SIAND - PDF - the thorn that defends the rose.pdf

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/3237083. 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 Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Scott McCall, Sheriff Stilinski, mentions of lydia and jackson, as well as mentions of isaac and erica valentine's day themed, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Derek, Omega Stiles Stilinski, courting, Claiming, a bit of discrimination, stiles gets treated like the prettiest belle of the ball honestly, Alternate Universe - High School, so derek is a teenager haha Published: 2015-01-26 Words: 12385

the thorn that defends the rose. by standinginanicedress Summary

Stiles is more than positive that all the alphas in Beacon Hills have it marked on their fucking calenders in black sharpie – the third week of every month, Stiles goes into heat, and it's the single most confusing week of his life every time. In general, it's nice to be doted on like this, it's nice to get mountains of new things he'll either use or give to the donation box for humans in need or Scott, and it's nice to get all the attention. Most of the time, it's nice to get all the attention. But sometimes...Stiles just gets fucking sick of it. or the one where Derek finally plucks up the courage to court Stiles the way he deserves

Notes

Happy early Valentine's! I literally eat sleep and breathe Valentine's Day themed anything so YES this is almost twenty days early but I don't CARE I'll probably write five more VDay themed fics after this

So in this tiny little verse, and I think this is understood in the fic but never explicitly stated, wolves and humans live in separate communities. Alphas and betas and omegas are just born as such - you get the idea haha. you have no idea how long I searched and scoured for a non-cheesy quote about roses for the title of this omFG I think I spent more time doing that than actually writing this last but not least, there is a teeny tiny trigger warning for non-con REFERENCES - if you're curious or anxious about that, read the end notes for in depth explanation. It's really not much (or not enough for an archive warning, I don't think), but better safe than sorry

See the end of the work for more notes

Stiles is decent looking. With his carefully styled brown hair, big brown eyes, long lashes, and pink lips, he knows he's not bad looking. He's a little long and awkwardly lanky, especially in the leg area, and he's not particularly buff or sexy, per' se'. But he's not horrible looking. If he were human, he'd have made off well enough with a couple of relationships before pairing off for good with someone as equally decent looking as he is, married or whatever the devil it is humans are doing these days. He'd have done just fine. As it is, though. He's average in nearly every aspect – except one. He just so happened to win the genetic fucking lottery in being born an omega. So, yes – human, he would've been fine. As an omega, he fucking excels. Because omegas are rare, of course – typically, for every five hundred wolves, there are only about fifty omegas. That's the statistic they rattle off to them in school, at least. In Beacon Hills, there are only a handful of omegas, and Stiles is one of them. Another is Lydia Martin, who used to be the number one most desired omega (and not just in school, but in all of Beacon County), with her floral, citrus, ocean salt scent. Unfortunately for all the alphas who used to follow her around like lost puppies, she wound up paired off to Jackson Whittemore as soon as she turned sixteen years old, as soon as she started getting her heats, the second the scent hit Jackson's nostrils. Over. Done. One less single omega in Beacon Hills Werewolf Preserve. Then there's Isaac Lahey, who's a bit of a douchebag but good looking with an earthy type of scent, and some alphas like that. As a result, he mated with Erica Reyes – the prettiest female alpha in school, as well as arguably the best dressed person Stiles has ever laid eye on – and another one bit the dust. After that, it's mostly just a speckling of omegas here and there across town. A few college aged females that all live together for single-omega solidarity, a 20-something that works at the coffee shop downtown that makes more tips than any other employee the cafe has ever fucking seen, and Ms. Norberry; a fifty year old woman who collected all the gifts and trophies from the alphas she could get her hands on, threw her nose up at the prospect of ever actually mating, got a huge house up on the hill, and gives out full sized candy bars on Halloween. The point is, none of the remaining single omegas go to Beacon Hills High anymore. Stiles is the only omega left in school. And oh, holy shit, does he milk it for every thing it's worth. Every thing it's worth, by the way, comes in lots of different forms.

Some mornings, when his father heads out for the early shift, he has to step over piles of presents left for Stiles on the front porch, swearing under his breath as he trips over boxes, gets his foot tangled up in a mass of ribbons and bows. Then he just stands on the porch and frowns down at all of them, holding his coffee and shaking his head back and forth. The entire my son is an omega thing came as a bit of a shock to him; seeing as how he comes from a very long line of simple betas, as did his late, great wife. When a seventeen year old alpha's nostrils flared at the sight of nine year old Stiles at the carnival, when the older boy dropped down into a crouch to hand Stiles the huge teddy bear he won and Stiles grinned at him like he just won the lottery, John Stilinski grabbed his son by the scruff of his neck to pull him away. He thought it was just a fluke. Some weird fluke. Sometimes seventeen year old alphas are nice to little kids at carnivals. Right? Not so. He took Stiles to the doctor, and Deaton raised his eyebrows the second Stiles came bounding into the room. “You're wondering if he's an omega, John? You're really asking?” That was Deaton's give me a break tone of voice. Because Stiles was so horribly and obviously an omega. As much as he mouthed off, and as much as he didn't like being told what to do, or treated like a little kid or like something that had to be watched over and protected...he had the smell. He had the smell, and the look, and the unflinching desire to be doted on hand and foot by everyone in sight. He has that streak in him; a near totalitarian streak to capitalize on people's desire to provide for him. He's such a little shit, to put it simply. But the entire thing makes John horribly uncomfortable. When he comes outside and sees all those gifts, with Stiles' name written on all tags, carefully and meticulously wrapped, or when he spots an alpha holding the door open for him, or offering to buy his coffee for him, or even sniffing at him as they walk past...John can't help but tighten his arm around his son's shoulders and steer him away a bit. It's just – maybe he doesn't like the thought of Stiles being seen as some prize to be bought and won, all right? The alphas are restless, though. Near fucking tireless. Before Stiles had his first heat, it was all very tame. He was too young, after all – so occasionally an alpha would give him a gift, or offer to pay for his movie ticket. Nothing too over the top. Then, the heat hit. His scent grew thicker, stronger, and it's like a fucking solar flare went off right over the Stilinski house. Because while Stiles was downstairs in his new and improved heat room, doing god knows what, his father was pulling mountains of food and gifts off the front porch and laying them down outside the door. Stiles sifted through them all that first day, home from school and trapped alone with a raging hard on, and almost didn't know what to make of all of it. There were things here from wolves he'd never even met before. Sixteen years old, and getting expensive things (like Rolex watches and silk sheets and gourmet chocolates) from twenty year

old adults. With jobs. And nice cars. From that first heat, it didn't fucking stop, with the strangers trying to woo him. More interesting, however, are the things from his fellow classmates. He cannot say how many times Danny has dropped off a plate of his father's world-famous brownies; left them in his locker, presented them to him in homeroom, gave them to Scott to pass off to him. Or how many times Kira Yukimura presented him with a beautifully wrapped box containing any number of clothes, books, or DVD's. Then there are the more extreme gifts. Some alphas want to mount him so damn bad that they literally just show up with money. Six hundred dollars, a thousand dollars – one time, some guy appeared with ten thousand dollars, shoving it in Stiles' face and grinning, motioning subtly to the Lamborghini parked in the Stilinski driveway beside Stiles' piece of shit Jeep. With ten grand, he reasoned, staring down at the money, he could buy a non-piece of shit Jeep. He reached his hand forward to take it, and then his father slapped his hand away, told the alpha to get lost before he got his fucking wolfsbane out, and slammed the door. “Don't take money from them, Stiles. That's over the line,” he had said, shoving Stiles back inside the house with a slap to the back of his head. “You're not...just don't accept the money, all right?” Stiles could never understand that. Because...why not? Why not take ten grand from some guy who clearly thinks of him as nothing more than a prostitute? These alphas all treat him like dirt, or something to be claimed and taken – just because they give him food and money and gifts doesn't mean that they actually respect him as his own wolf. They don't respect him at all. None of them ever try talking to him, or legitimately being nice to him. They just hold out their gifts with smug grins, raising their eyebrows, as if to say does this impress you? Do I impress you? Do you dig my super strong muscles? Wanna fuck? It's completely dehumanizing (dewolfinizing?) and Stiles intends to take them for every thing they've fucking got, much to his father's obvious chagrin. This goes on all year long, in increments, but the real go-time is Stiles' heat week. He's more than positive that all the alphas in Beacon Hills have it marked on their fucking calenders in black sharpie – the third week of every month, Stiles goes into heat, and it's the single most confusing week of his life every time. In general, it's nice to be doted on like this, it's nice to get mountains of new things he'll either use or give to the donation box for humans in need or Scott, and it's nice to get all the attention. Most of the time, it's nice to get all the attention. But sometimes...Stiles just gets fucking sick of it. He gets sick of getting sniffed and eyeballed up and down by every single alpha in sight. He starts feeling like a sideshow attraction, at a certain point. Usually, by the fifth day of his seven day heat, he opts to just stay home in his heat room and mope; ignoring the doorbell every single time it rings. Because, truthfully - not all alphas are nice to him. He's bottom of the totem pole, and maybe most alphas see him as this little tiny puppy to be provided for and protected, but others see him a little differently. They see him as an object, more or less. A prize, a trophy, a symbol of status

if they own him, a thought that makes Stiles' skin crawl whenever he sees an alpha leering at him like that. Some wolves don't even think omegas should be allowed to just walk around, shouldn't be allowed to have their own agency or personhood. They think they should all be bred in fucking factories or something - Stiles doesn't know much about this way of thinking because his father had dutifully shielded him from it his entire life. All the same, Stiles has experienced more than enough in his piddly little omega life to get that not everyone respects him. In fact, most wolves don't. ---Day one of heat week. Stiles rises out of bed, feeling all the telltale symptoms of his ridiculous heat, glaring blearily around himself as he stumbles into the shower to wash the dampness off of his body (even if it comes back within half an hour after washing it all away, a man has to do something to keep his dignity in tact.) He gets dressed in a haze, and then stutters down the steps to find his father sitting at the kitchen table, glowering – which is really ironic, considering the number of colorful gifts, balloons, stuffed animals, and overflowing baskets he's surrounded by. His father holds a lemon poppy-seed muffin out to his son, and says around his own mouthful of muffin, “good muffins, at least.” Stiles takes the muffin, and starts pawing his way through the presents lazily. A lot of food, this time around – like the basket of muffins from Ethan and Aiden, and the chocolate covered strawberries from the barista at Stiles' favorite coffee shop, and even some fucking steaks from the kid that works behind the counter at the butcher's. “Did you see any toothpaste in this pile?” Stiles asks mildly, smirking at his father. “Because we're almost out.” “Post that on craigslist,” the Sheriff mutters back, clearly in a sour mood. “I'm sure you'll get a thousand tubes of the stuff within ten minutes.” The thing is, he's not even kidding. If Stiles were to get up on top of his table at lunch and announce that he wanted anything, literally anything at all, at least three alphas would come through and get it for him. Then they'd have some dramatic duel right there during lunch hour, while the entire school chants in the background, over who brought the best brand or the best kind or just the best in general – alpha testosterone is over the fucking top, especially when it comes to omegas. The doorbell rings as soon as he finishes off the last of his muffin – and good thing Stiles can smell that it's Scott, otherwise he would've absolutely blown whoever it was off to slink out the back door before getting caught in the gaze of some horny alpha.

During Stiles' heat week, Scott insists on riding to and from school with Stiles. Just to be...safe. His father is home whenever Stiles is during heat week, with his gun locked and loaded, ready to fucking go. It's not like this everywhere, generally; or at least that's what Stiles convinces himself of whenever he catches an alpha looking at him for a little too long. Most alphas are perfectly civilized. It's just a formality, really. Nothing to be scared of, at all. Stiles lets Scott follow him around like a hawk all day long, growling at anyone who looks even vaguely threatening, lets his dad keep his gun on his hip at all times, and tries not to think about what it all means. When he opens up the door, there's Scott. Standing among a pile of gifts and stuffed animals, and in his hands is a cake. It's a nice enough cake; two tiers, vanilla frosting (Stiles' favorite), chocolate inside, but from the look on Scott's face, you'd think he was disgusted by the thing. He holds it out to his best friend, a frown deeply set into his face, as if he's so fucking humiliated, and Stiles takes it with a smile. “Thanks, buddy!” “Don't. Just fucking – don't.” Scott had once told Stiles what it's like to be an alpha and to smell an omega's heat – about the pull to show up and play a theoretical game of whose is bigger with every other alpha in town. “It's like I have to do something for you, Stiles. It almost happens completely against my will, you know? Like, if I don't do it, if I don't give you something or be nice to you or go out of my way for you, I'll fucking lose my mind. It's the hands down worst feeling on the face of the planet, and I'd appreciate it! If you could possibly! Refrain! From the mocking!” Scott has baked Stiles a lot of cakes during his heat weeks. Probably three or four a week since he started getting them, a year ago. Stiles really doesn't mind. And he doesn't mock that much. Just a little bit. “Did you wear your apron?” “Stiles...” “Okay. Okay! I'm sorry. But is that – flour behind your ear...” “Stiles!!!!!!!” It isn't that Scott is attracted to Stiles in that way, or anything. There's not a single doubt in Stiles' mind, though, that if he were in heat and he went over to Scott's house and just got naked and presented himself to his best friend, they would wind up having sex. It's a really fucked up thought, and neither of them have ever acknowledged it entirely before. These practices, and these urges, date back to before werewolves were civilized – back before we can’t have sex, we're best friends, was ever a fucking thing. So, no. They don't mention the fact that sitting in Stiles' jeep with Stiles' arousal and heat scent is the single worst thing for Scott to have to live through.

When he opens up the window and sticks his head outside halfway through the drive, Stiles laughs, and Scott curses him out. They pull into a parking spot in school, and Scott sighs. “I fucking hate your heat week.” “If it makes you feel any better,” Stiles says, as a handful of alphas literally stop walking and sniff the air the second he opens up the door to his car, “I'm not entirely wild about it, either.” “Oh, please,” Scott slams his door shut and meets Stiles at the front of the car, glowing his eyes and growling under his breath at a couple of alphas ten feet away who look about ready to pounce on top of Stiles and rip his clothes off, “you love this shit.” They start the walk of shame, as Stiles has dubbed it many times in the past. The first walk of the day, from his car into the school, spreading his very strong heat scent all over the halls and classrooms, so every alpha within a four mile radius gets a big fat puff of it, is the absolute worst. Like he said before – they literally stop and stare. They very nearly start fucking drooling. It's borderline humiliating, honestly. No alpha ever talks about how embarrassing it must be to be that attracted to a scrawny seventeen year old with moles dotted on the side of his face; but, come on. It must be, on some level. “I made this for you, Stiles,” a girl from Stiles' chem lab says with a predatory smile, standing directly in front of Stiles and Scott, holding a hand carved box out to him. “It's made from cherry wood. Do you like it?” Stiles takes the box and smiles back at her; it feels smooth in his hands, with a wolf carved onto the lid. “Yes, it's really nice. Thanks.” She grins wider, satisfied with having pleased the resident omega, and stands aside to let the boys walk past her. She eyeballs Scott for a couple of seconds longer than necessary, and Scott stares back, growling under his breath once more. Stiles nudges him in the side with a roll of his eyes, turning the box over in his hands. “I like this thing.” “Who knew Carly was a wood carver,” Scott remarks, staring down at the thing with his nose scrunched up in distaste. “Can you say – desperate?” “Scott, buddy,” Stiles pats his best friend on the back a few times, shaking his head. “You woke up at four o'clock this morning just to bake me a cake from scratch, and I know you're going to do the same exact thing tomorrow morning, so don't you start in on judging who is or isn't desperate here.” His best friend glowers at him, blush covering his cheeks and going straight up to the tips of his ears, but he doesn't say anything back. Conceding the point to the omega and admitting defeat. In homeroom, he gets his perfunctory brownies from Danny, a gift card to Barnes and Noble

from a leering senior who isn't even in his homeroom, and then, last but not least... Coach Finstock shows up, looking two steps away from throwing himself out a window, and like he hadn't slept all night last night – and drops a brand new pair of shoes onto Stiles' desk. It's the same shoes he always wears – black converse – but the bizarre thing is that they're actually in his fucking size. “Um – thanks. Thank you...coach.” “Whatever, Bilinski,” Coach says under his breath, before hustling his way out of the classroom as fast as he legs can probably take him. All the betas in the room stare after him with dropped jaws or incredulous grins, while the small handful of alphas just sit and huff and puff in annoyance at having been bested in omega gift giving by Coach Finstock. “Can you just fucking mate already?” Scott says from the seat beside him, rubbing his hands down his face in exasperation as if trying to rub the sight of Coach presenting a gift to his best friend straight out of his mind. “I don't know how much more of this I can take.” The day pretty much just goes on the same, after that. He gets his handful of gifts from all the alphas in his classes, gets stares of jealousy and annoyance from most of the betas, and by lunchtime his backpack is getting a bit too heavy. Danny notices and offers to carry it for him, and when Stiles politely declines, he opts for dumping his mashed potatoes (the only good thing the school lunch crew is capable of producing) onto Stiles' plate, and winking at him. The only odd thing, though. The only odd thing happens at the end of the day. Stiles and Scott usually stay behind every day during Stiles' heat, because some alphas actually have an unsettling tendency of following Stiles home to try and actually coerce him into having sex with them. The few times that's happened, luckily, his father was home with his gun and wolfsbane bullets – because Christ only knows what would've happened to Stiles otherwise. Things like that are incredibly frowned upon in werewolf society at large. You don't take an omega against their will; that, at least, is one thing most alphas can respect about omegas. But, there are always deviants in every system. So at the school they sit until forty-five minutes after the final bell, until Scott deems it safe to leave. They get out to Stiles' Jeep before Stiles remembers he left an important book in his locker, runs back inside with his footsteps echoing in the empty hallways of the school, straight to his locker. He grabs his book, and whatever little gifts that are leftover, and shoves them all into his backpack, making a heinous amount of noise, barely paying attention at all. When he slams his locker door closed, he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of Derek Hale

just standing there beside him, raising his eyebrows. Derek is a senior, this year – along with his twin sister Laura – and he's kind of...bad news. That's what his father tells him anyway. Bad news. Like, been arrested twice already, bad news. Like, tried to start up a fake ID business at school with his rich-boy connections, bad news. Wears leather jackets every day, pulls up in his Camaro that his parents bought him for his sixteenth birthday, glares at everyone, shows little to no interest in existing in general, bad news. Now, he's standing there in front of Stiles, just staring, and Stiles stares back, for lack of anything else to do. He keeps waiting for him to say get out of the way, omega or sneer nice car, Stilinski, or a biting narc ; because, you know. He's the sheriff's son. So he's naturally a narc. It's charming. Really, truly charming. Derek Hale everyone, resident omega charmer. That being said, Derek hasn't so much as spoken to Stiles since - well, since his first heat last year, actually. But, instead of starting in on the verbal insults, Derek pulls a single red rose out from inside of his jacket, and presents it to Stiles with a blank expression on his face. Stiles stares at it, dumbfounded. No one's ever given him flowers before – never in all his years as an omega has an alpha ever given him a flower; it's so startling that Stiles actually checks behind his shoulder to make sure there's not anyone standing behind him that Derek is actually giving the rose to. There's no one. Stiles sets his eyes on the rose again, before tentatively reaching his hand out to take it. His fingers brush up against Derek's, and Derek twitches, his whole face flickering, before he pulls his hand away and shoves it down into the pocket of his jacket. “Thank you,” Stiles says, holding the rose daintily in his fingers. Derek nods. “You're welcome.” Then, the alpha just turns around on his heel and vanishes down the hallway, and Stiles is left standing there with his rose and his backpack, like...what the fuck? ---Derek has given Stiles gifts before. Each and every single unmated alpha in town has given Stiles a fucking gift before – like Scott says, it's more or less not really a choice. But Derek's gifts have always just been one of the many, you know? Just left on his front porch in nondescript wrapping. Granted, his gifts have always been some of the best (i.e. things Stiles actually fucking likes, like comic books and shirts with his favorite bands on them) but Stiles assumed that was just because he was, like, rich; and also because his parents are really esteemed and important, not just in this town, but in all werewolf communities around the world. They're hot shit, so they need their son, the only alpha of the bunch, to give the best gifts to the resident omega. That's what Stiles thought. When he gets home, he paws through the mountain of gifts in the living room, and finds one from

Derek Hale all the way at the bottom; as if it was one of the first that arrived on the porch. It's wrapped like all his gifts are; neatly, carefully, thoughtfully. All this time he thought Laura was the one doing it, but now – now he's not so sure. He could easily see Derek's careful hands wrapping this stupid thing. Pulling off the paper, and the bow, he finds a notebook. It's simple – just a plain black notebook. Perhaps a little fancy with the edges of the page painted golden, but still. Just a notebook. Stiles runs his nose along the side and catches the scent of Derek's hands all over it – proof that he picked it out himself and wrapped it himself. Stiles furrows his brow, doesn't know what to make of it. Most alphas try buying him really over the top stuff - you know, stuff that's meant to impress him. Like look at all the money I have. Look how I could provide for you. This is just a plain old notebook; a practical gift, for once. All the same, he leaves all the other gifts behind in their pile, and takes only the notebook and the rose down to his heat room with him. ---He steps over piles of gifts in the kitchen, accepts his cake from Scott, drives to school, gets ogled at and sniffed by alphas left and right, receives more empty meaningless gifts, has his honor defended by Scott a couple of times, and makes it to lunch in relatively one piece. Already he feels sick of this entire fucking week. His balls hurt, his dick hurts, his ass is slimy, and all he wants to do is go home and hump into a pillow and, like, not have a group of senior alphas yell lascivious things at him while standing in line for spaghetti. He ignores them, and all the names they call him, while the two betas on either side of him give him apologetic glances – but no one speaks up. Some alphas just react weirdly to smelling an omega, he reminds himself. It's not always presents and compliments; it can often times be degrading insults, because, like everyone knows...omegas are the bottom of the pyramid. No matter how many gifts he gets or how nice other wolves are towards him because of his status, mostly they all see him as a glorified pet. Something to groom and clothe and feed and fuck; and not necessarily something that deserves to be treated nicely. So, some alphas don't. Treat him nicely, that is. They treat him like he's garbage. Being the only single omega left, with no alpha there to protect him or threaten anyone since Scott is at a study group...he's just an open target, right now. Solemnly, keeping his eyes straight ahead, he marches off to an empty table on the other side of the room; ignoring all the looks his fellow classmates give him, all the blatant sniffing as he

walks past, all the murmured comments, and is just about to place his tray down on the table he had his sights on, when an alpha steps in front of him and cuts off his path. Troy fucking whatshisname – a second year senior who doesn't know what two plus two equals, honestly – and his knucklehead alpha friends. He raises his eyebrows at Stiles, and sweeps his eyes up and down the omega's body, drinking him in hungrily. “Omega,” he greets with a sneer. “You know, your scent makes it really hard to concentrate in class, Stiles.” Stiles grips the edges of his tray tightly. “Is that why you still haven't graduated?” His friends actually stifle a laugh, covering their mouths, while Stiles just glares back at Troy smugly. Troy, for his part, doesn't look all that amused. He takes a step closer to Stiles, towering over him at six foot something, glowering. “That's why I think omegas shouldn't be allowed in school. What's an omega need to go to school for anyway, am I right?” Stiles swallows thickly, and pretends like it doesn't bother him. This is not a new ideology. There have been debates, especially in Beacon County, and especially in California (which has the smallest population of omegas in the United States) to keep omegas out of school. For their own good and safety; as if keeping them all chained up in basements for alphas to come and bid on is really all that much better for the omega population at large. “What's an omega need to know how to read for, when the only thing they're all good for is-” A huge tan hand shoots out and grabs Troy's collar, shoves him back and away from where Stiles is standing, and then Derek Hale comes into Stiles' line of vision. “Shut the fuck up,” Derek growls into Troy's confused face, flashing his eyes bright red and letting his canines drop threateningly. Troy throws his hands up instantly, backing away from Stiles' table with shaky steps. “Okay, Jesus, Hale,” he mutters, exposing his neck as he disappears into the huddle of his friends, dispersing back into the crowd of the lunchroom. Derek turns around, sees Stiles standing there probably bambi eyeing the fuck out of him – deer in the headlights look – and raises his eyebrows. Without saying a single word, he takes the tray out of Stiles' limp hands, drops it down onto the table, and pulls a chair out. Motioning for Stiles to come and sit down. Stiles stays put for a second, shocked out of his absolute mind at the series of events that just took place; because for all the times he's been teased, he doesn't remember anyone other than Scott coming to his rescue. Out of all the people he thought would've maybe come in to help him, he thought Danny, or maybe Allison (the beta, but good enough), possibly even Jackson, but Derek Hale? Does not compute. Does not fucking compute. He lurches forward, finally, towards where Derek is waiting for him. As he sits down, Derek tucks the chair underneath him with a scraping sound against the linoleum.

Glancing up at the alpha nervously, Stiles catches him pulling another rose out from the inside of his jacket, and he thinks Christ, does he have an entire garden in there? Derek leans down, so close that Stiles can feel the heat coming off of his skin – and, on Derek's end, close enough that he can feel the steam of actual heat rising from Stiles' crotch, and maybe that's why his entire body is a ramrod straight, tense line. “Troy's parents raised him to be a disgusting fucking animal,” he says, as he drops the rose down beside Stiles' lunch tray. As he pulls away again, Stiles says, “thank you.” Derek says, “you're welcome.” ---“What the hell is this?” Scott laughs when he sees the rose pinned underneath one of Stiles' window wipers outside in the parking lot the same day. Stiles pulls it out slowly, holding it in his hands, twisting it this way and that. “It's from Derek Hale.” “Derek Hale gave you a rose?” Scott raises his eyebrows so high they practically disappear into his floppy hair line. “Derek Hale is giving me roses,” Stiles corrects. The following day, while Stiles is feasting on more homemade muffins, his father hands him a single red rose with a befuddled expression on his face. “This was on the front steps.” He finds a second rose waiting for him in his usual parking spot, taped gently to the STUDENT PARKING ONLY sign. Scott raises his eyebrows again. “That guy wants to fuck you,” he says. “You're going on your fourth cake, Scott,” Stiles says mildly, prying the rose off the sign. “You've got no place to be talking.” “Okay, listen to me, Stiles,” Scott rounds the Jeep to come over to Stiles' side, and rips the rose of his friends' fingers. “There's two different things, here. There's, I want to put my dick in you because of a primal, animal urge and how good you smell. Then, on the other end of the spectrum,” he moves the rose in the air to accentuate his point, “there's, I want to put my dick in you and mark you and claim you, because-” “Derek Hale does not want to mate me!” He yells it too loudly – much too loudly. He turns around and sees Laura Hale covering her mouth with her hand, holding a book over the side of her face as if Stiles wouldn't fucking know it was her anyway.

"Great," Stiles hisses, snatching the rose out of Scott's hand. "Look what you've done now." Hours later, Stiles is in the art supply closet looking for a box of pencils to bring back to Harris' class – because apparently being the only omega in the class makes him the errand boy. He's grumbling under his breath about just this, calling Harris about a zillion different horrible names, when the door opens up behind him. And it's Derek Hale. Sans leather jacket today, he's standing in the doorway wearing a white vneck and dark jeans, looking especially tan in the dim lighting of the supply closet. Stiles swallows, thinks he should say something, but doesn't know where he'd even begin. How does one just start a conversation with Derek Hale? The Derek fucking Hale? The thing about Derek is that he really doesn't like anyone. He has his group of friends, mostly jocks from the champion lacrosse team that Derek doesn't play on but has enough social status to hang around with the team, and he has his sister Laura, and he's...attractive. And rich. And has a fake ID and will buy any kid who can pay enough wolfsbane alcohol. So people know of him, all right? He's kind of a big deal around these parts, especially considering who his family is. But he doesn't fucking like anyone. It's the weirdest thing. Sometimes Stiles catches him at lunch sitting with his friends looking like he wants to become a balloon so he can float into the sky and be rid of them forever. He doesn’t even look like he likes Stiles that much, from the way he literally tenses up as Stiles' scent hits him in the face after the door opens. “Um -” Stiles begins, hoping to God that Laura didn't say anything about earlier in the parking lot. Scott had said there's no way she would tell - Laura is notorious for being chill as fuck and utterly uninterested in gossip altogether. Stiles convinces himself he's in the clear as Derek takes a step inside the cramped closet – just a single step, because any closer and he'd be in Stiles' personal space bubble. The door slams automatically behind him, almost making Stiles jump. “I hope you're not looking for pencils, because I think we might just be...out?” Derek does his eyebrow raise thing, reaches into his back pocket, and produces another rose, holding it out to Stiles. This time, Stiles smiles – grins, actually – and Derek's lips quirk up, as well. He's...pleased to see Stiles smiling. Stiles can smell the satisfaction rolling off of him in waves. “Thank you,” Stile says, bringing the rose up to his nose to sniff it. Derek follows the motion with his eyes, like he's taking in every single detail of every single movement Stiles makes and filing it away inside his brain for later. Instead of saying you're welcome, Derek goes onto his tip toes and reaches up onto the shelf right beside him, all the way on the top shelf that Stiles can't see or reach, and comes back down with a box of pencils. He presents them to Stiles, almost the way a cat would drop a mouse onto the front porch of its owner; proudly.

Stiles takes them out of his hand, smiles at him again, and says, “awesome.” Derek nods in agreement. “Awesome.” Then, Stiles just stands there and takes a few discrete inhales, because unlike alphas, omegas don't have a free ticket to just go around sniffing at everyone they want to, to get a good feel of Derek's scent. It's spicy – sharp, almost. Cinnamon, maybe some strong citrus, and something else that's just Derek. “You know, I can tell when you do that.” Stiles' entire body goes into lockdown. He's been caught. Fucking found out – he just got caught sniffing Derek Hale in the art supply closet. Christ, it sounds like the kind of story you'd find in the embarrassing moments section of Seventeen magazine. OMG so there I was in the art supply closet with the H O T T E S T alpha in school and he totally caught me sniffing him - talk about mortifying!! LOL! So, Stiles does what he does best; he gets defensive. “I can tell when alphas sniff me too – all day every day – but you don't see me complaining!” Derek smirks. “Don't get embarrassed. I was just messing with you.” Stiles humphs, twirling the rose around in his hand, narrowing his eyes at Derek – still not feeling any less embarrassed. “Did you follow me down here?” The alpha scrunches his face up at Stiles, like, seriously? “When you walk down the halls, you leave behind a scent path, Stiles.” “So you followed my scent to the art supply closet!” “Yes. Is that a problem?” Stiles stops short; surprised at how direct Derek can be. So his mouth is just hanging open, while he tries to decide whether or not Derek following his scent bothers him or not. The thing is, no alpha has ever asked if the things they do bother him. No one ever stopped to ask him, you know, does me showering you with food and gifts make you feel weird? Or does me offering to pay you to have sex with me make you feel weird? None of it. He eyes Derek for a few more seconds, before deciding on, “no. It doesn't bother me. I...don't mind it.” Derek nods, more satisfaction rolling off of him. “Okay, then.” “Okay.” The alpha points to the box in Stiles' hand.“Don't you have somewhere to be with those

pencils?” “Don't you have somewhere to be?” Stiles counters back, raising his eyebrows right into Derek's smug face. “Free period.” “Oh.” Stiles deflates. He just kind of naturally assumed Derek would be skipping class, or something, because he's...bad. Right? Derek is totally a bad boy. He wears a leather jacket and peddles fake ID's to minors to Christ's sake. He totally skips class all the damn time. “Well – I have chem.” Because Stiles is not a bad boy. Derek turns around and pushes open the door, stepping back outside of the closet to hold it wide open for Stiles to walk through. Stiles gives him a small smile as he passes through the doorway, and then they're going down the hallway in opposite directions. When he gets back to class with the rose in his hand, as he crosses the front of the room to place the pencils down on Harris' desk, he catches Scott's eye – and his best friend mouths he wants! To! Fuck! You! And Stiles starts to wonder. ---There are a lot of things wrong with thinking Derek Hale has anything more than a superficial interest in Stiles. And superficial, in this context, refers to wanting to breed an omega as opposed to actually giving a shit about Stiles as a wolf. It just doesn't make any fucking sense, because it's Derek Hale. And Derek Hale doesn't like people like that, all right? Up until a few days ago, Stiles was pretty positive he was a robot android sent from the planet Mercury to do the bidding of some superior beings planning to take over the world. Up until a few days ago, though. Only up until that first rose outside of Stiles' locker. Which Stiles had just chalked up to the heat, but now – six roses later – he's really starting to fucking wonder. If Derek just wanted to be nice to Stiles on his heat, try and woo him into getting in the back of his Camaro for some steamy sex, then he could've just handed Stiles an entire dozen and called it good. This feels a lot more like... ...courting. The word itself has Stiles shaking his fucking head to himself down in his heat room, as he paces back and forth across the carpeted floors. No way. No fucking way. Jackson courted Lydia, and Erica courted Isaac, so he knows what it looks like. And no way is Derek legitimately trying to court Stiles – first of all, because isn't he a little late? If he wanted to court Stiles, he could've done it during his first heat like any normal wolf would've done.

No way. Derek's not courting Stiles. It – no. No. Fucking no! No matter what Scott says, no matter what anyone says, no matter what Derek does... It just can't be. Courting means serious interest. Particular interest. And a particular interest in an omega, for an alpha, can only lead to one fucking thing. He glances at the pile of roses sitting on the bedside table, and something inside of him snaps. He climbs up onto his bed, grabs onto his pillow, and he won't be proud of this later (he never is) but he just starts rutting into it with a fervor only seen in porn films, honestly. Just like a wild fucking animal, humping a fluffy, soft pillow like it's a sentient being, and really getting off on it, too. It's so horrible, it's the worst thing ever, because the entire time – he just keeps his eyes on the roses. He humps his pillow while staring at he roses Derek gave him. Fuck. This isn't good. ---The next morning, his father hands him another rose, and purses his lips. “Someone taking a specific interest, son?” Stiles thanks God in that moment that Derek doesn't put a tag with his name on the roses, and shakes his head no to his father. No one's taking a special interest. No one is interested whatsoever, it's all very uniform, here. Just typical heat stuff. Everything's normal! There's another rose on the hood of his car in his own driveway, and Scott nods knowingly when he sees it. Another rose waiting inside of his locker (which would be weird if they weren't all werewolves here. Locks are essentially useless when everyone can just rip the doors clean off their hinges, so all the lockers are lockless.) And, finally, Derek stops him, dead center in the middle of the hallway in-between classes, while everyone streams around them. He smiles down at Stiles, pulls the rose out from underneath his coat, exactly as Stiles expects, and holds it out to him. Just like the other times before. Stiles accepts it, and when he takes it out of Derek's hand, he makes it a point to touch the alpha's fingers. The alpha jolts, like someone just sent an electrical shock through his body, and then stiffens. He stands there staring down at Stiles in the middle of the hallway, wide-eyed, and Stiles can see the muscles in his arms twitching – like he wants to do something, but can't. ----

Stiles figures out that there's a pattern to the roses. On the first day of his heat, he got one. On the second day, he got two, then three, then four. Today is day five, and Friday. So he goes into the entire day expecting five damn roses. He gets the porch rose, and his father's steely gaze. “I want to know who's bringing those to you,” he demands, narrowing his eyes. “I'm not sure,” Stiles lies, and the Sheriff blanches. “I heard that. Who is it?” He can't very well say well, pops, it's Derek Hale, prepare the dowry! because his father's eyes would bulge out of his skull and he'd have a heart attack and die and Stiles would be an orphan – he'd have to move in with Scott and Melissa and listen to Scott wax poetic about Allison Argent's amazing beta eyes every single night. So, instead, he just sighs, and says, “some kid at my school. It's not a big deal.” Then he gets the car rose, and the locker rose, and a rose sitting on his homeroom desk when he comes in. Everyone in the room stares at him as he picks it up and grins like a stupid idiot. But after that, nothing. He keeps waiting for Derek to show up at lunch, when he goes to the bathroom during fifth period, as he's walking out of the school on his way to his car, but he never does. Stiles thinks he must've been wrong about the pattern, and Derek is just doing this willy nilly, because, again, it's not like this is...planned or anything. It's not a serious thing that's happening it's just – it's just... It's stupid is what it is. And Stiles was really idiotic to get his hopes all up like that. Five roses? Whatever. When he gets home, he stomps through the living room, past his mountains of gifts and baked goods, up the steps, to his good old bedroom instead of his heat room. His heat room mostly just smells like dried come and all the roses Derek's been giving him, and he's not in the fucking mood tonight. He wants to just get into his own bed, and not hump any pillows no matter how much his dick is screaming at him, and fall asleep and forget this entire week. He doesn't have to see Derek tomorrow, or the next day. The next time he'll see Derek, he'll be off his heat, and Derek won't even look at him twice when they pass in the halls. End of story. So that's what Stiles is doing, moping around in the darkness of his room and shoving brownies into his fat face, when he hears two light taps on his bedroom window. His head shoots up, and he sees Derek Hale perched on the roof outside his window, gazing in at him with glowing red eyes. For a second, all Stiles can do is gape, with his mouth rimmed in chocolate, from his spot on the

bed. Derek Hale scaled the side of his house to climb up onto the roof outside his window. Derek. Hale. He shoots up from his bed, and pulls the window open for him, bending down to look at him. “What are you doing here?” The alpha holds a red rose in his hands, dangling it right in front of Stiles' face. "What do you think?" Stiles stands aside and lets Derek climb inside his bedroom. His feet land silently on the floor, and he straightens back up to his full height, several inches taller than Stiles, handing the rose out to the omega beside him. Stiles accepts the rose, trying to force down his stupid grin, but failing, and then wipes the back of his hand across his face to get rid of any brownie crumbs. “Do you want a snack?” He holds the plate of brownies out to Derek hospitably, and Derek takes one with a smile directed at Stiles. Stiles smiles back at him, and then plops down on the side of his bed, dropping the plate down onto his bedside table. “So – you came all the way to my house just to give me a rose?” Derek lives in the middle of the preserve, all the way off in the woods. Granted, he does have his fancy Camaro, but Stiles highly doubts that he's going to look out his window and see it parked beside his father's cruiser in the driveway. Derek probably fucking ran here. The alpha sits own right next to him on the bed, gazes at his face for a second, wordlessly. “Or – um...was there another reason you-” Derek is shoving a piece of brownie into Stiles' mouth. Well, shoving is a strong word. He broke off a piece of the brownie in his hand, and gently put it up against Stiles' lips – Stiles, shocked, had initially clamped his lips shut. But after a second, with Derek gazing hopefully into his eyes, pressing the brownie into his lips, Stiles opens back up. Derek drops the brownie down onto his tongue, and as Stiles chews it up, he breaks off another piece and does the same. Stiles accepts this piece as well, mind going a mile a minute, because Derek Hale is fucking hand feeding him. If Danny ever finds out this is what became of his brownies... When the final piece is rolling around Stiles' mouth, Derek doesn't take his hand off of his face. He runs his index finger along Stiles' bottom lip, then across his upper lip, down along his cheek, jawline, and the entire time he does it, he just stares at Stiles. Like he's something special, or like he's been waiting to do this for so long, and now he's finally here, and doing it, and Stiles

doesn't know what to make of it, doesn't know what to think, so he just sits there. “Is this okay?” Derek asks, in a low, very controlled voice. “Yes,” Stiles rasps out with a broken voice. “Yes it...I like it.” Stiles does like it. Derek's fingers leave warmth in their trail, setting his entire face on fire, almost. An alpha has never touched Stiles like this. No alpha has ever touched Stiles period, aside from Scott, and even then – there's a big difference between bro-hugs and caressing, all right? This is a huge milestone for Stiles. He closes his eyes, and exposes his neck to Derek, and from that second forward, things kind of...get out of control. Derek grabs onto Stiles' shoulders, and shoves his face into the omega's neck, running his nose up and down along his throat, huffing him in, practically. Inhale, after inhale, after inhale, breath fanning across Stiles' collarbones. “So good,” he murmurs against his neck. “Your smell...” At a certain point, Derek just straight climbs on top of Stiles – so Stiles' head is back up on top of his pillow and one of Derek's legs is perched in between Stiles' spread thighs; while Derek just nuzzles and licks at Stiles' neck hungrily, lapping at him, almost. Stiles isn't in his right mind. He's really, really not. It's not that, if he were, he'd be stopping Derek, or anything. Because, seriously? Hottest boy in school wants to climb on top of you and lick your neck? Okay! Totally fine! But... Maybe if he were, he wouldn't have started humping Derek's leg like his sad, forlorn pillow in his heat room. His mind is just on a constant stream of mate, alpha, alpha, mate, want, fuck, alpha, Derek, and not a single cognizant thought goes through his puny little omega brain while he's rutting with abandon into Derek's jeans, again and again. He must've been moaning. Must've been. And Derek must've been just as far gone as he was, if he never slapped a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. If either of them were at all prepared for this onslaught of sexual energy, for Stiles' heat to fuck with them this much, they would've made the wise decision to go down into Stiles' heat room, which is soundproofed. That is not what they chose to do. Because they're stupid. So, the Sheriff bursts through the door, grabs at Derek's shoulders, and throws him across the room, off of his son. Stiles leaps up off the bed, scattering down onto the floor awkwardly, right as his father is cocking his gun, pointing it at Derek, and growling under his breath – Derek, for his part, just shoves himself back against the far wall, sitting on the ground with huge red eyes, snarling. “Dad, no,” Stiles says, scrambling up off the floor on shaking limbs, still lightheaded from the almost-sex he was just participating in, his neck throbbing with half-formed bruises from Derek

sucking on it. “Dad!” “He was taking advantage of you,” Sheriff growls out through his teeth, finger pressed down onto the trigger like he's going to fucking pull it any second, on an eighteen year old high school student. “He wasn't taking advantage of me,” Stiles dives in front of his father's gun and spreads his arms out, blocking Derek from his view. “I – we were...it was consensual! Very consensual! It was mutual, er, touching.” Silence fills the room, with Stiles' father squinting his eyes at Derek over Stiles' head, and slowly lowering his gun. “That's Derek Hale,” he says, in a dangerous voice. “It is. It's...Derek Hale.” Behind him, he hears Derek get back up onto his feet. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he says. Sheriff snorts, and rolls his eyes. “We've met before, you knucklehead. Remember sitting in the back of my squad car?” “Water under the bridge,” Stiles says, turning around to look at Derek with wide, pleading eyes, “totally forgotten.” “Not forgotten, actually.” “Dad...” “I should kick your ass for sneaking into my son's bedroom-” “Dad!” Stiles shoves at his father's shoulder, growling his pathetic little omega growl at him. He knows and understands that, as a father, bursting in on some dude mounting your son isn't exactly...great. In fact, Stiles guesses that it's actually pretty fucking traumatizing, especially when your son is an omega and the kid on top of him is a god damn alpha. But, still. Showing up guns blazing isn't the most astute way to handle the situation. “Stop. We were-” “I know what you were doing,” he says in a low voice, not taking his golden eyes off of Derek behind his son. There's a few more tense seconds, with everyone staring daggers at each other, and Stiles knows what's going on. Derek hasn't made a single move to assert hid dominance over the Sheriff; and he very well could. He could just grab Stiles right now, and as many threats as his father could make, really, in all actuality...he couldn't do anything about it. Sheriff, father, whatever - when it comes to mating, there's not much anyone but the involved parties can do about it. Which is why he just clucks his tongue and waves his hand in the air. “Just – go into your heat room, all right? I don't want to hear that. Got it?”

Stiles feels like dying of absolute embarrassment at hearing his father tell him and his – friend? to go down into his heat room so they can finish up. He just...wants to curl up and die on the fucking floor. This is not how he thought his night was going to go. He was supposed to wallow in self pity and eat two hundred brownies, all by himself in the dark. His father gives one last menacing look to Derek, then to Stiles, and then clomps down the hallway to his bedroom, closing the door. Stiles breathes out, leaning against his closet door, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “So,” Derek begins, and it almost sounds like he's fucking laughing. Stiles would've thought he'd be running for the hills after having a gun pointed at him, but apparently... “are we...?” Stiles inhales, and then exhales, equally as deep both times. “Can I ask you something?” “Anything,” and he hears Derek's footsteps cross the room, feels his body heat close up against his own body. “Why'd you do all this?” He takes his hands off his eyes, opens them up to look right into Derek Hale's stupid beautiful face. “I know you didn't almost just get shot by my father all so you could smell me, so...” The alpha blinks at him, cocking his head to the side. “I thought it was obvious, Stiles.” One step closer to him, so close Stiles could reach up and kiss him, if he wanted to. “I want you.” The words send a shiver down Stiles' spine, and he thinks he could come just from hearing that, he's so wound up. “Okay, but – you...you want me like, I smell good and I'm an omega and your instincts are telling you to, or...” Derek leans down and presses his lips against Stiles' neck, licks up the side of his jawline, before coming back around to his ear. “I want you like I fucking need you, Stiles.” He swings his body around so he's right in front of Stiles instead of pressed against his side, and shoves his leg in between Stiles' to spread them open, like he's asking Stiles to start throttling against him all over again. “I want to be the only one buying you things,” a kiss to his forehead, “I want to be the only one who gets to smell you,” to his nose, “I want to be the only one who gets to even think about fucking you.” Stiles' hips stutter forwards, against Derek's leg, and he tries desperately to restrain himself, to reign his heat in, to hold off, but it's so fucking hard, and Derek isn't exactly being helpful. In a haze, almost having no idea what he's saying, he stutters, “do you – do you want to fuck me now?” Derek growls into Stiles' neck, a predatory, animalistic thing that shakes the omega's bones down to their core, forces him to turn his head to the side and expose his throat. “I want to claim you.”

“Heat room,” Stiles breathes, shoving back against Derek's chest to push him off before he comes all over his floor. “Like, ten minutes ago. Heat room.” The alpha backs off of him, and they begin their stumbling descent down the hallway, down the second floor steps, down the basement stairs. Derek steps in front of Stiles and pulls open the door the heat room for him, beckoning him to step inside first, and Stiles does so, flicking on the light behind him. On the bedside table sits a pile of roses Derek gave him – and seeing that must ignite something inside of Derek's brain, like he knows what they're doing down here, or something, because he groans in the back of his throat and grabs at Stiles; in one fell swoop, he has the omega's shirt off. In the next, he's pulling his sweatpants off and throwing them off to the side somewhere. Stiles opted to not wear boxers or briefs, because they just chafe against him during his heat – so now he's butt naked in front of Derek Hale, and he's about to get fucking claimed, finally. The last omega at Beacon Hills High claimed. Derek scoops him up by his underarms and drops him down onto the pillows at the top of the king sized bed, so his back is resting against the headboard. Then, the alpha climbs up the bed from the opposite end, stalking towards Stiles on his hands and knees, and he says, “I want to taste you, first. Is that okay?” Stiles isn't entirely sure what he means; but he knows that anything, anything that Derek wants to do to him, he's perfectly fine with. He breathes yes out between his teeth, and watches as Derek spreads himself out completely, feet dangling off the end of the bed because he's too tall, dropping his face down in between Stiles' spread thighs. At first, he's just sniffing at him. He's got his arms somewhat snaked around Stiles' thighs, holding them steadily down in place – good thing, too, because Stiles knows he'd be jerking them around at how good it feels to have Derek's face shoved down in between his legs like this. He sniffs at his balls, and then down along his cock, pressing his nose along the length of it, dragging it up and down. Stiles leans his head back against the wall, panting, unsure what to do with his hands, so he just shoves them down into the pillows to keep them still. “Has anyone ever told you what you smell like?” Derek asks, looking up at Stiles through his long eye lashes. Stiles shakes his head. “No one's supposed to tell.” Only mates are supposed to tell each other what they really smell like. Derek grins, wide and predatory, and says, “you smell like mine.” With that last word, he sucks Stiles down into his mouth and Stiles' brain goes poof. Absolutely and totally gone. The only thing he can think about is Derek's tongue, and Derek's mouth, and

Derek's hands on his thighs rubbing circles around his pale skin, and Derek, Derek, Derek. Watching someone actually suck his dick has got to be in the top ten most incredible things he's ever seen. And he's seen the Grand Canyon in person, all right? And that huge hunk of degraded rock or whatever the fuck has got nothing on Derek's lips around his dick. Absolutely nothing. As soon as Stiles starts getting close, he says so, tilting his head back and clawing at the pillows with abandon – and Derek pulls off and straightens himself up so he's kneeling on the bed, wiping across his mouth with the back of his hand and staring at Stiles with red eyes. Stiles whines, thrusting his hips upward, towards Derek. “I was about to come.” Derek starts unbuttoning his jeans, raising his eyebrows. “I'll make you come, omega. I'll make you come when I want you to.” He leans down again, close to Stiles' face, and grins. “Is that okay?” Stiles nods, wide-eyed, speechless; he desperately wants to start working at himself with his hand, but something tells him Derek would just slap it away before he could get even a single finger on himself. So he just sits there and watches Derek get undressed, as his alpha dick springs free and all his tan skin is there on display for Stiles to gaze at. He's so fucking good looking, and Stiles honestly doesn't get what it is about himself that Derek really likes that much. Likes enough to claim, at least. “Hands and knees?” He says it like a question, gently putting his big hands on Stiles' small hips; and Stiles nods up at him. Derek flips him over easily, setting him up the way he wants him, arranging his ass back up against himself and rubbing a hand up and down Stiles' bare back. “I want to make sure you know what we're doing.” Stiles snorts, looking back at Derek over his shoulder. “I'm an omega, Derek. The only thing I've heard about my entire life is getting mounted and claimed, so yes, I know what we're doing.” Derek hesitates for a second, just stroking the omega's back, again and again, before bending himself over Stiles' bare body to get as close to his ear as he can. “I don't think of you as something to be mounted, Stiles.” Stiles shivers. “How do you think of me, then?” Derek pulls back, positioning himself at Stiles' hot, ready entrance – throbbing from his heat, desperate from his heat, and it takes everything in Stiles to not whine and rub back against him pathetically. “I think of you as Stiles.” With that, he slides all the way in, bottoming out, and Stiles cries out in elation. Finally. The claiming ritual, for lack of a better word, is not supposed to be romantic. It's supposed to be carnal and intense, animalistic, ruthless, and that's exactly what Derek does. He fucks into Stiles so hard, so fast, his hand coming up to wrap around the omega's neck, to squeeze just slightly,

telling him to stay fucking put, holding him down in place, as if Stiles had any plans of going anywhere to begin with. He just takes it – and doesn't fucking mind it, not one bit. Every time Derek thrusts, he sees stars around the edges of his vision, he feels like he's going to collapse, like he can't hold himself up anymore. Eventually, he comes; the first time. Just spurts out all over the sheets, and Derek doesn't even slow down; if anything, it just makes him go even harder. The second time he comes, Derek growls, and uses the hand around the front of Stiles' neck to pull him up just enough, just enough, that Derek can clench his extended teeth down onto the back of his exposed neck. Not enough to break the skin, barely enough for him to even really feel it. But enough to claim. The alpha finally milks himself out, filling Stiles up with every thing he has, and Stiles absolutely goes fucking limp. Like a rag doll, he just flops down into his own spunk, face first, and pants. Derek, however, is acting like he could go for another round, the way he kisses all along Stiles' back, strokes in-between his thighs, licks at the claiming marks on the neck. “You were perfect,” he murmurs, draping himself over his omega's body. “Was it okay? Stiles, baby?” He laughs, stroking Stiles' cheek with a few fingers. “Are you here with me?” “mmhere,” Stiles grunts out into the sheets, feeling exhausted in a way he hasn't in his entire life. “S'great.” “Great, huh?” Stiles just lays there and lets Derek rub his hands all over his limp body – it feels nice, therapeutic, and calming after the whirlwind he just fucking lived through. He's been claimed. He's mated now. To Derek freaking Hale. All the gifts, all the attention, it's all fucking over now - the second all those alphas get a whiff of Derek's scent all over him, they'll back off with their tails between their legs. After a few minutes, he finally pulls his body up, grunting, and plops down so he's resting on his knees next to Derek – who grabs at Stiles' dick the second he gets the chance, since it's already hardening up from his heat yet again. “Can I ask you something?” He asks, while Derek strokes him up and down, lazily. “Another something?” Derek furrows his brow, playfully. “You can ask me anything. You don't have to ask if you can ask.” Stiles sighs at the feel of Derek's ministrations on him, rolling his eyes back into his head, and asks in a near moan. “Why did it take you so long to court me?” Derek doesn't even pause, or slow down. He just smiles down into the sheets, shaking his head.

“I kept thinking you were going to mate with McCall. Then you just – never did.” “Jesus Christ!” Stiles shoves Derek's hand off of his cock and goes sprawling to the opposite end of the bed, growling at Derek under his breath. “Do not! Say my best friend's name! With your hand on my fucking dick!” “You asked!” Derek laughs, pawing forward lazily for Stiles' body. ---Derek treats Stiles well. Better than well, actually – he treats him perfectly. For that first week after his heat, Derek kept showing up in his Camaro ten minutes before Stiles usually leaves for school. He'd climb out of it, ring the doorbell, just to stand there and endure five minutes of being stared down by the Sheriff and his guns and interrogation face while Stiles flitted around collecting all his school books, dropping a blueberry muffin into Derek's hand and ushering him out the door with a bye, dad! Until Stiles finally said “not that I don't love your car, but – I miss driving my Jeep.” Then, Derek started showing up sans Camaro, and he'd climb into the passenger seat of Stiles' Jeep and ride along with him to school. He listens to Stiles' music with minimal complaints and sour facial expressions, goes to Stiles' favorite restaurants, goes to see the movies Stiles wants to see, goes to a family dinner at Scott's house, and eats lunch with him and Scott at school, abandoning his super-cool senior friend group to mingle with Juniors. “You know her, though,” Scott says to him one day, leaning over the lunch table and whispering conspiratorially. “Like...on a personal level.” “Our families know each other well,” Derek says back around a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “So you know her.” Derek sighs through his nose and rolls his eyes. “Yes, Scott. I know her.” “So you can set him up with her?” Stiles asks, nudging his alpha in the side. Derek swallows, slowly and deliberately. “How am I supposed to set them up?” “You say, Allison, there's this super cool kid named Scott – maybe you've seen him around school. In fact, you've definitely seen him around school because who could overlook the cutest boy in all of 11th grade-”

“So what you're saying is,” Derek leans back in his seat and huffs. “You want me to talk Scott up to Allison Argent?” The two boys nod, frantically. “Otherwise, I don't have a prayer!” “I think you don't have a prayer either way, Scott,” Derek says bluntly, picking his sandwich back up with a shake of his head. “Why do you say that?” Scott demands, eyes going wide. “Has she said something? Did she say something about me? What do you guys talk about?” “I'm not doing this,” Derek shakes his head again, this time with more power. “I am not playing matchmaker to Puppy Scott and his Puppy Crush.” Stiles leans his body against his alpha's, blinks his big brown eyes up at him, and says, “plleasssee?” Derek glowers down at him with this look on his face - like he knows he's absolutely fucking powerless to do anything other than exactly what Stiles wants him to do. “Fine. I'll ask her what she thinks of you next time she's over.” “Nice!” Scott bangs his fist on the table and glows. Another time, Stiles corners Derek in the locker room at school, raises his eyebrows, and says, “can I have a fake ID?” Derek snaps his neck back so hard it bangs against the lockers with a clang, and he makes an incredulous face at Stiles. “What?” “A fake ID! I know you make them, so-” “No,” Derek says simply, with a shrug, pushing away from the lockers and gently shoving Stiles aside again so he can go back to packing up his gym bag. “What do you mean no?” Stiles huffs, narrowing his eyes. “I mean, no. I'm not making you a fake ID.” Stiles stares at him, wide-eyed. “But...” “I know you're used to getting your way,” Derek smirks at him as he zips up the last of his things, “but not this time. First of all, you're the Sheriff's son.” “That's a technicality.” “Second of all, I'm not going to give you something that gives you a free pass to go out and get yourself in trouble. A seventeen year old omega out alone at the bars?”

“I thought you'd be coming with me...” Stiles says glumly, glaring down at the floor. “The answer is no.” The alpha hooks a finger underneath his omega's chin to lift his face up and look into his eyes. “Sorry.” Stiles capitalizes on the situation, blinking his eyes up at him and putting on his best sad face. “Plleaaasee?” He tries, but is met only with a broad grin. “That doesn't work on me.” “Yes it does.” “You think it does.” “I know it does.” “Then explain this -” he leans down even closer into Stiles' face, his breath fanning over his skin. “No, Stiles. You cannot have a fake ID.” "What's the point of you, then?" Stiles teases, slapping the alpha's hands off of him. "If you're not going to give me what I want, what kind of alpha even are you?" Derek fits his gym bag over his shoulder and gives Stiles an unimpressed look. "The point of alphas is to make sure omegas don't get eaten in the wild," he says mildly, shrugging his shoulders. "You think it's about me giving you everything you want because you're a totalitarian dictator." "Also because you give in ninety-nine percent of the time." Stiles reminds him with a smirk. Which is true - Derek has absolutely no problems doing exactly as Stiles says most of the time. Stiles wants to skip school to go to the beach, then Derek shrugs and says all right. Stiles want to learn how to cook, then Derek goes and buys all the ingredients and carries the groceries inside. Stiles wants to have sex in the back of his dad's cruiser because it would be hot well...actually, Derek put his foot down on that one. But, still. He's a gigantic softy, no matter what his rock hard exterior would lead anyone to believe. Stiles thinks that this is what it's actually supposed to be like to be mated to an alpha - while so many other alphas see it as owning an omega, Derek sees it as being responsible for Stiles; watching out for him and providing him with whatever he needs, no matter what. Except for a fake ID, apparently.

End Notes

Stiles mentions a few times that there have been instances of alphas trying to coerce or force omegas into having sex with them - he talks about how Scott has to come with him to and from school during his heat to protect him from the possibility of an alpha attacking him. Like I said, not much, but better you know beforehand, right? thanks for reading!! I hope this got you feeling nice and romantical for Valentine's lmao. I had to put in those last couple of scenes to show the dynamic between Stiles and Derek post-mating because I find it adorable - I hope you liked it!!

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