Knock Twice for Yes
Author: tryslora
Title: Knock Twice for Yes
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Derek/Jackson
Character/s: Derek, Jackson, Deaton
Summary: Derek has no idea what that scent is, or what it means, but he does know he wants it.
Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, allusions to off-screen sex and mpreg, rough foreplay
Word Count: 956 words
Prompt: #5 Temptation
Author's Notes: This is a prequel to last week’s “Vanity, thy Name is Jackson”. Also, I don’t own Teen Wolf, but oh do I ever love to play with the characters!
Derek doesn’t recognize the scent, but it draws him in like nothing ever has before. Nostrils flaring, he inhales roughly, letting the scent sink into his bones. It goes deep, makes his blood thrum beneath his skin and leaves him aching.
He turns, fingers flexing with claws extended, nose raised as he seeks the right direction.
Outside.
The scent is stronger there, surrounding him, hot in the open air. He follows the strongest thread of it, trying to tease out the pieces that lie beneath the musk. Vanilla. Italian leather. Hair gel.
“Jackson!” His voice thunders through the silent dusk, echoing back at him. There is no verbal answer, nothing but a low growl and a whine, and the sound of feet on dead leaves.
The other wolf runs and Derek gives chase. His mind supplies prey and weak but this is not about food or survival. It is something else, something more primal.
It is need.
Derek’s body shifts, cracks, elongates until he is in the form of pure instinct, half man and half wolf, loping on all fours at a blistering pace through the woods that he was born in. The scent comes more clearly now; it isn’t Jackson beneath the musk, Jackson is the musk, rich and hot and warm. He is hunger and want.
A flash of motion and Derek shifts direction, pouncing. His claws wrap around Jackson’s shoulders, pushing, pinning as they roll to the ground. Derek straddles him, growling down at him, face pressed in close to capture that scent again.
He doesn’t know it, but his body does. And it tempts him. Derek’s body begs for things he has never before considered.
Jackson growls and fights back. With a twist of his body, his legs tangle with Derek’s and he flips them, slamming Derek hard into the ground. Jackson howls angrily, then stops, staring, eyes thin slits of bright gold around the black.
Claws dig into Derek’s shoulders, stones poke at his back. He feels Jackson’s hips against his, feels the slight shift and rise in aroma.
Then slowly Jackson tilts his head, pressing his throat forward, giving his naked, vulnerable skin to Derek’s teeth.
Derek closes his jaw, biting down over Jackson’s throat, capturing him and taking him in, slow and hard. It is a show of strength. It is a show of Alpha over his subordinate, and Jackson whines above him and presses down, sliding his body against Derek’s.
Want and need.
With a roar, Derek rolls them both over, teeth raking against Jackson’s skin to leave fresh marks. The temptation is too much, and Derek takes what Jackson is willing to give.
#
“Omega.” Derek’s voice is flat as he rolls the word around on his tongue. It isn’t a new word. The triskelion represents the three aspects of werewolf hierarchy: the Alpha, the Beta, and the Omega. But the way Deaton says it implies that it is nothing like what Derek expects an Omega to be.
Deaton stands at the sink, his back to Derek and Jackson, washing his hands. “Traditionally, the Omega is known as the wolf who stands alone. The one who is neither Alpha nor Beta. The wolf with the golden eyes. The wolf with no pack.”
“Jackson is pack.” The growl is low and rough, halting only when Deaton gives Derek a mild look. Derek grumbles. “Scott’s an Omega.”
“Scott’s a modern Omega, yes. He refuses to be your Beta, yet he is not strong enough for his own pack,” Deaton says. “That’s what Omega has come to mean in the modern era. But in the more ancient traditions, Omegas were critical to the pack. With an Omega, a pack could guarantee its continuance.”
“What are you trying to say, Deaton?” Jackson hops down from the examination table, his gown gapping behind him. He hunts for his jeans, not seeming to care that Derek’s gaze follows his every movement. The scent is lower now, but Derek still feels it, still knows it is a part of Jackson’s being. It still calls to him.
“You were in heat.” Deaton smiles blandly. “And since I assume that you two satisfied the conditions of that heat, you are now mated. I’ll need to do some research to determine the gestational cycle of a male werewolf; it is not common enough that we have readily available records.”
“What?” Jackson’s eyes flash gold. “I’m a werewolf, not a puppy, Deaton. I don’t go into heat, and I’m not going to have a litter.”
“That’s a good point.” Deaton turns to make a note. “And I think you’re correct on that last point, but it is possible that multiple births might be a higher probability in male Omegas. You’re an unusual case, Jackson.”
Derek catches Jackson’s arm, pulling him away from Deaton and squeezing hard until Jackson calms. “Go,” he says, and after a quick glance, Deaton leaves.
Derek can’t scent anything different, not yet, but he has no idea what pregnancy smells like. Still, he wraps his arms around Jackson, hauling him close and burying his nose in his throat. The marks Derek gave him have healed; Derek gives in to instinct and bites, marking him again.
All Derek can think about is the child. The possibility of a child, a natural wolf-born cub. Not just pack, but family.
It tempts him. He feels the want and need rise, the hunger for the solace of home.
“It’s impossible,” Jackson mutters.
Derek silences him with a sharp nip, gripping skin with teeth until Jackson whines his submission. Derek soothes the hurt with a lick and soft words.
He gives in to temptation, murmuring, “Your wolf is mine, Jackson.”
From the sound Jackson makes, Derek thinks he agrees.
Title: Knock Twice for Yes
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Derek/Jackson
Character/s: Derek, Jackson, Deaton
Summary: Derek has no idea what that scent is, or what it means, but he does know he wants it.
Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, allusions to off-screen sex and mpreg, rough foreplay
Word Count: 956 words
Prompt: #5 Temptation
Author's Notes: This is a prequel to last week’s “Vanity, thy Name is Jackson”. Also, I don’t own Teen Wolf, but oh do I ever love to play with the characters!
Derek doesn’t recognize the scent, but it draws him in like nothing ever has before. Nostrils flaring, he inhales roughly, letting the scent sink into his bones. It goes deep, makes his blood thrum beneath his skin and leaves him aching.
He turns, fingers flexing with claws extended, nose raised as he seeks the right direction.
Outside.
The scent is stronger there, surrounding him, hot in the open air. He follows the strongest thread of it, trying to tease out the pieces that lie beneath the musk. Vanilla. Italian leather. Hair gel.
“Jackson!” His voice thunders through the silent dusk, echoing back at him. There is no verbal answer, nothing but a low growl and a whine, and the sound of feet on dead leaves.
The other wolf runs and Derek gives chase. His mind supplies prey and weak but this is not about food or survival. It is something else, something more primal.
It is need.
Derek’s body shifts, cracks, elongates until he is in the form of pure instinct, half man and half wolf, loping on all fours at a blistering pace through the woods that he was born in. The scent comes more clearly now; it isn’t Jackson beneath the musk, Jackson is the musk, rich and hot and warm. He is hunger and want.
A flash of motion and Derek shifts direction, pouncing. His claws wrap around Jackson’s shoulders, pushing, pinning as they roll to the ground. Derek straddles him, growling down at him, face pressed in close to capture that scent again.
He doesn’t know it, but his body does. And it tempts him. Derek’s body begs for things he has never before considered.
Jackson growls and fights back. With a twist of his body, his legs tangle with Derek’s and he flips them, slamming Derek hard into the ground. Jackson howls angrily, then stops, staring, eyes thin slits of bright gold around the black.
Claws dig into Derek’s shoulders, stones poke at his back. He feels Jackson’s hips against his, feels the slight shift and rise in aroma.
Then slowly Jackson tilts his head, pressing his throat forward, giving his naked, vulnerable skin to Derek’s teeth.
Derek closes his jaw, biting down over Jackson’s throat, capturing him and taking him in, slow and hard. It is a show of strength. It is a show of Alpha over his subordinate, and Jackson whines above him and presses down, sliding his body against Derek’s.
Want and need.
With a roar, Derek rolls them both over, teeth raking against Jackson’s skin to leave fresh marks. The temptation is too much, and Derek takes what Jackson is willing to give.
#
“Omega.” Derek’s voice is flat as he rolls the word around on his tongue. It isn’t a new word. The triskelion represents the three aspects of werewolf hierarchy: the Alpha, the Beta, and the Omega. But the way Deaton says it implies that it is nothing like what Derek expects an Omega to be.
Deaton stands at the sink, his back to Derek and Jackson, washing his hands. “Traditionally, the Omega is known as the wolf who stands alone. The one who is neither Alpha nor Beta. The wolf with the golden eyes. The wolf with no pack.”
“Jackson is pack.” The growl is low and rough, halting only when Deaton gives Derek a mild look. Derek grumbles. “Scott’s an Omega.”
“Scott’s a modern Omega, yes. He refuses to be your Beta, yet he is not strong enough for his own pack,” Deaton says. “That’s what Omega has come to mean in the modern era. But in the more ancient traditions, Omegas were critical to the pack. With an Omega, a pack could guarantee its continuance.”
“What are you trying to say, Deaton?” Jackson hops down from the examination table, his gown gapping behind him. He hunts for his jeans, not seeming to care that Derek’s gaze follows his every movement. The scent is lower now, but Derek still feels it, still knows it is a part of Jackson’s being. It still calls to him.
“You were in heat.” Deaton smiles blandly. “And since I assume that you two satisfied the conditions of that heat, you are now mated. I’ll need to do some research to determine the gestational cycle of a male werewolf; it is not common enough that we have readily available records.”
“What?” Jackson’s eyes flash gold. “I’m a werewolf, not a puppy, Deaton. I don’t go into heat, and I’m not going to have a litter.”
“That’s a good point.” Deaton turns to make a note. “And I think you’re correct on that last point, but it is possible that multiple births might be a higher probability in male Omegas. You’re an unusual case, Jackson.”
Derek catches Jackson’s arm, pulling him away from Deaton and squeezing hard until Jackson calms. “Go,” he says, and after a quick glance, Deaton leaves.
Derek can’t scent anything different, not yet, but he has no idea what pregnancy smells like. Still, he wraps his arms around Jackson, hauling him close and burying his nose in his throat. The marks Derek gave him have healed; Derek gives in to instinct and bites, marking him again.
All Derek can think about is the child. The possibility of a child, a natural wolf-born cub. Not just pack, but family.
It tempts him. He feels the want and need rise, the hunger for the solace of home.
“It’s impossible,” Jackson mutters.
Derek silences him with a sharp nip, gripping skin with teeth until Jackson whines his submission. Derek soothes the hurt with a lick and soft words.
He gives in to temptation, murmuring, “Your wolf is mine, Jackson.”
From the sound Jackson makes, Derek thinks he agrees.