So the first time Stiles got Derek on his back, worked him open and pressed inside with the long exhale of a perfect fit, he wasn't expecting the sound. Sure when they exchange handjobs, or blowjobs, or any other kind of orgasm, Derek can get a little vocal – sometimes even demanding in a hesitant sort of way – but the deep moans, the sharp grunts, the cursing and the constant use of Stiles' name was not expected.

Derek always gets stuck between making too much noise or just gasping silently. He knows he’d been making noise earlier; when Stiles walked them both into the bedroom he’d been humming into kisses and mumbling dry responses to Stiles saying he “had plans”; when Stiles tugged at his clothes he remembers he’d said something meant to pass for controlled about patience that had made Stiles roll his eyes. And when Stiles pulled his mouth off Derek’s dick with a slurp so lewd it had to be at least half on purpose and told him to roll over with his voice gone rough, Derek’s sure he’d breathed out, “Yeah. Yeah okay.”

Derek’s body works differently tonight.

Derek comes back to Beacon Hills for a number of reasons. The most important one, though, is the result of a one night stand in Vegas. He's knocked up and Alpha, and Cora won't stop playing Papa Don't Preach whenever she gets to pick the music in the car. This shit just keeps happening to him. Or, in which Derek gets the D, Stiles gets the D, then Derek gets Stiles's D.

He feels helpless, and not in the good way. Not in the way he needs to feel, the way that means freedom. Being the Alpha means not getting to feel that anymore.