
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/631709.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale, Vernon_Boyd, Erica_Reyes, Isaac
      Lahey, Jackson_Whittemore, Lydia_Martin, Original_Male_Character, Danny
      Mahealani, Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf)
  Additional Tags:
      Post_Season/Series_02, Not_entirely_Season_2_Finale_compliant, Season_2
      spoilers, Dirty_Talk, Hand_Jobs, Some_Isaac/Erica, Underage_Drinking,
      Sexting, Stalking, Mention_of_Derek/OC, Dry_Humping, sterek, Masturbation
  Series:
      Part 1 of Stiles_And_Derek_Do_The_Thing
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-09 Words: 15534
****** The Message ******
by DandyboyDaniel
Summary
     Derek didn't know what to call it, other than fucking. No other way
     to explain it. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t actually fucked or
     even touched each other outside of their explicit text messages with
     very explicit photo attachments. Peter knows what it is. It's
     sexting. Stiles wants more, but Derek can't give it to him - he's
     just too damn young.
     Derek is a sexy stalker, Stiles is poetically dirty, Peter is a gay
     fairy godmother, Lydia knows what's up, Boyd is a sweetheart, Erica
     and Isaac are bitches, Jackson is supposed to be dead, Danny is a gay
     nightlife ambassador, and Scott doesn't even like guys that way.
Notes
     Much of this story has been plucked directly from role-play on
     Twitter between @MisterStilinski and @AlphaOfBeacon. Thank you to
     RicResin for inspiration, for letting me use their words, and for her
     beta work and editing. Thank you to @OhMyPumpkinPie for patience and
     cheerleading.
     If you're going to read The Call, read it first before The Message.
See the end of the work for more notes
  This work was inspired by
      The_Call by DandyboyDaniel
 
                                  THE MESSAGE
                                        
Derek didn’t know what to call this.
He and Stiles weren’t friends, so they couldn’t be labeled as Friends With
Benefits. Though it was a secret, it was questionable whether he actually liked
Stiles, so it couldn’t be called an Affair. They never did anything alone
together outside of screwing around to merit Seeing Each Other. Even a Fling
had too much expectation attached to it, and Derek never knew if anything else
was going to happen beyond what they were doing.
It was Fucking. No other way to explain it. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t
actually fucked; it was still the best word for it in Derek’s mind. Fucking had
no implications of any particular sentiment. Fucking was sex with no
attachments, no affection.
So when Peter raised an astute brow and asked what was going on between Derek
and young Mr. Stilinski, Derek shrugged and replied emotionlessly, “We’re
fucking.”  This was, of course, after Derek’s fruitless insistence that nothing
was going on.
Both of Peter’s eyebrows arched even higher in tandem with the inquisitive
upswing of his words, “You’re fucking?”  He didn’t sound surprised, just
curious.
“We’re fucking,” Derek repeated, never altering the flat cadence of his
declaration, lest he reveal anything more than absolutely nothing.
He couldn’t lie to his uncle, who was perceptive and observant on top of being
able to detect fluctuations in heart rate that correlated with deceit.  Even if
Derek could have somehow managed to lie flawlessly with nary a flutter in his
veins, up to this point, he hadn’t been careful enough.  Derek couldn’t deny
the new level of awkwardness every time Stiles was around, which was in
increasing frequency (of the times Stiles came over and the level of
awkwardness).  Stiles had a good reason to be at the house so often.  He was
helping the pack with renovations.  But that good reason had become an excuse. 
Stiles hadn’t been coming for the brownie points.  He had been coming for what
almost always happened after laying down floorboards or installing insulation.
“Just fucking?” Peter pried, using that first word like a crowbar to get
underneath Derek’s cryptic statement, flavoring it with insinuations that there
was something more.  Something else.
Derek responded with impatience.  “Yes. It’s just fucking.”
Peter smirked knowingly and gave Derek a sideways glance.  “Oh, I’d hardly call
354 text messages in one billing cycle just fucking.”
Damn it.  Peter just had to get them new iPhones – him and his stupid Apple
obsession. Now Derek's stalking repertoire had extended from slow drive-by's in
his Camaro past Stiles’ house to creeping at the touch of a button (touch
screen - whatever the fuck.)  Peter had put them on the same family plan
because it was less expensive, but more likely, it was so he could monitor the
pack’s communication.
Derek’s lips formed a deep frown.  “What would you call it, then?”
“I’d call it sexting,” Peter proposed.
Derek was still trying to get over the notion of Peter as his vengeful, psycho,
former vegetable uncle and get used to Peter as a snarky technophile with a
metrosexual sense of personal style.  It rubbed him the wrong way to hear the
word sexting coming out of his mouth, more so than the word fucking. 
“Whatever,” Derek snapped shortly, “It’s just sexting.”
“Well, if it’s just sexting…” Peter trailed off, cocking his head to the side
shrewdly.
“I think I just ended it, though.”  Derek spoke softly, using the somber tone
of his voice to plead rather than outwardly begging, “But don’t… Don’t tell
anybody.”  Derek sighed heavily, wearily.
“Don’t tell anybody what?  It’s nothing.”  Peter put on an innocent grin like
the cat that ate the canary.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
Three months ago, it all starts with a harmless text message:
Hey. Got a phone.  Here's my number in case your ass needs saving.
Which is quickly amended in another message:
Doesn't mean I'm at your beck-and-call. Emergencies only.
 
Derek is only vaguely aware of why, on impulse, he has just opened that line of
communication between him and Stiles.  It has been a month since the diffusion
of the Kanima situation.  Scott is keeping his distance from the pack, probably
scraping together the pieces of his life to make some semblance of normalcy for
the sake of sanity, both Scott’s and his mother’s.  By default, Stiles has not
been around either. 
There has been a nagging voice at the back of Derek’s psyche that needs to know
Stiles won’t keep away forever; needs to ensure he won’t.  But he won’t blame
Stiles for wanting to go back to the life of an average teenager, absent of
mortal danger, sans supernatural beings, away from Derek. 
It catches Derek quite off guard – this strange, inexplicable compulsion to be
in Stiles’ proximity.  It is definitely a compulsion.  Not a need.  Not a
want.  It is very much like the nerve-grating, constant hum and rattle of
traffic on 8th Avenue - the sound outside his former apartment in Manhattan
that he couldn’t sleep without when he returned to Beacon Hills.  Derek didn’t
know the compulsion was there until Stiles suddenly wasn’t.
 
When Derek receives an almost immediate reply from Stiles, he is pleasantly
surprised.
STILES:Thanks. If you require MY ass-saving awesomeness, let me know.  No
emergency is too small when I’m bored. 
STILES: FYI I’m fucking bored.
Derek snorts with amusement and responds:
DEREK: The pack needs your immediate assistance.  Dire emergency.
It is probably a bad idea to bait Stiles.
STILES: ???!!!! 
DEREK: We’re laying down new floors and could use an extra set of hands. 
STILES:  Next time you cry wolf (lol!) I will ignore you.
 
Over the next two weeks, there is a rapport between Derek and Stiles in their
text messages that doesn’t exist in person.  It feels easy to talk to Stiles
this way; easy to joke and banter when his annoying little elfin face isn’t in
Derek’s.  Derek would daresay he actually enjoys it.  Stiles comes over and
helps with renovations a few days after school and on the weekends.  Derek has
come to expect a text message from Stiles when he gets home, usually with a
complaint. 
Such as:
I must say, I prefer Driving Miss Derek to slave labor.  But my piece of crap
jeep doesn’t.  Still have bloodstains on the seats.
Or:
You’re paying for my tetanus shot.  Never mind I’m still covered under my dad’s
insurance.
And the ever amusing:
I got a splinter, bitch.
 
Derek understands that Stiles’ intention isn’t to whine, but to let him know
that he got home safely, unmolested by the alpha pack, which is an ever-present
threat.  Derek usually replies with Thanks for your help and a witty retort if
he can come up with something, which he usually ends up erasing before sending
when he deems it not funny enough.
 
One day, Stiles’ routine complaint text turns flirtatious.
STILES: I’m getting carpal tunnel syndrome because of you.  Not because you’re
hot.  It’s your fucking floor.
DEREK: You should be grateful. No other hot guy is going to call you over to
bang on his floor.
STILES: We’ve been banging on your floor for over a month now.  I think you
should buy me dinner before we bang on your floor again.  Not that I don’t
enjoy banging on your floor.  I just don’t want you to think I’m cheap.
DEREK: Dinner is the least I could do, since banging on my floor makes you so
sore.
STILES: I wouldn’t be so sore after banging on your floor if it weren’t so big.
DEREK: It’s not that big.  It’s only 10 inches.  I mean 1700 sq ft.
STILES: It FEELS bigger. Oh the pain!
DEREK: The house is actually 2100 sq ft, but we only bought enough Pergo to
cover 1700.
STILES: You are NOT 10 in. I call bullshit.
DEREK: 10 ½ in. actually.
STILES: Shut up!  Is that a werewolf thing?  Or a lucky dude thing?
DEREK: It’s a lucky werewolf thing.
STILES: Prove it.  I don’t stare at your crotch or anything, but I doubt you’re
hiding 10.5 inches in your jeans.  Photographic evidence please.
DEREK: I’m not 10 ½ in. right NOW.  I’m not sending you a picture of my dick.
STILES: Next time you’re 10.5, snap a pic next to a ruler and send it to me, or
I’ll think you’re a lying sack of shit.
 
Derek stares at his phone the better part of an hour, reading and rereading his
exchange with Stiles, wondering if it had been real, or something his sex-
deprived mind conjured up.  Did he actually flirt with Stilinski, and did
Stiles actually flirt back, requesting a picture of his erect penis?  Crazier
shit could not have happened.  But then again, it is pretty insane in and of
itself that he and Stiles are texting each other on a regular basis as if
they’re bros.
 
The next weekend Stiles comes over, he joins the pack for an early dinner and
they behave as if nothing flirty happened via SMS.  It’s nothing fancy, just
baked macaroni and cheese that his uncle makes, though Peter claims that the
Gruyer and Emmentaler make it gourmet comfort food.  Erica thinks it smells
like feet and Isaac bemoans that it’s going to give him horrible acid reflux,
though they both scarf it down anyway. Jackson refuses to eat it, deeming it
too high in cholesterol and calories - Never mind that werewolves can’t get
heart disease and burn too many calories to skip meals without getting cranky. 
Boyd says it tastes like his grandmother’s baked mac and he spends the rest of
the meal looking forlorn.   Stiles elbows Boyd gently and mutters something
quietly, though it’s useless to hide dinner conversation from the ears of the
wolves.  Stiles says he feels kind of sad every time he eats his dad’s hand-
made Perogies, something Mr. Stilinski learned to make from Stiles’ mom’s
recipe after she passed away. 
“Chamomile tea reminds me of Laura… When I make it,” says Derek quietly.
Stiles looks at him like he has two heads, lips slightly parted, no sound
coming out of it for once.
“My sister.  Laura,” Derek clarifies.  When Stiles continues to look perplexed,
he adds impatiently, “You know.  The woman whose body you dug up in my yard? 
Laura Hale?”
Stiles talks but he still has this expression on his face as if Derek had
confessed to assassinating JFK.  “Yeah yeah, I know.  Your sister.  I just
didn’t think you’d--”
“Drink tea?” Derek cuts him off.  “What do you think I’d drink?” he asks
defensively.
The corner of Stiles’ mouth turns up like his brain-to-mouth filter has failed
him yet again and he’s both appalled and amused at his own answer.  “I don’t
know, moonshine?”
Peter laughs and muses, “Yeah me and Billy-Bob used to make it out back in an
old bathtub.”
“Okay that’s gross,” Stiles says, his lips quirking with amusement.  Derek
wonders when Stiles stopped being terrified of Peter.  Derek also wonders when
Stiles stopped being afraid of him.
“I’m kidding.  We actually used to have a well-stocked wine cellar.  Great
California vintages down there.  Pity it was pillaged after the fire.”  Peter
sighs and sips his grocery store wine, and Derek thinks his uncle is more
saddened by the loss of the wine than the loss of their family at this point.
“Looters?” Boyd asks.
“No, Argents,” Peter replies, “Likely Kate, pilfering the spoils of war.”
Derek visibly winces, letting his fork drop onto the plate with a clattering
sound.  “I’m going to get started on the floor.”
Stiles stays to help with the restoration and it is business as usual.  Almost
business as usual.  Maybe Stiles seems a little more flushed in the cheeks than
normal as he hammers planks of fake hardwood flooring, most notably after Derek
had taken off his sweat-soaked shirt.  Maybe Derek stares a bit too long at the
boy on his hands and knees, exerting himself on the bedroom floor.  Maybe his
senses hone in on Stiles’ scent more than the ambient aromas in the air and
maybe the smell of Stiles’ pheromones seems to linger in the house long after
the boy has gone.  And maybe, just maybe, Stiles’ teenage boy smell and the
thought of Stiles on all fours on the newly lain floors, taking a pounding from
Derek’s ten-and-a-half-inch cock, is haunting Derek enough to warrant
photographic evidence later tonight.
===============================================================================
 
All the sexual endorphins surging through Derek’s body, as he wanks himself
with the kind of fervor he hasn’t known since high school, has robbed him of
rationality.  He’s reckless and stupid-horny.  Before he can stop and
contemplate the immorality or imprudence of sending a photo of his cock to the
underage teenage son of Beacon County’s sheriff, Derek has texted it to
Stiles. 
DEREK: Delete this right after you look at it. NSFW.
It’s a dark photo of his broad hand wielding his impressive erection.  No time
to grab a tape measure.  He thinks of a million excuses for his lewd text
message in the event that Stiles files a restraining order against him: He was
drunk. Peter took his phone and thought he was being funny. The phone had been
hacked. He thought he was texting somebody else. And in the time he's crafting
all these panicked excuses, Stiles has texted him back.
STILES: Where’s the ruler? You could be 4 inches for all I know.
Luckily, or not, Stiles seems unfazed by a twenty-three-year-old werewolf
texting him a picture of his hard-on.  Either Stiles is jaded from all the
online porn he has likely watched, or he isn’t letting on how affected he
really is.  Or all these capital letters are actually meant to express Stiles’
shock and awe.
DEREK: Hand is in the pic for reference. Can’t get the ruler.
STILES: Are you THAT hard RIGHT NOW?
DEREK: Maybe.
STILES: PROVE IT!
Another cock shot is sent with Derek’s wristwatch in the frame for time
reference.
STILES: Dude!  You’re HUGE!  I kind of hate you.
STILEs: Actually, I think I’m in love, man. That’s one big fucking dick!
DEREK: You better be deleting, or else.
STILES: Or else what? You’ll smack me with your 10.5 in. monster?
DEREK: I’m going to check. If my dick is still there, I’m breaking your phone.
STILES: I can delete it from my text log but save the pics to my photo album.
Nobody would know it’s you.
DEREK: Why save the pics?
STILES: I need proof that such monsters are real and not Photoshopped. Like
Sasquatch.
Five minutes later, Stiles sends an unexpected photo of his own impressive
hard-on, complete with a ruler. Stiles’ cock is narrow and long, neatly
circumcised, and screaming pink with teenage sexual urgency.  And Derek finds
himself texting with one hand for the rest of the conversation. 
STILES: BAM! I’m a grower, not a show-er.  Bet you didn’t expect 6.25 inches
from a guy like me.
DEREK: Not bad.  Did you just take that now?
STILES: Yes. Figured it was only fair since you showed me yours.
DEREK: I call foul. Don’t believe you’d happen to be hard at the same time.
Another cock shot is sent with Stiles’ alarm clock blaring red numbers in the
background.  And is that a pearl of pre-come beading at the tip?  Fuck…
STILES: POW!  Two can play at this game of swords.
DEREK:  Coincidence?
STILES: I think not, Sherlock.  You expected otherwise when texting me your
cock?
DEREK: Yes.  Didn’t think you were into that, Dr. Watson.
STILES: I am SOOOO into that Holmes.  If you’re not, I’ll use brain bleach and
we can forget this ever happened.
DEREK: I’m into it.
STILES: Well, fuck.  Are you touching it?
DEREK: Yes.  You?
STILES:  Fuck yes.
DEREK:  What are you thinking about?
Stiles sends a copy of Derek’s cock shot and Derek nearly comes right then and
there.  He holds out for longer, because Stiles talking dirty, fluent in
profanity, is so fucking wrong that it’s right and he wants more.
STILES:  Tell me you’re thinking about me even if you’re not.
Derek can imagine Stiles speaking these words, panting and desperate, thrusting
through his fist.  He sends him a candid picture of Stiles.  It’s really more
of a stalker picture than a candid.  Stiles is on his knees, lips parted,
cheeks flushed pink, hammer in hand, hunched over the floor.  Derek hadn’t
wanted to admit to himself that he’d taken this picture on the sly today.  But
there it is.  It can’t be denied and now Stiles knows it too.
STILES:  You sexy perverted creeper.  I can’t believe you’re stalking me. 
That’s so fucking hot.  I’m gonna come.
And this makes Derek shoot his load, the image of Stiles frantically jerking
himself blazing in his mind.  He comes so hard he grunts, despite every effort
to keep silent within the cheap sheetrock replacement walls.  He tastes the
metallic tinge of blood on his tongue from biting his lip, and he desperately
hopes that Isaac, in the room next to Derek’s, tuned out all the heavy
breathing and such.
DEREK:  Just came.
STILES:  Show me.
Stiles’ request makes Derek’s spent cock twitch and sends another post-orgasmic
wave of heat over his body.  He snaps evidence of the aftermath, voluminous
pearly threads spilling over his fist, congealing on the fabric of his heather
grey boxer briefs.  He sends it to Stiles, as his cock spasms with
aftershocks.  He’s savoring the delicious thought of Stiles jerking off to
Derek’s come shot. 
Thirty seconds pass.  Then a minute.  Then two, then four.  Derek cleans
himself up as he begins to panic that the last picture he sent had gone too
far.  And then…
STILES:  Never come so hard before. Had to lie down for a sec.  ***saw stars***
Derek is vaguely curious about what that picture would look like – Stiles all
spent and sated, spunk splattering his abdomen, skin sumptuously rosy.  But he
refrains from asking for it.  He’s starting to come down from his sex-high and
Reason is seeping in quickly like water through the cracks of a dam.  Derek
shouldn’t push it; shouldn’t have a money shot of a sixteen-year-old kid on his
phone.
And that’s when the dam breaks.  Everything rushes in at once, suffocating
Derek with the gravity of it all, pressing on his chest.  He hasn’t had a panic
attack since he was Stiles’ age, when the smell of somebody lighting a
cigarette could set him off.  But Derek feels one coming on.  Oh shit, oh fuck,
this is BAD,Derek thinks to himself as he frantically changes out of his come-
stained underwear and yanks on a pair of sweatpants.
DEREK: Delete every picture and every word of this conversation RIGHT NOW or I
will take your phone, bash you on the head, and REALLY make you see stars.
STILES:  Even this?
STILES: How about this?
DEREK:  I MEAN IT!
STILES:  Can I transfer the pictures to my laptop?
DEREK:  WHICH PART OF –DELETE- DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?
Derek should probably just call Stiles and growl at him rather than try to
convey his seriousness in all capital letters.  But he can’t bring himself to
do it, can’t bear to hear Stiles’ voice, can’t do anything to risk making it
any less virtual and more real.  And holy fuck, did shit just get mighty real. 
He and Stiles Little Shit Stilinski just had the text message equivalent of
phone sex.  He’s fairly certain he could get busted for sexual harassment at
the very least, and at the very worst, be smacked with a statutory rape charge
and be on one of those sex offender lists for the rest of his life.
Stiles can’t seem to grasp the impact that their little ‘thing’ could have on
Derek’s already besmirched police record if somebody, like, oh, maybe the
fucking sheriff of Beacon County got a hold of his son’s cell phone.
STILES:  But I have so much porn on my laptop already, it’ll just blend in. 
Your face isn’t even in the pictures.  Just your gorgeous cock.
Flattery would not be getting Stiles anywhere tonight, even though Derek felt a
little flutter of something in his chest knowing Stiles thought his dick was
gorgeous.  He had to stay firm on this issue.  Fuck!  Not firm.  Bad choice of
words.  Unyielding.  Derek had to be unyielding on this issue.
DEREK: I could go to JAIL if somebody, like your DAD, found out.
STILES:  You afraid of my dad, Big Bad Wolf?
DEREK: PRISON, you dick!
STILES:  I’m 16.  You’d only get up to a year.  If I were younger, up to 4.
DEREK: Only??!!
STILES:  He’s not going to find out. I’m good at keeping secrets.
 
===============================================================================
 
STILES:  Can you keep a secret?
DEREK:  Obviously.
STILES:  I jerked off to a pic of Derek Hale’s hot cock 2 weeks ago.
DEREK:  Do you know who you’re texting?
STILES:  He sent me 3.  In the last, he had spunk all over himself.  Hotter
than Lydia Martin in a bikini top at the charity car wash last summer.  Hotter
than Brent Everett in bareback gay porn.
DEREK:  Tell me you deleted.
STILES:  I kept the pictures on my phone. AND the sexy text messages.  Oh yes. 
There were sexy text messages.
DEREK:  YOU LITTLE SHIT!
STILES:  He was going to check that I’d deleted everything off my phone, but he
never called me back or answered my texts, or invited me over, so…
DEREK:  MANIPULATIVE LITTLE SHIT!
STILES:  Another secret.  I’m hard as fuck right now. 
STILES: I’m thinking of him. ALWAYS thinking of him.
DEREK:  Cut it out.
STILES: Those pictures aren’t enough.  I want to see his face.  His whole
glorious body.
DEREK:  Stop it.
STILES:  I want to know he’s been thinking of me like I’ve been thinking of
him.  Been stroking his beautiful dick while thinking of me.
DEREK:  Going to shut off my phone.
STILES:  I want to send him naked pictures of myself.  Holding my hard cock.
STILES:  But I won’t, because I respect him.  He doesn’t want to get caught
with pictures of jailbait.  He thinks I’m too young. Thinks it’s dangerous.
STILES:  I like it dangerous.  Never did until I met Derek Hale and started
running with wolves.
STILES:  I’m an adrenaline junkie now.  Need a fix.  Wish he’d at least let me
come over, let me be surrounded by dangerous creatures wielding power tools.
STILES:  Let me feel like I’m a part of something thriving and bursting with
life and oozing with potential bodily harm.  His wolf pack.
STILES:  And in return, I’d give him dreams of my body.  Laid open and pliant
for him.  Only for him.
STILES:  Can you keep my secret Derek?
DEREK:  We’re installing insulation in the attic all weekend.  Could use
another pair of hands.
 
Derek had deleted the text message history between him and Stiles after that
first night, and wiped his phone’s memory of all incriminating pictures of the
boy.  He had kept some that only vaguely featured Stiles as the main subject,
photos that he took when nobody was paying attention.
Right now he’s laying in bed, hovering his finger over DELETE on the touch
screen of his iPhone, trying to will himself to erase every confession and plea
that Stiles has given him.  But he can’t.  Nobody has ever said things like
that to Derek and he wants to cherish them – those words that make him feel
genuinely wanted, make him feel like he’s not screwing up somebody’s life for
once.  He moves his finger away, aborting the task, and reads the messages over
and over again, savoring each word like they are reverent caresses from Stiles’
hand.  Words like ‘always’ and ‘only’ and ‘want’ have Derek reaching into his
pants for his cock.
When he’s fully erect and nearing the peak of his arousal, muscles beginning to
tense in his legs and abdomen, he feels compelled to call Stiles.  He wants to
hear those words in Stiles’ voice.  But he knows it would be crossing into even
more dangerous territory.  Something about being able to wipe the evidence by
tapping a screen makes the whole situation feel less wrong.  Actually
verbalizing their desires - that’s something that can’t be taken back.
Derek comes and feels shameful immediately after.  He’s ashamed because he
wants Stiles, a high school kid who’s six years younger.  He feels like a
creepy old man.  But that doesn’t stop Derek from driving past Stiles’ house
that night and subsequent nights after to watch the shadows moving behind the
windows of Stiles’ bedroom until the light goes out.
 
===============================================================================
 
It’s late May, and it is getting hot in Beacon Hills.  Derek and Peter had
blown most of the property insurance money on the electrical rewiring, roof,
and exterior of the house, going so far as to have bulletproof windows and a
state of the art security system installed.  The house will be a fortress when
all is said and done.  When they had found out that they could get a huge
energy rebate check if they insulated the attic, they had jumped on it.  They’d
been desperate for cash to put towards the endless laundry list of things that
needed to be replaced or repaired in the house.  Which is why, instead of
waiting until fall, they are installing insulation in a sweltering attic on the
brink of summer.
Derek hadn’t thought about the hazards of working in a stuffy attic when he had
invited Stiles over to help out.  Never mind the potential for heat stroke –
placing himself with Stiles in a sauna had been begging for trouble. 
It’s Awkward, yes, with a capital ‘A’.  Derek is trying to work along side
Stiles and act like they hadn’t exchanged dick pictures and jerked off thinking
about each other.  The tension is palpable, as thick as the air in the cramped
attic.  Stiles seems to be trying so hard not to say something incriminating
that he’s avoiding having to talk to or even look at Derek.  Really, that’s
Derek’s own fault.  As soon as Stiles had walked in the door, Derek had pulled
him aside and threatened bodily harm if Stiles even faintly alluded to their
dirty, late night messages.
Derek isn’t sure if Stiles’ silent treatment means he is just being compliant
or Stiles is upset with him.  It is possibly the first time that Derek has told
Stiles to shut up and Stiles has actually done just that. Derek realizes that
he doesn’t like it.  Although, Stiles can’t work in complete silence.  Oh no. 
Stiles may not be talking to Derek, but he definitely never shuts up.
“I never thought I’d be getting nailed by you, Peter,” says Stiles, “And
against a wall too?  Kinky.” 
Something in Derek’s stomach lurches.
Peter has just accidentally affixed the cuff of Stiles’ button-down shirt to a
layer of insulation with a staple gun.  “You should probably take your shirt
off,” suggests Peter, “It’s getting in the way.”
“You gonna stuff a dollar bill in my pocket first?” asks Stiles.  He’s being a
smartass.  Not flirting with Derek’s uncle.  But Derek feels oddly sickened by
it anyway.
Peter chuckles softly.  “Are you going to dance for me, cowboy?”  Peter is
flirting.  He’s definitely flirting.
“For a twenty, I’ll drop it like it’s hot,” says Stiles, awkwardly contorting
and wiggling out of his open shirt while the sleeve is still stapled to the
wall.  He’s wearing a worn-out old tee shirt underneath.
“Ooh, I’m in.  I’ll put a fiver towards that cause,” teases Erica.
Derek scowls at her warningly.
“Dude,” huffs Jackson, scrunching his face into an expression of utter disgust,
“I’ll pay you fifty to keep all your clothes on.”
Stiles takes the bottom hem of his tee-shirt and fans it, flashing a bit of his
bare torso beneath.  “You know you want some of this.”  He bites his bottom lip
and waggles his eyebrows just to get Jackson into knots.
Jackson shakes his head convulsively and pretends to be trying to get the taste
of bile out of his mouth.
Meanwhile, Derek’s trying to get the taste of Stiles out of his mouth.  The
wave of Stiles’ tee-shirt has made his scent waft out from beneath.  Derek
catches the scent and it fills his head so utterly that he senses it on his
tongue as well.  There’s no escaping from it in the stagnant air of the attic. 
Stiles smells of briny sweat, musky hormones, body wash, and baby powdery
deodorant.  Derek can even detect the lingering scent of come on his underpants
from when Stiles had likely jerked off earlier in the day.  He’s so full of
Stiles’ essence, he nearly moans.  Thank god it comes out as a low, frustrated
growl.
“Fine, fine, I’ll keep my clothes on,” Stiles says in response to Jackson and
also presumably to Derek.
But it’s too late.  Derek feels his cock twitch in his jeans and he has to dig
a claw into his palm to make his treacherous dick behave.  About a half hour
later, just when Derek is completely under control, Stiles actually takes his
fucking shirt off, and Derek’s senses go into shock.  Derek can now put a name
to Stiles’ scent.  He smells like sex.  Like sweat and friction and masculinity
and semen.  And it’s driving Derek up the fucking wall.  Never mind that Stiles
is now bare chested and showing off some serious muscle definition that Derek
had no idea was hiding beneath Stiles’ daily uniform of baggy shirts; he smells
like god damn fornication on buttered toast.  He’s not buff, but he’s
unexpectedly toned in his biceps and abs.  Derek is both praising and cursing
Stiles’ lacrosse coach.  Not to mention, his skin is miraculously flawless for
a sixteen-year-old kid, save for the freckles and birthmarks peppering his
smooth skin.  Stiles is actually kind of fucking hot...  Shit…
Derek is actually the only one still holding out with his shirt on.  Even Erica
has changed into a midriff-bearing halter-top that has marginally more coverage
than a string bikini.  It is nearly noon and the attic is quite literally a
sauna. They’d quit now if the forecast hadn’t predicted even warmer weather in
the coming days.
“Tell me why the hottest person here still has their top on?” Stiles says.
Erica snorts with amusement, never looking away from her staple gun and the
wall.  “I’m not getting my tits out to put up insulation.”
Stiles mutters under his breath, which is useless in an attic full of
werewolves, “Wasn’t talking about Erica…”
Derek can’t help but smirk.
 
===============================================================================
 
STILES:  Can I get cancer from that insulation stuff?  Is that the same shit in
those ambulance chaser lawyer TV commercials for mesothelioma?
DEREK:  No.  It’s not asbestos.  It’s fiberglass.
STILES:  Of course not.  How can something pink and pretty and fluffy cause
cancer?  If it were bad for you, it would be shit green and look like puke.
DEREK:  Beautiful things are often bad for you.
STILES:  Like?
DEREK:  You.
STILES:  You think I’m Beautiful?:)
STILES:  You think I’m bad for you?:(
DEREK:  Yes.
STILES:  Heroin is also bad for you.  But they say it feels like sex.  Going to
risk sounding like bad music lyrics, but… I’m your heroin.
DEREK:  Fuck.  I’m hooked.
STILES:  Hook.  I’m fucked.  Said Peter Pan.
DEREK:  You’re weird.
STILES:  You’re a werewolf.
DEREK:  Dick.
STILES:  Please?  Pretty please with creamy whipped topping? And I don’t mean
whipped cream.
DEREK:  What do you want?
STILES:  You.  Always you.
DEREK:  You’re full of shit.
STILES:  Get it out for me.
DEREK:  It’s out.  Want me to touch it?
STILES:  Obviously.  And I want proof.
Derek strokes himself to make a more impressive photo, even though he’s already
got a semi.  Just the anticipation of what usually comes with a nighttime text
message from Stiles sends all the blood in his veins rushing to his lap.  He
texts Stiles a photo of his fingers curling around the upper half of his
hardening member.
DEREK:  Tell me what you want to do to me.
STILES:  I want to kiss all the way down your body.  Devour you with my wet
mouth.  Lick the sweat from your skin.  Taste you.
STILES:  I want to bite you where you’re soft and suck you where you’re hard.
The second message has Derek clamping the corner of his bottom lip between his
teeth, fighting to keep from moaning as he fists his cock, imagining Stiles do
all the things he wants to do, all the things Derek wishes weren’t so fucking
illegal.
DEREK:  You make me so hard.
STILES:  You have no idea what you do to me.
DEREK:  Tell me.
STILES:  You make me shiver all the way from my scalp to my toes with desire. 
With fear.
STILES:  It’s a good kind of fear.  It’s that rush of adrenaline and blood when
I hear you growl.  When I’m being gang banged by Danger and Terror and
Excitement like a little thrill-whore.
DEREK:  You’re so poetic.
STILES:  Shut up.  I’m on a roll, here.
DEREK:  Keep going.  I like it.
STILES:  You inspire me, Derek.  To write pornographic stream of consciousness
poetry on my phone.  To jerk myself off every single fucking day, often twice a
day.  To live out loud despite the monsters everywhere.
STILES:  You make me feel alive.
STILES:  I’m sorry.  This isn’t very sexy.
DEREK:  It’s fine.  It’s beautiful.
STILES:  Thanks.  Incidentally, not bad for you.
STILES:  OK now that I’ve warmed your heart, let’s heat up the rest of you.
DEREK:  Please.
STILES:  There’s a spot behind my knee that works like an on-switch.  If you
were to stroke it gently, kiss it, breathe hard on it, I’d go all boneless. 
Except for my boner.
STILES:  I know it’s kind of weird, but sometimes, I think about the head of
your cock teasing against that spot.  I think of you using your dick on my spot
like a key to open me up.  To get my ass pliant and receptive for you.
DEREK:  Why would I want your ass pliant and receptive, I wonder?
STILES:  To fuck me, of course.
DEREK:  Tell me how you want it.
STILES:  Hard, fast, brutal, relentless, wet, messy.  I want you to force
sounds out of me that are vulgar.  Want you to make me ache.  Make me feel you
between my thighs for days.
STILES:  Please tell me you want to fuck me.
DEREK:  I want to fold you in half and fuck you until you break.
STILES:  I mean it.  Tell me you really want to fuck me, and I’ll be there
faster than you can get on a condom.
Derek types the words fuck yes, but he miraculously has the sense to delete
them before sending.  He wants to touch Stiles so badly that his balls
literally ache.  He can feel the frustration forcing his fangs out of their
wet, fleshy sheaths in his mouth.  A claw scratches the protective case of his
phone and leaves a gash in the aluminum.  He lets the device drop onto his bed
and he paces his room, huffing and making aggravated growling sounds low and
quiet in his throat until he finds an anchor.  Until his cock and his wolf calm
the Hell down.  Once he’s under control, Derek types a simple reply, sends it,
and promptly shuts off his phone.
DEREK:  Can’t.
===============================================================================
 
Derek doesn’t turn his phone on again until the following afternoon.  It’s
Saturday.  Erica and Boyd are going grocery shopping for the pack and Derek
wants to keep a line of communication open between him and his betas just in
case of something like an alpha pack ambush attack or the sudden realization
that they’re out of bread.  Derek is assaulted by about a dozen messages
popping up on his screen from Stiles that had accumulated from the night
before, each with increasing irritation, sexual frustration, and use of capital
letters.
Derek is pursing his lips and deleting each text along with the dirty messages
that had preceded them, when Stiles himself arrives at the house, uninvited and
without prior warning.  He’s at the door with a crooked grin.
“I went out for a run in the nature preserve.  I was kind of close to your
house, so I thought I’d drop by and see if you guys needed any help today.”
Bullshit.  Derek knows Stiles is on the lacrosse team with Isaac, Jackson, and
Scott, but he doesn’t seem like the sort of kid that jogs outside of practice
or PE class.  Not to mention, he’d warned Stiles and the betas not to run alone
in the woods, lest the alphas descend on a stray member of his pack.  This is a
clear setup, engineered by Stiles to tempt Derek’s downfall.
A vein in Derek’s temple throbs and he looks like he’s powering through some
serious pain.  He can’t help but let his eyes slowly rake over the boy in front
of him.  Stiles’ tee shirt is clinging to his chest with sweat.  His scent is
ripe with pheromones, endorphins, and adrenaline.  His skin is tinged pink and
dewy. And the manipulative little shit is wearing shorts, the back of his knees
exposed like a fucking dare.
“Are you going to invite me in or what, dude?” Stiles asks impatiently.
Derek glances up like he’s considering it, though it’s obvious that he’s not,
then shakes his head.  “Uhm, no.”  He’s about to close the door on Stiles’ face
but the damn kid flails and sticks his arm in the way like he has a desperate
need for amputation.  Derek opens the door again, but this time takes Stiles
roughly by the arm and drags him to the edge of the front porch.  “Where’s your
jeep.”
Stiles makes a whimpering sound of protest and pain.  “A couple miles out. 
Maybe five.  Nature preserve parking lot.  You’re not going to make me walk all
the way back there alone, are you?  Hello, alpha pack!”
Derek releases Stiles arm, throwing him down the steps.  “You should have
fucking thought about the alpha pack before you ran your idiot ass all the way
over here alone.”  Stiles opens his mouth, probably to refute his idiocy, but
Derek grumbles, “Get in the god damn car,” and shoves him toward the Camaro. 
He turns to go back inside to get his keys and Peter is leaning in the doorway,
looking glib, the keys to the car hooked on his forefinger.  “Going for a joy
ride?”
“Fuck off,” Derek snaps quietly through gritted teeth as he snatches the keys.
There’s no way Peter knows.  No way he can know.  Derek’s been so careful.  But
that astute glimmer in his uncle’s eyes is highly suspect.  Derek resigns to
deal with damage control later.  Right now, he just wants to put as much
distance between him and Stiles as possible.
It doesn’t occur to him that being in a car with Stiles does the opposite – not
until he’s already tearing down the gravel path too fast.
“That was rude,” says Stiles haughtily.
“I thought I made it clear last night that this,” he gestures sharply with a
finger back and forth between the two of them, “can’t happen.  It’s illegal.”
“What?  So now I can’t help you guys with the house anymore?  You know I’m
still friends with everybody,” says Stiles indignantly. 
Derek gives him a look that says are you fucking kidding me without having to
utter a word.
“Okay, so maybe friends is reaching a bit.  But I’m committed to the
restoration of an important Beacon County historical landmark.  What is your
house, like a century old?”
Derek isn’t buying it.  They’re at the tiny dirt parking lot of the nature
preserve in no time.  Stiles’ conspicuously blue Jeep is the only other car
parked there.  He reaches across Stiles in the passenger seat to open the door,
fighting the urge to turn his head and crush their lips together.  He leans
back into his seat and fixes his scowl on the dashboard.
Stiles sighs, long and breathily.  “Derek, please,” he entreats quietly, “I
need this.  I have nothing else going for me except school, lacrosse, and
Assassin’s Creed, and all of them are kicking my ass.”
“Find something else to do.  My house is not your community service project,”
Derek says stiffly, still looking straight at the trees through the windshield.
Stiles remains in the car for a long minute, and from the corner of his eye,
Derek sees him fidgeting with the drawstring of his hooded sweatshirt.  He
looks sad and vulnerable.  “I understand.  I’ll keep away.  But,” Stiles pauses
to exhale loudly as if it’s helping him get the rest of his words out, “I don’t
want the other stuff to stop.  Please?  Just answer my texts?”
Derek breathes out of his nose sharply to express his incredulousness.  He
doesn’t give Stiles an answer because he wants to say yes, but he knows it’s
still not right.
“So this is it, then, huh?  I can’t see you anymore,” Stiles says with a quiet,
resigned voice.
“It’s for the best,” Derek says, not putting any belief behind his words.
“Well, fuck,” Stiles huffs, “if this is the last time I see you, then,” he
starts to incline his head toward Derek, leaning in for a kiss, causing a rush
of warmth to flood Derek’s body.
Derek panics and takes Stiles’ face in one hand, cradling his chin in the dip
between his thumb and forefinger.  The gesture is executed way more tenderly
than Derek had intended and could be misconstrued as encouragement.  But he
holds firmly, able to stop Stiles from advancing with just his hand, and says. 
“Don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”  This time, their eyes
meet, and Derek wants nothing more than to kiss the fuck out of Stiles.
Stiles’ eyes drop, but not in a sad way.  He says with an impish grin, “Oh, I
can make it so much harder, Derek.”  Derek realizes that the cheeky little shit
is staring at his crotch.
“Out.”  Derek commands, holding Stiles’ face at arm’s length.
 
===============================================================================
 
Of course, Derek can’t stand not having Stiles around. The house seems so bleak
without his presence.  The betas are so much more annoying and whiny and always
getting on Derek’s nerves without Stiles there to distract him.  Soon, Derek
caves in and allows Stiles to start visiting again, provided they are strictly
hands-off, mouths off, everything off, except getting off on explicitly sexual
text messages.  But things are getting out of hand.
Stiles has come over every single weekend to work on the house for the past
month.  This is on top of the previous two months he’d come over regularly. 
The pack is becoming suspicious of his constant presence.
“If he’s trying to get close to Lydia, I swear, I’m going to kick that little
fucker in the--”
“Jackson, I don’t think Stiles is all that into me anymore,” Lydia scoffs and
rolls her eyes as if Stiles’ secret bisexuality is not a secret at all. 
Derek can’t help but flinch.
“Then why?  Is he always?  Here?” asks Jackson, expressing his immense
displeasure with his staccato questions.
“Yeah, he’s not even part of the pack,” drawls Erica, “It’s kind of sad.  It’s
like he’s a homeless puppy.”  She pouts dramatically for effect and whimpers. 
Isaac snickers and they exchange evil glances.
“Derek does love to take in little strays,” agrees Peter, grinning that
maddening knowing grin of his.
Derek fixes his mouth into a straight line.
“It’s obvious,” huffs Lydia impatiently. “He’s always here, trying to prove
he’s useful, doing everything Derek asks, going out of his way to please Derek,
hanging on to his every word, laughing at all his dry-humored jokes,
practically fawning over him because...”
Derek’s hands curl into tight fists, claws digging into his palms in an effort
not to Shift and silence Lydia Martin in a very violent way.
After everyone in the room stares at her expectantly with wide eyes, she goes
on to say, “Stiles wants to be one of you,” as if it were glaringly obvious,
“He wants Derek to give him The Bite.”
Derek unfurls his fingers and sheathes his claws.
He knows Stiles wants him to do a lot of things.  Like lick the sensitive spot
behind his knees while stroking his cock.  Or fuck him open slowly with Derek’s
tongue.  And ram as much of Derek’s ten-and-a-half-inch dick as he can fit into
his tight, virgin hole.  He knows this because Stiles has been telling him
these things via text message several nights a week, sometimes even first thing
in the morning while he’s still in bed, with the eloquence of a poet, using an
arsenal of very dirty words, and with photographic evidence of how desperately
he wants Derek to do these things.  And Derek is fairly sure that turning
Stiles into a werewolf is NOT one of the things Stiles really wants him to do.
But he just goes along with Lydia’s deduction.  “Yeah, probably,” he says in a
noncommittal way.
“God, please tell me you’re not going to do it, Derek,” Isaac pleads.  “I
really don’t think this pack needs a hyperactive smartass werewolf who never
shuts up.”
“Then you should probably leave,” Jackson jibes, which earns him a dirty look
with Isaac’s expressive eyebrows.
Peter cocks his head to the side like he knows something about Stiles that even
Derek doesn’t know, and that secretly infuriates Derek.  “If presented with the
opportunity, I don’t believe Stiles would take it.  Tempted, yes.  Actually
following through?  No.”
“Has he asked?” wonders Boyd.
Derek shakes his head.  “This is not up for discussion amongst you.  This is
not some kind of club and Stiles isn’t vying for the position of Treasurer.” 
No, he’s vying for a position firmly beneath Derek’s naked body.  “I’m the
alpha.  I decide who’s brought into the pack.”
He storms away, annoyed that his pack are being ungrateful pricks.  Stiles had
helped put down floors and put up walls to rebuild their house.  A house Stiles
wasn’t even living in.  The least they could do was show Stiles some
appreciation and respect him by not talking about him behind his back.  And the
thought of Derek Turning him?  It’s enough to send Derek’s fist through the
cheap sheetrock.  When did he ever get so possessive and overprotective of
Stiles?
He pulls out his phone to call Stiles, to tell him not to bother coming today,
but Derek catches a whiff of Eau de Clumsy Teenage Boy on the air and hears the
crunch of tires on gravel.  He goes out to the path leading up to the house to
meet the piece-of-crap Jeep.  Stiles stops the car and rolls down the window
when he sees Derek approaching with a scowl on his face.
“What happened?” Stiles says worriedly, expression nearing panic, engine still
running.
“You should go,” Derek says, as if such simple words could keep Stiles away.
“What? Why?” Stiles asks incredulously.
“The pack is getting suspicious.  They think you want The Bite.  To become part
of the pack,” Derek tells him.
“That’s stupid.  I’m not going to stay away just because everybody thinks I’m
keen on pointy ears and claws… incidentally, I kind of am keen on pointy ears
and claws, but not my own pointy--”
“Stiles.”  Derek interrupts the train of thought that Stiles is about to chase
on a bifurcating track.  “They notice you’re here a lot.  They think it’s
weird.  If you keep coming, they’re all going to find out.”
“Find out what?” Stiles blurts out, gesturing sharply with his hands, his brow
creased.  “That we’re not seeing each other?  That we’re not kissing or making
out or,” he goes on to say frustratedly through gritted teeth, “even touching
in any way?”  He gives a resigned sigh and hits the back of his head against
the seat of the car.  “We’re not doing anything.  We’ve been not doing anything
for fucking months now, Derek.”
Derek can see the strain in Stiles’ face – the weariness that weeks of sex
without touching each other and unresolved sexual tension have carved into his
brow.  And it hurts like a punch in the balls to see Stiles in so much pain. 
Derek should never have let it get this far, never have let Stiles become so
invested in something that was going nowhere.
“We can’t, Stiles,” Derek says, resigned and solemn.
Stiles really does look almost like a lost puppy right now with his hugely
expressive eyes and his pouty lips.  He looks like he’s about to cry angry
tears.  “Fuck the law,” whimpers Stiles.  And the whimper evolves into a
petulant rant.  “Fuck the Age of Consent.  Fuck the Sheriff of Beacon County. 
Fuck what the pack thinks.  Fuck what society thinks.  Fuck them!  Fuck them
all!  God damn it Derek!”
Stiles reaches through the window, grabs Derek behind the neck, and kisses him
hard on the mouth with so much pent up longing that Derek can taste it.  And,
fuck, Stiles tastes so good.  Better than he’d imagined based on the fantasies
he’d conjured using Stiles’ scent.  The flavor of mint toothpaste over the
lingering remnants of orange soda dance on Derek’s tongue as it slides along
Stiles’.  His lips taste like menthol Blistex and high-fructose corn syrup. 
Underneath it all is Stiles’ inherently human essence – the flavor of
mortality, lust, and longing.  Derek doesn’t want Stiles to stop kissing him,
even though he should.  Though the boy’s kiss is endearingly amateur and
sloppily executed, it’s got so much of Stiles’ vibrancy and electricity behind
it that the collar of Stiles’ shirt is bunched into Derek’s clenched fist, so
desperate is he not to let go.  He wants to yank Stiles out of the car through
the window, slam him down on the hood of the Jeep, and teach him how to kiss
until their lips are bruised and red.
But he doesn’t.
Because even with all his superhuman strength and heightened superhuman senses,
Derek isn’t as brave as Stiles.
“You should go,” Derek says, as he releases Stiles’ collar and tries, not very
hard, to pull away from Stiles’ grasp.
The dejected look on Stiles’ face lets Derek know that the kid understands he’s
being cut off again – it must be written all over Derek’s own countenance. 
But, not for nothing, he’s a persistent kid.  He’s still holding on to Derek,
softly tangling his fingers into his hair, and, damn, if that doesn’t feel like
heaven.  “Can I call you?  Will you answer my text messages?”
“Go, Stiles,” Derek mutters quietly.  He doesn’t whisper.  That would be too
intimate.  But it’s close enough.
Stiles kisses Derek on the forehead above his knit brows.  And Derek fucking
melts.
As Stiles drives away, Derek knows, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his
stomach and an ache in his chest, that Stiles can only take rejection so many
times before he stays away for good.
 
When Derek goes back into the house, that’s when Peter pulls him aside and
asks, “What’s going on between you and young Mr. Stilinski?”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Why are you acting all angst-ridden like this is the first teenage boy you’ve
fucked?” Peter reprimands Derek, making him feel even more like a pervert, like
he has a thing for nubile virgins.  Maybe he does, but Derek doesn’t want to
think about that.
Derek’s eyes get all shifty.  “I’m not angst-ridden and that was different. 
James was seventeen and I was twenty.  The age of consent is seventeen in New
York.  Here, it’s eighteen.”
“He was cute.  God knows why you gave him up,” Peter says offhandedly.
Derek scoffs, incredulous at Peter’s short-term memory, “He was fucking my
roommate behind my back!”
“Oh, right,” Peter remarks flippantly, “forgot that part of the story.  Wasn’t
there another?  I vaguely remember you telling me about a Daniel when you came
out to me last month.”
Derek looks at Peter sideways, wondering if he really is that forgetful in his
second life, or just trying to make Derek feel like a complete pedophile. 
“Danny.  And I didn’t say I fucked him, I said I saw him at Stiles’ house and I
was attracted to him.”
“Well, anyway, why are you letting this Stiles get under your skin enough to
give you man pains?” Peter says the name like Stiles is an affliction, not a
person.  Perhaps Stiles really is an affliction.  “If you’re so hard up, no pun
intended, on dates, let’s take you to The Jungle and you can have your pick of
any number of willing, eager, legal twinks.”
Hell, when did Peter Hale die and come back as Derek’s gay fairy godmother? 
Oh, right – when Peter Hale died and came back as Derek’s gay fairy godmother.
 
The only gay scene for about a hundred miles around is The Jungle.  Derek’s
been to clubs and circuit parties in New York City that make Gay Night at this
bar look like bingo night at the community center.  Peter decides as unofficial
pack mom to take the betas out to experience how Derek partied in his heyday. 
Of course, it’s a guise for Derek to find something pretty to distract him from
Stiles with the bonus of coming out to his betas without actually requiring
that awkward conversation about his bisexuality.  Everyone comes, except
Jackson (who is supposed to be dead).  Even Lydia comes with Danny as her gay
nightlife ambassador.  Isaac invites Scott, figuring it would be nice to have
“the old gang back together”.  Boyd points out last minute that nobody’s
invited Stiles, and takes it upon himself to tell him to meet the pack at the
club.
And Derek has a near panic attack while Peter watches with sick glee at the
Pandora’s Box that Boyd has opened when Stiles enthusiastically replies in a
text message.
I am SO there!
 
Derek stalls, feigning a wardrobe malfunction, hoping that while Erica is
sewing two missing buttons on his black shirt, Stiles will get tired of waiting
outside the club and go home.  He breathes a huge sigh of relief when they
arrive at The Jungle fifteen minutes late and Stiles isn’t on the queue behind
the velvet rope.  But Lydia and Danny are.  Derek and his companions join them
near the front of the line.  Upon entering, Derek resigns to prop up the bar. 
He’s so out of practice doing the cruising thing because he hasn’t done it
since he left New York.  He orders a shot of whiskey, though he knows it will
take twice as much liquor to loosen him up as it would a human, and he doesn’t
have that kind of money to blow on over-priced drinks.  He watches as his betas
play to the thumping beat in the smoke and flashing lights, amongst sweaty,
undulating bodies - Bodies that he can’t be bothered to check out.
Derek watches as Peter puts the sugar-daddy moves on a mesmerized guy with two-
tone hair and too tight jeans that appears about ten years younger than his
uncle.  He has to admit, Peter is looking kind of hot these days, but he’s
definitely not looking looking.  He watches as Lydia and Danny knock back pink
cocktail after pink cocktail.  He watches as swarms of suitors descend upon an
amused, but unmoved, Boyd.  He watches as Erica and Isaac sway together as a
single unit, eying each other hungrily, groping each other as if they’re the
only ones in the room.
Derek doesn’t realize, until he shows up late, that Scott hadn’t met them
outside.  He has to squint in the glare of the colored lights to make sure it
is indeed Scott.  He sniffs the air, but there are too many sweaty bodies to
hone in on one person’s scent.  But he can tell that something’s off.  Scott is
acting strange.  Derek is wearing earplugs to be able to stand the loud music
without his eardrums exploding and they’re muffling the sound of heartbeats, so
Derek can’t tell if Scott’s distressed or drunk or what.  Scott’s dancing
awkwardly, but his eyes are flitting around like he’s nervous, as if he’s
worried about getting caught doing something wrong.  Scott catches Derek’s
stare, but instead of acknowledging his presence with a wave or a nod, he leans
in to say something to somebody nearby.  The crowd on the dance floor is so
dense that Derek can’t see to whom Scott is talking.  Maybe Allison. 
But then the crowd shifts enough for Derek to see that Scott is talking to
Stiles.  Fuck.  And he’s not just talking to Stiles, he’s dancing with him. 
Dancing in a way that Derek had no idea Scott had been inclined to dance with
his best bud.  He’s way too close, moving way too sinuously, putting his
fucking hands on Stiles’ waist.  Derek starts to feel sick as he watches Stiles
– his lips are parted as he sways close to Scott, his eyes shut like he’s
getting lost in the music and in Scott’s closeness.  Stiles drapes his arms on
Scott’s shoulders and plays with the back of his hair and Derek can feel the
ghosts of those fingers in his own hair, and fuck, he wants to rip Scott’s
scalp clean off his skull.  Scott looks up and the asshole smirks at Derek, one
of his filthy hands is sliding from Stiles’ waist to rest on the back of his
form-fitting jeans, the other is creeping up Stiles’ back beneath his t-shirt,
dragging it up so that he can see the elastic of his underwear peeking above
the waist of his pants.  Scott is whispering something and Stiles tilts his
head back in ecstasy, winding his hips slowly.
Derek fucking loses it.  He crushes the shot glass in his hand, driving shards
into his palm and the pads of his fingers, making it hurt enough to keep
himself from Shifting, but he feels the growl of his wolf rumbling in his chest
and knows his eyes must be glowing red.  He dislodges himself from the bar and
stalks toward Stiles and Scott.  Scott immediately backs off with wide eyes and
holds up his hands in surrender.
“He made me do it!” Scott points to Stiles.  “Don’t hurt me!”
Derek gets up in Scott’s face, fangs unsheathing briefly, voice deep and
inhuman, roaring with the commanding timbre of an alpha wolf, “MINE!” 
He pushes Scott away with his claws in the front of his shirt. Scott threatens,
his own wolf beginning to come out, not backing down from his once-alpha, “If
you hurt Stiles again, I’ll kick your ass, Derek Hale.” Stiles grabs Scott from
behind to reign him in.
Derek is taken aback and confused enough that his wolf recedes, but he’s still
fuming.  “I never touched Stiles!”  He turns to Stiles with an expression of
betrayal.  “You lying little shit!”
Peter swoops in, grabbing Derek by the back of his collar.  “Woah there,
cowboy.  Let’s take this party outside, lest we attract more attention to our
fabulous selves.”
Derek huffs and purses his lips as he storms out of the club, Scott, Peter, and
Stiles following in his wake.
Once outside and far enough away from the club on the street, Derek rounds on
Stiles and this time Peter shoulders his way in front of Stiles protectively. 
As much as Derek knows Stiles dislikes Peter, the boy gladly accepts him as a
shield. 
“What did you tell him, huh?  Did you tell Scott I touchedyou?” Derek says it,
imparting that the touching was of the bad sort.  “Did you tell him I hurt
you?”
Scott interjects.  “No, you idiot.  You broke his heart.”
And Derek’s world caves in on itself.  He feels his own heart wither and
shrink, feels an ache in his chest as it fills with guilt and regret.  He backs
away slowly, intent on retreating to his car.  He catches a glimpse of Stiles
gazing down, either embarrassed or disappointed, or both, before turning around
to cross the street.
Scott shouts after him.  “I only danced with Stiles to make you jealous.  To
hurt you the way you’ve been hurting him.”  As Derek reaches the other side of
the street, Scott adds, “I don’t even like guys that way.”
His earplugs have long fallen out and he hears Stiles remark to Scott, ever the
smartass, “Come on.  You gotta admit it was kind of good.  The little hands-
y thing you did there?  A bit too convincing.”
Derek tunes out the rest of their banter.
Peter catches up with him.  “So...  Just fucking, hm?”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Derek is laying in bed, staring at the ceiling at three in the morning, trying
to tune out the sounds of the aftermath of tonight’s club outing.  Of course,
he can’t, and he’s angry at himself for not investing in soundproof replacement
walls.  Isaac and Erica are in the room next to Derek’s either fucking or
trying to tear each other apart.  Most likely both.  Boyd and Jackson have
chosen this very inopportune moment to play Mortal Kombat on the Xbox in the
living room. Peter is running the blender to make a hangover cure for Lydia
that will probably just induce vomiting if the grinding whir of the blades
doesn’t drive somebody with too-sensitive hearing to kill their uncle before he
finishes. 
It’s so fucking loud in Derek’s head that it rivals the club.  He barely
registers the sound of his phone pinging, notifying him of a new incoming text
message.  It’s from Stiles.
Yours.
That’s all it says.  Derek can’t bring himself to reply. 
 
Usually when Derek Shifts, there is no disconnect between his human self and
his wolf.  They are one.  But lashing out at Stiles and Scott tonight in a fit
of jealous rage, declaring barbarically, MINE, seems like somebody else had
done it.  For the first time in his adult life, his human side seemed to have
had an out-of-body experience while his wolf had gone feral.  Derek thinks his
wolf was obviously incredibly mistaken.  Stiles wasn’t his in any way, shape,
or form. 
Or so Derek thought, until Scott had told him he’d broken Stiles’ heart and
Stiles had sent the message.
Derek’s finger caresses the touch screen over the word.  Yours.  It’s the word
of a misguided, lovesick idiot teenager.  The more he thinks about Stiles, the
closer he comes to realizing that he wants that misguided, idiot teenager.  And
there really hadn’t been a disconnect between his wolf and his human side when
he declared that Stiles was his.  It had been the most harmonious the two sides
of Derek had been in a long time.
It turns out, Derek’s wolf knew he was in love with Stiles even before Derek
knew he was in love with Stiles.
 
Derek vaguely wonders if he should have warned Stiles first as he’s climbing
through the boy’s bedroom window.  Stiles shifts in his bed, his gangly limbs
tangled in the sheets, but he doesn’t wake up.  He smells like too much alcohol
and the acrid tinge of Stiles’ scent tells Derek that he had taken a preemptive
Aspirin before bed.  Derek crouches at the bedside, near Stiles’ head, which is
turned away from him.  Like this, all vulnerable and soft in sleep, Stiles
looks even younger.  Derek, for once, doesn’t even think of the boy in terms of
a magical number that keeps him from pursuing what he wants.  He just thinks
Stiles is beautiful.
Derek leans across the bed and whispers behind Stiles’ ear, “Mine… All mine,”
and it isn’t possessive or creepy at all.  It’s tender.  It’s intimate.
He kisses the back of Stiles’ neck softly and his senses search for that
familiar boy-scent hiding beneath cheap beer.   Stiles stirs again and mumbles
in his sleep against the drool-soaked pillow, “Can’t believe you touched my
ass, Scott.  That’s just… ew.  Just ew.”  Stiles waves his hand by his ear as
if swatting away a buzzing fly and Derek backs up, biting his lip to stifle an
amused snort.
 
===============================================================================
 
“Hey. Did you get my message?”
Derek is still in bed the next day when Stiles calls him; actually gets on the
phone and calls him.  No more hiding behind text messages.  Derek is light-
hearted and stupid-happy like he hasn’t been in ages.  He’s smiling genuinely,
not smirking maliciously, as he stretches his arm above his head.  “Yeah.  I
did.”
Stiles mutters tightly, “Uhm… Fuck… Just… ignore it.”
Derek’s smile falters.  “What do you mean ignore it?”
Stiles replies weakly, “Forget I said it.”
Derek remembers instantly why he prefers text messaging.  He finds himself
completely speechless and gutted.  He takes a long cleansing breath through his
nose and asks, sounding like his usual sour self, “Why?”
“Because I didn’t mean it.  I don’tmean it,” Stiles begins to put more
conviction behind his words, “I’m not going to be your wank toy or whatever. 
You can’t just keep acting like there’s nothing going on between us and then
expect me to spill my heart and my dirty thoughts to you so you can jerk off to
it.  Not anymore.  No.  Just… No.”
Derek makes a short breathy sound.  A scoff.  Like he’s blowing it off.  But
really, he feels like he’s being eviscerated.
Stiles goes on angrily, now that the confessional floodgates are open.  “I
meant every single word I wrote to you, Derek.  Maybe it was all just kinky
role play to you, but it was real to me.  You can’t have it both ways.  You
can’t fuck me in your head, let me rebuild your house, and then blow me off
every time I try to get close to you.  I can’t play this game anymore.  It’s
all or nothing.  And I’m pretty sure you won’t change your strict adherence to
Section ‘a’ of California Penal Code Two Six One enough to give me all.  Which
is a fucking joke.  You turned a bunch of minors into werewolves and plotted to
kill one or two.  You never once cared about the risk of jail time then.”
Derek wants to tell him he treasured everything Stiles wrote to him, wants to
say that he also meant everything he wrote, that it wasn’t role-play.  He wants
to tell him that he has a very real reason to adhere to California Penal Code
261.  But he can’t find his voice or the words to say.  All he manages is a
pleading, “Stiles,” which comes out too much like a reprimand.
“I gave you a chance, Derek.  Yeah, it was probably the cruelest thing I’ve
ever done and it killed me to do it to you, but it was my idea to dance with
Scott last night.  To make you see what you were missing, what you could have. 
And when you nearly wolfed out and claimed me as yours?  Fuck, I thought I’d
died and gone to heaven.  But then you pussied out.  You just fucking left me
outside the club.  Didn’t demand an explanation or apology from me, didn’t try
to enforce your claim on me and take me from Scott.  You just walked away with
your wolfy tail between your legs.”
“Stop,” says Derek.  There are only so many punches he can take and he’s ready
to hit the floor of the ring.  “Just…”
“Oh I’m not even fucking done, Hale.”  At this point, Stiles’ voice is rough,
and sniffling noises hint that he’s crying.  “I’m such a god damn glutton for
punishment that I texted you last night practically offering myself up to you
on a wolf-safe non-silver platter.  And you don’t even have the decency to
reply.”  He pauses to breathe and tacks on sarcastically, shortly, intending to
wound, “What, should I have attached a picture of my dick?  Would that have
earned a response?  Would it have been worth it if it helped you get off? 
Clearly, that’s all I’m good for.”
“Why?” Derek asks sharply.  It’s more of a provocation than a question.
“Why what?” asks Stiles.
“Why did you keep coming back?  I tried to end this twice already.”
Stiles makes a short sound of surprise, or maybe it’s incredulity.  “Why? 
Why?!”  Then Stiles’ voice cracks as he laments, “Because I’m in love with you,
asshole!”
There’s a long tense silence, though it’s punctuated periodically by the sound
of Stiles sniffling and his breath hitching on quiet sobs.  Finally, Derek
mutters, sounding defeated, “Martin Cocker.”
“What?” Stiles asks, voice still wavering, like he thinks Derek’s gone off the
deep end.
“Martin Cocker.  I’m sure your dad has a criminal report on him at the
station.  If you can’t manage to read it, I’m sure you can Google his name and
find the news articles.  That unnamed ward of the state?  That was me.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Derek was sixteen when he lost his virginity to Kate Argent, who was eighteen
at the time.  He was seventeen when he first had sex with a man.
After his house burned down with nearly every family member along with it,
Derek and Laura were taken into foster care by a family two towns over in
Beacon County.  Derek obviously needed a lot of psychological help.  Because he
was under eighteen, Derek was a ward of the State of California.  His state-
appointed psychotherapist was Dr. Martin Cocker. 
Martin, as Derek had called him, was twenty-six, just out of graduate school,
and working for Child Services as a family therapist before he could build up
his resume and start his own practice.  Derek could tell that Martin wasn’t all
that into his job and they didn’t do much deep psychoanalysis.  They mostly
chatted about baseball and cars for their required forty minutes per week, and
Martin just signed off on Derek’s charts without trying to get down to the root
of his problems.  Occasionally, Derek would open up, perhaps out of desperation
to get it out of his head.  Martin would listen intently and nod.  He wouldn’t
take notes, though he’d ask Derek to elaborate and would offer advice.  But his
advice seemed more like a friend’s and less like a doctor’s.  In retrospect,
Derek thinks that this had been Martin’s technique – act all buddy-buddy like
his job doesn’t matter, then get the patient to trust and bear his soul.
Derek was lonely.  At a new school, no friends, and hating everyone anyway.  He
had hit it off well with Martin, so he invited him to a baseball game.  That’s
when being buds, shooting the shit at the expense of The State, turned into
being actual friends.  Quickly, their friendship turned into something quite
more.  Derek found that he was attracted to Martin, and he was certain the
feeling was mutual. 
They’d go through the motions of Derek’s required therapy sessions, then go off
to Martin’s apartment to fuck.  It never even registered in Derek’s mind that
what they were doing was illegal and that Martin could get into a shitload of
trouble – not just because he was a patient, but because his patient was a
minor.  Their relationship got pretty serious.  Martin was in love with Derek
and promised they could live together once Derek turned eighteen.  But they
were sloppy.  They didn’t hide their secret relationship well enough.  And they
got caught.
Martin lost his job and his license to practice.  Derek, as a ward of
California, had no say in it when Martin was charged with Statutory Rape. 
Derek pleaded with anyone who would listen to drop the charges, insisting that
he consented completely.  He even wrote a letter appealing to the state board
to give Martin his license back if he’d practice outside Beacon County.  But
seventeen-year-old orphans don’t have a voice in these matters.  Martin had to
serve a year in prison.  Of course, it was a huge scandal, but Derek’s identity
was protected as a minor.  Derek couldn’t stand the guilt and left for New
York.
Last Derek heard, Martin was counseling LGBT youth for a non-profit
organization in Wisconsin and engaged to his boyfriend of four years.  Happy
Ending.  But Derek still feels like shit that Martin can never practice in
California and is on the National Register of Sex Offenders all because Derek
was a horny teenager that just wanted to get laid.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Let me get this straight,” begins Stiles, convulsing slightly, looking like
he’s trying not to laugh, “You were jailbait at seventeen.  You screwed your
shrink.  And your shrink’s name was,” Stiles can’t hold it in any longer and
snorts, “Doctor Cocker?”
Derek is scowling, his brows knitting together and his lips curving down at the
sides.  “Martin.  His name is Martin.  He went to jail because of me.  I’m glad
you find this so fucking hilarious.”
“Dude.  You’ve got to admit.  If this wasn’t your actual life, it would sound
like the summary attached to a gay porn movie.  Hell, I’d jerk off to that
movie in a hot minute.”  Derek continues to scowl, but fixes his scowl more
intently upon Stiles.  Stiles raises his hands and says, “I’m sorry.  Shit. 
I’m sorry I laughed.”
“Now do you understand why I’m reluctant to do anything with you?” asks Derek,
in a tone that’s a shade more serious than I told you so.
“Yeah, I get it.  You’ve been on the other side.  You know the consequences are
real.  And maybe above everything, you’re feeling guilty about getting Doctor
Cocker in trouble.  I totally sympathize.  Empathize, even.  Remember I got my
dad fired once?  I’m sure my guilt is nowhere near as heavy as yours, but
still… I get it.”
Derek nods curtly.  “So will you stay away?”
Stiles shakes his head slowly.  “Not a chance, Hale.”
Derek is furious that Stiles isn’t taking this seriously.  “I could get a
restraining order, you know.  I could say you’re trying to entrap me.”
“Oh, that’s fucking ironic.  You’re the dude stalking me, and you’re going to
get a restraining order against me.”
“Stiles,” Derek huffs impatiently.
“You’re not getting rid of me. You know why?  Because I think you really like
me.  You wouldn’t let me come over so much and not touch me if you didn’t
actually like me.”
“Yeah,” Derek says flatly, agreeing with Stiles without actually having to
confess that he’s in love.
Stiles goes on, talking animatedly, “And you’re not going to go to jail for it
because, newsflash, I’m not a ward of the state.  If my dad wants to press
charges against you for statutory rape, he’s going to lose his one and only
son.  Now, I know I’m not winning any awards for being the best kid, but I’m
pretty sure my dad would rather welcome a sour wolf as a son-in-law than lose
one son forever, because I’d cut him out of my life.”
“Woah,” Derek puts up a hand in protest, “I never said anything about
marriage.”
“I’m just using that for dramatic effect.  Incidentally, did you know that the
law allows for consensual sex with a minor if it’s within a legal marriage?”
Stiles points out.
“Prop 8.  Ever heard of it?” Derek counters.
“I’m just saying.  Hell, even if gay marriage was legal in California, I’d
never get married so young.  Even if it meant I could bang the hottest alpha
werewolf in the entire state and quite possibly the whole West Coast.”
Derek smirks. “You’re full of shit.”  His cheeks get warm behind the stubble
peppering his cheeks.
“This whole pretending-you-don’t-know-how-hot-you-are thing is getting old.” 
Stiles lowers his voice so that it is almost sultry.  He starts to close the
distance between their faces.  “Nobody’s buying it.  Guys that wear shirts like
this…” Stiles hooks his finger under the narrow sleeve on Derek’s tank top and
tugs, though uselessly, in an attempt to get them closer. “…know how hot they
are.”
Their lips are mere inches apart.  Derek lets his eyes close as Stiles tilts
his head to the side.  Derek can feel Stiles’ warm breath on him and can
already taste the menthol balm on Stiles’ lips before they even touch.  “What
do you want me to say?” Derek asks quietly.
“Nothing,” replies Stiles, nearly whispering, “But if you don’t kiss me, I’m
going to scream ‘wolf attack’ and have every Hunter within fifty miles after
your ass.”
“Manipulative little shit,” Derek says softly.  He doesn’t mean it.  He presses
his mouth to Stiles’ and they kiss so tenderly and slowly, it’s barely a brush
of lips.  Stiles tangles his fingers in the back of Derek’s hair and moans
quietly into Derek’s mouth.  It’s different from their first kiss.  It’s sweet
and unhurried.  Derek takes the time to map every curve of Stiles’ lips with
his mouth and his tongue.  He cups Stiles’ face and feels his cheeks blushing
warmly in his hands.  Stiles’ warmth radiates right through Derek, all the way
down to his chest where it meets the heat blossoming from his heart.
Stiles pulls away gently.  “Anybody home?” he asks, inclining his chin towards
the house.
“Everybody,” replies Derek with a grumble.
“Get in the Jeep,” Stiles commands quietly, his perfect lips quirking into a
delicious, impish grin. 
 
===============================================================================
 
In Stiles’ bedroom, their kisses are anything but tender and delicate.
Derek crawls towards Stiles from the foot of the bed and nestles between his
parted legs.  He props himself up with his hands on either side of Stiles’
head.  He’s gazing down at the boy intently, taking the time to appraise him
carefully.  It’s finally okay to stare, to look at Stiles without people around
that might think it’s creepy.  The poor kid looks so nervous, but at the same
time, eager.  A faint blush is quickly blooming in his cheeks.  With their
bodies in such intimate proximity, closer than they’ve ever been before, Derek
can feel the rhythm of Stiles’ pulse thrumming against his skin like music.
“You realize that anything you do to me is going to make me come in like point-
two seconds, right?” Stiles points out.
“Have you ever been in bed with a girl, let alone another guy?” Derek asks.
“No.  So what?” Stiles says defensively.
“You’re a virgin?” Derek is trying not to sound judgmental, but failing, based
on Stiles’ response.
“Shut up.  We can’t all be Adonises like you, and seduce hot older men to take
our virginity.”
Derek teases, “Do I not count as a hot older man that wants to take your
virginity?”  He gently rolls his body down against Stiles. Every move of every
muscle connects with Stiles from the chest down and creates a wave of electric
friction.  Derek can feel all of Stiles’ hard parts and soft parts, from his
pelvic bones to the fleshy bit below the hips.
Stiles’ eyes flutter closed as he takes a shuddering breath, his hand clenching
around the back of Derek’s shirt.  “You can’t say stuff like that and not mean
it.”
Derek’s hips press more insistently against Stiles.  Derek can feel Stiles’
erection awakening in his jeans and is certain Stiles can feel his.  “What
makes you think I don’t mean it?”
Stiles makes a strangled moaning sound as his hips buck up to meet Derek’s. 
“Hnng-god.  I’m going to cream my pants before we even get to second base,
whatever that is for dudes.  Just warning you.”
“Best thing about being sixteen?  Fast recovery time,” Derek points out, moving
sinuously against Stiles, creating enough friction to get them both completely
hard.  Not that Derek needs the friction.  Being so close to Stiles, wrapped up
in his scent and in his warmth, is enough make him strain against the zipper of
his jeans.  “I’m going to make you come,” Derek thrusts down, “again,” lets the
outline of his cock press against Stiles through their jeans, “and again,”
captures Stiles’ lips for a swift, wet, kiss, “and again.”
Stiles’ face is flushed pink and dewy with perspiration.  Derek wonders if this
is what Stiles looks like when he masturbates, or if it’s purely Derek’s
effect.  Derek would like to think it’s all him.  Stiles is breathing hard
through parted, reddened, kiss-bruised lips and rutting up to meet each of
Derek’s thrusts.  “I’m glad you’re taking fast recovery time into account
because we’re not even naked yet and I’m about to embarrass myself by ending
round one.”
“Would you just shut up and enjoy it?” Derek reprimands before playfully
nipping Stiles on the side of the neck.
Stiles responds to Derek’s teeth with a small surprised sound, “Oh!”  Derek
lets his tongue brush against Stiles’ skin before scraping it with his teeth
again.  Stiles sounds alarmed, but pleased, his voice cracking.  “That!  That
is going to end me.”
“Jesus.  You never shut up,” muses Derek, “Are you going to give us the play-
by-play the entire time?”
“Just the highlights,” Stiles says breathlessly.
Derek’s jeans are now painfully tight.  For the sake of relief more than
anything else, he backs off of Stiles to unzip his fly, sitting back on his
calves.
“Oh my god.”  Stiles is propped up on the pillows, looking over at Derek with
heavy eyelids, chest heaving.  “You’re going to get it out, aren’t you?”   It’s
more of a statement than a question.  “I’m going to see your ten-and-a-half-
inch cock in the flesh.  The one I’ve been jacking off to for months.  Fuck.” 
He throws his head back and drapes an arm across his eyes dramatically. 
“Excuse me while I have a little fanboy moment.”
Derek grins amusedly and shakes his head.  “I was just getting comfortable, but
if you want me to get it out, I can.  Or is that too much for you right now?”
Stiles bites his fist as he’s gazing up at the ceiling. “Uhm… It might be.  I
don’t think I’m ready for The Full Monty, let alone sex on the first date-
prequel.  I do expect an actual date sometime soon, you know.”
Derek smiles comfortingly.  “Yeah, that’s fine.  We can take it slow.”
Stiles sits up abruptly.  “Oh no, no, no.  I said nothing about slow.  My dad’s
coming home in two hours.  If you really want to give me multiple orgasms,
you’ve got to speed things up here.  Off with this.”  Stiles reaches for
Derek’s shirt and fumbles to pull it up. 
Derek’s limbs just get tangled in the fabric, so he takes over from Stiles.  He
strips down to his boxer briefs while Stiles struggles with his own clothes in
his haste to get naked.  Derek inwardly hopes that Stiles won’t be this spastic
when they get down to business.  Stiles is yanking on the cuffs of his jeans in
an effort to get them off, despite his sneakers in the way.  Derek, reaches
down, takes Stiles’ wrists, and pins them on the bed, effectively getting the
boy to lay down and stop struggling without having to say anything.  He slips
Stiles’ shoes and socks off first.  Then he pulls the top of Stiles’ jeans
down, which Stiles had already pushed down to his thighs.  He pulls the fabric
over Stiles’ knees then moves his hands to the backs of them and slowly
caresses.  Stiles tilts his head back and moans a curse.  Derek smirks and
decides he’ll play with the backs of Stiles’ knees later to get him hard again.
Down to his underwear, Stiles is not conventionally gorgeous like an
Abercrombie and Fitch model, but Derek loves everything about the boy anyway. 
Derek is on his knees, sitting on his haunches in the space between Stiles’
parted legs.  Stiles’ legs are bent at the knees.  Derek slowly runs his
splayed hands along the top of Stiles’ thighs, gazing down at him reverently. 
He’s compelled to say something, but he’s afraid that Stiles won’t believe that
he’s sincere. 
He says it anyway with a soft smile.  “You’re beautiful.”
He expects Stiles to say something self-depreciating in response, or at least
something snarky.  But Stiles’ face lights up with a grin. “You mean it.” 
Stiles isn’t questioning him, he’s happily pointing out that Derek is being
genuine.  He rests his hands over Derek’s, guiding them to his hips. 
“Yes.  You’re beautiful,” Derek repeats breathily as he lowers himself down on
Stiles and kisses him firmly.  “And bad for me,” Derek mumbles jokingly. 
The kiss quickly escalates, silencing Stiles at last, save for the blissful
little whimpering sounds he makes against Derek’s mouth.  Those sounds inspire
Dererk to devour Stiles with his kiss.  They’re rutting against each other
desperately, practically fucking through their underwear.  Derek’s hands are so
tight around Stiles’ hips that he wonders if the boy will bruise.  Stiles’ skin
is so soft, with just a dusting of downy hair in all the right places.  Derek
feels as though he’s sinking into butter, so pliant and supple is Stiles’ body
beneath him. 
For all his words, Stiles still hasn’t come yet, though Derek can see that the
tent in Stiles’ briefs is darkened with pre-come.  The scent of it, along with
Stiles’ sweat and inherent boy smell is driving each thrust of Derek’s hips.
Stiles’ arms envelop Derek in a desperate embrace.  His dull fingernails are
digging into Derek’s back, holding on greedily as if Derek might back away at
any given moment.  And if that isn’t enough to keep Derek there, Stiles’ mouth
meets the tender skin at the junction between Derek’s neck and shoulder. 
Stiles kisses and licks it experimentally before one firm thrust of Derek’s
hips inspires Stiles to bite down hard with blunt, human teeth.
Derek growls.  It’s a quiet, deep sound from low in his throat that pulls a
wanton whimper from Stiles.  The feel of teeth and nails claiming his flesh
threaten to bring out Derek’s own claws and fangs.  He can sense his inner wolf
pulsing and eager to break through, to devour Stiles in a way that wouldn’t be
pretty, let alone acceptable.  But Derek knows how to control himself, how to
keep that balance between hot, rough sex and completely destroying Stiles.  And
that entails finding an anchor, something to keep him human.  A voice.
“Talk to me,” Derek murmurs as his hips continue to move rhythmically.
Stiles’ response is ragged and weak, “Can’t.  You’re wrecking me.”
Derek reaches in the almost non-existent space between them to cup Stiles’
erection through his underwear.  Now Derek is breathing hard from the strain of
keeping the wolf at bay.  “Tell me what you want, or I’m going to stop touching
you,” he threatens.
“Fuck, Derek.  I want to feel you,” Stiles breathes out against Derek’s
shoulder.
“How?”
“Shit, I don’t know, just fucking touch me,” Stiles whines.
“I’m warning you.  Not threatening you.  Talk to me, or I’m going to rip you
apart with my claws,” says Derek, managing to keep his voice calm but firm.
Stiles had been arching against Derek this whole time.  He suddenly flattens
himself against the pillows and stares up at Derek with wide eyes, gasping
softly, “Are you gonna Shift on me?  Oh my god.  I’m kind of disturbed by how,
uhm, turned on that makes me.  I’m fairly certain that counts as bestiality. 
Not that you’re an animal, well, except that you sort of are, but… Oh Jesus.  I
don’t think I’m ready for something that kinky.”
As Stiles is babbling frantically, the sound of his voice has effectively
calmed Derek’s wolf, and he breathes a sigh of relief.  “Okay, you can shut up
now.”
Stiles playfully pets Derek on the head.  “Down, boy.”
Derek threatens without any malice in his voice, “Make another stupid dog joke
again, and the wolf is coming out to eat you.”
Stiles purrs, “Ooh, promise?” and raises a brow.
Derek smirks and shakes his head with amusement.  “God, you’re sick.”
Stiles drawls sensually, though playfully so, “You love it.”
“Come here, you kinky bastard,” Derek mutters, reaching for Stiles.
Derek yanks Stiles’ underpants down to his thighs to free his cock, then lays
on his side, wedged beside Stiles.  Stiles’ dick is elegantly long and narrow,
engorged and heavy, and even more gorgeous than the pictures.  Derek strokes it
firmly and slowly, applying pressure from the base to just bellow the head,
swiping his thumb over the slit to smear a pearly bead of pre-come.  Stiles
drapes his arm over his eyes again and swears fluently with a strangled voice.
Derek releases Stiles’ cock momentarily to wrench his arm from his face.  “Look
at me.  I want you to look at me when you come.”
Stiles adjusts awkwardly on the crowded bed so that his upper half is angled
slightly towards Derek.  Derek takes up Stiles’ erection again and strokes in
earnest, finding an unhurried pace that makes Stiles neither panic nor relax. 
The feel of a cock in his hand that isn’t his own is so empowering somehow. 
Derek commands it expertly, making Stiles breath hitch every time his wrist
twists, his thumb edging around the bottom of Stiles’ cockhead.  With each
sharp intake of breath, Derek can sense that Stiles is getting closer.  He can
already feel it in the hot rush of blood through Stiles’ veins and smell it in
the scent of semen nearing the surface even before Stiles whispers a warning.
“Look at me,” Derek commands quietly as he speeds his ministrations.
Stiles’ eyes fix on Derek’s for only a moment before they roll to the back of
his head and his eyelids flutter closed.  He breathes out roughly, “Derek,” and
Derek could probably come from the sound of his name on Stiles’ tongue.
The expression of bliss on Stiles’ face is quite possibly the most beautiful
thing Derek has ever seen Stiles do.  Derek doesn’t even look down at his cock
as Stiles comes.  He feels the hot spunk spill over his fist, feels Stiles’
turgid flesh spasm hard.  The sound that escapes Stiles’ gaping mouth is
breathy and sharp.  It isn’t a moan.  No, that sound is reserved for the end,
when Stiles rolls back and stares up at the ceiling, glassy eyed and content.
“Ungh… I… Can’t even…” Even when he’s spent, Stiles still tries uselessly to
talk.  Derek is amused that he’s managed, yet again, to shut him up.
They lay together as Stiles basks in his post-orgasmic glow.  Semen is cooling
on Derek’s hand, but he rests it on Stiles’ chest anyway, since there’s a fair
amount of spunk there already.  Their heads are close on the pillows.  Derek
listens to Stiles’ heartbeat slow and come to rest, and feels his chest rise
and fall at a steadily decreasing rate.
“Has anybody ever done that to you before?” Derek asks softly.  He thinks he
knows the answer, but he wants to hear it.
“Uhm… yes?” Stiles says tentatively.
“You know I can tell you’re lying, right?” Derek points out.
“Yeah.  Virgin in every way,” Stiles sighs.
Derek smirks.  “Not everyway.  Not anymore.” 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Lydia presses the button on the new answering machine with a manicured finger
and leans close to the built-in microphone.
“You’ve reached the home of Derek, Peter, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica.  Please leave
a--”
Jackson cuts in with a tight smile, “Forgetting somebody?”
“Sorry baby,” Lydia patronizingly pats her boyfriend on the cheek and doesn’t
sound apologetic at all, “I didn’t think you’d want to be on the answering
machine message since, uhm, you’re supposed to be dead.”
“Nobody’s calling here anyway.  It’s purely ceremonial,” says Peter.  “It marks
the house as all of ours,” Peter gestures at everyone crowding around the
kitchen island, “As the home of the pack.”
“Fine.  Then I want to be in it too,” Lydia insists brusquely, “I picked out
all the paint colors around the house, and the bathroom fixtures, and the
window treatments, and it’s my voice on the recording.”  She doesn’t wait for
the okay from Derek or Peter.  She just presses the little blue button again
and speaks in the same chipper voice.  “You’ve reached the home of Derek,
Peter, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Jackson, and sometimes Lydia.  Please leave a--”
“Wait.”  This time Derek interrupts her.
Lydia rolls her eyes and heaves an exasperated sigh.  “Do you want me to record
this stupid message or not?”
“You forgot one more person,” Derek points out.
“Who, Scott?  Does he really count?  I thought he doesn’t want to be part of a
pack,” says Lydia.
Stiles scratches the back of his neck and glances away.
“Think about it,” says Derek, not even looking at the person in question, “Who
helped lay down the new floors?  Who helped install insulation?  Who painted? 
Who cleaned?  Who put up your ugly curtains?”
As if she hasn’t heard anything else, Lydia replies, “My curtains aren’t ugly. 
They’re Pottery Barn.”
Derek huffs impatiently, “Forget it.  I’ll do it myself,” and he nudges Lydia
out of the way. In a less than friendly, unanimated voice, Derek records the
answering machine greeting for their newly installed land-line telephone:
“You’ve reached the home of Derek, Peter, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Jackson, Lydia,
and Stiles.  Please leave a message.”
Stiles grins.
End Notes
     UPDATE: I posted a sequel to "The Message" entitled "The Switch".
     Check it out.
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