Thorns 1: the thorn

that defends the rose.

by
standinginanicedress
https://web.archive.org/web/20150810224911/
http://archiveofourown.org/works/3237083

2015-01-26
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
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 non-descript 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 v-
neck 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.

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!!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of the »