His Only Defence

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Stiles didn't know how he did it but somehow he survived the night.

Although thinking back on it he didn't actually know how he did. Maybe he'd always possessed the skills of a natural born fornicator and was now liberated by alpha seduction.

There had been a lot of sex.

But like a whole lot of sex- a stampede of sex, a runner's marathon of sex, a tour de Derek of sex, one huge giant sexcapade of sex. He was pretty damn freaking sure he'd broken his sexing valve or maybe just all of his sex organs. Something was definitely not going to function right ever again because he had been so thoroughly oversexed. And he still had more sexy times ahead of him until the full moon the next night.

Plus Derek was pretty unflinchingly unsympathetic about the whole thing and God, he just didn't appear to understand the concept of too much fucking, too much pleasure, too much freaking butt sex. Stiles was feeling a mixture of resentment and devotion to Derek's werewolf heat- must sex up teenagers- policy.

And he'd been right about the unpredictable thing. Derek just couldn't seem to permit him to expect anything. It was like fucking a different werewolf every single damn time. At times he was hard and rough, then slow and deep, then sensual and attentive, hell at one point he was so son of a bitch unyielding that Stiles had been forced- not really forced- to fuck himself on his alpha cock.

It was the sex addiction thing that was making him so lewd. He was not a closet raunchy sex artist, nope.

But no matter what way he took Stiles it wasn't enough. Derek just didn't back off. He kept going after him like he couldn't be satisfied with just one good fucking and then some serious spooning afterwards. The werewolf heat had convinced his inferior cognitive processes- which Stiles had been concerned about from their very first encounter- that he was in desperate need of being impregnated.

But Mother Nature said no. And just because Derek was a particularly stubborn breed of raging alpha werewolfness did not mean that she was going to permit men to start popping out babies. It just wasn't going to happen.

No.

Stiles. Penis.

Not. Uterus.

No. Just no.

Seriously. Damn. And in his mission to endlessly fill Stiles with the entire pacific ocean of his werewolf sperm Derek still managed to keep that goddamn knot to himself, the bastard. Although Stiles clearly didn't want it, no freaking thank you.

And there had yet to be any facing each other- for the fantastically emotive Derek Hale, stoic constipated expressions experience- during said sexy werewolf time. He was a little frustrated with constantly inhaling the mattress instead of watching the alpha's face when he very expertly screwed Stiles' last remaining brain cells into oblivion. There was a further degree of sensuality in that position where Derek would have no choice but to look at him and acknowledge the feelings while they did the dirty deed that Stiles wanted to experience. In fact he wanted it a lot, regardless of Derek's laser eyes.

He knew that the alpha's emotions were too anally retentive for that level of intimacy between them despite the fact that he'd pretty much spent the whole day in his ass. Shit couldn't get more intimate than that. Or romantic. Clearly.

Stiles probably would have felt like some kind of crack whore about the whole thing- maybe a little more used than usual- if he hadn't enjoyed every second of it so much. Because Derek was a sex God and was going to cure all deadly diseases, end world hunger and stop all world werewolf wars solely with the power and might of his penis. It could happen.