Chapter Text
“Finally!” Derek’s older sister, Laura, throws her hands up as he walks into his Manhattan loft. He’s really got to get his key back from her one of these days. When he first gave it to her, he’d made her promise that she’d only use it in case of emergencies. In retrospect, he should’ve known Laura wouldn’t listen. It’s been six months since he’d given her a key, and so far, she has yet to use it in an actual emergency. In fact, now that he thinks about it, why is Laura here? And why is she smirking at him like that? Oh no. Derek knows that smirk. “Get changed. We’re going out.”
Fuck. Derek hates it when he’s right.
He sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose as Laura’s words register. His eyelids are heavy with exhaustion. He feels a tension headache coming on because today's shift was tough. Every time he finished up one case, a new one showed up on his desk.
It’s a small price to pay for being the rookie and a werewolf. Werewolves might be more accepted in today’s society, but there are still plenty of old-fashioned bigots out there, including his captain. Derek still has to prove his worth, which means he gets stuck with most of the grunt work instead of the actual police work he had signed up for in the first place.
Needless to say, he’d been looking forward to heading to bed early tonight. He’s still in his police uniform—hasn’t even been afforded the time to take off his duty belt yet.
Usually, Derek showers and changes at the precinct, but his desire to get home and settle into the quiet of his loft far outweighed his need to clean off the grime of his day. His captain had him cleaning out the basement storage unit, which wreaked havoc on his sensitive nose. He let someone from maintenance know that mold grew on the rusty, water-damaged pipes. Now, after spending all day down there, he’s covered in a thick layer of dirt and cobwebs, and all he can taste is dust.
As soon as five pm rolled around, he clocked out, got into his squad car, and headed home to watch some Netflix and eat an obscene amount of Thai food from his favorite neighborhood spot. He definitely does not have the energy—or patience—to socialize right now.
Don’t get him wrong, Derek loves being a cop. It’s all he’s wanted since he was a teenager—even if the story behind it is a little gruesome. At age fifteen, his high school sweetheart and first love—a beautiful omega named Paige—died after being bitten against her will. The bite didn’t take, and she ended up dying alone in a preserve on the outskirts of town. Unfortunately, Derek was the one who found her and, therefore, the first suspect. Once his name was cleared and the investigation wore on, however, Derek quickly became fascinated with watching the local detectives work the case.
At one point, Derek overheard one of the police officers comment about how the attack just proved that werewolves were uncivilized animals that have no place in human society. Derek had been furious, but before he could reply, another officer jumped in. He told the bigot that he’d report him to their captain if he ever spoke about werewolves like that again.
From then on, Derek watched as they worked tirelessly to solve the case. It wasn’t long before his dreams of becoming a professional basketball player were overtaken by the desire to dedicate the rest of his life to solving crimes.
It’s nights like these, however, that he wishes he’d known just how tough it was to be a werewolf cop in a big city.
“No.” He walks through the open space of his shared dining and living rooms as he makes his way to his bed, centered along a wall on the far side of the large room. The keypad of his gun safe—a small lockbox he keeps next to his bed—beeps as he enters his passcode. Once his weapon is secure, he unbuckles his belt, laying it across the top of his dresser with a clatter.
“Oh, come on, Derek! The whole pack is gonna be there!” Laura throws her hands up. The exasperation evident in her voice, so he doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder as he undresses down to his boxers. As a werewolf, they’re not as conventional about nudity. “The whole pack is going.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” Derek smirks as he turns to face her, “no.”
“I could make you,” Laura threatens lightheartedly.
Derek rolls his eyes. She’s talking about forcing him to go by using her alpha status. “You’re not my alpha, but nice try.”
As much as Laura might look like her, that honor belongs to their mother. The latter often reminds him that he has his own pack now, consisting of Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. Cora’s likely to join his pack too, if she and Isaac ever get their heads out of their asses and finally admit their feelings for each other.
“Seriously, bun-bun—”
Derek growls. He hates the nickname she bestowed on him in their youth—either because he has ‘bunny teeth,’ or because he liked to chase them when he was younger, he’s still not quite sure.
“—You need to get out—”
“No,” he interrupts, but she keeps talking anyway.
“—And meet someone. You’re 25. It’s been nine years since the Kate thing.”
Ah, yes, Kate Argent—his ex-girlfriend and the primary reason for all of his intimacy issues. She was a hunter who didn’t follow their self-imposed code of ‘we hunt those who hunt us,’ and thought all werewolves should be killed—including Derek and his entire family. Thankfully, the fire she set to their house was quickly put out by the fire department before it caused any damage, and the police found Kate hiding out a few miles away.
It was an enlightening experience, to say the least.
He ignores Laura’s flippant reminder of his ex in lieu of stalking to the bathroom and turning on the shower.
Steam billows around him as the water temperature rises to something that would scald a human. His eyes immediately lock on the barbed heart tattooed on his chest—he'd gotten the ink as a teenager after the incident with Kate. It served as a visual reminder: never fall in love again. Sure, he hooks up when the urge strikes, but he rarely makes an effort to date—there's no point when it won't lead anywhere.
He steps into the shower and lets the water wash the stress of the day off of him as he lets his mind wander to happier thoughts, like a quiet evening watching Brooklyn 99.
Unfortunately, Laura’s still there when he emerges from the bathroom. Along with Cora. And the rest of the pack.
Fuck.
The bar is packed—not unusual for a Friday night. Just once, Derek wishes that if his pack is going to drag him out, they’d take him somewhere he likes.
Like home.
When he suggested it, Laura rolled her eyes, and Cora groaned. Erica told him to take the stick out of his ass and find a twink to fuck.
“I don’t need to get laid,” Derek yells over the too-loud thump of the bass coming through the speakers. The vibrations shoot through his body, and he swears it makes his dick chafe from the skin-tight pants Erica forced him to wear. She assured him that they made his ass look great, but he just wants to take one of his claws and tear them off right now.
Erica, Cora, and Laura laugh while Boyd raises an amused brow. Meanwhile, Isaac holds his hands up—a clear sign for ‘please don’t include me in this.’
Isaac is now officially his favorite beta.
Or he is, until twenty minutes later when Derek sees Isaac’s tongue down Cora’s throat. Great that they’re progressing their relationship, but fuck all if he wants to see that shit.
He downs the beer he’s been nursing in one go. He initially didn’t want to get drunk, but Christ, if he doesn’t need another to wash that image from his brain. Still, two drinks won’t be too bad. Sure, they’re laced with a special wolfsbane blend, but he’s sure it’ll burn through his system with how irritated he is.
It’s too loud, the floors are sticky, and people keep bumping into him. Apparently, growling is not an acceptable response if the glares and looks of disdain he receives are anything to go by.
A few brave souls ignore his mask of irritability and approach him with looks of lustful intent. It’s precisely why he didn’t want to go out in the first place. Derek’s not opposed to a random hookup, but he has to be in the mood for it.
Usually, he isn’t good with strangers. He has to prepare himself—slip into a facade where he flirts with his sexiest smirk and lowers his voice until it’s dripping with sex.
Tonight, however, he can’t bring himself to even flash a polite smile towards any of the people who attempt to flirt with him. He doesn’t have it in him to let people down gently with a kind smile and a friendly ‘Sorry, not interested.’ All he wants to do is stay for an acceptable amount of time to get Laura off his back and then head home where he can become one with his bed.
Laura’s reluctant promise of staying by his side to ward off strangers was abandoned around the time Isaac and Cora started playing tonsil hockey. He never really expected her to uphold said promise, and Erica and Boyd took off after the first round of shots.
When the third person asks him to dance, Derek pays his tab and looks over the throngs of people gyrating on the dance floor. Once he spots Laura, he makes a bee-line for her to tell her that he’s leaving. Derek’s hit with the most enticing scent while walking through the crowd, a true feat considering the bar mostly smells of sweat and cheap perfume. The smell, though delectable, is tinged with the acidic scent of an omega in distress.
His feet move of their own accord and he pushes through the crowd, following the deliciously spicy-sweet aroma of jasmine and cherries. As he gets closer to the source of that exquisite smell, he hears an irritated voice say, “Get the fuck off me, dude!”
Rage pulses through his veins when he spots an omega being manhandled by an alpha and not one person around them stopping to help.
The omega seethes with anger. “Seriously, I said let go!”
Instinct takes over, and Derek growls at the alpha, ready to challenge him because seeing another alpha hitting on this omega pisses him off. He has no idea why. Perhaps it’s because the omega is absolutely gorgeous—he looks like a pixie or a fairy with his cute, upturned nose, buzz shorn hair, and mole-speckled skin that appears to glow under the strobe lights, but Derek doesn’t see the tell-tale iridescent wings of his supernatural brethren.
Something in him wants to protect this exquisite creature. A wave of possessiveness that he’s never felt before rushes over him, like a wave cresting over the shoreline. He wants to mark, mate, and claim.
All Derek knows is that he’ll fight for this omega. It’s mildly distressing.
Thankfully, the other alpha walks away with only an angry huff.
Derek opens his mouth to introduce himself, but before he gets a word out, the omega huffs a breath and crosses his arms. “I had that,” he snarks, fixing Derek with a glare. Derek is transfixed by his stare, liquid amber that burns with fury. It bores into him—almost palpably—holding an impressive amount of power for a human.
It’s a good thing Derek wasn’t expecting a thank you. “Yeah, sure ya did.”
The omega scoffs. ”Stupid alpha posturing bullshit.”
Derek tries to focus on his words but instead uses the opportunity to look the omega over, letting his eyes trail over his body. Arousal courses through him because the omega left nothing to the imagination when he got dressed and came out—sinfully tight red pants that had to have been painted on (Derek might need to arrest him for public indecency) and an equally tight shirt with a low collar that shows off the long expanse of his neck. The omega is lithe with lean muscles. There’s a hint of a tattoo peeking over his shoulder, another on each bicep—though he can’t tell what they are—and Derek even spots a crescent moon on his hip when his shirt rides up.
Derek has a similar one on his left pectoral.
The omega makes an impatient gesture which finally snaps Derek from his thoughts. “Sorry, what?”
“I said, I’m not helpless. I don’t need some meathead alpha to come and protect my virtue.”
“Well, you’re welcome, either way,” he says, amused by the snarky omega. Derek fully expects him to get more pissed off, so—as much as it pains him because something about this omega just calls to him—he turns to leave.
Instead, his steps falter as he hears the most heartwarming laugh.
“Most alphas get snippy with me for calling them on their bullshit. You’re seriously gonna walk away?”
Derek raises a brow. “Most alphas are idiots.” This earns him a smile.
“I’m Stiles, by the way.” The omega—Stiles—thrusts a hand out at him. There’s electricity in the contact as their palms clasp together in a handshake that really shouldn’t leave Derek reeling like it does.
“Derek,” he finally says, after too much time has passed. Mercifully, Stiles doesn’t call him out on it.
“Well, Derek. How ‘bout I let you buy me a drink,” Stiles says with a smug smile because it’s clearly not a question.
Derek is intrigued—not just by Stiles’s enticing scent, but because he’s never cared for omega stereotypes either. That’s why he fell for Paige. She wasn’t afraid to challenge him. It’s why he fell for Kate, even if she did turn out to be a murderous lunatic.
Derek leads Stiles to the bar and buys him a drink—whiskey, neat. Derek listens as Stiles talks about grad school and how he’s in town checking out the criminal justice program at CUNY (the City University of New York). Since it’s his last night in the city, he wants to have some fun.
By now, there’s clear sexual attraction coursing between them. Derek’s been half-hard since even smelling Stiles, and his pants became uncomfortably tight when they shook hands. And, from the way Stiles leans into his side and bats his eyes is any indication, the feeling is mutual.
Stiles runs his thumb over Derek’s wrist with a feather-light touch that sends shivers down his spine as Stiles asks about the tattoo peeking from under the sleeve of his maroon henley. Derek pulls his arm away to roll up the sleeve.
He turns his arms to show the grove of trees inked on his skin. His right arm shows a lone wolf howling, while his left has three—one for each member of his pack. Stiles admires them as Derek explains it’s for his pack.
Stiles’s hand trails up his right arm to where his sleeve is bunched by his elbow. His fingers gently slip under the fabric, trying to follow the peak of a pine tree. “Are there more?” he asks, looking up at Derek through the thick fan of his lashes—his expression is wicked.
Derek’s dick pulses in his pants.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he answers, voice rough with want as he rubs his thumb over the crescent moon on Stiles’s hip.
He hears the uptick in Stiles’s heart, watches the vein in his neck pulse with his heartbeat, and sees his pupils dilate. But the moment is broken when Laura comes over to let him know they’re leaving. Apparently, Isaac and Cora want to…explore their relationship, and Boyd is already carrying a very drunk Erica to the cab they called. Laura’s going with them to make sure everyone gets home safe.
She doesn’t even bother asking Derek what his plans are before turning and leaving.
As soon as she’s out of sight, their conversation quickly picks back up as they quip back and forth over schools, books, and baseball teams.
”You live in New York. How can you not like the Mets?” Stiles says incredulously.
Derek smirks and leans closer, sliding his hand around to the small of Stiles’s back. His thumb slips under Stiles’s shirt, and he rubs a circle as he says, “I’m sure you can think of some way to convince me to change my mind.”
The air grows heavy and thick with the heady scent of Stiles’s arousal. It’s strong enough that there’s a wide berth around them at the bar. Frankly, Derek is glad that people are keeping their distance. Stiles is his.
Stiles slides off his barstool and leads Derek out to the dance floor with a hand around his wrist, biting his lip and swaying his hips seductively with every step. Derek can’t do anything but follow this heavenly creature, even if he typically hates dancing and crowds. All of those thoughts fade away, however, when Stiles turns, and they’re pressed together—back to front—and Stiles starts rolling his hips, pushing back against Derek.
Derek should be embarrassed. He’s never really been into exhibitionism, and he knows they’ve already caught the attention of several members of the crowd, but he doesn’t care. Not when Stiles is in his arms.
The world fades away around them. All Derek knows is Stiles. He’s taken over all of Derek’s senses, and it’s all Derek can do not to claim him right there on the dance floor.
Stiles moves his hips, grinding his ass back against Derek’s crotch. Either the wolfsbane-laced beer is finally hitting him, or Stiles has cast some sort of spell over him because, entirely unlike him, he licks up the side of Stiles’s neck, teeth scraping against Stiles’s skin. He bites his ear.
Derek’s hand trails down Stiles’s sides as they grind against each other—his breath ghosts over the nape of Stiles’s neck as his dick begs for more.
He’s acting completely out of character as he grips Stiles’s hips and starts whispering every filthy thing he wants to do to him when they get home. He wants to spread Stiles out on his bed, lick over every inch of his body, and eat him out until the only word he can remember is Derek’s name. Derek wants to take him apart, piece by piece until he’s the only thing holding Stiles together. It’s not until Derek mentions his knot, however, that Stiles breaks.
Derek’s chest rumbles as he speaks. “Mine. My omega. Made for me. Gonna knot you so good and full when we get home. ‘M gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a month. Mark you up good, so everyone knows you’re mine.”
“Yes!” Stiles moans, throwing his head back in ecstasy and exposing the vulnerable skin of his neck. The scent of his slick fills Derek’s senses, and all he wants to do is bury himself in the tight, hungry heat of Stiles’s ass.
“Do it, Derek. Show everyone who I belong to. Claim me.”
Stiles turns in his arms, hands sliding up Derek’s chest until he’s pulling him down by the nape of his neck and kissing him hard. Derek chases the sweet taste of him with his tongue—swallowing Stiles’s wanton moans and keeping a tight grip on his ass—until they’re both out of breath.
Stiles bites his bottom lip, eyes clouded with lust as he stares at Derek through hooded lids. “Take me home...alpha.” Derek growls and feels his eyes bleed red as he grows impossibly harder in his pants.
The more sensible side of Derek—the cop—wants to chastise Stiles for going home with a strange alpha, but he knows Stiles is the kind of lightning that only strikes once, and Derek wants—no, needs—Stiles in his bed. Now.
Derek can’t keep his hands off Stiles, but the same seems to go for Stiles because he climbs straight into Derek’s lap as soon as they get into the cab. As soon as Derek gives the driver his address, Stiles runs his hands through Derek’s hair and tugs his head back to crush their lips together in a bruising kiss.
Stiles grinds down, and his ass gives delicious friction against Derek’s dick that has him mumbling a litany of curses against Stiles’s smirking lips.
“Like that?” Stiles asks, rolling his hips again.
Derek lets out a shuddery breath as he mentally counts to ten because he refuses to cum in his pants like a horny teenager.
The cab driver glares at them from the rearview mirror while barking, “No sex!”
The cop in Derek knows he should oblige, but that seems impossible when Stiles unbuttons his pants so Derek can slip a hand down the back of them to get a better grip on his ass. He has to bite back a groan as his middle finger breaches Stiles’s slick-soaked hole easily, making him keen and grind down harder.
“I said no sex!”
Derek barely registers the cab driver cursing and turning the volume up on the radio. The only thing he can focus on right now is the sound of Stiles’s lewd, pornographic moans as he slips his free hand under Stiles’s shirt, tweaking his nipple, and licks a stripe up his long neck. He has to bite back a groan at how perfectly responsive Stiles’s body is to his touch.
At this point, he’s going to have to arrest himself for public indecency.
By the time they finally pull up to his building, Derek realizes the driver rolled down windows at some point. The smell of slick and sex so strong that Derek doubts it’ll fade for at least a month. He’s suddenly bombarded with the sounds of loud cheering from passersby, making him growl and shield Stiles’s body protectively.
He tosses the cab driver what he assumes is a fantastic tip, considering how wide his eyes get when Derek throws whatever cash is in his wallet. It’s probably a couple hundred dollars if memory serves him right.
None of that matters, though, because Stiles is in his arms, lips swollen and red, looking thoroughly debauched, with a flush on his skin and his pants undone—and they haven’t even gotten upstairs yet.
Stiles wraps his long legs around Derek’s torso and kisses him again as Derek carries him inside and up to his loft.
Inside the elevator, he pins Stiles up against the wall. Lust spikes through his body when Stiles throws his head back, mouth open in ecstasy, as Derek rolls his hips. It’s a struggle to not shift, a problem he never has, but he’s howling with the need to markmateclaim, and he knows Stiles’s neck would look beautiful covered in his marks.
Just a one-night stand. Do not wolf out. Do not—
His thoughts are immediately cut off when Stiles releases a long, high moan as Derek sucks a mark just under his jaw.
The elevator doors open and, with one hand on Stiles’s ass, he frantically digs through his pockets to find his keys. It’s a difficult task with Stiles squirming as he tries to rub himself off on Derek’s stomach, but he somehow manages. Most likely because he needs Stiles in his bed. Like, now.
Stiles unwraps his legs from around Derek’s waist, and they fumble through the loft as they undress.
“Do not rip my clothes,” Stiles warns as Derek tugs on his shirt. “They were expensive, and I am but a poor college stude—”
“Oops?” Derek says, retracting his claws and feeling more proud than guilty as he watches Stiles’s now torn shirt fall to the ground in tatters. He loses all train of thought at the sight of the alluring figure in front of him. He needs his hands on Stiles now. “You can have one of my shirts. And I promise it’ll actually be expensive.”
Stiles laughs, throwing his head back before fixing Derek with a heated gaze. "You know, you're actually kind of a dick."
Derek doesn't have time to answer before Stiles lunges at him, crushing their mouths together. They keep stripping as they bang into the dining table, couch, and various pillars as Derek leads him to the bed.
Derek pins him against the bedroom wall, his mouth ravishing Stiles—each touch, strong and demanding. After a moment, Stiles flips their positions so that he’s the one in control.
Derek raises an impressed brow at Stiles’s strength, which only climbs higher as Stiles slowly drops to his knees.
Stiles presses hot, open-mouthed kisses against the paw print tattoos that trail down Derek’s left side. “Christ. How are you real?”
How are you real? Derek wants to retort, but the words die in his throat at the soft thud of Stiles’s knees hitting the hardwood floors.
Derek shudders with anticipation.
“Uncut. Fuck, that’s hot,” Stiles says with a pleased smirk. Derek’s dick is long, veiny, and thick, but that doesn’t stop Stiles from sucking him all the way down.
Derek concentrates on the searing heat of Stiles’s palms skating over his thighs to stave off his impending orgasm, but the moment his dick hits the back of Stiles’s throat, he releases a long, drawn-out moan. “Fuck!”
He tries to grip Stiles’s hair, but his closely shaved head doesn’t allow it. Instead, he digs his fingers into the wall, releasing a string of curses as Stiles’s throat constricts around his dick.
Stiles sucks lightly at first, swirling his tongue around the head as he pulls back before slowly slipping down to the thicket of dark curls at the base again. He’s enveloping every inch of Derek’s dick in wet heat, making Derek call out things so unintelligible he doesn’t even know what they’re supposed to mean.
Warm saliva coats his dick, and Derek can’t help the throaty growls that escape when Stiles looks up at him through watery eyes.
He releases a shuddery breath when Stiles pulls off.
“I like these,” Stiles says, voice raw and rough from taking Derek’s dick deep in his throat, as he runs his fingers over Derek’s tattoos. Stiles’s hand splays over the clock inked on his right thigh—a reminder to be more patient and less impulsive—while he rubs his face over the wolf that covers his left.
As much as Derek loves Stiles rubbing his scent on him, he’s impatient, so he lifts Stiles by the arms and tosses him onto the bed. Stiles yelps at the manhandling but, from the way his dick bobs, he clearly likes it.
With the way the moon shines through the windows, Stiles looks like a perfect glowing angel with his pale skin as he lays in the center of Derek’s bed. After a moment of worshiping Stiles’s wanton, willing body sprawled over his sheets, Derek climbs up and hovers over him to admire the dark tattoos adorning his body. Besides the crescent moon, Derek had noticed earlier, there’s a butterfly on his sternum—one wing is made of flowers. He’s sure there’s significance in its meaning.
“Hey,” Stiles says, running his hands over the silken sheets. “Wanna see my lightsaber?” The innuendo is not lost on Derek, especially when Stiles smirks and wiggles his brows. Derek shouldn’t find it as endearing as he does. Though Stiles surprises him by pointing at his inner bicep where, sure enough, there’s a lightsaber tattoo. Something tells him that Stiles got the tattoo for that specific reason. Derek nips it in retaliation, earning a squawk from Stiles.
Derek kisses across Stiles’s collarbones, sucking marks into his skin that are sure to last for weeks. The thought shouldn’t please him so much.
“You ‘wolves and your need to claim,” Stiles says with a huff of breath, though his tone is light and teasing like it doesn’t actually bother him.
“Mine,” Derek says playfully before dipping his head to lick Stiles’s nipples, left then right. For a moment, he loses himself when Stiles runs his hands through his hair, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. He sighs in contentment and lays his head on Stiles’s chest.
There’s ink on Stiles’s other bicep, and Derek scrunches his face in confusion. “Uh, Stiles?”
“Mmm,” Stiles hums, continuing to massage Derek’s head.
“Why do you have ‘goo goo g’joob’ tattooed on your arm?”
Stiles’s laugh is like a melody. He clears his throat and starts humming before he starts singing. It takes a second for Derek to recognize the song, and when he does, he pushes up and chuckles.
“Really? I Am The Walrus? Of all their songs, you went with that one? Were you drunk?”
Stiles shakes his head. “That’s what everyone always assumes, but nah. My mom loved The Beatles, and that was her favorite song. We used to dance and sing it at the top of our lungs until my dad begged for mercy.”
Derek nods. He doesn’t miss how Stiles’s words are past tense, but before he can whisper words of comfort, Stiles’s sinfully long fingers trail up Derek’s chest and stop at the barbed heart over his right pec. “Someone hurt you.” It wasn’t a question.
“It’s a reminder.” Derek doesn’t really want to talk about it—especially not now—so he’s grateful when Stiles doesn’t ask for an explanation. Instead, he slides his hand to Derek’s left pec and covers the crescent moon that sits near his shoulder. Stiles’s touch is like fire, igniting his skin and sending sparks coursing through his veins. White-hot heat burns a trail from the full moon decorating his arm down to the trees and the lone wolf on his wrist.
Stiles frowns. His pouty lip makes him look so irresistible it’s not fair. “Are you gonna fuck me or just stare at me?” he asks quietly as his dick pulses impatiently.
Instead of answering right away, Derek slides down the bed until he settles between Stiles’s legs. “Need to taste you,” he says, pushing Stiles’s knees back to expose his ass.
The first drop of slick on his tongue makes Derek groan. It’s even better than he expected. There’s no hint of deodorant or whatever spray Stiles used when he got ready to go out, no trace of the people that have had their hands on him tonight, no alcohol. This is pure unadulterated Stiles.
He practically fucks his tongue into Stiles’s hole, trying to get as much of his slick as he can. As Derek licks him open, slowly fingering his tight hole, Stiles lets out the most amazing noise Derek’s ever had the pleasure of hearing. His moans sound like angels singing—little gasps of pleasure, rising until he’s a mewling, quivering mess rocking down on Derek’s tongue and fingers greedily.
Stiles’s back arcs high off the mattress as he comes hard. His chest heaves, but Derek doesn’t stop until Stiles swats him away. When Derek sits back, Stiles sluggishly flips over and sticks his ass in the air, presenting himself, as he falls to his shoulders and slurs into the mattress, “Wan’ you to fuck me.”
Derek takes a moment to admire Stiles’s pert round ass as he slowly strokes himself. He should probably ask about a condom, even though the consequences of unprotected sex aren’t in the forefront of his mind. Besides, it’s a rarity for male omegas to get pregnant outside of heat, and werewolves don’t carry diseases. Still, it would be irresponsible and reprehensible to not give Stiles the option.
“Condom?” he asks, continuing to lazily stroke himself off.
Stiles looks back at him like he’s an idiot. “Dude. You’re a werewolf, and yeah, I’m leaking like a fucking sieve, but I’m not in heat. Now, will you please put your fucking dick in me?”
“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Derek snorts out before playfully smacking Stiles’s ass and smirking at the yelp he gets in response. “And don’t call me dude.”
Before Stiles can retort, Derek splays a hand between Stiles’s shoulder blades—his thumb brushing over the tail of the tattooed fox curled up on his right shoulder blade. He holds him down as he sinks into the tight, wet heat of Stiles’s ass. He loves how Stiles’s body gives way for him, accepting him readily.
Stiles’s ass pulses around him, and it’s heaven.
When Derek looks at Stiles’s face, his eyes are screwed shut, and his mouth hangs open as he lets out a breathy, “Fu-uck.”
He flattens his chest against Stiles’s back and snaps his hips, punching out groans of pleasure and small pleas for more.
Harder.
Faster.
Fuck me.
Pleasepleaseplease.
Derek sucks bruises into Stiles’s shoulders and the back of his neck. All he wants to do is bite and claim, but he knows Stiles isn’t actually his, even if he doesn’t deny it when Derek grunts out, “Mine. My omega,” with every thrust. In fact, Stiles answers with a whine, high and reedy, every time.
“Yeah, baby, you like that?” Derek asks huskily—his voice sounds rough, even to his own ears.
Derek angles his hips on a particularly hard thrust, and he knows he’s found that sweet spot when Stiles releases a long, broken moan and yells, “Right there! Yesyesyes! Don’t stop, please don’t stop! Harder!”
“Tell me you’re mine,” Derek growls, fucking him relentlessly until Stiles clenches tight and screams out his name in ecstasy as he cums. The pleasure builds like a wave until Derek drowns in it—trembling and moaning as he comes apart at the seams.
“Yours. Yoursyoursyours,” Stiles mumbles as Derek’s knot swells. “‘M yours, Derek.”
Derek rumbles happily as the scent of them fills the loft.
“I can’t, I can’t. Derek, I can’t go again.” Stiles whines as Derek continues to grind his knot against his prostate.
“Yes, you can. Come on, baby. One more.” Derek smirks proudly when Stiles clenches again, letting out a deep, guttural noise as he cums again. “So good. So good for me. Such a good omega.”
Stiles sighs happily at the praise.
Derek snakes a hand around Stiles’s stomach, holding him close as he switches their positions so that they’re lying on their sides. He peppers kisses along Stiles’s sweat-slicked neck and shoulders, whispering words of praise and affection as they bask in orgasmic bliss.
Stiles lays his hand atop Derek’s and snorts when he looks down at his distended stomach under Derek’s palm. “Jesus fuck, dude. I look fucking pregnant.”
Something about that makes Derek shiver. He hasn’t thought about kids since he swore off relationships, but the image of Stiles’s stomach swollen with his pups sends another ripple of pleasure through him.
“Oh my God. Did you just cum again?” Stiles asks incredulously.
Derek cocks a brow and peeks over Stiles’s shoulder to look at him. “Says the guy who had,” he does the math quickly in his head, “three orgasms.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stow the ego, dude. You’ve got a magic dick.”
Derek nips his shoulder for calling him dude. “You came while I was eating you out. No dick involved.”
“Okay, and a magic tongue. But, in my defense, you were like,” Stiles blows out a breath as he shivers, “very enthusiastic. Seriously, ten out of ten, would do again.”
Derek huffs a breath of laughter. “Thought you said you couldn’t go again.”
“Gimme five minutes and a gallon of water.”
This time, Derek smiles and bites the shell of Stiles’s ear, amused by his antics. Though, after Derek’s knot goes down and they clean up, Stiles starts grabbing his clothes.
“Stay.” Derek surprises himself with that one word. This is not something he does. Ever. It’s supposed to be a quick, hopefully satisfying fuck, followed by a polite ‘thank you’. Occasionally, someone will ask for more, but Derek always shakes his head and sends them on their way. No strings, no attachments. That’s the deal.
So why does it feel so right when Stiles nods and slips back into bed, curling up against him like he belongs?
And why, when he wakes up to the sun streaming in through the window, the bed empty and cold beside him, does it feel so wrong?