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It's been a year since the first dream.
(It's been more than that, but Noah refuses to admit even in the darkest pit of his clearly blackened and charred soul that the first time he dreamed of sliding into the wet heat of his Omega son, said son was not yet even old enough to drive.)
It's been
a year
since the first dream, and Noah is only able to live with himself because one, he has less than two years left before the kid graduates and is no longer a walking wet dream living in his house. Two, he has enough self-control not to succumb to the monster that claws at his own heart to take, take, take. Hell, he's shared the house with Stiles for every heat he has ever had and just like any good Alpha parent, he took care of his son's basic needs: food, water, shelter. Nothing more.
He's a good alpha father.
He is.
(And he is Stiles' father, too. In a moment of desperation, and with an apology to Claudia's spirit loaded with layer upon layer of guilt, he'd had their DNA run shortly after the dreams started. Alphas do not want their Omega children. Alphas do not dream of holding their sons close, of cradling the life they created while nuzzling a long, pale, freckled neck. They do not have to adjust themselves when their seventeen-year-old Omega sons walk down to the kitchen shirtless, in sweats that barely cling to their hips. They do not sleep that night dreaming of how little it would have taken to overpower him, how with a flick of his wrist and a twist of his arm he could have had the boy naked and bent over the kitchen table. They do not… they do not… they do not ….)
Noah is a good Alpha father.
At least, he does everything he can to pretend to be.
Tonight, it's more difficult than ever.
It has been for about a week now. Something is getting under his skin. Maybe the stress. Maybe the fear. There have been a lot of changes in the last few months, after all.
One could hardly be blamed for feeling lonely. For finding their half cold bed too big and too empty after so many years alone. For inhaling a strange, sweet scent that lingers on their pillow from somewhere and growing rock hard.
From stroking his cock several nights in a row while wondering how long until his son's next heat.
Images are seared into his skull while he moves his hand, just a bit of artificial slick easing the way, cock hard as steel as he remembers. Stiles four days ago draped over his shoulders and scenting him longer than he has in years. Stiles sucking something from breakfast from his own fingers. Stiles always with something in his mouth. On those perfect fucking lips. Stiles trying to get out of trouble two days ago and begging while calling him "daddy" and Noah wanting nothing more for that exact sound to be witnessed by his bedsheets and bedroom walls. Stiles coming out of the shower just that morning, claiming to have forgotten his towel when he nearly ran into Noah in the hall but then sauntering away. Showing off.
If Noah didn't know any better, he would have said he'd done it on purpose.
But Noah knows better.
Doesn't he?
He reaches between his legs to fondle his heavy balls, not too close yet but finally feeling the beginning of the edge. It's with the image of stiles' bare, spotted back. The moles that continue down his ass. How it glistened as he walked away. How the scent of slick and come that has always lingered in the teenage omegas bathroom and bedroom filled his senses and drove him wild. How white his knuckles went holding onto the door frame to keep himself from following.
On an upstroke he twists his hand just so to give a little something different to his cock head, to change it up and let his memories become fantasies. To think of lips and tongue and that god damn oral fixation.
"Fuck… Stiles…"
Noah's stomach clenches.
His cock throbs.
"Dad?"
Noah's soul momentarily leaves his body while he panics, throwing the covers over his naked body and wondering how the hell he missed the door opening. It's squeaked loud enough to wake the dead for a decade. (And if he focuses on that single thought he can try and swallow the horror at how long Stiles may have been standing there.)
"Stiles!" His knees are drawn up and the blanket covering him from the waist down. "What the hell are you doing?"
Before he can answer though, Noah takes a breath and is nearly knocked over by the heavy, sickly-sweet scent of a full-blown heat.
If it were possible, he'd be even harder.
Noah tries not to breathe very deeply at all.
His voice softens to something more soothing. More understanding. "Shit, son, this hit unexpectedly, didn't it? You need me to get you anything? If you give me five minutes, I can throw a makeshift kit together for you." It's supposed to be another month at least before his next heat. They aren't as prepared as they like to be, but they're never completely out of stock of the necessities. Even as his body screams at him, tries to burn him alive from the inside out with longing he does as a good alpha father should.
Only the bedside lamp is lit, and it casts a soft, warm glow over Stiles when he steps out of the shadow of the hall and into the room, wrapped as he always is when wandering their home when he doesn't feel well, in his blanket. It makes his brown eyes seem to glow an even brighter shade of honeyed amber, and when Noah looks into them, he freezes.
"No," Stiles says carefully. "I need your help, but I don't need you to get me anything."
Stiles is in heat, but he is not weary. He is not unwell. He is scared but determined. He is facing something head on and come hell or high water will see it through.
Noah has seen that look more times in his life than he'd care to count.
And it's never ended well for anyone.
"Stiles?"
He takes a few steps into the room, which his son has never done before while in heat. Dad is safe, but his own room, his own nest, is safest.
"I uh, you know, I just thought…" Stiles takes another step and the blanket slips along his bare shoulder, causing another heavy wave of scent to curl though Noah's lungs. He closes his eyes and bites his inner cheek while Stiles shakes his head and regroups. "You know I'm incredibly intelligent, right?"
Noah can't help but laugh, somewhat resigned. "Of course I know you're brilliant, Stiles. It gets us both into trouble."
"Right? Well, I'm also incredibly observant." He takes another step and is now at the corner of Noah's bed.
Far too close.
"I like to think you got that from me," he says honestly. "But kid, can we maybe have whatever conversation this is later? Five minutes. I swear. I'll get you your supplies and we can talk a bit some…"
"No. No, I need to say this now."
The determination and stubbornness reminds Noah of all the ways he loves this kid, including the ways he shouldn't.
Resigned to always be out-stubborned by his son, Noah gestures for him to continue even as he feels the scent of the heat toying with his own instincts.
"I'm very observant. More observant than you, even! I knew about all this crazy shit in Beacon Hills way before you did."
"I think I can be excused for not jumping to 'mythical creatures' as my first conclusion."
"Whatever. Beside the point. My point is, I'm great at this. Seeing and noticing things. And not just seeing, either. Hearing too. And…" he pauses, slowly lowering himself to the edge of Noah's bed. The bed where Noah is still naked and still hard despite how long it's been since he touched himself.
Naked and still desperate to tug his son closer.
"And smell," he finishes with another slip of his blanket. Both shoulders are now bare, pale and beautiful with smooth angles and deep dips at his clavicle and the hollow of his throat.
Noah's mouth goes dry from how much he wants to taste that bare skin.
And his senses go wild at the fresh rush of heat scent. He is certain Stiles isn't wearing anything under that blanket at all. He is even more certain he's already gotten himself off since slipping into his heat.
More than once.
"Stiles," his voice is choked, his hands clinging to the sheet with a death grip. "You need to go."
"I don't though!" He shifts closer.
Damningly, Noah doesn't move an inch.
"I don't need to go because I'm observant and I've observed things. More than the things that go bump in the night. More like… things that smell like arousal when I'm around." Noah closes his eyes. "Or look like you're hiding something when I'm half naked." He presses his knees together. "Or sound like my name while you're getting off…." Despite the fact that he's not looking, he knows Stiles is far too close now, not yet touching, still clinging to his own blanket from underneath.
But Noah could fix that.
Noah could yank him in. Could tear away the blanket.
"You don't understand," he says instead, still breathing desperately shallow, voice cracked. He could toss him out. Despite his age he could still throw the brat over his shoulder and put him back in his own room. He could yell. He could threaten.
If Noah lays a finger on Stiles, he will do everything except what a good Alpha father should.
Stiles hand lands softly at Noah's ankle and even through the sheet it's like a burning brand. He moves it up his thigh, over his knee, every inch torture of the highest order. Every second Noah doesn't push him away damning him to further circles of hell.
"I understand just fine," Stiles whispers and it's right in Noah's ear, breath hot and warm on his neck, sending shocks of lightning down his spine. "I know what you want."
Noah's eyes snap open only to be met with Stiles' wide and brilliant and fucking beautiful. They're his mother's eyes. The exact color he fell in love with all those decades ago. Just as enticing. Just as full of life and love and lust.
He can taste Stiles' breath on his lips. Sweet and almost cherry flavored from the current obsession with red sodas.
Noah licks his lips.
Stiles' move, brushing against his.
Close.
Too close.
Not close enough.
"I want it too, Daddy."
Stiles kisses like he does everything else in life: with too much energy, not much finesse, and all the enthusiasm in the world. There is no time to breathe, time to think, or time to regret with how his lips are instantly parted, his tongue invading Noah’s mouth, taking, taking, taking. It’s intoxicating, how he tastes, how he moans into the way their lips slot perfectly together. His tongue tastes sweet, and a little tart, but there’s an underlying note of musk that makes Noah’s veins sing with a darker, more desperate song. It’s that flavor he chases, that tang that can’t be anything but Stiles’ own slick, as if he had fingered himself open and then licked himself clean. Noah wants more. Needs more.
He finally lets go of his own bedding, reaching for his son, getting a hand on his neck and fingers in his hair that’s just long enough to grip, just long enough to tug.
Just long enough to yank him back.
They don’t part much, just enough Noah can speak, just enough they can catch their breath.
“You have no idea what I want,” Noah growls low and dangerous, terrified of how true that is. Terrified of how much he wants. How much he needs.
Just as he had predicted, Stiles is naked beneath his blanket. The moment it falls away completely Noah is almost barreled over by how strong and thick the scent of heat and slick is. It hooks into his gut, into his chest, and starts to yank him forward without mercy.
The first embers of a rut spark to life, low but insistent.
Unavoidable.
Stiles touches his bare chest while he tries to kiss him again, while he flicks his long, clever tongue out desperately against Noah’s lips and whines when the grip in his hair is too much, too tight, for him to close the distance. Noah doesn’t even have to pull away.
He has no desire to pull away.
“I know you want to fuck me,” Stiles says while he drags his hand down lower. Noah’s own sheet gets pushed just enough it slides down his knees with a soft hiss in the otherwise silent air, making his fiery hot skin tingle in the chill of the room. Stiles’ fingers are long and soft, teasing every inch of bare flesh until the palm of his hand brushes the head of Noah’s cock, making him gasp out at the connection, at how difficult it suddenly is not to lift his hips and give in to everything immediately.
“Not even close.”
He’s fooling himself into thinking he hasn’t already given in.
That he didn’t give in the moment Stiles sat on his bed.
Noah grips tight once more, pressure on Stiles’ head, on his neck, pulling and pushing and feeling the rapid fire pulse under his thumb, just a touch of a squeeze that makes stiles tremble, makes him gasp and his eyes flutter closed, long dark lashes beautiful against his pale, flushed cheeks. He kisses under his son’s chin, down the long column of his throat, both of them adjusting with every new press of Noah’s lips so that by the time he’s licking along the long sharp line of his clavicle Stiles is not just in his arms but in his lap. His thighs are drenched in slick, from his hips to his knees, and he’s already rocking slowly, seeking more.
He lets out a high-pitched gasp when Noah bites the thick meat of his shoulder, wishing he could bite higher, licking up the side of his neck to tease and drag his teeth against his bonding glands just below his ear.
“Da… daddy.” His hand on Noah’s cock starts to move, slow, firm strokes from tip to base and back again. “Tell me what you want…”
It’s too much.
He’s too much.
Something snaps and roars to life in Noah’s chest and he grips his son hard before twisting his torso so they both roll over and only years of knowing Stiles, of ducking and avoiding too long, flailing limbs, keeps him from getting an elbow to the face as he gets Stiles on his back and pins him to the bed.
His cock fits perfectly in the crease of his hips, thick, Omega slick warm and impossible not to rut through while he quickly wrestles Stiles’ arms in a single-handed pin above his head.
Stiles is wide eyed but not afraid. Enthused. Intrigued. Brilliantly happy with a wide, beautiful grin spreading across his perfect lips.
“I want so much more than to just fuck you, Stiles.” He kisses him again, taking charge this time and taking control. He doesn’t let Stiles take too much, pulling back when his son thinks he’s getting the upper hand, teasing him as he bites at his lips, slips his tongue against his, jerks his hips with a snap to make their cocks slide together and Stiles gasp and completely lose the rhythm of the kiss.
His throat is so open and inviting.
Noah kisses his jaw again, nips at his ear lobe, plays at biting his mating gland.
Then he groans into his son's ear.
“I want to own you.”
He feels the way Stiles’ prick twitches and jerks between them, how he drags his long, never-ending legs up Noah’s hips to cling tight, to try and change the angle. To get what he came here for.
“You…” Stiles is breathless, words barely more than wanton moans while he writhes with every inch of his body below Noah’s. “You want to mate me?”
With one hand still holding his son’s wrists together against the bed, Noah drags the other down his throat, down his chest, slowing to twist at one dark, peaked nipple that makes Stiles arch his back into a deep curve. He keeps going, slipping through the sweat and slick and between their bodies, between Stiles’ legs and further. Further.
Far further than he ever should have wanted.
Stiles reacts with his whole being when Noah slips just the tip of two fingers into his swollen and puffy hole, legs tightening, torso writhing, abs twitching, arms twisting beneath Noah’s hand. His jaw drops on a bright gasp.
“Has anyone ever touched you here?” Noah demands while breathing deeply at the crook of Stiles’ neck, while willingly letting the scent of his son in heat drown out every single protest and reason why this is wrong, why this is the final straw that will break them both.
Why they’re both clearly already broken, and it can only be because of him.
Stiles shakes his head in a wild movement, rocking down for more that Noah absolutely does not give him right away.
“Good,” Noah says. “Because what I want Stiles, is to be the only one to ever have you. To be the only one that ever gets to feel how tight you are.” He pushes in a little further then, swallowing Stiles’ gasp with a long, filthy kiss while his body greedily clenches around his fingers and silently begs for more. “I want to be the only knot you ever need,” he whispers against now thoroughly kiss swollen lips. “I want to be the only one you ever think of, the only one that makes you this wet. The only one that ever fills you up so full you can feel it.”
Beyond the fact that the thought should have never crossed his mind in the first place, he shouldn’t be able to knot him, but he can already feel it building at the base of his cock, already tight and beginning to swell with the need to lock them both together for as long as it takes.
For as long as they need for it to take.
Stiles bites his own lip and looks, for a moment, like the coy little innocent thing he’s never been a single day of his life.
“You want to breed me, Daddy?”
Noah is the one to moan this time, cock twitching and pulsing as a thick bead of precome joins the already filthy mess between them.
“More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life, baby…” he admits without looking away from Stiles’ piercing gaze, falling into the truth of it, of how much he yearns to spend hours, days, weeks, months, however long it takes pumping this beautiful, lithe little body full of his seed until he’s round with it, until he swells with life between them.
Somewhere, in the back of his heart and rut drugged mind, he likes to think that if Stiles weren’t on birth control that would be enough to actually make him stop. That if he actually could get Stiles pregnant, he would pull away and cease this absolute madness and one way trip to the depths of hell. But he’s been on it for six years. Since he presented. To keep his heats mild and his scent from sending every Alpha in the vicinity mad just from his presence.
Even further lost to the feel of Stiles’ hole pulling his fingers in further, lost to the scent of him, lost to the taste of him still on his tongue, lost to the driving need and the first proper flames of his rut, is the fact that it’s also supposed to keep him regular.
That something is off.
Something is wrong.
Stiles throws his head back and laughs brilliantly, a sound Noah has loved for years and years and makes his heart swell and his own smile brighten. It’s not a teasing sound, but bright and joyous and alive.
“This is better than anything I could have imagined,” Stiles says, almost breathless. There’s a flicker of something wild in his gaze, something dark and malicious that’s there and gone again before Noah can make sense of it. “Go ahead,” he says with that playful smirk still on his lips. He pulls his legs further apart and brings one up high, twisting and shifting and rocking his hips until Noah’s cock slips away from the crease of his leg to slide alongside his fingers that are buried deep in his body. That damned, long, strong and well-muscled leg gets hooked over Noah’s shoulder, making him so wide open, so ready, so perfect.
“Knot me,” he begs. “I need it. I need you. I want…” He’s writhing like a wild thing and Noah watches how he moves, moves with him, crooks his fingers and slowly fucks him that way, until they find just the right angle to make Stiles shout in ecstasy, make his cock twitch and leak and his muscles start to tighten. But Noah doesn’t want him to come just yet, so he back down, slows, and drags a needy whine from his son. “Daddy! Daddy, please.” He twists and rocks and begs with every inch of his body while he whispers in Noah’s ear.
“You made me for this. For you. Show me how.”
It shouldn’t make his head swim worse. It shouldn’t make his cock throb or his balls tight. But Stiles begs so perfectly, so sweetly, that the only way forward is to give him what he wants - what they both want.
And the only way this ends is with Stiles on his father’s knot, being pumped full of the seed that gave him life in the first place.
Noah gently slips his fingers free and grips himself, giving the base of his cock a tight squeeze to help him hold off a little longer. To see this through. To not spill the moment he’s buried inside that too tight, too perfect body.
It’s a good thing, too, as Stiles is too tight. He lines himself up and presses just the head of his thick cock against the soft flesh of his hole, opening him up bit by bit. Rocking against him. Feeling every clinch and flutter and twitch of his muscles. Stiles is frozen for the first time, breath clearly held in his chest.
And Noah knows he should have opened him up more, fucked him on his fingers, on more than just two held so tightly together. But he also knows that his son may be a virgin, but he’s never been left empty. He’s not entirely blind to the packages and ‘discreetly wrapped’ boxes that have been delivered over the years.
Or the charges on his card.
Stiles can take him.
The second the wide, flared head finally pops through, they both tremble almost violently, Noah dropping his head into the curve of Stiles’ neck while his son finally lets go of the breath he’d been holding as if it was punched from his chest.
“Fuuuuuck, you’re so much bigger than I thought you’d be,” he whines when Noah moves a little more, presses in further, seeks the endless heat and grip and friction.
“Watch your mouth,” he teases, breathless.
“You do that enough for the both of us.”
“Yeah, kid. Yeah, I fucking do. One day I’m gonna watch it stretch around my cock.” While he chokes him on it. While he finds out just how clever and flexible that tongue of his is. While he stares into those endless amber eyes and takes everything he’d ever wanted and never fucking stops.
There’s another retort right on those perfect cock sucking lips that’s lost to the next inch Noah feeds him, the next inch he forces open. He finally lets go of his length. Noah is caught enough now, lined up perfectly he can take his time sinking into Stiles’ body. With his now free hand he strokes his hip, his thigh, makes soothing noises through the kisses to his neck. “You can take me, baby. You were made just for this.”
He was made for so much more. Is so much more than just a hole to fuck and a body to breed. He is brilliant and beautiful and so full of life and energy that Noah marvels every day that he gets to call him son. But in this moment all that matters is how fucking perfect he feels, how perfect they fit together. How with every deep breath Noah coaxes out of the teenager, his teenager, his Omega, his little boy, he slips even further in.
Deeper into Stiles.
Deeper into hell.
When he gets to where his knot is already swelling Stiles lets out a string of curses while Noah groans at the new way he clenches down, how his body twists and moves and fucks down against him.
“Hey hey… slow down, baby…” Noah kisses him and rubs his hips and thigh, rocking against him but not pushing in further just yet.
“You… you’re already…. Fuck, daddy I didn’t think…”
“This is all for you,” he assures him while rocking a little further, just enough to slowly stretch him, pulling back and doing it again and kissing away the tears that suddenly streak down Stiles’ cheek. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Stiles. Do you know how much I’ve come thinking of you? Thinking of this exact thing, this exact moment?” Stiles shakes his head and whines, but keeps breathing, keeps forcing himself further down, taking more, so beautiful, so perfect.
When he finally bottoms out, they’re both speechless and lost to a kiss, open mouthed and messy, Noah fucking his tongue into Stiles’ mouth while they both adjust, while both find some last slip of sanity to cling to. Beneath his hand Stiles twists his wrists, moaning and slowly beginning to rock his body again until their kiss breaks just enough to speak, still tasting, still taking.
“I need to touch myself. Please, daddy, I'm gonna come. I need to come.”
“Not yet,” Noah demands, toying with him anyway, snapping his hips so he buries himself impossibly further. “But,” he adds, already feeling himself slipping into the mindlessness of a rut, of the need to fuck and breed to the exclusion of all other needs. “I will let you go on one condition.”
“Fuck, anything. Anything.” Stiles nods fervently. His gaze is glassy and just as lost as Noah feels.
“For once in your life, do as I say and don’t come until you’re locked on my knot, until you’re coming just from my knot.” It’s a huge demand, and not one he’ll hold the kid to. He’s a little surprised he hadn’t come at least once already - but then again, he knows that Stiles has likely gotten himself off several times already this evening.
The thought makes Noah’s spine curl with want, with regret - not from this, but of not seeing. Of not getting to watch.
Of not getting to be the one to make him come.
Of not getting to taste him until this moment.
Stiles whines and Noah can’t help but move with the way his hips start to rock, starting to slowly fuck him properly, long drags of his cock along the tight walls of his body, with quick snaps just at the end. There are incoherent protests from Stiles and more twists of his wrists that Noah just holds tighter.
There will be marks.
Neither of them care.
When Stiles doesn’t answer, when all he does is meet every snap of Noah’s hips with gasp after gasp Noah tries again. “You want to touch me, right, baby? You want to touch daddy?”
Another nod.
“Promise me. Promise me you’ll at least try. And don’t touch yourself.”
“I swear. I swear it, please.” Stiles catches his gaze, breath sharp and staccato with each snap of Noah’s hips, eyes flush with tears, cheeks streaked and blossomed bright red from his heat, from the need driving them both wild.
“Please, daddy.”
Noah lets him go, and it’s the last thing either of them say for a little while.
He gets his hand planted on the bed beside Stiles’ head, his other arm wrapped around him, yanking him back to a sharper angle as Stiles wraps all four of his long limbs around his father. A leg around his hips, one hooked over his shoulder. Arms a tangled mess as he claws at his back so deep and so tight there’s no way he doesn’t draw blood.
And it doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.
All that matters is the slap of wet flesh as Noah picks up speed, as he changes the angle to something sharper, something deeper, fucking his young, ripe, Omega son with complete abandon.
There are moans and sloppy, wet kisses. Teeth and nails and hands gripping wherever they find purchase. Stiles is perfect. Stiles is more than perfect. He meets Noah’s hips with whatever leverage he can find, kisses back with a fervor that he has always given life. Given everything. All of himself handed over at once to Noah’s touch.
And they are lost to it.
Lost to the heat. To the rut. To the need.
To the mindless drive to fuck and fill and breed and be bred.
Stiles shouts, a cracked and broken noise when Noah’s knot becomes too much, when it catches and stretches and pulls and he has to stop snapping his hips to grind down, to force it through, to make him take it. The familiar tightening of his balls makes Noah’s toes curl and his chest rumble with a deep groan of pleasure.
Their gazes lock once more, and he knows they’re both there on the knife’s edge. Holding on and waiting to fall.
To succumb to the inevitable.
“Yes. Fuck, Stiles. That’s it baby. Just like that. Oh, I’m gonna fill you up so much, make you so full, baby. Breed you up just like you were made for.”
“Claim me,” he begs with a tilt of his head, bearing his neck. The flicker of darkness flashes through again, bringing a wicked smirk to Stiles’ lips. Noah shakes his head to keep from doing just that. From going that last step. From making this completely irreversible. But his conviction is weak and they both see it clear as day. “This… this is gonna be so brilliant to watch…” the words don’t make sense, but Noah doesn’t care. Noah doesn’t notice much but the way Stiles feels, or the way his own body begins to tense and tighten on the edge of release.
He doesn’t notice how for a heartbeat Stiles closes his eyes, his body limp, as if asleep.
He doesn’t notice how the moment the tension snaps and Noah’s body convulses in release, how with the first thick load of seed he fills Stiles’ womb with, Stiles’ eyes snap open in terror and confusion.
How he whispers a quiet, broken, disoriented sob of, “Dad?”
All he notices is how Stiles comes with a shattered shout within seconds of the beginning of his own release.
How impossibly tight he becomes around his cock and his knot. Tighter than anything Noah has ever experienced in his life. So tight it almost hurts. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is fucking Stiles through his orgasm, rutting into him and releasing pulse after pulse of himself as deep as he can. And he doesn’t stop. He chases the sensation, the way Stiles’ body milks every drop from him and then some, desperate for more. Desperate for another.
He won’t bite, (he wants, he needs, but he won’t) but he mouths at the bonding gland while he finds a way to work a hand between them, to get Stiles’ cock in hand and stroke him while he clamps down and sucks a mark there. Not breaking skin. But marking him in his own way. In a way that won’t stay forever.
That will stay long enough.
That will stay for now.
Stiles is writhing more than ever while Noah brings him quickly to the edge again. From beneath him there is pushing and pulling and crying out with wordless begging for what Noah doesn’t have a clue. But Noah doesn’t stop, keeps pushing him through the overstimulation, through the tears and the whines and crashing right over the cliffside again until he gives one last snap of his hips, buried so deep, and simply allows himself to feel the sensation of Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. His son locked on his knot, fucked full and coming again, shaking in pleasure in his arms and beneath him while he’s bred like he was made for.
He breathes in the bright, sweet scent of his Omega, letting it fill his lungs and carry away the last weightless dregs of the mindlessness of his rut. It isn’t gone, and will surge again soon enough. They’ll both lose themselves several times before the night is over. Noah drags his nose along Stiles’ jaw, thinking of how he wants to turn him over and eat him out the moment they’ve caught their breath, how he wants to bury his face between Stiles’ legs and show him every single way an Alpha can please his Omega. He moans at the thought, and kisses the blossoming mark just below Stiles’ ear.
His son flinches.
And something curdles in Noah’s stomach as he realizes the tension in Stiles body is not from the ends of his own release.
Nor from the heat that still lingers heavily in the air.
Stiles is afraid.
Noah swallows heavily, gently lifting himself up, mindful of where Stiles’ limbs are still wrapped around him, how he’s shaking, how he’s clinging to Noah’s back and starting to tremble almost violently.
He stops breathing when he sees Stiles’ face.
Blotchy and red and streaked in still falling tears.
Terrified.
Shame and regret and a fear all his own slam like lead in the pit of his gut.
“Stiles?”
He thought he was dreaming.
There’s been a lot of that in the last month.
Night terrors and strange hallucinations, waking up after swearing he was already awake. Finding himself in places he never remembered going. Seeing things that couldn’t be there.
It wouldn’t have been the first time he dreamed about his dad like this. Not really. There were moments when his alpha scent had been too strong, too potent, for him not to react to it. Not to wonder. And over the last few weeks there had been more thoughts that slipped into his head like they somehow belonged there. Thoughts about how his dad would be like this, what kind of Alpha he’d be as an Alpha and not just as his father. As a mate. But they had never been this intense. Never been this all-encompassing. He would wake up after dreaming of his touch and feel so filthy Stiles would spend an hour under scalding hot water in the shower.
Worse, was how ashamed he felt that he still wanted and the heat and water and all the soap in the world couldn’t seem to wash that want away.
Somehow, he knows he’s not dreaming.
Stiles really, really wishes he was dreaming.
The first orgasm was the most intense of his life, a crash of pleasure unlike anything he’d ever known was possible, and sating a heat he hadn’t realized he still had. Stiles had lost himself to it for a little while, barely registering that it wasn’t over, that his dad wasn’t through with him yet, before it was too late to even try and say anything.
What could he have even said?
Every time he tried to feebly push him away, he followed it up with a firm tug and a pull, clinging to his dad as if he could get him closer, make sure he would never leave. His body wanted more. Needed it. Needed everything that was on offer.
And it terrified him.
The second orgasm was ripped out of him. More intense than the first and cutting through his chest so deeply he was surprised when he looked down and wasn’t bleeding out. It wasn’t until they stopped moving that everything really, truly, hit Stiles.
It hits him hard.
With each passing realization he freezes further, feeling his heart rate skyrocketing.
First, he’s in heat. He shouldn’t be in heat for another month or two (he has the date written down, but the last few weeks have been such a blur he’s not sure he knows what day it currently is anymore.) Not only should he not be in heat, he shouldn’t feel like he’s burning up from the inside out. It should be nothing more than a gentle fever. He shouldn’t feel anything more than a little extra horny, a little more like he really needs to get fucked than normal. He shouldn’t crave this like he needs it more than air. He shouldn’t still need more after two orgasms in quick succession. He shouldn’t still feel empty while tied with an Alpha.
Second, he’s tied to an Alpha. Stiles is no longer a virgin and he spent the first portion of the proceedings thinking he was dreaming. He still isn’t sure if any of what he thought was real. Did he say such filthy things? How did he convince his dad to do this? What did Stiles do?
Did his dad say the things he dreamed?
Third.
Most damning.
His dad.
Noah Stilinski is not only who he has just lost his virginity to, but who is still knotted and tied to him, holding him down, folded in half, still pulsing inside him, still stroking his sides and caressing his skin, still filling him with his seed, already full enough to feel the stretch, to feel like its too much. (It’s not. It’s not enough. Why isn’t it enough?)
When Noah tries to kiss his neck, tries to kiss the tender bruise he can feel on his mating gland, Stiles flinches.
What did he do to his dad?
What has he done?
“Stiles?”
His dad pulls up and looks suddenly panicked, making Stiles’ heart rate double yet again, making it feel as if it will explode out of his chest at any second. He can’t breathe, and he can’t think. He just knows he’s ruined everything.
For both of them.
Again.
“Fuck, what have I done… Stiles, oh, God, Stiles. Hey. Hey, listen to me okay, shh, it’s al..” Noah’s voice cracks and he chokes up, tears suddenly streaming down his face and Stiles knows why. It’s because it’s not alright. Nothing is. “I’m going to help you lower your leg and then we’re gonna breathe together, okay? You hear me? listen to my voice.” It’s trembling, but strong. As deep and yet gentle and familiar as his father’s voice has always been.
He doesn’t quite register the way Noah touches him, gentle and still reverent. But he sees the guilt in his eyes, the tremble in his bottom lip.
Feels the tug of his knot when he does shift.
Moans with what it does to him.
How the heat in his stomach swells again.
“If I could let you get away from me without hurting you I would, Stiles. I swear. Stiles, I can…”
“Stop,” Stiles begs him. The moment his leg is no longer hooked over his dad’s shoulder he instead wraps both of them firmly around his hips and holds him impossibly tighter, clinging to him as best he can while his hands slip along sweat slick skin, desperate for purchase. “Stop, please. Don’t leave me, I can’t take it.”
“Stiles you’re terrified,” he says softly, hands planted firmly on the bed, not touching. Not daring. “Do you… do you know where you are?”
Stiles bites his lips and nods.
“Do you know how you got here?”
Stiles swallows. Fresh tears fill his eyes and he can see that his dad already knows the answer. But he shakes his head anyway.
“Fuck. Alright, when…” Noah takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Stiles has never seen his dad so distraught. So panicked. Not even in all the chaos of the last year. When he finally continues it’s barely more than a broken whisper. “When did you realize you were… here?”
He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants to move. He wants the fire in his veins to go away. He wants to feel. When he moves Noah’s face becomes pinched and his breathing heavier.
“You have to stop moving b- Stiles. Please.” He’s begging and broken, and Stiles just shakes his head again, not stopping. Chasing the sensation he doesn’t quite understand.
“I can’t. I can’t. Dad, please. It hurts.”
“I know. And I’m sorry, I’m so... Fuck, Stiles there’s nothing I can say to make this better. I wish I could go back. To not hurt you like this.” His voice is so thick with tears and regret Stiles can feel it in his chest, feel it in his soul.
But even as his own tears fall and his lip trembles he shakes his head again. “You’re not hurting me,” he whispers.
And then he rolls his hips and the fire becomes even more insistent as it’s fed what it’s been begging for all day and all night. His dad’s hand comes to Stiles’ hip with a snap, gripping him as if to force him to stop moving at first and then simply holding him. Pressing against his skin. Sinking into the flames right alongside Stiles and branding them both.
“I was going to bed,” Stiles says carefully. He wants his dad to look at him, to not stop touching him. “But I was warm. Almost hot. And so empty.” He rocks his hips again and his dad’s hand trembles, his body reacting with an aborted movement of his own. He drops his head and Stiles wonders if he dreamed about kissing him. If he dreamed of how good it was. If he can remember what he tasted like. What was real. What wasn’t. “I thought… I thought about how you could fix it,” he continues without stopping his movements. Desperate for more, desperate to make the pain go away. “I thought about how you could make me feel better.”
Noah’s breathing becomes labored, heavy and hot against Stiles’ neck and with the next roll of his hips his dad moves with him, meets him with a gentle press of his own body. The hand at Stiles’ hip grips him tighter. Bruising. “And then I woke up and you were doing just that, making it better, making the pain go away.” Like he always does. Like he always has. Like Stiles has always trusted him to do. “But I don’t know how I got …. Fuck, Dad, please don’t stop…. I don’t know how I got here.”
Though Noah doesn’t stop, keeps rolling them gently, keeps rocking his cock in deep and slow and helping stave off the wild clawing maw that is Stiles’ need, his chest shakes with a wretched sob and Stiles feels the heat of his tears against his neck.
“You were sleepwalking. You had to be. And I took advantage, Stiles.”
“I don’t care,” he gasps when their movements line up just so, to make the knot plugging him nice and full grind at just the right spot, just the right way to make him see stars and arch against his dad who lets out a groan of his own. “All I know is you make it better. You… you make it not hurt.”
Because right now, like this, nothing hurts. He’s scared and he’s still confused but it’s nothing to how amazing he feels, how his skin sings with electricity and his entire being feels lighter than air while his head swims with the scents of the two of them together.
He must imagine the flutter of lips against his neck.
But he doesn’t imagine the hand that moves between them.
He doesn’t imagine the way that while Noah continues to grind against that brilliant perfect spot inside him, he brings a shaking hand to Stiles’ aching cock. Stiles throws his head back at the way that searing touch sparks through him, curling up and around his spine. It’s more gentle than he expects, instead of an insistent, needy movement he is practically caressing the velvety smooth length, thumbing the head, drawing everything out achingly slow.
”Dad…”
Noah shifts.
Stiles groans.
“Stiles, look at me.” It takes him a moment, but he somehow manages to open his eyes.
What he finds steals what breath he has left.
His dad’s cheeks are streaked with tears, his face lit by the dim orange glow of the bedside lamp. The lamp that has been there since before Stiles was born. By the bed he was conceived in. Noah’s pupils are blown wide, blue nothing but a hint around the edges.
He looks lost.
Devastated.
“You’re in a full-blown heat,” he tells him softly. Like he’s trying to give him terrible news. And it is. At least. It should be. Somehow, it doesn't feel like it. “It’s not going to stop any time soon, and it’s triggered my rut. In a few minutes this is all either of us will be able to think about for a while.” Despite his words. Despite how much pain he is clearly in saying each and every one of them, he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He doesn’t stop moving his hips, moving his hand, making the pain of Stiles’ heat nothing but a distant memory, making his body sing and feel so loved and cherished.
“That’s…” Stiles groans. “That’s great dad. You’ll… fuck, you’ll make it keep not hurting?” He hasn’t felt this small and helpless in years. Not since he was a very, very young and small child. Not since before his mom died. “You’ll take care of me?” He asks, voice tiny and cracked and lost.
“Jesus,” Noah breathes out heavily, then kisses Stiles' temple, then his other. “Yes. Yes, Stiles. Yeah, baby I’ll take care of you.” He rests his forehead against Stiles’ and the last thing Stiles sees before he closes his own eyes and succumbs to the pleasure is the intense stare of a man completely, utterly lost. “Whatever you need,” he swears. “Always.”
The next orgasm doesn’t ram into him or get ripped through his chest like lightning.
No.
The next one is a gentle kiss of waves against a sandy slope, brought carefully to shore and he’s simply carried through it. It’s so vastly different from the others he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on at first, the tension rising and rising and then simply releasing with a tender loving touch and brilliant thrill of ecstasy. His skin feels alive. Like he’s slipped into bubbling spring water and is being covered in a million kisses. Stiles never wants it to end.
His heat is all encompassing. It drags them under over and over again for hours.
And it gets far worse before it gets better. Stiles doesn’t know much beyond his need, beyond the massive empty black hole that is his desire to be filled and fucked and it’s never ever enough somehow. Every time his dad holds him, every time he cradles him close and guides him through and over the crest it comes so close it almost douses the flame, almost lets him breathe, almost gives him a sense of clarity that he tries desperately to cling to.
At some point he sobs against his father's chest like a child, begging for it to be over.
At some point he comes to riding his father with complete abandon and somehow registers the look of complete adoration in Noah’s eyes just before they both come. Stiles giggles when he collapses and spends a few minutes painting pictures with his own come on his dad’s hairy chest, feeling his heart swell with the way Noah laughs, the way his wrinkles deepen with the broad, genuine smile that’s undermined by the sorrow in his eyes.
Stiles is dragged under by his need a few minutes later.
And stays there until he passes out around four in the morning, cradled in his father’s warm, comforting, safe embrace.
Noah wakes slowly.
There’s a chill in the air that sends goosebumps down his arm and his bare back. But his front is warm. He groans and twists in his confusion to why he doesn’t have a blanket on and reaches out blindly until he grips it tight and throws it over himself.
As he resettles, an awareness creeps into his senses. The warmth at his front, against his chest, is a body.
A body he knows.
A body that smells divine and debauched from the sweet scent of Omega blended up with musky slick, heat, rut and come. He buries his face against the soft flesh of a neck, the baby hairs tickling his nose when he inhales deeply, feeling his heart settle. It’s so familiar and welcome. A scent he knows and loves.
Cherishes.
Craves.
Noah’s cock is half hard, tucked up against the firm, slick backside of the Omega cradled in his embrace, his hand splayed out, fingers wide, over the definitive curve made from a night of an intense heat combined with his own frenzied rut. Every inch of his body is sore and he’s going to regret this for weeks, be reminded of how old he is now with every demanding day on the job.
He sighs.
And he wakes a little more.
The scent hits him all over again, more familiar.
More damning.
The hand he had been stroking his Omega’s protruding lower abdomen with freezes, his heart doing the same as ice slowly spreads through his veins. Because the Omega in his arms, the Omega he had fucked so much and so long and so thoroughly he actually managed to get him to look visibly swollen… is Stiles.
His son.
In his arms and in his bed.
Swollen with his seed.
The whole night comes crashing back while he tries to remember how to breathe.
His own depraved fantasies had come to life. He remembers stroking his cock to thoughts of his son only for Stiles to wander into his room naked but for a blanket - the blanket currently covering them both - in a full, proper heat, begging to be fucked. It doesn’t matter that he hadn’t realized the heat was going to be so thorough, so devastating. He should have kicked him out immediately, and left himself when the kid hadn’t listened. Should have done so much.
Should have done literally anything but listen to the demon that lives in his heart.
Not every moment is a clear memory. Once they had gotten going, once his rut had been triggered, there were long drawn out periods of time that neither of them will likely ever remember as more than vague concepts and ideas. Of heightened emotions and terrifying physical pleasures at each other’s hands.
But that moment that he had realized what he had done.
How low he had fallen.
What a monster he was…
That moment that Stiles flinched from his touch, awake and aware for the first time since before he’d stepped into Noah’s bedroom.
That moment will be seared into his soul for the rest of his god forsaken life. Damning him to hell for being a monster worse than anything his son has come up against since that cold January night at the beginning of the year.
And still, he holds him. Holds him while he weeps silently, begging him not to wake. Not yet.
There is nothing that fixes this. No words to somehow make it right. Make what he did less of a total and complete betrayal of his son’s trust. Worst still are the flashes of memories that are still there from the whole night. The way Stiles sounds when he comes. The way he looks when riding him. How fucking tactile he is. Always touching. Always wanting to be touched. His laugh. His smile. A lifetime of experiences turned to ash by now associating each of those with how Stiles felt around his cock when he laughed, when he smiled, when he teased and kissed him in a mindless haze. Noah hadn’t been much better. He’d given the kid everything he begged for and then some. So much more.
He had told his son he wanted to be the only one to ever bring Stiles that much pleasure, and even his rut drunk brain had followed through on that desperate desire.
Stiles groans and moves in Noah’s arms, reminding him of where they are.
Where they still are.
And that Noah, despite how much he hates himself for it, hasn’t actually let him go yet.
“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” he whispers with a shaken kiss to one of the many bruises on his neck, then pulls away as slowly and as carefully as he can.
Every inch he puts between them is torture.
But the moment he’s free of the confines of the blanket, free of the pull of Stiles’ bare, inviting and used up body, he bolts for the bathroom.
Noah barely manages to keep from throwing up from the way the guilt and shame twists violently in his stomach. It aches and makes his head throb with more pain than any of his sore and stiff muscles give him. He doesn’t want to look in the mirror, to face himself or the monster he’s become.
Except.
He’s always been this monster.
Last night was him giving in to what he’d clearly always been. The dreams had been around for so long, taunting and teasing him. At first he’d just blamed the aching loneliness in his chest, the need for companionship and friendship and intimacy. He could have gone out and found someone. Anyone. A warm body. A willing Omega to keep him company and warm his bed. But he didn’t. He let the dreams fester like an infection, rotting him from the inside out until the first time he’d gotten hard from them, until the first time he’d felt the stir in his groin around Stiles and still didn’t do anything about it.
Until last night when it ruptured and spread and the rot took hold and took over.
Strangely, his face doesn’t look any different than he expects. There’s more scruff on his chin and cheeks than the day before of course. His crow's feet are just as deep and prominent as ever. There are bags under his eyes but what else is new?
The bruises on his neck.
Those are new.
He presses his fingers to one - a hickey, because that’s the only thing it could ever be considered - and has a brief, vague flash of a memory. It is of Stiles curled around him, in his lap and on his knot, laughing while they kissed and begging Noah to teach him how to do that thing he had done several times to his neck, with his teeth and his tongue and gentle scrape of scruff.
His body warms.
His heart breaks.
He sobs and falls forward, catching himself with both hands on the sink as he falls apart, tears dripping one by one into the porcelain, a gentle, quiet patter. Because the memory was formed in the peaks of their intoxication with one another, but it is there, solid and real and warming him from the inside out. No matter how much he detests himself, no matter how much he regrets what he has allowed himself to become, he cherishes the memory and knows he always will.
For the rest of his life, right before he’s dragged to hell.
The shower he takes is long and hotter than he can stand it, yet he endures. He bears the pain and the sting against his skin he takes as his due, the barest scraping of a punishment that will never be enough for what he’s done.