and against his best wishes, Derek pulls Stiles up off of the ground, away from

his leg, onto his back on the bed again. This time, the five minutes goes on a bit more dramatically. Derek can't even concentrate on his book, Stiles is whining so loudly, squirming so hard, pulling fruitlessly to try and get his arms free. He tries rolling himself around onto his front, about six times, and Derek has to stop him every time, gently tugging on his hip and pushing him down onto his back. But he never, never once asks Derek to just take the ropes off. If he did, Derek would do it in a heartbeat; but he doesn't. “Fuck,” Stiles hisses the last time, his legs twitching. “Please, god dammit, I need to -” “I know,” Derek cuts him off; and after the five minutes is up, Derek doesn't even touch him anymore. Stiles tries to force himself to stay still, tries to lay still and quiet like a statue next to Derek – again completely misreading what Derek is trying to get out of this entire thing. That only lasts for about a minute, before he's whining again. Derek is about to crack. First of all, because it's only fun seeing Stiles writhe around in desperation for so long and this is getting out of hand now, and second of all because he's pretty sure that keeping an omega in heat from coming for any longer than he already has could be considered a form of honest to God torture, and Derek's not so fucking gone on alpha power that he'd put Stiles through that. He's about to throw his book to the ground and give Stiles exactly what he needs, has been begging for, when Stiles finally figures it out. “Alpha,” his voice is cracked, broken, small. Derek freezes. “Please, alpha, please. Please.” A feral grin spreads across Derek's face at finally getting what he's been wanting, at getting to hear that fucking mouth and that desperate voice calling him alpha, and he sidles up to Stiles' side, fingering at the tattoo on his hip gently. “What is it, baby?” Stiles swallows, staring into Derek's eyes, staying completely and totally still underneath the fingers on his side. “Please make me – make me come, alpha.” There it is. It's funny how the one thing that was supposed to make him feel like he had power over Stiles, control over the entire situation, more or less makes him feel like he's completely at the mercy of his omega – anything Stiles ever asked him to do with that breathy, desperate voice, calling him alpha and staring at him with begging eyes, Derek would do. No questions asked. Stiles could ask him to fucking stand outside in the middle of the street, buck naked, doing the moonwalk in front of Stiles' nosy neighbors, and he'd have no choice. He pushes Stiles over so he's on his side, thrusts two fingers inside of his waiting hole to scissor him deeply, hooking his fingers and nudging against that bundle of nerves with every thrust.

Stiles seems pretty content with that, throwing his head back and opening his legs wider, pushing his ass back against Derek's hand – but Derek decides to take it a step further, knowing that his mate deserves it after what Derek put him through. He leans down, sucks Stiles up into his mouth, and that's it. Stiles comes within seconds, his entire body jerking with it accompanied by the single loudest moan in human history, Derek is pretty sure. After, while Derek is undoing the rope from Stiles' hands, the omega huffs out an annoyed breath. “You,” he begins, finally lucid after an entire hour of heat-craze, “are a powerhungry asshole.” III Summer time comes, and with it, that ridiculous fucking carnival or fair or whatever the hell they feel like calling it this time around. There's horrible animals that bray at you as you walk past and demand you stick your hand out with a handful of pellets (which you have to pay for, by the way, an entire dollar for a fucking handful of animal food just for the pleasure of having a donkey tongue come out and lick your hand) and loud rides and children screaming and bright lights and too-sweet smelling dough frying out of kiosks. Derek detests it. That feels like too small of a word, even. Detest, despise, loathe, hate. He's been avoiding the thing at all costs ever since he was old enough to look his mother in the eye and say no, I don't want to go; or, at least ever since he was old enough to stay home by himself while the rest of the family goes off and has a horrid bit of fun at the mercy of the carnival. Normally, he sits at home by himself and relishes in the quiet of the house, reading a book – he's actually grown to look forward to the days every single year. His house is normally bursting with energy, people yelling and arguing and wrestling over who gets to have control of the remote on the television. Even with his room soundproofed, it's nice to be able to sit in the window-sill in the sun like a cat and relax for a while without having to worry about anyone else coming over to flick him in the ear or start pulling on his shirt to get him to play with them. He naively and stupidly started looking forward to inviting Stiles to come sit with him this year, to have a bit of sex and hang around listening to whatever Stiles feels like talking about. About a week away from the carnival, though, with the summer sun blaring down on Stiles' once-pale now-tan skin, while he laughs and splashes at Scott in the Argent's swimming pool, he realizes that that is not what Stiles is going to want to do while the fair is in town. No way, no how is he going to be able to convince Stiles to sit at home with him, no matter how many sexual favors Derek promises him. Stiles likes the fair. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch, actually, to say that Stiles probably loves the fair. It's Stiles, for Christ's sakes. There are booths where you can win R2D2 shaped pillows and cotton candy eating contests. Stiles wants to go. And that means...

That means Derek has to go. When Derek brings it up to him that same day in the pool, Stiles, predictably, crinkles his eyes at the corners, and says, “duh, I'm going. I'm going to go with Scott and Allison, so you're off the hook.” Derek sets his jaw. He knows how much Stiles fucking hates it when Scott and Derek get into what he refers to as an alpha pissing contest, hypothetically tugging on either one of Stiles' arms, vying for his attention; but this will not stand. Stiles is beginning to associate all the fun stuff that he likes with Scott, because Scott is such a fucking idiot and will gladly have a water gun fight in the backyard with Stiles while Derek sits on the porch and glowers. While Derek is just associated with – sex, maybe. Which probably isn't such a bad thing to be associated with, all things considered, but... He wants to be fun, dammit. “I'd like you to come with me,” Derek says, trying to keep his tone casual and not in pissingcontest mode. “With you?” Stiles repeats, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline while an incredulous smile swipes across his face. “You want to go to the fair?” Derek nods, bracing himself against the pool wall. “I – my family goes every year.” Stiles gives him a calculating look. He's more perceptive than most people give him credit for; he can read perfectly what Derek isn't saying out loud. His family goes every year, but he stays at home like a huge fucking hermit freak reading Harry Potter books and drinking orange juice out of wine glasses. He has zero interest in going to the fair, but only wants to go because he knows Stiles is going and in his little alpha mind that means that Stiles is going off to have a good time with another alpha and that means challenge. He laughs. “Okay. I'd like to go with you, too,” he leans forward and smacks his wet, chlorine lips on Derek's cheek. “I'm sure Allison will be happy to hear I'm not third-wheeling on them anymore!” Derek comes to a stop outside of Stiles' house on the first day that the fair is in town, narrows his eyes at Cora, and says, “backseat.” “What?” She demands, eyes going wide. “How come I have to-” “Because he's my mate, dingbat,” Derek leans down and unbuttons her seatbelt, starts shoving at her shoulder. “But he's the omega!” Derek's eyes flash red; he knows that Cora would never legitimately treat Stiles any lesser than herself just because he's an omega, and she's just trying to yank his chain and rattle his cage to

piss him off, but all the same. He growls low under his breath, and Cora only gets even more defensive. “But...” Stiles is coming out the front door, skittering down the steps. “I'm the girl!” “That means you're smaller and can fit in the back more easily,” Stiles might be smaller than Derek, but his legs are long. Cora grumbles under her breath about unfair and butthead, but climbs into the back, her short legs kicking around in the air for a few seconds before she rights herself in the back seat. Stiles pulls open the passenger side door, slides into his seat, and glances at Cora in the backseat. “You didn't have to get in the back on my account,” he tells her, smiling like he always does. Cora just leans back in her seat, crossing her arms across her chest. “Tell that to your alpha.” At the actual fair, Derek feels like jumping feet first into one of the trash cans, covering himself in discarded paper plates covered in powdered sugar, and hiding from the world altogether. It's just as loud, ostentatious, and annoying as he remembers it being from when he was a kid. Stiles, apparently, doesn't find the prospect of a llama licking disgusting pellets of food off of his hand nasty at all, so Derek spends a dollar on his pellets – what, you don't want to to do it with me? - and then a second dollar on his own pellets, and stands there and suffers the horrific feeling of a pig eating food out of his hand. Stiles laughs, nudges him in the shoulder, and says, “I think it likes you!” Derek looks into the eyes of the tiny pot belly pig, and thinks about bacon. After that, Stiles drags him onto the ferris wheel, spends the entire time rocking their car back and forth while Derek hisses Stiles, I swear to fucking god, if you don't stop doing that I am going to hurl all over you, makes him eat a stick of cotton candy that turns his tongue blue, and tries (and fails) to get Derek onto the swinging pirate ship. That's where Derek has to draw the line – he doesn't like things that go back and forth like that. He threw up when he was a kid, and he's more than positive he'd throw up now. “Ah!” Stiles hisses at one point while they're walking along down the row of game booths. “I can't even look at that.” “What is it?” Derek asks, trying to follow his eyeline. Stiles points at the game with all the empty soda bottles and the tiny marbles you have to try and throw in to win some ludicrous prize. “I used to spend my entire allowance here trying to get that stupid fucking polar bear.” Sure enough, there's a row of giant stuffed animal polar bears, easily Stiles' height and even wider than him, hanging by their necks in the back of the booth while the annoyed looking human teenager stands there and watches a series of people try and fail to land the marble in the single

row of red bottles. “I'm just not good at that kind of game. Now it just mocks me smugly from a distance every single time I come,” he scrunches his face up, turns away, and pulls on Derek's arm, “let's get a corndog.” But because Derek, for one, is good at that kind of game, he thinks about that idiotic polar bear the entire time they sit at a picnic table eating their corndogs, thinks about it as Stiles chatters about his senior year coming up, thinks about it when Scott and Allison come over and invite Stiles to ride the giant swinging stick with a flying carpet on the end. “No, that's okay,” Stiles says, squeezing Derek's hand tightly in his own, “rides like that make Derek sick, so I-” “You should go,” Derek cuts him off, releasing his hand and taking the empty corndog stick out of his other. “I can hang around for a while.” Stiles looks at him, surprised, a thin smile playing on his lips. “Are you sure? I've ridden that thing a thousand times I don't have to.” Derek nods, pushing Stiles towards where Scott is waiting for him a couple of feet away. “I'll be right here when you get done.” The omega hesitates for only a second more, like he's suspicious of what Derek's real motives are, before saying, “all right. I won't be long!” and shooting off with Scott and Allison to ride the ridiculous magic carpet, leaving Derek alone at the picnic table. Derek watches him until he's out of sight, cracks his knuckles, and glowers. Time to win a god damn polar bear. Ten dollars, twenty marbles, and several sighs of annoyance later, Derek is lugging the huge plush bear back to the picnic table he was sitting at earlier to find Stiles already there, biting his nails, looking anxious, checking his phone again and again. It takes him several seconds to realize the person swaying towards him with the bear is actually Derek, but when he does, he shoots up from the table and runs full speed at him, throwing his head back in laughter. “You didn't, Derek!” As soon as Stiles is close enough, Derek drops the bear down into his waiting arms – it's even more comical in Stiles' arms, against his skinnier frame and smaller shoulders. He has to wrap his arms all the way around it to hold it up, still laughing near-hysterically. “You said you wanted it, so...” “I did,” Stiles agrees, “I've wanted this for a long time.” He stops laughing to just stand there and smile stupidly up at Derek, reminding him of Valentine's Day from several months earlier.

Derek loves putting that expression on Stiles' face; he just finds it moderately silly that the way to do it is to win him a gigantic stuffed bear from an annoyed human teenager. “Do you like it?” He asks, kicking absentmindedly at the dirt underneath their feet. Stiles beams at him, hugging the polar bear tighter to his body, and nods. “Thank you, alpha.” IV Derek started college at a private school half an hour away from Beacon Hills – only half an hour, so he still lives at home and pals around with Stiles as often as he gets, but...it's not really the same anymore. He only ever gets to see Derek on the weekends (even then he sometimes has tests to study for and they don't even get to have sex), and he has to suffer through entire school days without talking to Derek in-between classes, without Derek at lunchtime, or during study hall. When he recommends skipping school to go to the beach to Scott, the kid looks at him like he has about six heads. It sucks, to sum it up. Plus, Derek always comes around to Stiles' house smelling like an unfamiliar place, like unfamiliar people, and he talks Stiles' ear off about all the cool people he's met in his classes, and how cool college is, and how his professors are so laid back – Stiles has to bite his tongue to keep from saying maybe you should've mated your stupid college, then! like a petulant twelve year old. It started getting to the point, in early November, where Derek could only ever come over on Saturdays; exhausted and annoyed, moaning about midterms, eating beef jerky and stinking Stiles' entire room up. Stiles kept telling himself it's just because freshman year is a big adjustment, and every thing feels like it's different now because it is, but that doesn't mean they're not still mates. College doesn't change mates, he affirms week after week, as Derek has less and less time to devote to him. But he feels sad, and lonely, and some days he just stares out the window during his classes wondering what Derek is doing, if he's thinking of Stiles, too – and it's really not a healthy place for either of them to be, he thinks. He thinks about bringing it up to Derek nearly every day, but he's scared that if he says anything it'll sound like he's mad that Derek is getting a college education, that he's out there having new experiences that he deserves to have; that he's mad that Derek isn't just spending every waking second of his life with Stiles. Which is not at all what Stiles thinks. He's just...blah. It isn't until Thanksgiving break, when Derek calls him on the phone (something he very rarely does unless there's an emergency or something really important he wants to discuss without winding up getting distracted by making out or something) and says, “I'm thinking about getting my own place.” “Oh,” Stiles says, sniffling. “Like...closer to campus?” “Not necessarily,” he says on the other line, evenly. “Just my own place, you know? I have all this money saved up, and my parents are willing to chip in...” He clears his throat pointedly, and

then he sighs incredibly deeply, like this is causing him physical pain. “I – I'd like you to move in with me, Stiles.” Stiles covers the receiver with his palm, raises his eyes to the sky, and mouths yeeessssssssss at God for a solid four seconds; does Derek have any idea how many times he's fucking fantasized about moving in with him? What it would be like to be allowed to sleep in the same bed together without his dad knocking on the door every ten minutes to say Derek has to leave before midnight, son or without one of Derek's sisters bursting in through the door with their eyes covered going mom says it's dinner time! To be able to literally come home to Derek? Jesus fucking Christ. Stiles is just trying not to have a heart attack over here. “Stiles?” Derek's voice drags him back to the present. “I know my parents would be fine with it, because I'm – you know. An alpha. But....” But. But. The Sheriff. The biggest but in the entire known universe. In his mind, Stiles is already packing his bags and loading up the Jeep, but he knows he has to cross a fucking mountain before he even gets to think about doing any of that shit. His father will not be...pleased. To say the absolute bare minimum. Stiles arranges a dinner at the Stilinski household on a night when his father isn't working, goes out of his way to cook the works – pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, extra fudge brownies, and the entire time his father sits on the couch pretending to read his newspaper, but really peering over the edge to give Stiles suspicious looks. He's a man of the law; he can tell when something's going on. The doorbell rings, and Stiles nearly drops the pot of mashed potatoes in his rush to open the door before his father has even managed to pull himself up off the couch. He skids to a stop right in front of the door, takes a deep breath, and pulls it open. Derek is standing there with his hair brushed for once, in a nice button down shirt, clean jeans without holes or rips, and he smirks at Stiles. He knows his father is watching from the couch, so he tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck, and says, “hello, alpha.” Derek covers his mouth with his hand, the same way he always does when Stiles is forced to be polite to him, and Stiles has to work himself to stop from laughing. The alpha steps into the house, and the night begins. Dinner goes by well enough, with Stiles carrying most of the conversation like he always does with his taciturn company; Derek eats three platefuls and compliments Stiles on his cooking

about a zillion times, like he always does, and his father sits at the head of the table and stares suspiciously at Derek, like he always does, and Stiles nervously laughs and asks if anyone wants desert, like he always does. Once everyone has a plate of brownie and ice cream, and his father is probably as happy as he's going to get this evening, Derek clears his throat. Stiles widens his eyes at him, and Derek shrugs his shoulders; Stiles mouths after brownie and Derek mouths back during brownie is better and Stiles kicks his shin underneath the table and raises his eyebrows like I thought I was going to be the one asking and Derek slices into his brownie with his fork with a pointed glare like I'm the alpha, I'm the one who asks and “Is there something someone wants to say?” Stiles swallows his ice cream, looks at Derek with huge eyes; the alpha wipes his mouth with his napkin, dropping his fork down onto his plate with a light clink, and says, “Stiles and I have been mated for almost an entire year, now.” The Sheriff nods, slowly. “And it hasn't been easy being apart so often these past few months, with me away at school.” Another nod, this one paired with narrowed eyes and a suspicious hmph. Stiles makes eye contact with Derek one last time, before he takes the plunge into the murky deeps of no going back. “I was thinking about getting my own place, my own – um, apartment. And I...asked Stiles to move in with me?” It comes out like a question, and Stiles has to hold himself back from covering his face with his hands – Derek is the alpha in this conversation. He doesn't need to phrase anything like a question. Stiles peers at his father, nervously, bouncing his leg up and down again and again, waiting for the floodgates to burst. The Sheriff, for his part, just stares at Derek. A long, hard, heavy stare. “He's still in high school.” “He's eighteen,” Derek counters. The Sheriff's eyes narrow, and Derek swallows nervously. “I wouldn't be moving him out of Beacon Hills. He'll still go to school, and graduate, and...” Stiles stares between them as Derek trails off, and from the look on his father's face, he can tell that this isn't going well; it's going better than his father ripping his gun out and open firing, that's for sure, but still not particularly great. “Der-...alpha is a good provider, dad. He has money, and he can pay for anything I want or need. I wouldn't be without anything if I lived with him, you know that.” Like when Stiles chose to mate with Derek last year, there's not much that his father can do about this. If an alpha wants to take his legal mate off away from his family, then he has every right to

do so. To decline would be a challenge to his authority; and Stiles doesn't think that Derek would claw his father's throat out at the dinner table, but he does think that Derek would get upset. Angry, even. So, the Sheriff sighs through his nose, pinches the bridge of his nose, and says, “I can't stop you.” Stiles raises his eyebrows at Derek, a slow smile spreading across his face, but Derek doesn't look entirely satisfied. “Stiles would like your blessing, sir,” he pushes, glancing at Stiles out of the corner of his eyes. “He won't be happy unless you say this is all right with you.” Another deep huff comes from Stiles' father, and then he's leaning back in his chair and groaning like this is the worst possible thing that's ever happened to him in the history of the universe. There's a couple of seconds of dead air, the only sound Stiles' incessantly jiggling leg. “Alpha and I are very happy together,” he says quietly, chewing on his bottom lip. “I don't see the point in putting it off, dad. I want to be with my mate.” “I was hoping you would wait at least until you graduated, Stiles,” the words have no real venom or power behind them, however; defeat has already been accepted by his father, victory bestowed upon Stiles, and there isn't much left to talk about anymore. “If that's what you really want,” a pointed glare in Derek's direction, as if he somehow suspects that the alpha is somehow forcing Stiles into doing this, “then of course you can have my blessing, son.” Stiles' face splits into a grin, and he starts excitedly kicking Derek's legs under the table, again and again and again, while Derek smiles back at him, a bit more subdued and kind of dazed, like he's not quite sure he believes what's going on. “You hear that, alpha? Paw says you can have my hand in marriage!” “Holy God...” The Sheriff mutters under his breath, rubbing his hands down his face, brownie long forgotten in front of him. “Get the dowry ready, father! I'm a woman now!” “This is what you're signing up for,” the Sheriff says to Derek, pointing his fork in Stiles' general direction. “I hope you can handle it.” Derek blinks his eyes back in Stiles' direction, traces his omega's face a few times with his eyes, and says, “I think I can handle him just fine.”

End Notes

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