Archive of Our Own ^beta

                Beacon Hills was the next town to be called. Heralds brought the same message to each household, verbal or written, depending upon literacy. All male betas and alphas—able-bodied, unmarried, sixteen to forty years—were obligated to report to the royal palace in a week’s time at sunup.

                If not for the looming threats of treason and paternal wrath (he wasn’t sure which prospect terrified him more), Stiles would have torn his invitation—nay, his summons—and tossed it into the flames. As it was, the morning of, he spent nearly an hour in the bath, scrubbing his hair, his face, his hands until the water went cold and his skin tingled with overwarm rawness. His best clothes were already laid out across his bed, washed and hung in front of the fire all night so they would dry unwrinkled. Tan trousers and a tunic of deep emerald, plain but not threadbare.  

                At the table, his father polished the scuffs from his boots, the leather soft and creased with use. Another wasted effort in Stiles’ opinion. It didn’t matter how clean or primped he appeared; he was still poorer and lower born than an overwhelming number of his fellow suitors. A farmer's boy.

                He took no shame in that title, but he wasn't naive either. A king wouldn't choose a peasant who could offer no wealth, no prestige, no social influence to the marriage. His inclusion, along with the paupers’ and tradesmen’s, was purely ceremonial, a gesture contrived by the royal council to make the king appear magnanimous and benevolent.

                For the sake of fairness, he admitted that King Derek was a competent ruler. Just and practical. He ended the war that plagued his parents’ reign, a gory feud with the neighboring Argent kingdom, by negotiating a tense but standing truce. The ruling families on each side had been decimated, and seemingly, that had been enough bloodshed for the both of them. Alongside the tens of thousands of soldier and commoner deaths.

                The king restored peace.

                And when it was time for the king to rule from the throne rather than the battlefield, he won the people by budgeting with prudence and nurturing trade with the friendlier kingdoms. Surpluses of wealth and imports were reinvested in each tier of society, the nobles and blacksmiths and fishermen alike. Poverty still existed, of course, but even those who had little had enough.

                King Derek had spent his decade of rule fulfilling his duties to the realm, setting affairs in order, one after the other, with steadfastness. The security and safety of the kingdom, the prosperity of its subjects, the relationship with the bordering monarchies. All except one duty. One that, no doubt, had been keeping the royal court anxious and sleepless since the war’s end near three years ago.

                Posterity.

                Now was the opportune time to marry and produce heirs. The king might not survive another war, let alone disease or any of a hundred other misfortunes that could befall him.

                Over the last year, the king had been sampling eligible bachelors, city by city, town by town. To no avail. But one could not force the king’s decision in anything, let alone in this. If he was unable to find a worthy match in the larger cities, then surely, he would find no luck in a small town like Beacon Hills.

                Yet, despite the apparent futility of today’s venture, Stiles could not go before his king looking anything but his best. Not if he wanted to avoid disrespecting His Majesty and embarrassing his father.

                He managed to force down a few bites of breakfast before his appetite completely abandoned him. Stiles just wanted the entire farce—this daunting chore—to be over so he could resume his discreet life with his father.

                On his way out the door, his father’s call stopped him. “Don’t forget the pup, son.”

                Stiles pressed his lips together in what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I could never forget my little lady.” He gathered her from the rug spread in front of the hearth, flank rising with sleep-breaths. She released a small, protesting whine before settling against his chest, black nose nudging into his breastbone, his familiar scent lulling her back to sleep. Stiles sighed and tucked the cub inside his coat so she would stay warm during the trip.

                “I know this is painful, Stiles. But it's for the best.” His father squeezed his shoulder and scratched behind the pup’s ears one last time. He wasn't a cruel man. He would've let Stiles keep her if he thought a feasible way existed.

                Fengári was a mongrel. Half dog, half wolf. Stiles’ father was the one who brought her home, having found her abandoned in the woods. A runt, perhaps. Stiles nursed her on cow's milk, let her burrow into the heat of his side during the nights.

                She was only three months old, but she was growing fast. Father worried that soon she would start hunting game larger than birds and rodents, like their chickens and sheep and goats. If she threatened their livelihood, if she couldn't be tamed, there would only be one option.

                Stiles shuddered and peered down at the sweet bundle peeking out of his coat. The king would have the means to train her, or at least to accommodate her. The palace grounds were vast. She could run and hunt and eat as she liked. Furthermore, the Hale family sigil was a wolf. There was possibly no safer place for the cub. Families respected the animal or object of their houses, treated them as sacred. She would have a more pampered life than most of the citizens in the kingdom.

                The ride to the palace took several hours, his mount maintaining an easy trot instead of a gallop so that Fengári wasn't jostled. Still, he arrived at the gates before the sun breached the hills and entered the upper sky. The world was draped in the pale blue of pre-dawn.

                A mass of dozens had already assembled at the gate surrounding the castle grounds. Those who had longer journeys, coming from the farthest outskirts of Beacon Hills, and those who were simply overeager. Keen to make an impression upon His Majesty. Stiles could tell which were which, knowing the majority of the men present since boyhood.

                Only at sunrise did the guards open the thick, wooden doors of the gate and allow them to enter the palace grounds. Those who traveled by horse relinquished their mounts to a group of stablehands to be watered and fed and groomed. Men armed with swords and armor and helmets escorted them into the palace, through great corridors and halls until reaching the throne room. With the exclusion of the women, the old, the young, the ill, and the omegas, only about a hundred men represented Beacon Hills today.

                Rows of long benches had been arranged on each side of the spacious room. The throne was vacant as of yet, raised above ground-level by a platform and three steps that extended the width of the hall. A lesser chair, lower, was placed on each side of the throne, and these were filled.

                To the left was Lydia Martin, Mistress of Coin, the king’s treasurer. To the right, Scott McCall, First Steward. Near-royalty, and the king’s most trusted councilors. Having grown alongside His Majesty in the royal court since childhood, they had served as co-regents during the war while King Derek commanded his army. Next to the monarch himself, they were the most well-known omegas in the kingdom.

                The suitors filled the benches, breaking into dozens of conversations. Stiles had just adjusted Fengári in his lap, the pup still dozing, when someone’s knee nudged his.

                “Jackson,” he greeted stiffly as the beta slid next to him.

                “It's Lord Whittemore to you, Stilinski.” The Whittemore family was undoubtedly the richest in Beacon Hills, with Jackson being the sole heir to his family's wealth and property. He wore silk brocade, pale azure and silver, close-fitted to his torso, that accentuated the blue of his eyes and his dull, flaxen hair. His trousers were light gray, clinging fashionably to his thighs and muscles, showcasing his lean strength. His black leather boots gleamed like ink, unblemished.

                Stiles delivered eggs and milk and crops to the Whittemore estate every month, an indispensable source of income for him and his father. Therefore, he swallowed the acid rising to the back of his throat and feigned subservience. “Of course, my lord.”

                The noble snorted with derision as his eyes skimmed the pup. “That is your token? A half-breed bitch. Surely ridden with fleas, too.”

                It was customary in any courtship for the suitor to offer a token. In this case, the symbolism of the gesture mattered more than the token itself. Stiles sincerely doubted any of the men, even Lord Whittemore, could give the king any possession he didn't already want and have.

                “No doubt your token is far more impressive, my lord,” he replied, petting the thick scruff at the back of Fengári’s neck. The cub rumbled with contentment against Stiles’ knees, and he knew the truth. She was best.

                “What else could I expect from a bottom-dweller like you, Stilinski?” Jackson sighed, straightening the silver rings on his fingers. “You spend all your time with swine and cattle, in the dirt and the shit. Maybe you can find one of them to warm your bed on those cold nights while I'm fucking the sweetest cunt in the kingdom.”

                “Away, Jackson. That's enough of your venom.” Danny Mahealani stood in front of the bench they occupied, eyes lingering coolly upon the noble. He exhibited a neutrality in both temperament and social status that made him an every-man's man in Beacon Hills. His father was a merchant, wealthier than the peasants but not as rich as the nobles. As a beta, Danny was neither as strong as an omega nor as virile as an alpha. He lived in the safe in-between of society, and his family's long-standing relationship with the Whittemores protected him against any would-be enemies in the town.

                Jackson sneered before leaving, crossing to the benches on the other side of the room.

                “Ignore him, Stiles. You know how he is.”

                Stiles hummed. “Better than anyone, except perhaps you.” He side-eyed the merchant's son.

                Danny grinned in return. “He's still jealous of you. All those summer nights we spent in your father’s stable when we were fifteen, sneaking from our beds once our parents had fallen asleep.” The beta’s white teeth sunk coyly into his bottom lip, dimples carving themselves into his cheeks.

                Stiles flushed and scratched behind Fengári’s ears, a smile rising to his mouth from those particular memories. “No moonlight trysts with Jackson, then?”

                “I won't let him.” The merchant's son chuckled, extending his fingers for the cub to sniff and lick and nibble. “I'm not sure which part is driving him more insane. That someone is telling him ‘no,’ or that the farmer's boy has already had what he so desperately wants.”

                “Poor lad,” Stiles agreed. “Your closed knees have driven him right into the arms of our beloved king.”

                Danny knocked their elbows together playfully. “Please. Our king hasn’t scoured half the kingdom for a husband just to settle on a spoiled brat like Jackson.”

                Stiles chanced a look in Jackson's direction and found the noble glaring at the pair of them as he blatantly ignored the one-sided conversation Theo Raeken was trying to hold with him.

                A door opened on the wall behind the throne. Sentences died mid-word, an abrupt silence filling the hall. The king’s entrance brought them all to their feet, heads bent in deference. A herald trailed His Majesty, eyes to the floor, a scroll of paper tucked in his arms. King Derek sat, his subjects following a moment after him.

                Rumors circulated throughout Beacon Hills—gossip was lifeblood to a town as small as theirs. The few who had seen the king in close proximity swore he was the most beautiful omega to grace the kingdom. The descriptions varied from flowery and besotted to lewd and anatomical, yet they all converged upon a single point.

                King Derek was desirable.

                Stiles attended His Majesty’s coronation a decade ago, when the king had only been twenty. Stiles himself had been eight, perched atop his father's shoulders for a better view. However, the heart of the kingdom had been swollen and bursting with visitors, and they had been so far back in the crowd that the king had appeared no larger than an insect.

                Stiles had never truly seen his monarch until this moment. It was far more disorienting than he had expected. The same fluttery feeling in his stomach whenever he saw a town beauty—but paired with gut-clenching apprehension and disbelief. Like looking upon the face of God.

                Derek Hale was an omega in the prime of his manhood. Tall and muscle-dense, in the typical omega stature. Centuries ago, most omegas displayed the same build, large-bodied and strong, so that they could endure childbirth and protect and nourish their children. With a bloodline as old as the Hales’, Stiles wasn't surprised the king had inherited the traditional physique.

                The minutiae, the nuances, of His Majesty’s body remained hidden beneath leather trousers and a thick, woolen tunic. Plain in comparison to the clothing of some of the royal courtiers Stiles had seen over the years, neither swathed in velvet nor dripping with jewels. The only indications of expense in King Derek's attire were the fit, perfectly tailored to his body, and the leather, pristine and smooth.

                He looked neat and orderly, rather than ostentatious, a black, braided belt around his waist, his tunic extending to his wrists and mid-thighs. For a brief moment, Stiles attempted to fathom how impossibly more stunning the king could be underneath those clothes. Then he burned hot with shame, feeling as base and vile as Jackson.

                Not one for proclamations, the king waved a hand in his herald’s direction to signal for him to begin.

                The messenger unraveled his scroll and announced, “Boyd. Blacksmith. Eighteen.” Stiles remembered these inquiries from the herald who delivered his summons. His surname, livelihood, age, and orientation. At the very least, the king would have a partial census for his records if he couldn't decide upon a husband.

                Vernon Boyd approached His Majesty, stopping before the steps below the throne. A beta who surpassed the king in both height and bulk, stoic and reserved around town but not unkind. He offered the king a dagger of his own forging, the hilt and scabbard inlaid with chunks of ruby and onyx for the Hale family colors.

                The process continued in the same fashion, the herald calling the suitors according to family name. And only betas so far. Stiles noted with delight that the wealthy had not been granted any form of priority. He huffed a laugh under his breath, observing how that minor slight ruffled the noblemen’s feathers. Particularly Jackson, his face blanching and twitching with outrage once he realized what was happening, eyes narrowing and slitting to a serpentine likeness.

                King Derek’s method of appraisal was irregular; at its worst, intimidating. For some, he only stared in silence before dismissing the suitor. Others, he asked questions, stone-faced and grave-voiced, revealing in no such way which answer he preferred.

                His Majesty progressed through the men at a fairly rapid pace but ensured that every suitor received an appreciative gesture. A grateful nod, a complimentary word about a token, thanks for making the journey. Other kings might have considered the time, expense, and effort dedicated as nothing more than his subjects’ duty, an obligation to obey and serve. King Derek treated the occasion more like a favor that his citizens were doing for him.

                Stiles was thankful for the efficiency. Although the king had shown neither favor nor distaste for any of the suitors, a quick, clean dismissal was the kinder alternative.

                Having witnessed the offerings of a few dozen suitors at this point, Stiles began to detect a trend. It seemed the wealthier the man, the more unnecessary the token.

                Theo Raeken awarded His Majesty a velvet purse of sapphires. Jackson was just as predictable. The young lord flourished before the king a necklace, the chain gold and filled with red garnets, schorl, and diamonds.

                The tokens were beautiful, of course, and costly—the size and number of those jewels could keep Stiles and his father fed for several years—but they seemed like empty offerings to him. Impersonal, unthoughtful, pointless. Even Stiles, who owned no jewels of any kind or quantity, held no desire for those tokens. The only thing he would have done with them was sell them for something useful. At least the satins and silks and velvets given by other suitors were functional, albeit inappropriate for their king.

                Stiles recognized that a token bespoke a suitor’s affluence and status. But he also knew that pride was a contributor. The nobles didn't just want to impress; they wanted to boast. They clung so much tighter to the demonstrations of their wealth than the royals ever did.

                Still, Stiles didn’t know the king’s predilections. Perhaps he would enjoy those baubles. Stiles had merely registered a few observable details, consulted his own perspective, and inferred from there. In particular, the king’s crown was a spiked coronet of solid silver, without any arches or cap or gems. Instead, it bore engravings. When considered in combination with the king’s apparel, one might assume His Majesty was not one for needless ornamentation. The nobles saw the king more than anyone else, attending royal events. Did none of them notice, or did they not care?

                Meanwhile, the tradesmen offered handmade tokens, the supreme works of their crafts. The baker’s son, Liam, brought a basket of his finest breads and pastries. Isaac, the taverner’s son, presented the king with a cask of aged, richening wine his father had been saving since before Isaac’s birth. In spite of his substantial wealth, Danny granted His Majesty maps of the lands overseas with the most recent revisions and refinements. Perhaps these gifts were not as splendid or sensational, but they contained heart. They were the best each suitor could offer, and there was true nobility in that sacrifice, in offering something that mattered.

                Soon enough, the herald called Corey of House Bryant, an alpha. Stiles had withdrawn into his head, ignoring the last several suitors, but the name pulled him back to the present. His eyes darted through the benches, calculating how many other alphas were before him. Too many, and he wasn't certain of all the men's orientations.

                A jolt, part thrill, part nausea, zipped through him at the thought of standing before his king, exposed to those penetrating eyes. He soothed himself with endless strokes along Fengári’s back, her fur still satiny and soft from the bath he gave her yesterday.

                As more and more alphas went before the king, a creeping realization tangled in his gut and took hold, rooted. He might be the last suitor called. The waiting would be torturous, but at least no one would be paying attention. Those who had given their tokens early now looked bored and tired, shifting against the hard, wooden benches every few minutes to alleviate the pained tingling in their numb asses. Most were just counting down the moments until it was finished.

                After Jordan Parrish approached the king, Stiles was certain he was the final alpha. Fengári lifted her head from his lap and looked back at him, having sensed the change in his body. His shoulders and arms locked, his breathing accelerated, his knees trembled. He wasn’t ready.

                “Stilinski,” the herald proclaimed. “Farmer. Eighteen.” The man rolled the scroll into a neat tube, completed.

                Stiles inhaled as he stood, releasing the breath in a measured, steady exhale. Danny cupped the back of his knee, delivered an encouraging pulse of pressure.

                The pup was a warm little weight in his arms as he carried her towards the throne. At the base of the steps, he bowed at the waist, cradling the cub in his arms with care. Only now did he notice a sheet of Fengári’s fur covering the front of his tunic. If his father were here, he would have cuffed Stiles’ ear for ruining his clothes. He told himself it didn't matter. He had nothing to prove and no one to impress.

                “A token of my affection, Your Majesty.” If nothing else, Stiles got the words right.

                King Derek’s eyes roamed over the cub, his first two fingers curling and twitching to invite Stiles forward.

                Stiles felt his eyes widen of their own accord, and he froze. The opposite of His Majesty’s command. Dear Lord, he was going to be the first man convicted of treason for withholding his token from the king.

                The king remained expressionless, but the straight, carved features of his face lent themselves to a resting severity. He added, “Come closer. If you would.”

                “Of course,” Stiles replied hurriedly. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” He heard sniggers from the benches behind him as he ascended the steps, his face blooming pink and hot. No doubt he could name a few of the men to whom they belonged.

                “What manner of pup is that?” The king’s question was rather nonchalant. Of what did he have to be nervous, after all?

                Meanwhile, Stiles was close enough to the crowned king to see the enchanting color of his eyes, all of his willpower dedicated to not tripping and remembering to breathe.

                “Half wolf, my king. The other half likely a stray. She’s not pedigreed by any means.” As if to emphasize his point, Fengári nosed into his armpit and sneezed.

                “She's beautiful.” His Majesty lifted his eyes, as sharp-cut and faceted as jewels, from the cub and set them upon Stiles. “Thank you.”

                Stiles trembled, not from fear precisely. The king didn’t seem cruel, merely serious, reserved in emotion. After losing so much of his family in a handful of years, the king’s disposition was understandable.

                “I am overjoyed that she pleases you, my king.” The delivery was a poor match for the words themselves, which sounded leaden and solemn.

                King Derek inclined his head in slight nod. “Lord McCall, take her for me.”

                The First Steward rose and held his arms open for the cub, his smile calling attention to the lopsidedness of his jaw. Fengári whined and wriggled as she passed into the arms of a stranger, her growls half-formed and high-pitched.

                Stiles’ chest seemed to collapse, his throat constricting, his eyes burning with welling tears. He needed to leave, before he couldn't.

                He whispered into her ear, “It's alright, little lady,” and kissed the patch of fur between her eyes. His lips crushed into a flat line. The next thing out of his mouth would be a sob, and that would truly put himself and his father to shame.

                He strode back to his seat without so much as a dismissal from His Majesty, the only sound in the room the howling cries of his no-longer pup. He was too heartbroken to be embarrassed by the attention. Fengári wouldn't—couldn’t—understand why he was leaving her in a strange place with unfamiliar people. It didn't matter that she was an animal, that he had no decent alternative. It was a betrayal all the same.

                The king held a meal afterwards in the Great Hall for all the suitors, a gesture of hospitality before their departure. Palace attendants escorted the guests from the throne room to the massive dining hall.  

                Danny accompanied him through the corridors with an arm slung around his shoulders, saying nothing. The beta had always possessed an intuition for granting comfort to those in need, in whatever way they needed it. His friend dragged him to a table mixed with alphas and betas, friends and acquaintances. He could appreciate neither the company nor the fine food in such a glum mood.

                Near the end of dessert, a hand cupped Stiles’ shoulder. The wide, alert eyes of the men sitting opposite him told Stiles that it was no ordinary visitor.

                Scott McCall offered him another crooked smile. “Stilinski, is it? Come with me, please.” The king’s advisor would not be running errands and delivering messages like a common servant unless the task proved extremely important.

                Stiles could only think that he had somehow offended His Majesty this afternoon, that he was going to be dragged before him to answer for some crime.

                “Yes, my lord,” he replied automatically, forcing himself to stand. Danny traded a questioning look with him, and Stiles responded with a subtle shake of his head, bewildered by the current happenings. He straightened his tunic and dusted off the thighs of his pants before following the steward.  

                Lord McCall wound through several hallways, his stride easy and confident. Stiles supposed the castle’s design would seem simple, not so labyrinthine, for someone who had lived here for decades. The steward stopped before a set of double doors at the end of a corridor, nodding to the posted guards to move aside.

                Lord McCall cast a look back at him and opened one of the doors. “Wait here. Make yourself comfortable.”

                Stiles moved forward with wary steps into a lavish antechamber. His blood turned thick and cold, sludge-like, as pieces fell into place. “My lord?” he called quickly before the steward closed the door. Lord McCall paused, raised his brows in silent question. “For whom am I meant to wait?”

                “I think you already know.” The steward gave a small tilt of his head, a misplaced sign of respect for someone so below his own station, and left.  

                Stiles tried a few calming breaths, and when those failed, he surveyed the room. Fireplace stacked neatly with wood, busts and brass candlesticks on the mantle. Cushioned chairs, ornate rugs, vibrant paintings and tapestries hung upon the walls. The air smelled of spices, whatever had been sprinkled over the kindling of last night’s fire.

                Every piece in the room breathed elegance and luxury, and Stiles was too afraid to touch and ruin them, let alone try and make himself comfortable. However, it had been the steward’s suggestion, and not to do so would be impolite.

                He attempted to sit in one of the armchairs, but it was too soft, swallowing and trapping him within its plush confines. Instead, he sat upon the cool stones of the hearth, his legs stretched before him, his back supported by one of the columns.  

                Minutes passed in heavy silence—the very air in the room felt thicker from all the extravagant fabrics—and the abrupt noise of the door opening drove him into a jarring flinch. He scrambled to his feet, and once he glimpsed the figure entering, he dropped right back to his knees. Until now, he had entertained an inkling of what awaited him, but in the full face of it, he was not prepared.

                “We would’ve come sooner, but I thought she’d want feeding.” Stiles saw immaculate leather boots, heard the wispy whine of a pup. The moment Fengári touched the floor, she scampered over to him, winding excitedly between his legs. “You may stand.”

                “Your Majesty,” he greeted. The cub stood on her back feet and pawed the side of his leg, begging for attention.

                The king assessed the display. “By all means, don’t leave her wanting.”

                With his king’s permission, Stiles scooped the pup into his arms, receiving licks to his hands and face and neck.

                “She likes me,” the king continued, “but she loves you. There’s no competing with that.”

                “Don’t feel too spurned, Your Majesty. I’m a thousand belly rubs ahead of you.” The second the words left his mouth, all the moisture seemed to evaporate from it. He had forgotten himself and his company, answering as he would have in any other conversation. Had he been too impudent?

                He held his breath until the monarch’s mouth curved with faint amusement. Very faint. It was the most Stiles could hope for in a single afternoon. “I will keep that in mind. I’m sure you’re tired from your travel, but I think it best we have a conversation before you leave.”

                King Derek lowered himself into one of the pillowed chairs. “You may sit,” he invited. Perhaps he saw the disdainful glance Stiles cast towards the seating, for he added, “Or stand. Whichever pleases you.”

                “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he mumbled. If he sat, his nerves would seize hold and provoke twitching and restless legs and the constant shuffling against the seat of the chair. He was already doing his best to maintain the appearance of a modicum of composure. 

                “Tell me. Does your pup have a name?”

                Stiles stroked the underside of the cub’s chin. “Fengári, my king. And she is mine no longer.”

                “Clever name,” he noted with a flat approval. “Take her home—” Whatever words followed were lost to the crashing, coursing rush of blood in his ears. To not be chosen was expected; to have his token denied would plunge both himself and his father into disgrace. It was considered the ultimate sign of contempt towards a suitor. His father would be so disappointed.

                “Did you hear me, boy?”

                “No, Your Majesty,” he replied vacantly, not recognizing the strange hollowness in his own voice. “I’m afraid I didn’t.” He set the pup onto the floor gingerly and placed a steadying hand on the wall closest to him. “Pardon me.”

                Stiles blinked, and it lasted far longer than it should have, his eyelids feeling weighted as they struggled to open. The king was but a foot away from him now, tilting his chin upwards until their eyes met. “Take her home, return in a week with any belongings you wish to bring.” His Majesty’s hand dropped away, and he moved backwards several paces.

                “My king, I don’t understand. There are better suitors in this town alone, not even considering the rest of the kingdom.”

                The king raised one dark brow. “Are you trying to discourage our engagement?” Stiles imagined the intention was humor, but he wasn’t positive. The unwavering, inscrutable countenance of his monarch made it difficult to know for sure.

                Stiles’ heart thundered as he stuttered out a reply. “No, Your Majesty. I am truly honored to have been chosen.”

                King Derek released a terse hum of acknowledgement. “I’m glad. Now, I must insist that you sit. And relax. No harm is going to come to you.”

                Stiles sat in the chair next to His Majesty, scanning the room until he found the pup curled on the rug before the hearth, just as she did at home. Certainly, this one was more padded, more comfortable for her.

                “I can’t very well call the royal consort ‘boy.’ So. What is your name?”

                He swallowed, fingers tapping, fidgeting against the arms of the chair. “Stiles, my king. Everyone calls me ‘Stiles.’”

                The king leaned forward, forearms balanced across the tops of his thighs, hands clasped. “Have you any family?”

                “Only my father.”

                “He may remain at his home and continue his livelihood. If he wishes,” His Majesty enunciated. “In which case, funds and any other necessary supplies would be transported to him. Otherwise, he is welcome to join us at the palace. I can offer him suitable work, or he may retire.”

                Stiles chewed his lip, restraining himself from another rash response. “He fought in the war during your parents’ reign, my king. Before my mother died and he stayed behind to raise me. He is skilled with a sword and lance and knife. I’ve seen him practice. He’ll want to earn his place here.”

                King Derek nodded. “Then find use for him, I shall. Once he settles his affairs, does whatever he chooses with his land and stock, tell him to come, and I will find a place for him.”

                “Thank you, Your Majesty. That’s very gracious of you.” The relief was a trickle, not a flood. He couldn’t help but harbor a skepticism for all of the king’s wonderful promises. All of his problems solved, his worries assuaged, in one swift action. He didn’t think so.

                “You’re familiar with my name, Stiles?”

                “Of course.” Who in the five kingdoms wasn’t?

                “That is how you will address me from now on.”

                Stiles glanced at his king, who stared back with intent. A shudder raced up his spine, lifting the hair on his arms and nape. “Yes, Derek.”

                The handful of weeks leading up to the wedding were uneventful, seeing as none of the preparations actually fell to Stiles. So far, his only involvement had been attending a fitting for his ceremonial attire.  

                Derek cautioned him of this likelihood early in their engagement, explaining that a royal wedding was as much—if not more—about the occasion itself as it was the couple of honor. It wasn’t just about marriage but legacy and reputation and the kingdom’s future. Along with determining and approving the budget for the event, Lady Martin handled the majority of the nuptial arrangements. From food to decorations to entertainment, she decided the scale and quantity, selected and coordinated. Amidst her daily treasury duties. Stiles was as relieved as Derek that she was undertaking the task rather than either of them.

                Until the marriage, the king ordered separate rooms prepared for Stiles. With so few possessions and so much space, his chambers appeared pitifully bare. He spent little time in them, aside from sleeping, to be honest. Fengári joined him those nights, tucked close into his side or his belly. Derek suggested the pup stay in Stiles’ quarters until she adjusted to her new home and gave him permission to take her anywhere he liked in the castle.

                Most of their time was spent in the library. Through no fault of his own, his father had maintained a paltry collection of four books at their farmhouse that Stiles had read several times each. The king’s library was expansive, the tomes innumerable. The experience was akin to the first time he stepped into the sea as a boy, after having only swum in ponds. The sheer amount of available knowledge was overwhelming, exhausting to even contemplate.

                Derek granted him access to all of the castle’s grounds and facilities while he attended to kingly business for the greater part of each day. When Stiles wasn’t exploring the palace, he was reading.  

                He wouldn’t call it hiding, not that he truly could. The guards and servants learned quick enough where to find him when he wasn’t in his chambers. Upon Stiles’ request, the former remained outside the doors, and many a morning, he woke to find himself slumped in one of the chairs, stiff and achy, with his current book sprawled across the table. Fengári preferred the spot on the floor below the window, where the sun soaked the stones. The latter staff entered to fetch him for meals and deliver messages. One of the kitchen girls, a sweet beta named Kira, even brought a cup of honeyed tea to his favorite corner of the library after supper each night.  

                The only other person he had encountered in the library was Lady Martin. She liked to compile her numbers and update her records there, in the quiet. Initially, she cast suspicious glances at him, perhaps irritated that she could no longer have the library to herself. Stiles never spoke in her presence, never made a sound, and Fengári was well-behaved.

                The glances lengthened into stares, eventually culminating in Lady Martin dropping into the seat opposite him at his table.

                “How is it that a farmer's boy comes to read?” she queried, resting her porcelain face upon one palm. The question wasn’t mocking, not like it would’ve been from someone like Jackson. No, Lady Martin seemed impressed by this oddity, genuinely interested.

                “My mother taught me, my lady.” Stiles closed his book on one finger to keep his place. He didn't want to appear to be dividing his attention with Lady Martin. She was intimidating, in both beauty and personality, with a shameless curiosity and ferocious wit.

                “Was she a noblewoman?”

                “No, my lady.” He offered a faint smile. It was strange to talk about her with someone other than his father—yet easier, somehow. “She served as a lady-in-waiting for a noble family when she was young, for many years. The family’s daughter was a similar age and took to my mother, taught her to read.”

                “Can you write your letters as well?”

                “Yes, my lady.”

                “Well done, darling.” She smiled and patted the back of one of his hands. “I’ll let you return to your book, then.”

                Now, when Lady Martin met him in the library, she chose the table next to his. Sometimes, she let him help her with her records. Stiles knew his numbers, too, but Lydia (“I’m thirty, darling. Only old maids enjoy honorifics.”) practiced far more complex arithmetic and sums. She proved eager to teach him if he was eager to learn.

                He saw his father and Scott with even more regularity than he did Lydia. Certainly more than he saw Derek. The king joined them for meals as often as he could, but it tended to be Stiles, his father, and the steward the majority of the time.

                Scott was amiable, not the least bit pompous for someone of his standing, and never too serious. He ensured that both Stilinski men had everything they needed, that they were comfortable in their new home. Often, he inquired about the position Stiles’ father had filled, as secondary Master of Arms, after Sir Peter Hale, the king’s surviving uncle. The steward was the foremost authority on the palace staff, having appointed many of the attendants or interacted with them during his daily duties. Well-acquainted with the royal family and courtiers, Scott also shared anecdotes and delineated the major noble houses in the kingdom.

                As busy as His Majesty’s schedule surely was, Derek set aside an hour each day for a walk with him and Fengári in the gardens. Stiles appreciated the effort, for it was really their only opportunity to become familiar with one another. Derek always collected him in person, rather than sending a servant, and the personal gesture pleased Stiles more than he cared to confess. It made him feel special, he supposed, but even entertaining that thought made him sound like a fanciful child.

                “I have a question,” Derek announced, throwing a glance in his direction before turning back to the path ahead. “I don’t wish to offend you.”

                Stiles grinned to himself. “You couldn’t possibly. Tradesmen and laborers are not known for their refined manners.”

                Derek cast another sidelong glimpse in his direction, replying in his steady, purposeful voice. Between the taciturnity and royal declarations, Derek’s words always seemed concise and measured. He was not one for needless chatter. “I assure you, men are like that at every station in life.”

                Fengári growled near Stiles’ right leg before darting in front of them, disappearing around the corner as she chased a fleeing rodent. The pup had seemed to take to Derek. She let him hold and pet her, feed her from his hand. Stiles wasn’t overtly superstitious, but he took it as a promising sign.  

                “Do you worst,” Stiles encouraged, lifting his lips into a half-smile.

                “Have you bedded anyone?”

                “Oh.” He swallowed, then blinked, then peered in wariness around the gardens to ensure they still had their privacy.

                “Have I embarrassed you?” his intended asked, bumping their elbows. Alongside the stoicism, Derek wasn’t particularly tactile either—not that Stiles wished he was more so. It was simply a fact that trading touches was a rare act between them. At this point, Stiles’ mental tally had reached an all-time high of six.

                He didn’t think that he repulsed Derek in the physical sense. It’s not as if the king was stomaching Stiles’ appearance in favor of his riches or political ties or house name. Derek chose the unconventional-yet-(hopefully)-charming assemblage of features that comprised Stiles. Upturned nose and scattered beauty marks and chaotic, windswept hair and all. For someone so reserved, infrequent contact wasn’t that insulting or dismaying.

                “No.” Stiles chewed his lip for the span of three breaths. “Just taken me by surprise.”

                “Then you will answer?” Derek settled on a nearby bench and sounded a clear, sharp whistle with just his teeth and tongue. They were in the early days of training Fengári in sitting, barking, lying down, fetching. Derek had devised the whistle to call the cub back to them.

                Stiles joined the king on the bench, their ears sifting through the ambient noises of bird chirps and bubbling fountains for the patter of little paws against the stone paths. After a few moments, Derek abandoned the endeavor, lifting one of his expressive brows. Stiles proposed that it was his intended’s favorite mode of communication.

                “Yes—my answer, that is. Yes. I have.” He stumbled through his words, intertwining his fingers and squeezing them together. The pressure and the dull ache helped him focus and directed some of that extraneous energy he could never quite burn away, even after twelve hours in the crop fields and animal pens.

                Derek considered this new information in silence. Naturally. “How many?”

                “Was I supposed to be a virgin?” Stiles interjected. Honestly, the man made it beyond impossible to know his thoughts, his opinion regarding those thoughts, whether he and Stiles were even considering the same thoughts at all. Nearly two months together, and Stiles still had no insight.

                The king almost formed a proper smile at that, his laugh a harsh huff of air. “No.”

                Stiles cleared his throat, scratched his nape, inevitably feeling a little foolish now. “Well, then. Three. Three people.”

                “Any omegas?”

                “Um. One. A girl.” Malia Tate. Big, pretty brown eyes and long legs, just like a doe. Stiles missed the scratches she left upon him.

                “And the other two?” Having Derek’s rapt attention, those ethereal eyes upon him, made his hands quake. He sat on them, thighs suppressing the tremors.

                “An alpha and a beta.” The first had been Heather, a dancer passing through town on her way to a larger city. Stiles never did learn her last name. And then, Danny, of course. “Purely a coincidence,” he amended. “I wasn’t trying to collect all three or such nonsense.” He forced a laugh, brittle and raspy.

                Fengári decided to return to them at that moment, the glorious pup. Stiles was immensely grateful for the break in their conversation and the distraction. He hoisted the four-month-old cub into his lap, groaning at her weight. She was eating meat now and running him ragged when they played. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to cradle her anymore.

                “I’m yet a virgin,” Derek announced with absolutely no preamble.

                Stiles choked on his saliva, coughing several times. Fengári’s ears twitched at the noise, and she looked at him with confusion, head cocked. “That’s—Thank you for sharing that with me.”

                “Are you embarrassed now?”    

                “Of course not.” Stiles reached out, unthinking, and clutched his betrothed’s forearm. Derek made no move to either keep his hand there or push it away. Stiles withdrew and sunk his incriminating hands deep into the pup’s fur. “Might I ask you an intimate question, Derek?”

                “’tis only fair,” the king agreed.

                “Why did you never…?”

                Derek sighed, almost inaudible. “Timing, mainly, and circumstances. As a boy, guards escorted me everywhere, servants manned my chambers at all times. When I became a man, I joined the war, where the camps offered even less privacy than the palace. Furthermore, the last thing I wanted was to tumble one of my parents’ soldiers and then be sent home with a bastard planted inside me.”

                Stiles was confounded by the multitude of words that just poured from Derek's mouth. He had never heard his betrothed say so much in so little time. Derek spoke rather matter-of-fact about the subject, as if he were talking about a stranger rather than himself.

                “And after the war?” Stiles wondered. “You’ve been home near three years now.”

                Derek shrugged, a subtle lift of his shoulders. “I had waited long enough by that point. Waiting a few more years to do it properly didn’t seem that difficult.”

                “There was never anyone you wanted?”

                “No,” the king replied immediately, glancing at him before looking outwards and rubbing his palms together. “No one wanted me either. Not really.” Stiles doubted the legitimacy of that statement, doing his utmost not to gawk at the seductive slope of Derek’s back, all elegant curves and smooth muscle. “It’s nearly impossible not to overhear your fellow men where you’re packed together so tightly in the camps. Everyone’s restless, yearning for faraway lovers and home. They only wanted to brag about having fucked a king. Or earn favor with me. Even those who might’ve experienced genuine attraction still only wanted my body. It never felt right.”

                “Do I—?” Stiles’ throat convulsed and contracted, snuffing the thought before he could give breath to its entirety. Self-preservation instinct, surely.

                “I’ve told you, Stiles. You may always speak freely with me. Consider it a royal decree.” If not for the nudge of Derek’s shoulder against his, Stiles wouldn’t have caught the jest. It wasn’t that Derek spoke in a monotone manner, only that the king wasn’t a firm practitioner of intonation or facial expressions.

                Stiles decided upon a safer avenue of conversation. “I was only going to ask if I may kiss you.” He made the mistake of locking eyes with his intended, propelling his breathing to an erratic pace. Even when maintaining a blank face, Derek’s eyes held their intensity. Had they been black, Stiles would have thought they belonged to a falcon.

                The king tipped his head in acquiescence, the movement so faint Stiles wouldn’t have recognized it if his sights weren’t fixed upon Derek. As Stiles edged closer, heart pounding in the back of his throat, Fengári leapt from his lap to the stones, disgruntled by the shift of his body. One hand cupped Derek’s cheek, fingers brushing smooth skin while his palm bristled against the beginnings of a beard.

                Exhilaration swelled within him, turning his breaths even more irregular and shallow. Just to touch Derek, and to do so with such familiarity, was surreal yet undeniably pleasant. He urged the king to bring his face closer with a press of fingertips to cheekbone, only considering afterwards that it might have been too presumptuous. However, Derek leaned forward, and Stiles met him, changing course at the last moment to kiss Derek’s other cheek.

                The king’s untouched lips contorted, very nearly approaching another smile, when Stiles resumed an appropriate distance from His Majesty on the bench. Heat surged up the back of Stiles’ back and neck, and he felt like an awkward, fumbling boy again. With Derek’s confession still fresh in his mind, the irony of that did not escape him.

                “Stiles?”

                “Yes,” he replied, more breath than voice. Stiles hoped the king didn’t regard that peck as a foretaste of their wedding night. The poor man might elect to remain a virgin and die childless.

                It just seemed wrong to cheapen their first kiss by employing it as a distraction, an afterthought to cover a reckless question. Especially when Derek had been nothing but forthcoming and honest about such sensitive details of his personal life. Stiles would rather wait, even if the opportunity didn't arise again until their wedding day.

                Stiles didn't see the words or the shape of the king’s mouth as he spoke them. Rather, Stiles observed the flare-and-sweep of Derek’s thick eyelashes as he blinked, the cording of sinew in his throat as the muscles exerted to deliver his speech. He only watched those lips, those eyes, afterwards, to ensure he had indeed heard the message correctly.

                “Next time, don't ask.”

                Stiles admitted within the safe recesses of his mind that he was as terrified of his own wedding as he was enamored by it. The utter number of people present—mostly strangers to him—was bewildering. The entirety of the royal court and their kin, in addition to noble families with ties to the crown and close friends of the Hales from other kingdoms.

                Notable guests included King Deucalion of the southern monarchy, whose alliance with the Hales could be traced back centuries through both royal lineages. Four bodyguards accompanied the foreign king, distinguishable by their head-to-toe, blood-red garments and the obsidian caps that tipped their fingers and fashioned them into lethal claws. Named the Alphas, these guards garnered fame from their fierce loyalty and skill in combat, and in the southern kingdom, they were not merely men and women but a celebrated and prestigious institution.  

                From the western kingdom across the sea came Deaton the Druid, the lead magi. Once, while discussing the attendees, Lydia had mentioned that the druid knew Derek’s mother from her early days as queen. He brought no warriors, only his sister, Marin. The sorcerer and sorceress carried protection with them at all times, in the form of runes carved into their flesh, arms and neck and torso and face, that allowed them to call upon their magick anytime and anywhere.

                Stiles recognized no one from Beacon Hills aside from his father. Unsurprising, as it was only a small town within an immense kingdom, a droplet within an ocean. Not even a single Whittemore was in attendance, he realized. 

                Dancers and musicians entertained the guests throughout the feast. Lydia had chosen ten courses, a modest number when compared to other royal weddings. In the seclusion of the library, she had often complained to him about the limitations Derek imposed upon her. Curiously, affection always seemed to underlie her bemoaning. Stiles himself felt fit to burst after the third course and only took spoonfuls of the last seven for the sake of politeness.

                Derek’s appetite proved heartier than his own, but his husband took only a single cup of wine during the meal. The king didn’t drink heavily under normal circumstances, and it was reassuring that he didn’t need to be intoxicated to endure their nuptials. Their first kiss had been plenty sweet without any wine, and Stiles already loved the taste of Derek’s lips.

                He sipped from his own cup, scanning the guests with vacant interest. Fengári laid under the table, across his boots, waiting for any more possible scraps from him. To his left sat the king, speaking in hushed tones with Lydia, his posture turned faintly away from Stiles. On his opposite side, his father discussed weapon handling with Scott, who he sometimes called “son” in the thick of conversation. Scott’s own father had abandoned his mother when the steward was only a child, perhaps contributing to the reason why Scott never acknowledged or corrected the term of endearment. From a man of humble origin, like Stiles’ father, the informal address was improper. Yet Scott had treated Stiles as a brother since his arrival, so the title seemed fitting and well-earned.

                Stiles was relieved for the opportunity to withdraw, to reflect and order his mind. His head felt even more congested than usual. Partly from the excitement and partly from the unfamiliar weight of the crown atop his head, seemingly compressing his skull and crushing his thoughts into an even more jumbled mass.

                Like Derek’s, the crown was pure silver, the craftsmanship so similar it must have been a forging from the same blacksmith. It bore the same engravings of wolves and the Hale family crest, differing in that the spikes rose lower than Derek’s, almost making it resemble a circlet. The distinction made the crown simpler than Derek’s, more inconspicuous, as befit the royal consort.

                The crown itself wasn’t heavy. The heft lied within its associations. Moreover, Stiles experienced a sense of responsibility rather than a feeling of burden when Derek first placed it upon his head, welcoming Stiles into the royal family. He no longer belonged to himself and his father but to his husband and their kingdom, and perhaps one day, their children. That weight would help keep him honest and accountable, and he knew Derek, Scott, Lydia, his father would each shoulder some of the load.

                Grandiose and intimidating as it was, his wedding gifted him with countless memories to cherish. His father crying silent tears of joy as he placed Stiles’ hand in Derek’s palm before the priest, demonstrating his blessing, charging Derek with the protection of his son. Lydia laughing and clinging to him as they danced. Scott leading the scullion, Kira, from the Great Hall to some dark alcove of the castle, fingers intertwined, grins proud and beaming. They would be married within the year, Stiles guessed, now that Derek had set a precedent of marrying below one’s birth. But, foremost, the undeniable smile Derek gave him when his eyes first touched Stiles that morning, from across the hall.   

                The celebrations continued well into the evening, the spilled light of the afternoon sun seeming to seep back up and out the windows. In its place, the servants lit torches lining the walls, bathing the room in an orange and golden glow. Most of the guests were drinking, talking, or dancing, but a few had retired for the night. Namely, Stiles’ father, luring Fengári back to his chambers with chunks of bread and meat. It was an unspoken acknowledgement from his father, taking the pup for the night. For this night. No words needed to be said in regards to it because it was obvious, expected. Every single person in the palace, in the kingdom, knew what would transpire between himself and the king tonight.

                And so, Stiles was relieved that his father would not be party to the hundreds of eyes lingering upon him and Derek as they departed the Great Hall and headed for the king’s chambers.

                His husband had only needed to share a single look to tell Stiles that he was ready to leave. Derek’s eyes danced with candleflame, dilated, dark lashes fanning outwards to make them seem wider. Stiles drained the rest of his cup in one gulp, touching Derek’s fingers with the tips of his own, tentative, until the king threaded them together and pulled Stiles to his feet.

                Guards fell in line behind them, beside them, seamless and silent, as they traveled the corridors. Heat and pressure, affection and excitement, surged through Stiles’ veins, shooting down his arm and fingers, spreading into Derek as infectiously as lightning. The king tugged Stiles closer to his side, treating him to another smile, their hips brushing with the occasional step.

                The troop of guards disbanded upon reaching the king’s chambers, returning to the Great Hall. Four men remained posted to Derek’s doors night and day, and they parted to let the king and his consort pass.

                Stiles had only been inside the royal chambers—and only the antechamber, at that—the day Derek plucked him from obscurity and chose him as his husband. Derek released his hand once the doors closed behind them, leaving them in privacy. The king breezed through the antechamber and into his bedroom, turning back with one hand poised on the handle and one brow lifted in that expectant manner.

                Stiles followed, slunk through the gap of space made by the open door, and heard the soft creak as Derek closed them alone inside.

                “Are you afraid of me?” the king asked, soft-toned, stopping only paces before him to lift the crown from Stiles’ head and place it upon the dressing table. Stiles twisted his neck to each side, rolling his shoulders, feeling slightly unbalanced and light-headed without the weight.  

                “No, Derek.” He mimicked his husband and removed the coronet from his king’s hair, setting it next to its mate.

                The king sidled closer, hands slipping in ghost-touches down Stiles’ sides, ending at his hips. “Are you nervous? Unwilling?”

                Stiles’ mouth parted in puzzlement, the words caught. He bridged the divide between their bodies, leaving them flush from chest to thigh, showing the full extent of his willingness. “No. Why—?”

                “Good,” Derek interrupted, cutting through any of Stiles’ budding protestations. “Then there need be no barriers between us. No hesitance or lies. In this room, I am not your king. I am your husband, your partner, your omega.” 

                Stiles nodded and covered Derek’s hands with his own when they cupped the apples of his cheeks. His husband snatched a kiss, catching Stiles’ upper lip between both of his own, sucking it for a beat before letting it slide from his mouth.

                Derek was a full-grown, hot-blooded man, but he was a virgin still. And a virgin should not have been able to kiss like that, punching out the bottom of Stiles’ stomach, making him stiffen in his trousers. He remembered himself before his own deflowering, and “skillful” was not a term he would have employed in hindsight.  

                His husband was simply a natural, and instinctive, his body big but full of fluid grace.

                “Oh my.” Stiles’ voice wobbled through a giggle. Derek blushed in reaction, his smile pleased, and turned away to unfasten the laces of his tunic.

                Stiles did the same, untying himself only halfway by the time Derek had shrugged out of both tunic and linen shirt. Stiles surrendered and crept to his husband’s back, tracing lines down his spine, around the wings of his shoulder blades. Derek peered over his shoulder while his dexterous hands kept working, low enough that Stiles knew he was unlacing his trousers.

                “Am I not allowed to see?” Stiles murmured, grinning, pressing a kiss to his husband’s nape, relishing the tremble of Derek’s body, the drop of his head.

                This was new, all so new, to his omega. The innocence of it aroused a storm of conflicting emotions within Stiles. The urge to protect Derek and yet fuck him sore and tender, to be gentle and yet rough, the utter calm of his words and body and yet the ravenous, pulsing want within his mind.

                He forced it all down, instead counting the battle scars across Derek’s back, the skin between them butter-smooth and warm and fragrant from his morning bath.

                God above, he hoped that his husband didn’t intend to strip his underclothes beneath the blankets and wait to be taken, eyes closed, shrouded in darkness. Stiles heard of consummations that followed this course, usually arranged marriages in which couples were unfamiliar or indifferent. Stiles believed a fondness, an ease, had developed between them over the last several weeks, eliminating any need for such passiveness, such coldness. He prayed that Derek felt the same.  

                Ultimately, he would do whatever made his husband most comfortable. He knew Derek well enough to recognize that the man wouldn’t contemplate his own sense of safety or contentment. He was a king, accustomed to wielding power over others, and beneath that, he was a man with a hard shell. Tonight, Stiles held the power, if only in this small way, and he would ensure his omega’s wellbeing, safeguard his weakness.  

                “You are. If you like,” Derek answered, facing him.

                Stiles shook his head, a disbelieving grin splitting his lips. “If I like?”

                His omega was beautiful and strong. The musculature rippled under his skin, elegant and artfully etched. His chest was firm yet supple beneath Stiles’ palms, his nipples duskier than Stiles’ own. Derek’s stomach stretched taut and flat down to his hips and offered no give at all under exploring fingers. Stiles imagined it curved with their child, a fleeting thought but a tempting one as well. Liquid heat filled his belly at the touch of soft inner thighs and haunches, rounded with that insulating cushion of fat found in all potential mothers.

                “I want to see you. The candles burning bright. Bare and spread across our bed.” If Derek wanted transparency, Stiles would appease him. “Would that please you?”

                Derek dragged Stiles’ inching fingers out of his trousers, breaths tight and quick. “Yes, Stiles.” His husband gave a single, quick pull to Stiles’ laces, and his tunic unraveled. Stiles whipped his undershirt over his head and sat on the edge of their bed to remove his boots and trousers. He couldn’t have taken more than a minute to undress, but when he lifted his gaze, Derek was already naked.

                The flames of the candles trembled and staggered, shadows flickering over his husband’s flesh. Like other male omegas, Derek’s arms and legs and groin displayed a dusting of hair while his torso remained smooth and bare. A similarity between the humors that circulated through male omegas and females, that connection that allowed them both to produce milk and carry children.

                Derek’s thighs and hips were pale, covered by clothing year-round, sun-starved, bringing the dark triangle between his legs into stunning contrast. The hair was neat and full but cropped close enough that Stiles could see a sliver of pink peeking through it. He was thankful he had already taken a seat, for he could only stare, for several moments, ensnared in some sort of paralysis. His hardness throbbed and strained closer towards his stomach.

                His husband followed the line of Stiles’ sight, casting a brief glance at his own sex, before raising his eyes back to Stiles. One hand rested flat against Derek’s belly, the outstretched fingers covering his navel and extending between each hip bone. Stiles’ breaths quickened, his tongue heavy and throat dry as he watched, begging, pleading in his head.

                Just a little lower.

                His omega’s hand slipped farther down, closer, curling into a fist but for his first two fingers. They curved between his legs, following the contours, sliding along the lips of his cunt and then spreading outwards, splitting him apart, open.

                “Here is your prize,” Derek stated. His sex glistened in the light, rosy-pink and wet and swollen. Stiles ground his teeth together, hands fisted in the bedcovers so he wouldn’t touch himself. “This is what they all talk about. Is it worth it?”          

                His omega didn’t need the answer; he knew. He saw the look in Stiles’ eyes.

                “Come here.” Stiles backed up into the middle of the bed and reclined, tracking Derek from behind his eyelashes. His omega lifted one knee onto the bed and paused. “Do you trust me?”

                Derek smiled. “I do.”

                Stiles brought his husband’s nearby hand to his lips, pecking the heel of his palm. “Put your knees on either side of my shoulders.”

                Inexperienced Derek might have been, but slow-witted he was not. The muscles of his jaw ticced, the apple of his throat bobbed, all in the sake of restrained desire.

                Derek moved with nimbleness, unexpected for someone of his size, far lither than Stiles himself. The scent hit Stiles immediately, rich and pungent and musky. Stiles’ hands caressed the backs of Derek’s thighs as he wriggled farther down the blankets, securing a better position.

                “A little wider,” he murmured, gazing into his omega’s eyes as he blew over Derek’s vulnerable cunt, quivering and exposed. The knees on each side of him separated further, Derek nearly lowering right onto his mouth.

                His husband gripped the wooden headboard with blanched knuckles, bracing himself. Stiles kissed his sex first, the clinging slick glossing his lips. Derek gasped softly above him, body jerking at that initial touch.

                Stiles licked the length of his slit, gathering ripe, salty flavor, and his omega moaned and quaked. He continued in the same manner, easing his lover into the sensation, before nudging inside of him—no fingers, just the soft glide and flick of his tongue. Stiles immersed himself in the moans, sighs, groans, grunts, pants that filled the warm, sex-thick air, leaking and aching between his own legs.  

                Derek rocked against his mouth with the first swirl of tongue over that sweet little bud nestled at the front of his cunt. Stiles parted his omega’s lips further and mouthed insistently at that spot, lapping and sucking, savoring Derek’s harsh, heavy breaths. He dipped two fingers inside his husband’s sex, and Derek released a loud and ragged cry, body moving with carnal, primitive intuition, the imperative to breed.

                Derek opened his legs wider, leaning forwards on his hands so he could flatten his hips parallel to the mattress and tilt his ass higher. The resulting angle, of Stiles’ pumping fingers, of Derek’s spread cunt, sent his omega over the edge of pleasure into bliss. A rhythmic clamping around Stiles’ knuckles, the accumulating wetness as his fingers and tongue carried Derek through his release.

                Derek grabbed his wrist, signaling Stiles to withdraw. His omega’s arms and thighs shook as he crawled off of Stiles and dropped to his back with a sigh of relief.

                Stiles allowed a few moments’ respite, to regain their breaths, before he rolled onto his side, eyes skipping across Derek’s features. Searching for cues of emotion, good or bad.

                “Say something,” Stiles whispered, letting his hand reach and rest against Derek’s chest. Hopefully, the gesture conveyed affection without being encumbering. He didn’t know whether Derek would respond to touch right away, or if he would rather be left alone during the immediate time after sex. He wasn’t sure if his omega knew yet himself.

                The dampness coating Stiles’ nose and chin and mouth cooled in the air, turning his skin taut and tacky. Stiles considered wiping his face until Derek kissed him, lips smearing the slick, tongue surging into Stiles’ mouth. The embrace was deep and filthy and long, unlike the others they had shared.

                His omega seemed wholly unbothered by the mess on Stiles’ face. In fact, Derek fished for Stiles’ right hand, bringing to his mouth the dewy fingers that had fucked his cunt, sucking them clean.

                “All is well, my alpha.” The words were a rumble, soft and low in Stiles’ ear. He shuddered, his cock twitching with renewed lust, as Derek thumbed across one of his cheekbones.

                The touch then fell to Stiles’ hip, the top of one thigh, before the back of Derek’s hand, scars and knotted knuckles, dragged over the underside of his cock. Stiles’ thighs clenched, hips shifting with restlessness, and Derek let his own legs fall apart, smile bright and amused. Teasing.  

                Stiles settled between his husband’s knees, guiding his cockhead through the slick seam of Derek’s cunt, applying faint pressure to his hole at the end of each drag. Stiles shivered from the stimulation, hand latching onto Derek’s shin for support and leverage. His omega’s sex was throbbing weakly from the recent exertion, and it barely took any effort, just the slightest hitch of Stiles’ hips, to work his cockhead inside.

                Derek sighed, head sinking into the pillow, mouth parting. Stiles groaned bone-deep, pleasure arising at the slightest movement of his hips.  

                “Should I wait?” Stiles gasped, his omega’s grip on his upper arm approaching painful.

                His husband shook his head, easing his hold and brushing the handprint from Stiles’ skin. “I’ve waited long enough.”

                Stiles set their mouths together but did little more than let Derek’s choked and hitching breaths wash over his lips. His cock sunk deep into his omega’s tender, plush sex, spearing farther than his fingers. Derek slanted his hips to his own benefit and clenched his cunt for Stiles’, slick dripping down Stiles’ cock with a ticklish lethargy. The inward drive and the outward pull were so smooth that Stiles sought more friction, greater contact, hastening the thrust of his hips.

                “Oh, please,” Derek quavered. He arched, legs cinching around Stiles’ waist, fingers digging into the flesh of his ass. Stiles only lasted another few strokes before tensing, spilling inside his husband with a guttural groan.  

                “Stay,” his omega gasped, fingers still flexing in the firm muscle, encouraging, insistent. “Just for a little while.”

                Stiles nodded, swallowing and panting, kissing Derek’s jaw before settling against his chest. He combed unruly strands of hair away from his husband’s face and smiled, warm and gentle. “Why did you choose me?” he mused, still sounding a bit winded, not intending to actually say the words aloud. His mind had made the decision without him, it seemed.

                “Regretting our union already?” His omega raised one brow. The corners of his lips curled with mischief and glee, letting Stiles know that the comment was only a jape.  

                Stiles’ fingers slotted through the grooves between Derek’s ribs, petted along his side. “I think it’s a fair question.”

                “It is,” his husband agreed. Stiles’ head rose and fell with a succession of Derek’s breaths. “It was your pup.”

                Stiles peered upwards at his omega. “You married me for my pup? How scandalous. And a complete waste, I might add, given that she was already my gift to you.”

                Derek pinched his ass, chuckling when it provoked a shocked yelp from Stiles. “You know that is not what I meant.”

                Stiles growled and struggled to subdue his husband’s wicked hand, only making Derek’s laugh louder, more robust. “What did you mean?” he grunted, managing to pin his omega’s arm to the blankets with both of his own. Unfortunately, that left Derek’s other hand free to administer a crisp smack to his abused ass.

                This time, Stiles squawked and huffed, slumping in defeat. He did not lose with grace, as he had been told many times during his youth, and bit Derek’s nipple.

                “Truce, my alpha,” Derek implored, beaming, raising his guilty hand for Stiles to see.

                “My omega, a peacekeeper through and through.” Stiles craned his neck and pressed a sweet kiss to Derek’s lips. “Now. Explain yourself.”

                Derek’s face softened, all signs of teasing gone, but his smile remained. “When you handed the cub over to Scott, I witnessed your pain, your love for her. You entrusted me with something precious of yours. At that moment, if given the choice, I knew you would have taken her and returned home without so much as a backwards glance at me.”

                Stiles’ eyes squinted in mystification. “My apparent disinterest. That’s what attracted you?”

                Derek snorted. “No, your sincerity. It’s a rare quality within a royal court. You weren’t impressed by my wealth or my position. I was a stranger, a king you never met and probably never saw. At best, I was mythical, a character in rumors and stories. I meant nothing to you.”

                “You’re describing me as an awfully cold, ungrateful subject,” Stiles informed, unsure how to feel about that.  

                His omega shook his head, thumbing across Stiles’ plump, bottom lip, wiping away the absentminded pout that had formed. “You were sensible. I wouldn’t accept a sycophant or a craven as my husband. I needed you—a person of honesty and reason and compassion—to counsel me in ruling our kingdom and raising our family. That is why I chose you.”

                Stiles’ eyes were rimmed with tears. “I would’ve settled for my stunning good looks.” He hiccupped a wet laugh, the giggles dissipating as Derek traded lovesick kisses with him.  

                “I had a thought,” his omega mumbled against his mouth, palms smoothing down Stiles’ backbone.

                “I expect you have many, with that frowning, pensive face you’re always wearing.” Stiles cradled said face in his hand, but it was anything but frowning at the moment. “I’d like to hear your thought.”

                “We might have made a baby tonight. How would you feel? If we did?” Derek’s eyes were dark in the candlelight, earnest and beautiful. “And I’m not speaking of heirs or legacy, but of a child. Our flesh and blood.”   

                “I knew fully well what might result from this consummation before agreeing to participate,” Stiles reminded him. He pressed the entirety of his weight into his omega, acknowledging the intimate clutch of Derek’s sweet cunt still around his cock with a tap of his hips. Derek’s eyes fluttered prettily as Stiles continued. “We might only have a single relative left to either of us, but we’ll love our children and our family more fiercely, more deeply because of it. We will not be the last of the Hale and Stilinski lines.”

                “Children?” Derek asked, his voice hoarse and hopeful.

                Stiles nodded. “Yes, my love. Children. Many children.”