Work Header

Songs About Stiles

Chapter Text

Derek's breath became clouds caught in the lamplight underneath the Hale porch. Breath in and breath out, he watched the wisps float away, their lives intertwined with the machination of his lungs, heart, veins. A werewolf's bodyheat never dispersed, even in the winter, chilly January, endlessly cycling with his needs, his desires, his instincts. Derek caught himself before the thought veered down that road again. She was dead. Kate Argent was dead, and he was free from her. Nearly free. He had to live through the memory of her and her manipulation of him for the rest of his life. The entire Hale family, dead, everyone, even his sister and his uncle Peter. He was the only one left now. She had laid the tracks down for that outcome years in advance.

Desire and Kate were linked. Bonded. Chained. Derek found himself questioning whether he wanted anyone. Sex was a question of bodies. Instincts. The memory of her face, her beautiful face, egging him on as she dug her nails into the skin of his shoulders, her thighs coiled around him, her sloppy, wet pussy clinging to his aching cock. Desire. She convinced him she loved him through skin on skin contact. They would meet in hotels, bars, in the dark. Derek, fuck me. I want your wolfboy cock in me now. He did not question why. He only wanted her. He only wanted her whenever he could have her. Kate made things so easy. She made love a question of insertion, condensation, and orgasm. He was young. She was bloodthirsty. Kate got what she wanted. So Derek lost everything.

Now he desired no one. Limp-dicked Derek. Breath in and breath out, he watched the wisps disappear into the dark. Young things unaware of the predator lying in wait. The great fuck pulling them in, destroying them completely. It was harder to breathe after Kate. She had put a poison in his lungs. Infected him. No, not anymore. He was the Alpha but he could not take a mate. Erica had kissed him. The young girl he had turned for the sake of his new pack, his new family, kissed him to prove a point to herself, that she could be desired even by the Alpha, the most desired. He felt her tongue brush against his lips, and for a second he wanted her. Only a second. Kate tugged at his chest. Pulled at his lungs. Made it harder to breathe. He pulled away.

His pack could never know how weak he was. An Alpha was strong in every way. He was the dominant individual, the reckoned, the feared, the exalted. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica needed to be kept in the dark. Clouds of breath fading into the cruel night, Derek saw the connection and smirked, because life was cruel in her manipulation of the body and the heart. Life and nature were cruel mistresses who conspired people to ruin like they had ruined Derek. He was ruined, but he knew, however humiliating his inability to perform was, he deserved whatever punishment had been weighed against him for betraying his family for a crazy good fuck.


Whatever stillness and silence the night had afforded him had been broken, no, utterly annihilated by the teenaged boy driving up to the Hale house in the blue Jeep with his usual face of terrified disapproval. Derek, having spent the last few minutes thinking about Kate, had no patience for this one, absolutely none. On a normal day, he had very little, but tonight, there would be no pleasantries between them. If the human wanted to pick a fight, he would get one, teeth and claws included. He continued to pace forward, wagging his finger at Derek like an accountant would at his client in late March. Fuck, did Derek want to gut him.

"Alright, you can't kill Lydia. I can't let you kill Lydia. Hell, you jump to killing people way too quickly, you know that?"

Derek continued sitting, continued controlling his temper, surprised that he could even be this patient with Stiles Stilinski, the most infuriating, the most talkative, perhaps the least likeable person Derek had ever met in his entire life.

"Lydia is killing people. Possibly us, Stiles. So I don't think I'm taking any leaps here. Now, why the fuck are you on my property?"

"Hey, language? I'm just here to defend the girl of my dreams."

"She is not the girl of your dreams, Stiles."

He watched him go wide-eyed. He watched him flail his arms. He watched him sweat. He smelled him sweat. Derek wanted to break him. He had a girl once. He had a girl that he loved. Kate. A girl who had robbed him of everything he had. A girl who managed to haunt him for years. A girl who still haunted him. This kid standing in front of him, he had a girl who he wanted, thought he wanted, who wanted someone else. Maybe Lydia being in love with Jackson was different from Kate who was in love with killing werewolves, but Derek only saw the glow in Stiles's eyes. Break. He wanted to break him. Watch him crumble.

"How the hell do you know that? Unlike you, who could probably get any girl you wanted. I have to work at mine. I have to make a gigantic effort. This is my effort. This is my Helms Deep. She's Arwen."

"Don Quixote ran at the Giants for Dulcinea. Now, I'm not a windmill, I'm a werewolf, but I will still hurt you." Derek bared his fangs.

"Ugh. Can't you stick to culturally relevant references?"

"Quixote is always relevant, noob."

"Did you call me a noob? I'm a level eighty-five Worgen Hunter, you ass! I..."

"Worgen? You are a werewolf. Stiles Stilinski, in your fantasy world where you fight mythical creatures, you are a werewolf with a bow." Derek felt a spark course through his spine. Stiles froze. Game. Set. Match. Stiles fell where he wanted, right where he wanted. The rush seemed similar to the feeling before the full moon, before a ripe and just kill, right before he became the Alpha, as he was ready to cut his own uncle's throat, someone he knew deserved what was coming to him. Stiles, well, Stiles made the biggest mistake he could have made that night. He crossed Derek Hale. He would have to stand in front of him and take what was coming to him.

"You secretly want to be like your friends, huh, Stiles? You want power. You want the bite. You want our speed, our strength, our stamina, and hell, you would even settle for the Argents' weapons if you could manage."

"In World of Warcraft, they call speed agility..." Stiles muttered.

"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?" Derek pounced. His tore at Stiles, pinning him to the ground. "You are fucking trash, Stiles. Don't you get that? You're a virgin. A skinny, pale, virgin with no redeeming features whatsoever, yet you pine for a girl who is leagues above you. Then, you still, you still don't get it. You don't get that you're trash. You should want nothing because you are nothing. You tell jokes because you are a joke. You are alone because you deserve to be alone. I know it. You know. Everyone knows it. I'm the only one kind enough to spell it to you clearly."

Two bright eyes turned dim underneath the Hale porch lamplight. Two breaths condensed in the cold winter air. The night was dark. Derek could feel Stiles's heart beat through his clothes. He could smell the saline in his eyes, barely coming through to the surface. Derek's hands rested on Stiles's shoulders. He had retracted his claws but they had pierced through, grazed the skin, but Stiles stared at Derek without blinking, stared without fear, stared with only intention. He wanted to leave the message: <i>I know. I know all that. You didn't have to tell me</i>. I already knew. Derek lay still. Stiles bit his lower lip. The next few movements Derek saw coming. They were written all over Stiles's face, all over the smells erupting from every pore on Stiles's body. He could not breathe. It was not difficult, no, he was completely unable to breathe. He was unable to move. Paralyzed from lack of air.

A hand raised behind Derek's head brought them closer. Stiles closed his eyes. He brushed his lips against Derek's lips. In an arc, he traced along Derek's stubbled right cheek, up to the depression of his right eye, where he stopped.

Then Stiles said, "I know she hurt you, Derek."

Derek felt his lungs expand. He felt the sharp air spike against him. Against the inner fibers of his chest where his heart ran circles around the moment, around the brown of Stiles's eyes, around the feeling of Stiles's lips against his cheek. He released Stiles. No. There were things flying through him that he had not felt in years. Currents he thought lost. Kate burned them when she burned the Hale house down. Stiles lay on the ground, shoulders a mess, Derek's fault, but smiling like mad because he managed to disarm the Alpha, the baddest werewolf on the block, the pack leader and the man he had feared ever since he and Scott wandered into the woods looking for the other half of Laura Hale. Derek wanted to congratulate him. He wanted to strangle him. More so, he wanted to kiss him again. Kiss him for real. Kiss him like he deserved to be kissed. Deep, so deep that he could feel how much he wanted him.

He could not feel this way. Not after Kate, not after she had ruined him, not after she had proven to Derek how despicable a person he was. He was guilty. Stiles, on the ground, no longer on the ground, on his feet, was innocent and so deserving of love. Not from him, not from Derek, not from a murderer, not from a traitor, not from the man who let a madwoman murder his entire family for a cheap fuck or two.

"Derek?" Stiles said. "Derek? Hey? I just...I mean, don' was just...if you're creeped out...fuck...that was a joke, okay? A prank. I'm not gay, or attracted to you, anything like that. You were talking down to me and I wanted revenge. Just, please, laugh or something, at the joke, not me. Please. Come on. Derek. Don't do this to me. Don't. Not you. Not you. I wouldn't be able to handle it if I disgusted you."

Derek turned his head to face Stiles. He could see the red eyes, the distress, the way Stiles chewed on his sleeve as he paced in a circle no more than three footsteps apart.


"Why what?" Stiles said.

"Why wouldn't you be able to handle it if you had disgusted me? Especially if this was a joke, Stiles." Derek said. This was the only way he knew out of this, out of wanting Stiles, out wanting the only person he ever found himself wanting ever since Kate broke him.

"Because." Silence. More chewing. Crumbling. "I..."

"It wasn't a joke, was it?"

"No. It wasn't."

"Alright then." Derek said.

Derek spit on the ground before Stiles.

"I think we understand each other."

Stiles left without a word. Derek could feel the burn on his cheek, on his lips, where he had touched. Out on the Hale porch, he sat on one of the wooden steps, underneath the lamplight. The burn consumed him. It was unforgettable. Mesmerizing. Breath in and breath out, Derek replayed the events of the night in his head, regretting everything and nothing, but thinking constantly of the boy who came to him screaming.

Chapter Text


Derek and Stiles break-up. But that doesn't last long. Sterek.


         A ticket from Sacramento to New York. A carry-on suitcase. A boarding pass. Then, on Derek's arm, a Stiles Stilinski, seventeen years old with his own suitcase and his own ticket in tow. Red-faced. Crying. The arm shook. The seventeen year old shook with it. A crowd of concerned, bewildered, and amused faces pinned on the two gasped. Derek sighed. He walked through the terminal. Airports operated between cold and room-temperature in the daytime. They were a distinct neither. Not too dry. Not too humid. At least in California.

         "As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm for airport reunion scenes in romantic comedies, it's still over. Now, stop with the...flailing around, Stiles, before you attract even more attention." Derek said.

         "Not until you can honestly say that you still don't have feelings for me." Stiles whimpered. "Derek, come on, I don't call them airport reunion scenes. They're more like, airport revival or airport rescue scenes."

         They had been moving like this for the last fifteen minutes. Stiles had locked onto Derek's arm as a sort of last resort. Derek had all the strength to fling him across the room like a rag doll, but he did not want to attract anymore attention than he already had. Every person here had been waiting, and in waiting, people looked for distractions. Derek Hale was not the kind of man to ever let himself become another person's sideshow, let alone because of Stiles Stilinski, Beacon Hill's sideshow extraordinaire. Why does Batman need Robin? Stiles was Robin. Derek was Batman. And Derek sought Robin out like an addict. He was trying to get clean.

         Dr. Drew lied. The dragon chases you.

         "If I'm anything, Stiles, I'm tired of this Holden-Phoebe schtick. Go get your money back for that ticket, before you end up on a plane screaming for dear life because the air is too thin."

         "Just answer the question, Derek. And I'll..."

         "Fucking fine. I do have feelings for you."

         He loosened his grip on Derek's arm. Stiles rubbed his head against Derek's bicep. Somewhat like a cat trying to snuggle up to its owner. No, Derek understood exactly what Stiles was trying to do here: this was a play. Derek had fallen for this too many times. He had eaten pizza over thai food too many times to fall for the guilty kitten again. Stiles needed to be taught a lesson for good.

         "I feel like killing you. Sound cool?"

         "Killing me, as in, sending me to heaven?" Stiles said.

         "Jesus. You candid little slut."

         Derek loved that part of Stiles. He hated the part of Stiles clinging to his arm. People passed by them as they stood still, together, a pair, bound by some sort of mutual attraction neither could well explain. Stiles was persistent. He bit his lip. The doll had sprung back to life. Derek hadn't wanted to break-up permanently. This was a break. A momentary split to get them thinking about their relationship; a very adult thing that happened between adults. Derek was dating a seventeen year old. There was a gap in experience and rationality they needed to overcome.

         "I'll be gone for a week. We can talk after that." Derek said. "Just let me settle my accounts in New York, then, we can you know, be Sterek or whatever the girls call us."

         "Derek, I can't accept that."

         "Accept what? My reasonable compromise?"

         "I need some assurance. I can't...New York is a big place...your abs...your eyes...I mean look at me. Look at you."

         "You think I'll find someone else?"

         "No. Well. Yes. Sort of. A temporary someone else."

         "You're talking about hooking up with a stranger?"

         Stiles nodded. He was completely serious. Derek could tell. Outside the terminal, a plane took off. Another stayed grounded. Derek heard them both. He wondered what was going on in the heads of the passengers in both planes. Maybe 'wonder when we'll get there' versus 'wonder when we'll actually take off'. Similar enough. Then there was the guy driving the yellow luggage cart. He was probably thinking 'this thing will never ever ever fly and is very likely to get crushed as soon as one of the real flying things hits the ground'.

         Derek looked at Stiles.

         "Yeah. Maybe we should stay broken up, Stiles. I can't do this." Derek said. "It's you. Not me. Definitely you and the fact that you think I'll cheat on you the first chance I get. Right, Stiles, thanks for trusting me."

         "What? Hey. DE-REK." Stiles was still on his arm.

         Derek shook.


         He shook again.


         Once more.

         "Derek! I love you!"

         There was a reason why most tapeworms needed to be surgically removed. Stiles was quickly giving Derek a lesson in tapeworm pathology. He needed to be sawed off. Better yet, clawed off. Derek had the claws, but not the place to do the deed. Too many people. Squeamish people. He sighed, loudly, and continued to walk to his terminal, hoping Stiles would run out of power. Wrong. Stiles ran on the attention of others, especially Derek, and Derek, well, was not in a position to stop thinking about him right now. He was running on a near infinite supply of juice right now. He wheeled his suitcase behind him. Maybe the air marshalls would shoot him. No. This was another break-up scene at an airport.

         "Okay, you play the 'I love you' card, again, and I will hurt you. It's been a month, Stiles. Don't make more of this than it was. Don't make more of me than I was, because, I don't want to feel more guilty for doing this to you than I have to be."

         "A month is enough."

         "A year isn't enough, Stiles. With you, a decade.Why am I still the bad guy? You're the one throwing the 'I love you' bomb in the freaking airport..."

         Wrong word. Wrong place. The dozen eyes pinned on Derek wove the point deep into his button-hole eye.

         "No, no, no, no, no. I mean. He dropped an 'I love you' way too soon in our relationship..." Derek pandered to the crowd. He usually would never do this, but he wanted to seem normal. He had a flight to catch. Strings latched. Arms raised. This was the stage. Shit. He had been caught.

         "A month in!" Stiles tried to defend himself.

         Derek learned the hard way that crowdsourcing relationship advice never quite turned out how you plan. Sitting next to Stiles on the six hour flight to New York let the lesson sink in. Sitting next to Stiles on a six hour flight to New York let a lot of things sink. They were off to the side, Derek at the window, Stiles on the aisle.

         "Derek." Terminal in sight. Wings steady. Ground level.

         "Don't. Stiles. Don't. You're lucky we even managed to get on this flight...we? You're not even supposed to be here." Derek kept his voice hushed.

         "Well. We have six hours to talk about us."

         "Nothing. Absolutely. Nothing." Derek looked out the window. Stiles had his head on his arm, latched on, a permanent carry-on apparently. The yellow luggage cart began to haul in passenger items.

         "Derek...come on. Please." Stiles said.

         Derek was a werewolf, but in this case, he was the one refusing to feed the beast. The danger in facing monsters, gangly clingly Stilesly monsters, came in their unparalled ability to manipulate people.

         "We're on a plane. Aren't we?" Stiles asked.

         "What?" Derek said. A chill ran through his spine. An ungodly chill.


         "You have a deathly fear of flying. Yeah. Stiles. I know." Derek reached for his forehead, tried to reason through whatever ridiculous situation he had gotten himself into.

         "Derek. This contraption is going to get flung into the freaking sky." Stiles was wide-eyed. Scared. Shivering. Panting. Panicking. Derek was sure another scene at the Sacramento Airport would get him blacklisted, so he resigned himself to fixing the problem, however he could.

         "Stiles. This is why I didn't want you to follow me to New York."

         "Derek. I'm on so much Aderall I don't think elephant tranquillizer could knock me out at this point. We're going to have to..."

         "Stop the plane." Derek said. Puppet raised his head. "You planned this. It all makes sense now."

         "No I didn't." Stiles nodded his head no.

         "You did. You knew I would drop my trip for you because I would drop my entire fucking life for you, selfish fucking brat." Derek felt his anger surging, his body changing, his heart beating like mad. "Stiles, why can't you get it through your fucking head that I love you just as much as you love me?"

         Strings all cut at once. Curtain fell.

         "What?" Surprised.

         "Okay." Humiliated.

         "Really?" Disbelief.

         "Yes." Disbelief. Disbelief with bitters. Satori. "Let's stop this plane."

         Hand on his thigh. His arm was free for the first time that day.

         "I think...I can get through this. With you." Stiles said.

         Derek saw the honesty in his eyes. Two bright brown eyes. The yellow luggage cart? No, no fucking way, Stiles was Stiles. His boyfriend. A spaceship. Taking him to the moon and back.

         "You sure?"

         "No. Never. I'm never sure. But I don't ever really care if I'm sure. I mean. Where's the fun in being sure?"

         "No fun in being sure." Derek said. He leaned back into his seat, fastened himself in, and locked his hand with Stiles's. The two puppets were in love, and in their dance, had pursed their strings together so tight that their masters could never pry them apart. Who pulled the threads, wove the strands so that one would meet the other, stiched the fabric of a relationship into what it was, what it would be, what it would always be. Derek, however unsure he was, was even more sure that he wanted Stiles—

         "DE-REK." Maybe he thought too soon. The plane was picking up speed for take off. He would probably be better off without Stiles, definitely.

         "Stiles, you said you could handle this."

         "I said I wasn't sure."

         "You said you didn't care that you weren't sure."

         "That doesn't mean I wouldn't freak the fuck out if I...oh my god the air is too thin! Derek. The. Air. Is. Too. Thin." Stiles began to hyperventilate. He was having a panic attack.

         Eyes pinned on them again. Derek sighed.

         "Okay." Derek, without batting an eye, snaked his hand up the back of Stiles's shirt, rubbing the spot between the crests of Stiles's shoulder blades. "Relax, please, Stiles? If you can last this flight, we can, somewhere in the near-future, join a certain club."

         "Costco?" Stiles said. Derek's hands were warm. He might have been melting under them. Between the panic and the massage he was caught between extremes.

         "No. Mile High." Derek said.

         "Oh. Oh. OH." Stiles said. "Isn't that illegal?"

         "Depends. On the planning. On public flights, it's pretty much impossible. Chartered, however."

         "You can't charter a plane, Derek."

         "I'm an Alpha. I can."

         "Don't make promises you can't keep. Cause, if you, don't, I'll be really disappointed because...I don't have that many extra-curriculars and I'm pretty sure Harvard loves the Mile High Club."

         Always. He thought of strange things. There were mistakes he had made in his life. There were experiences he would never let go. Memory was a sea. Mistakes and experiences, liquids, Derek could see them, recount them, describe them, learn from them, taste them. But grasp them, hold them close, no, they slipped. People were solid. Stiles was solid. In his hand, in his arms, next to him, a solid state. A living thing he could lay his fingers on. Anchor himself to, and wade the deep ocean. He was not a rock. He was not a jewel. He simply was.

         Derek found the greatest joy in his existence. Hand in hand existence.

Chapter Text

Eight bodies at a table and the distinct feeling, a feeling eerily close to fear, that the table is close to collasping from some foreboding tension somewhere in the room, frames the night. Boyd has seen it before. He bites his straw. Yes, he has seen this before. He might have gotten away with ordering a light beer that night, and he regrets having his Coke. It is flat, and his mouth feels sticky. Parties this large and this intimidating usually don't get carded especially when Derek stares the waiter down, Derek and his green fanged eyes, those naturally terrifying green eyes Boyd has learned houses a naturally terrifying being.

         Boyd looks at Isaac. He mouths. I've seen this before. Isaac looks at Erica. He mouths. This again. Erica looks at Scott. She mouths. You want me, huh? Scott shakes his head. Allison looks at Erica. She mouths. Don't fuck around. Lydia, somehow attached to their pack during this whole mess, looks around at the exchange of glances, and looks at Scott.

         "Why isn't anyone mouthing at me?" Lydia says.

         She breaks the silence, but she fails to break the problem at the far end of the table, the Alpha and the Stiles staring each other down, having ignored the menus in front of them for thirty-five minutes. Boyd has seen this before. They all have. Derek and Stiles have been going on for too long. Literally, because the hole in Boyd's stomach may consume him entirely. Everytime Derek and Stiles are in the same room. Boyd has his Coke though. His sweet, sticky Coke.

         "Can we get appetizers?" Allison suggests. Scott's eyebrows perk up. He'll say yes to anything she says. Sweet, not at all sticky.

         "Yeah. I mean. Since we haven't decided yet." Scott says to Derek. "I mean, we can at least get a couple Triple Dippers. Derek?"

         Pointless. Boyd takes a sip. Derek has taken up underneath a sound proof barrier. Why, Boyd thinks, is a question all to its own. When he used to sit alone during lunch period, he never had to worry about table politics. With the pack, with Lydia and Allison, and with Stiles, there are complications his mind has to wrap around: like Isaac and his weird sexuality and Erica and her weird sexuality. They both swing for two teams. Isaac, well, Isaac has his eyes on one swing particularly, and more than one person at the table wants Jackson. Lydia sits by Allison, feeding the occassional whisper in her ear, usually with her eyes still pointed at Isaac. She doesn't like him.

         "Stiles. Just tell me." Derek says.

         "No." Stiles says.

         "Alright then." Derek closes his mouth.

         If the pattern persists, there will be another five minutes of intense staring until another one of them tries to open up the conversation again. Derek and Stiles play their game while Lydia tries to complain about Jackson—in a vain attempt to piss Isaac off—with Allison who plays footsie with Scott underneath the table. Isaac molds tiny hills with the table sugar, salt, and pepper. Erica and Isaac are close. Boyd thinks. He talks to them about equally, but not as much as they talk to each other. While he gathers the grains together to form a mound, Erica peels a sugar wrapper, and ties it around a broken toothpick to make a flag for their makeshift mountain. Boyd, if anything, is friends with Derek, but Derek has his own problems to deal with, problems he refuses to speak about with anyone, even with himself. He should make friends with Scott, the fifth of their pack, because he's the fourth beta and the pecking order seems to fit best that way. Not like Scott and Boyd have much to talk about anyway. He would not mind having someone to make a mini-mountain with, though. Isaac and Erica make it look like so much fun.

         On second thought, Boyd has a topic. Your best-friend and my best-friend seem to really like each other. He really considers bringing that up with Scott one day. The essence of sarcasm is truth. They eventually have to talk about the warfront, maybe not now, well, if someone goes into diabetic shock, they may have to. Boyd thinks, somewhere, there has to be a reason why they have hit the forty minute mark at this Chili's and have yet to place a single order. This is his fourth Coke, though, and as he is slowly learning, Coke satisfies every possible human need. Friendship included.

         "Well, glad I skipped a five-course dinner for this fiasco." Lydia remarks. "Well, I suppose we could all learn a little bit about the human subconscious, couldn't we?"

         "Lydia..." Allison turns her head. The gesture means please don't say what you're about to say outloud.

         "Everyone knows there's unresolved sexual tension at this table. The..." Lydia rolls her eyes as Allison purses her lips and tries to look as enforcing as possible. "individuals involved should just get it on before they kill each other or some poor innocent bystander caught in their crossfire. Or ruin another one of my Friday nights."

         Erica chuckles. Isaac chuckles. Scott chuckles. Allison chuckles, supresses her chuckles, turns to Scott, who covers his mouth. Boyd takes a sip of his Coke. His eyes are fixed on Derek and Stiles. Derek, surprisingly calm, says, in a surprisingly calm voice: "Lydia is right."

         Surprised faces all around.

         "Scott and Allison, you guys should go." Derek says. Stiles nods his head in agreement. Boyd lets his Coke run down from his mouth back into his straw and into his cup. Disgusting, but he is as dumbfounded as Derek and Stiles are plain dumb. Erica smiles wickedly while Lydia, having stood up to make her announcement, sits back down. Isaac laughs. He laughs so hard he pounds his fist onto the table. His cheeks turn red. A bright red.

         "Derek, it's not me and Allison." Scott says.

         "We're fine." Allison adds. "More than fine, actually."

         She points that out to Erica.

         "Then who is it?" Derek says.

         "Obviously," Stiles adds, "It's Isaac and Erica."

         Isaac, head on the table, looks up at Stiles. Stiles has his arms crossed, smugly, as if he had solved some major crime. Derek surveys his two Betas, smells them for spare pheromones, and Isaac rolls his eyes. He faces Erica. He kisses her, dead-on, hard. Boyd sees their tongues wrestle around their respective mouths. When they part, Isaac crosses his arms nearly identically to Stiles. He plays detective just as well as the Sheriff's son.

         "Smell anything, Alpha? Nothing. We're not into each other." Isaac says. Erica mimics him, albeit a little more shaken than Isaac, crossing her arms. Boyd can see the mountain shaking.

         "The pheromones check out, Stiles."

         "What? You can't trust freaking pheromones!" Stiles says. "If it's not them, who, Boyd and Lydia?"

         "Excuse me, I don't even know Boyd." Lydia says.

         "That's what makes it so suspicious." The comment is from Scott. Allison elbows him in the side. He grins.

         Boyd looks at Lydia. She is beautiful. In a lot of ways, and in the worst way. He once saw a bird falling out of a tree, feathers scattering around, fluttering; Boyd thought to himself then, beautiful, beautiful as anything he ever believed was beautiful. Lydia is the same way to Boyd. He considers that the worst kind of beauty. A lure that attracts a certain kind of fish. Derek bit it once before. Isaac, well, Isaac has been hooked. Lydia shares that hook with Isaac. She has been on it longer even. Jackson has managed to keep her on it for so long that the tragic beauty in her shines so brightly; Boyd compares it to seeing a purple sun, with the same blinding effect. He sees the blood in the water, and knows to stay clear away.

         "Don't encourage them, Scott." Allison says. "Not now."

         "It's kind Sorry. Okay. It's not Boyd and Lydia." Scott shakes his head. "Come on, Stiles, think."

         "Then...You and Erica?" Stiles guesses.

         His stomach feels empty. Erica has edged closer to Isaac. Boyd can see her eyes twist towards him every so often, just to catch a glimpse every second or two. Hesistant. Careful. She finds so much confidence in her new body, her new vitality, but Erica has new walls to climb, new obstacles to face. Boyd wonders if she will ever have a chance with Isaac. See, he has noticed a few things in his time. He can usually tell who will win a game a few moves in, unless, well, unless that someone isn't in the game at all. One of his many skill sets. Hunger pang. He needs to eat.

         At the table, Boyd uncovers two sorts of couples. Scott and Allison are aware of each other whether they want to be or not. Minds tied. They could be looking in opposite directions and still know what the other is feeling. Synergistic. Then, Derek and Stiles always have to take notice of each other. They never know what the other is thinking, feeling, or even doing most of the time so they always check. They try. They struggle. They bite. They nibble. If Stiles wants to know how Derek reacts to his statement, he looks at him, watches his eyes especially, and his mouth. Same way back. Boyd assumes this is just a matter of their personalities, or how long they have been together—Stiles and Derek are not even dating, just where is Boyd going with this thought—but he wonders if Derek and Stiles will ever be aware of how the other feels or if this thousand mile high brick wall between them will ever crumble. They could build a ladder.

         "No. Not me and Erica." Scott says.

         "No. I wouldn't take Allison's sloppy seconds. Girl acts like she's Katniss Everdeen shooting arrows and pretending like she's in love..." Erica blurts out. Derek glares at her. The Pack has dinner table rules that strictly forbid Erica from saying another word. Not about insults. There's a rule about The Hunger Games. No one is allowed to speak of the series at the dinner table. End of story. Boyd has no idea why Derek enforces the rule, but he does not care for the movie. He does not plan on reading the books, either. Boyd can smell the acid toiling away in his stomach. The Perks of Being a Werewolf.

         "Then, Lydia, what the hell were you talking about then?" Derek says. "If it's not Allison and Scott, then who is it?"

         Derek is still fixated on Allison and Scott being the source of the pack's 'problem'. He looks at Stiles. Stiles seems to think the same thing. Cute that they are on the same page.

         "It's not us, Derek." Allison says. "It's you and St..."

         Boyd has never heard Allison get so...fussy before. Scott covers her mouth before she says too much. She probably would be fussy. Boyd would be, after being accused of public sexual frustration, or whatever the psychologist's term is for the standoff between Derek and Stiles, which has gone unresolved even though they seem friendly enough. Then, Boyd forgets, why did they start fighting in the first place? It had to be for some shit silly reason. He stares down at his Coke. Coke or Pepsi, Derek? Coke. Why? Because it's so much better. Well, I guess we all know what that makes you. Makes me what, Stiles? We all know it, Derek. No point in saying it outloud. They had just ordered drinks. Derek ordered Coke. Stiles ordered Pepsi, and the waiter told him they only served Coke. He grumbled for a bit, and asked for water. Derek kept asking Stiles what liking Coke made him. Stiles kept refusing. No one could order their dinner.

         "Me and who?" Derek asks. "Me and...Erica? Me and Lydia? Me and Allison? Ridiculous. They're...teenagers."

         Eyeroll from Stiles.

         "Someone's a bonafide heterosexual." Stiles comments. "Couldn't it be possible that Derek Hale has sexual tension with one of the male members of this table, hmm? Isaac? Boyd? Scott? Way to be progressive Derek, you backwards, Coke-loving..."

         "Again with the Coke. No Stiles, I'm not attracted to guys. Unlike you. You made me try on shirts in front of you and Danny for an hour, Stiles. That's not saying anything..."

         "What? I was trying to hunt the Alpha for your sake. You snuck into my house Derek. You pinned up against a wall. You've pinned me up against a wall, a lot, actually, and don't think I don't count because I do."

         "Right. 'Hunt the Alpha'. Hunt the Alpha my ass. Stiles, I don't think stress induced erections exist. Oh, alright. Look it up then! I dare you..." Lydia nods her head. She loves being right. She loves being right and she finds a home in the chaos, in the heat of battle, maybe she finds it somewhat comforting that she might be the least crazy at the table. Between Erica and the Stiles & Derek show, she had a good chance to be.

         Boyd sips his Coke while the table watches the fight. They're coming close to being kicked out of the restaurant. Boyd's stomach kicks. He won't take it anymore. He doesn't think he can. He cracks his neck, side to side, and props himself off his seat. Erica and Isaac offer concerned looks—the wide-lipped wide-eyed poke Smaug and get burned glance—but he reassures them with his nod, his own I'm Bilbo and I've got this confidence, that nearly an hour of food-deprivation has burned in him. As he gets up, he sees the same concern in Scott and Allison. Even in Lydia, maybe half as much in Lydia, still, Boyd appreciates the gesture. Shit. That fearful tension he felt earlier is rising up through him. What he's about to do, what he's about to bring down upon them all, might change everything, might kill him, might kill someone. Boyd thinks back to the people behind him. He's the hero, the fucking hero, saving the day for people who give a damn, and for some reason, the fear matters less and less until it doesn't matter at all. By the time Boyd pushes Derek and Stiles together, he's not thinking at all. He acts. He moves. He coordinates. He lets the natural forces collide.

         Boyd doesn't force them into the kiss. He knows better than that. In the spacetime of blackholes, there's a mathematically predictable surface called the event horizon, the point of no-return. All matter that passes that point has no chance of coming back. In the science of sexual frustration, the same is true. Bring two people who have been pushed to a point of wanting each other long enough into a close enough distance to each other, and it's mathematically predetermined that they won't return. Contact is inevitable. Derek and Stiles, making out on the table of the Chili's, spiling everyone's drinks, well, just a consequence of physics. The Pack is forced out immediately. Family restaurants try to ignore the processes behind family formation, after all. Derek drops a forty for the waiter on his way out. He hasn't taken his hands off of Stiles for a second. His lips either. Is he the Dad? Is Stiles the mom? Is Boyd the Grandpa? Families don't need dads or moms. They just need members who care about each other. Even if that 'caring' involves a bit of sexual tension.

            They eat at the In-N-Out, at least, six of them do. Isaac sits next to Allison. Lydia and Erica share an order of animal fries. Boyd and Scott finally have their so my best-friend and your best-friend seem to really like each other talk. Families have their problems. Sure. That's a given. Boyd bites into his burger. He takes a sip of his lemonade. He sinks his feet into the floor. He finds solace in the quiet.

Chapter Text

Indian summer hits central California hard that autumn. On Monday there are clouds in the sky and Stiles wears a red hoodie to school, but on Tuesday he can barely make the walk from the front door to his Jeep in flip-flops, board shorts, and a cotton tee without sweating through a near inch-thick layer of deodorant. He throws his backpack into the passenger seat, and slides his key into the ignition when he notices his dad's car parked out in the middle of their driveway. The sweat drips from his forehead as he runs back into the house to grab the keys to the pick-up truck, which he hopes to find on the kitchen counter, but that's wishful thinking, too wishful for the morning hours when the stars have long burned out for the day.

            The counter is empty except for the usual empty tumblers and bottles, takeout boxes, and mail. He checks the usual places. The cabinets. The bathroom. The empty pockets of his dad's pants, shirts, strewn along the floor of the master bedroom. Sleeping on the couch, one hand slumped over to the floor, is ex-Sheriff Stilinski, half a year out of the job, wearing a pair of faded jeans and not much else. The rest—the shoes, the shirt, the socks—are tossed around the living room, probably to accommodate for the rising temperature as the heat settled in overnight. Stiles fishes out what he has been looking for—a set of keys held together by a keyring—from his dad's right pocket. Before he can go, Stiles sees the dark rings around his dad's eyes, his dried lips. The keys fall to the floor. Stiles stands, looking at his sleeping father, for awhile without moving, then bites his lower lip, and picks up the keys to the truck.

            Stiles pulls his dad's car out of the driveway. In the cupholders he sees a box of condoms, and a half-empty tub of lubricant. He closes his eyes, parks the car, shuts the engine off, and heads over to the Jeep. He stares out at the road, gripping the steering wheel. He sighs the deep sigh, and the day goes by without much to remember. Sweat drips from his forehead. He twists the air-conditioning dial, pointing the white arrow to the farmost blue bar. Nothing but hot air from the vents. Another deep sigh from his stomach, another futile attempt at release. Time. Time passes. How much? He can't tell. There are faces. Noises. Figures in a dark haze. Barely tolerable up until a point. Held at dagger point from the inside, he freezes in the hallway between Calculus I and American Literature.

            He sees Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore.

            She's there standing next to him, hand around his arm, head on his shoulder, strawberry-blonde hair flayed about her shoulders, flighty voice in the warm Indian Summer air. Her dress cuts inches above her knees. Her skin runs without blemish. His eyes trace her figure over and over again, but he has caught him doing this too many times. Sweat on his forehead, Stiles lets the scene sink in bit by bit as Jackson deepens his cruel smile. Jackson touches her cheek, pulls her close, and kisses her. Lydia closes her eyes, her muscles relax, in her shoulders and in her knees; every part of her opens up to him. The flower meets the sun, fiery Sol. Stiles draws his gaze close to the floor, and walks away.

            The blood gushes and rushes through his veins, his arteries, his capillaries, until his skin is red and he can feel his entire body pulse and radiate. He wants to find an empty place. He wants to be a mole for today, and sneak underground where no one can find him. Collapse the tunnel and bury him alive under the cool earth. Lockers down the hallways, classrooms behind the doorways, heat from the blood beneath his skin, from the air, collides. What joints give out first, the knees, the elbows, he's on the floor, and there are voices. They surround him. He's gone.

            He wakes up in a bed, dark room, barely lit by a window covered by blinds. An air-conditioner rumbles by the corner window. Someone in the chair by the bed. This is the small room by the nurse's office. He can hear the slow, steady breath, the turning of crisp pages, and the air conditioner in the dim background. Stiles opens his eyes. He deciphers the face from its features. He closes his eyes, and pushes them open again. Still there. He would be there when he opened them again.

            "You're awake."

            "That I am, Derek. Glad to see you in a place where you shouldn't be, again." Stiles musters the strength to sit up. Derek lifts his eyes from the book. He gestures for Stiles to lie back down again.

            "Rest. You fainted. That's bad, Sherlock Stiles."

            "Glad to hear that you care...I feel like you've been saving that one."

            "No. I wasn't." Derek says.

            "Will you tell me why you're at the school, again?"

            "I can be. That's all."

            "I'll scream."

            "Screaming requires a throat." His is cold.

            Stiles lies down. He turns to Derek.

            "Can you tell me what you're reading at least?" Stiles asks, adjusting his head on the pillow.

            "Rainer Maria Rilke."

            "Rainy Mary Rykie?"

            "Rainer Maria Rilke. Stiles, please, shut up and sleep. Scott asked me to watch you. You have a fever." Derek forces Stiles to touch his own forehead, feel his own heat for himself.

            "How do you know?" Stiles says.

            "I'm a wolf. I can smell a weakened animal." Derek says. "Your dad can't pick you up until later. Apparently, his car was stolen this morning. That's what I picked up from the nurse over there."

            "Fuck..." Stiles groans. He covers his face with both his hands. "I left the goddamned keys in the car when I moved it. He's...going to kill me. He's going to fucking kill me."

            The smell of saline is slight. Derek breathes deep, cracks his neck, and hits Stiles with his Rilke book. The pain is sudden, small, but the surprise startles Stiles more than anything.

            "WHAT WAS THA..." Derek shuts Stiles's lips with the bound side of his book.

            "You were about to cry. I don't do well with crying. I'm not supposed to be here either. So keep it down." Derek commands. "Before I have to knock out the nurse and leave."

            Stiles settles down, dipping his elbows into the mattress. He focuses on breathing for awhile, settling the panic in his stomach, trying to ease the heat out of his system. He stares at Derek.

            "Who is Rilke? Was he a werewolf?" Stiles asks. Derek rolls his eyes. He lays a thumb onto the page, and closes the book.

            "He was a German poet. One of the best." Derek says. "If you want, I can read a poem to you. It'll help you feel better."

            "If you want." Stiles says.

            Derek begins.

            Everything is far

            and long gone by.

            I think that the star

            glittering above me

            has been dead for a million years.

            I think there were tears

            in the car I heard pass

            and something terrible was said.

            A clock has stopped striking in the house

            across the road...

            When did it start?...

            I would like to step out of my heart

            and go walking beneath the enormous sky.

            I would like to pray.

            And surely of all the stars that perished

            long ago,

            one still exists.

            I think I know

            which one it is

            which one, at the end of its beam in the sky,

            stands like a white city ...

            "That's enough for today." Derek shuts the book. His chest moves with his breath. In, out, up, down, along with his shoulders, everything in coordinated motion.

            "What? I could read some more. One more Rykie."

            "One poem. Rilke shouldn't be taken in excess. Not when you're sad. There's such a thing as too strong a pill." Derek says. "Tomorrow. We can read another. Then the next, we can up your dosage to two poems."

            "Are you my doctor now?"

            "I can't give you a choice. I've taken an interest in the case." Derek's fingers are wrapped around the edges of his poetry book. "You either get better or die by my hand."

            "What does it mean 'a clock has stopped striking in the house' across the road?' Did his neighbors die? Kind of reminds you of Isaac and Jackson, you know, the drama across the street, Desperate Wolfwives."

            "You only ever enjoy poetry the minute you stop looking for meaning in it. I haven't stopped to think about what poetry has meant for awhile now. I still won't, even for you."

            "Ass. But...why are you like this, all of a sudden? This poetry reading romantic that Derek Hale probably ate?"

            "You caught me at a good time, Stiles. I always read around here, during the school day when I have the spare time, so I can watch over the Pack if they need me. All Scott had to do was howl. Rilke, Hesse, Mann, well, I primarily read German literature. I could teach German at this school if they still offered it. I majored in German, wrote my thesis on Rilke, spent a year and two summers in Berlin and Munich, the works."


           "After the fire, Laura wanted us out of Beacon. I needed something to do, so I enrolled at Columbia. When I read Rilke for the first time, I just...knew what I wanted to do for the next four years. Nevermind that the word werewolf is of German origin. He understood me at a time I needed to be understood. The thing is: sometimes, the things—the people—we love have nothing to do with compatibility at all. Fate isn't so much about perfect matches, the exact key fitting into the exact slot, but the providence of two stars falling on the same night."

            There is sweat on his forehead. Derek's eyes are green, greener than their usual green, green in an ethereal sense of the color, like grass in the bright moonlight.

           "People are naturally broken things." Derek says. He blows a stream of air through his lips, and continues. "We suffer so long as we live. But, suffering, the wounds we incur, are necessary."

            He raises his arms and his hands. He looks at Stiles, who hasn't batted an eye even once, lost focus, anything. "See, our frayed edges draw us to each other. The parts that make us broken also make There are questions to the universes bigger than 'love', but in the scope of human existence, no question dogs us more than the question of 'why must I keep going on?"

            "Kind of. But no. I got it. I get it. I got you. Entirely. Yes. Yes." Stiles stares at his lap. He gulps down a pit of saliva before meeting Derek eye to eye. "But what if, the answer is as simple, as like, love, I guess?"

            A smile forms on Derek's lips. Not a laugh, but a genuine smile. Stiles's mouth hangs loose. He can't tell what the smile is for, if he's said something strange, if Derek's suddenly lost it, if this is Derek at all. He likes the smile though. He lets Derek smile, and waits for him to explain. If he will ever explain.

            "Sorry. Just. No one's ever said 'I get you' on the first try." The smile fades just as the warning bell rings. "You should get to class. We can meet, tomorrow, if you want. I'll...come. I guess."

            "Yeah. Just...bring the book."

            "Okay." Derek says. "Auf wiedersehen, mein Stiles"


            stands like a white city...

Chapter Text

         Can I ask a question?

         What is...the skin. What are the hands. What is the breath. What is the mouth. What is the heart. What is the cock. Worse, what is the soul. What is guilt, and what is shame. The boy there, across from him, sleeping, who is he and what is he doing there? Just a boy. Boy in every way that you can be. No, not in body, not in the way he arches his hips, not in the way he moans, not in the way he bites his lower lip when Derek entered him the first time. Mentioning the memory gets him hard again, hard and bothered, bothered and wanting.

         Don't make that mistake. Derek. Don't.

         He wants Stiles to sleep. He will be in pain for the rest of the day tomorrow. Blood on the sheets but they switched them before settling back in. Derek is lucky they were in his house, and the washing machine works. The Sheriff, somewhere out there, taking names and working hours for god knows how long, leaving his son for predators who stalk the night. Stiles's room is quaint, comfortable, soft. There are cartoonish characters on the walls, a computer on a desk, some painting Derek admires—he wonders if Stiles painted it, if he did, Derek should compliment him on his talent—of a deep, black spiral on a blue canvas.

         How did the night begin...tell it.

         He did not want to be home. There was a certain disquiet to the Hale house now that Uncle Peter was living there again. Derek received the blunt of the punishments, the scrutinies, the torture, but that night, he needed some time to himself for release. He was, after all, a man even if he had been a werewolf his entire life, a man with needs like any other. Uncle Peter kept him on a tight leash, a ridiculously tight leash, and the time he usually reserved for his excursions had been cut short. Derek was in high need for something, someone, to fuck. And he had to return home soon, lest Uncle Peter victimize Isaac, Boyd, or Erica. They were the same rank now, but Derek still felt responsible for getting them into this mess, for forcing them into the servitude of a madman.

         And he was on the curb crying.

         Their meeting was chance. Coincidence. Derek made no claim to having wanted Stiles specifically, at least, before that night. He tolerated Stiles's presence for Scott's sake. Other than that, Derek did not care for him, and he did not want to be his friend, let alone his fuck buddy. Maybe there was something to be said about Derek's desperation at that point or his loneliness, because the moment he saw Stiles sobbing on the sidewalk, he wanted him. A wolf can sense when to go for the kill, when his prey's throat was exposed and at the ready, ripe and ready. Derek licked his lips and walked forward.

         He didn't recognize you at first.

         Stiles was distraught. Why? Something about his father, Lydia, wolves, grades, lacrosse, all of the above, something, Derek hardly listened. He just watched, smelled, acted. In a dance, you didn't need to listen to the lyrics so much as you needed to listen to the beat itself, the queues to move your feet, adjust your rhythm. What the words meant, if there were even any, were negligible. He kept his eyes focused. He looked interested. He gave Stiles everything he wanted at the moment: an ear to listen to, a handsome face to look at, a calm voice to reassure him that he was—and was going to be—a person people were going to want around.

         He lets the guard down for you.

         "Thanks, Derek. I should have known you would be here, anyway. You're good at showing up when no one expects you to." Stiles had said, sniffling. Derek offered him his handkerchief, the one he reserved for bloodstains.

         "A compliment, you were going to give me one eventually, I knew it." Derek flashed his smile—the smile no one sees and no one remembers.

         "What...I'll take it back then." Derek said.

         "I'm keeping it."

         "Fine. You keep it. Now you're smiling." Derek smiled.

         The wolf smelled blood.

         Derek began to examine Stiles's body, to track a course of the places where he was going to touch, the crest of his neck for example, and the blade of his shoulder, among the obvious places. They had been talking for near an hour; Derek was growing a little impatient, but he knew that the kill was impending. He would insist on fucking Stiles's mouth, after all that talking, listening, and waiting. Ironic sex. Was that a new sort of fetish he had only invented just then? He wondered exactly what that mouth felt like. He wondered if Stiles knew how to give a blow job, a proper one, not a bad one like most teenagers, where they sit there, on their knees, mouths open and tongues flaying, barely hitting the head or any of the parts you wanted them to, not even doing any sucking at first because they're overwhelmed. It's a fucking cock in their mouth. It's warm. It's hard. It's throbbing. It's the thing their mothers told them to fear and it's the thing their fathers zip up in the bathroom. They don't know what to think the first time. They think: it's in my mouth, he's looking down on me, oh fucking hell, I should...what did she say to do? tongue...and...Derek wished Stiles was nothing like that.

          He leans closer.

         "Derek, you're warm." Stiles whispered. They sat on the curb together. Stiles had leaned his head on Derek's shoulder.

         "Stiles, don't be weird."

         "I'm..." Stiles said, nervously. "weird?

         "Unless you want to be weird. I can be fine with weird." Derek said. "Calling me warm weird. Not khanima weird. I've had enough of khanima weird for right now."

         "Oh, fuck, Derek..."Stiles tried to pull away. Derek stopped him. Pulled him closer, even.

         "I'm weird too." Derek said. He kissed Stiles. He kissed him, lightly, without any weight at first, then with all the weight he could place in a single kiss. "See, weird?"

         He was wide-eyed and he never looked so amazed.

         At the foot of the stairs in the Stilinski house, they broke their kiss for air. Stiles leaned on Derek for support, trying to catch his breath.

         "Let's..." Derek said, pointing to the upstairs.

         "Derek, I don't..."

         "Don't think...listen." Derek pulled Stiles's hand over the bulge in his crotch. "To this. You were about to say: I don't know if I want to do this. You really can't say you don't want to, when your dick says you clearly do. Now, start being honest with yourself, could you really refuse someone who wants you? Who actually wants you around? Your dad? Scott? Lydia? The truth is, right now, no one wants you more than I do."

          He was hungry and running out of time. He inched closer. Trembling, an invitation, each second a liability.

         "Wha...Derek, don't talk like...fah..." Stiles gave in. "'re..."

         "Let me show you what it's like to be wanted, to be loved, Stiles. You, more than anyone, deserved to be loved. I think so, at least, so please, let me fuck you so hard that every bone in your body remembers how much I want you." Derek lingered over Stiles's ear. "I never want to see you cry again. I never want to see you sad. I never want to you see you alone, rejected, neglected. Never again. With me, never again."

         "Yes." Stiles said. "I' it."


         He was a virgin. He acted like one. Derek smelled the fear on Stiles, and it excited him. Virgins were blank canvases waiting to be filled. Derek led Stiles up to the bedroom by the wrist. The difference in strength was staggering, but Derek had been with humans before. Nothing new. There was a certain care a werewolf had to take when fucking a human, particularly another male, because he did not heal so well when his hole was stretched out. With another wolf, you could go as fast as you wanted, as hard as you wanted, without fear or hesitation, but with a human, you needed to stare into their eyes, gauge their eyes, time to time ask them how they were feeling, give a shit. Added to that night's festivities was the fact that Stiles was a virgin, Derek was growing exceedingly impatient.

         He whimpers.

         And that drove Derek wild. Suddenly, Stiles was gripping the sides of his mattress, trying to contain himself as Derek sucked and teased his cock; he had never done anything like this before. He...had touched himself before, watched videos, but nothing like this. Derek maneuvered from the tip to the base, lapping his tongue around the circumference of the head, personally vacuuming out drops of precum with pressed lips, trying to force Stiles into ejaculation. What Derek enjoyed most about the game was Stiles's attempts to stall the inevitable, to try and prove himself somehow, like he was not some sort of seventeen year old virgin.

         He bucks his hips.

         Not a shot wasted. Stiles collapsed, breathless and completely flushed.

         "You taste so good, Stiles." Derek said. "You want a taste?"

         He swallowed the majority of Stiles's spill, but there were bits left in his mouth, around his tongue. Derek crawled over Stiles, and pressed their mouths together, exchanging the frothy leftover cum between them. Stiles tried to fight Derek's tongue, pushing it out of his mouth; this was his own shot after all, but he was beginning to learn that refusing Derek, refusing whatever pleasure Derek offered him, had become impossible. Stiles gulped the mix, to Derek's delight.

         "That's...great." Derek peeled off his own shirt. "You're going to be doing that a couple times for me, okay? Because, you look so cute when you're swallowing your own cum, Stiles. I think so."

         He nods.

         It only a took a few minutes working Stiles's body for Derek to decide that he was, without doubt, going to do him again. He had so many vulnerable spots, so many areas of interests waiting to be exploited, that Derek could not do all of what he wanted in one night. He was a child again, lost in a candy store; hell, even when he was a kid, he had never even liked candy stores. But he assumed to the feeling was close to having sex with Stiles. Though, like every visit to the candy store, there came a time when you had to stop browsing and you needed to go up to the register and buy the stuff you wanted.

         "Lift your legs up. Good. Keep them up. You can rest them right there if you need to." Derek said.

         What was Stiles other than someone Derek wanted. A thing to be used when Derek was at the end of his ability to stand the world. One finger, two, three, there, ready, Stiles was ready. Uncle Peter had probably started going off on the other Betas. He needed to hurry. Stiles, fuck Stiles, Derek held him by the hips, hands on either side. People were things as much as every other thing in the world. Free floating in the quantified mess of the universe, people thought they were special because they could think, feel, fuck. Stiles kept his eyes open. He kept looking at Derek as if he were waiting. What were you waiting for? Derek was at your door. Derek entered. Derek started rocking in and out. Uncle Peter would have never given you so much warning, so much preparation, so much care.

         Eyes open, he bites his lower lip.

         Derek realized what the hell Stiles was waiting for: Derek had promised him love and patiently he waited. Derek came inside him, and he knew, by instinct and by experience, what to do next.

         Turn him to his side, spoon him until he falls asleep.

         He wants Stiles to sleep. More than that, he needs Stiles to be happy. Derek gets up, gathers his clothes, and leaves through the window. People are fragile. They fuck. They are fucked. People are sentimental things. They are partial to feelings for each other. When faced with the harsh reality of what his responsibilities are and what his life could be, Derek walks home against the beat of his own heart.


Chapter Text


         They build them out of stone and plot holes in the earth to place them. On their faces they carve inscriptions, and sometimes pictures. They sit, they wait, they wallow in the dirt, and they point towards the dead, the ones the living have buried, have sworn to remember, at least, some. This is the great mystery in graveyards, the great joy and the great sorrow. Where the living walk amongst the dead, above them, carrying flowers and carrying memories, with each passing year the load lighter than the last.

         Today he carries no flowers, only a wallet, only keys, only a cellphone missing its charge. When once he wore black, the first suit he ever wore; dad held him still, he wanted to run, he wanted to run into the grave and he wanted to dive into the soil and he wanted time to end and he wanted the priest to stop talking so he could catch his breath. Breath was heavy then. Air was heavy. Hands were heavy on his shoulders. Pushing him down, keeping him under, keeping him from moving, and the words kept coming like knives—dead, passed, remember, gone, happy, happy, mom, you, will, buried—sharp and aimed for the heart. No, Stiles, remember her, love her, she loved you, sorry for your loss, the words bled him dry but he still cried. Where was river's end? He had asked himself. Not today. He walks silently to the same place.

         "Dad." He says.

         "Stiles." Solid like the gravestones. Face like them. Strong. "Just talking to her. I felt like I had to, you know."

         "You were out all night." He wore black. He held Stiles down by the shoulders and said she loved you and i love you and we'll get through this son and don't ever forget her, alright. "But I kinda guessed you would be here."

         "I'm that predictable, huh? She...was like you, you know, wild. Unpredictable. Smart. She kept up with you, with you. I feel like...I've always felt like if one of your parents had to raise you alone, she should have been the one, Stiles, she would have done the better job. She would hate me for saying that. I don't know why she even liked me in the first place. Straight-laced cop met the...wild California girl. I barely had the balls to ask her out the first time. It took years of knowing her before...we went out for the first time, but that first time, we both knew what we were standing on." His face like gravestones.

         "Dad." He says.

         "Just listen, Stiles, alright?"


         What next? What other words. What are the words.

         "When she died, when your mother died, I didn't know what the hell I was doing. You were a kid. Not a kid. You were like three kids. You...had all these quirks I wasn't used to dealing with by myself, so I had to learn how to deal. I mean, sometimes, I have to admit, I started ignoring them mostly. I slid them under the rug because it was easier than...talking about the problems. That's my fault. We don't talk much about the problems. The quirks. The things that bother you. I just. It's hard. After she died, her being gone was our one big problem. If we started handling the little problems, we might touch on the big one, and I didn't want to. You didn't want to. We both didn't. So we both learned how to handle ourselves without ever dealing with things directly."

         Big black hole in the middle of a blue canvas.

         "Now, you're seventeen. You're practically an adult. I can't...tell you that you don't have a right to be with the person you love. If you love this guy. Thing is, I didn't even know you swung that way, Stiles. I didn't even know. Were there signs? You played lacrosse. You obsessed over Lydia. You wore...straight clothing. I just, didn't know."

         The shouting. The threats.

         "Dad, I...I didn't even know. It just happened. He happened. And, I am pretty attractive to gay guys so..."

         "I overreacted yesterday. I wasn't thinking. I was in the wrong. I have to admit that. But you should have told me, Stiles. At least, I thought we had that much. You're everything I have left. But I guess I wouldn't have understood if you told me. That's how dads are. We want our sons to be...exactly how we want them to be. It's the mothers that love them just as they are. It's the mothers that show the fathers how to love them just as they are. That's how it was with my parents. I guess...that's why I'm here right now. Talking to your mother. Trying to understand how to process the fact that you were...with Derek Hale in my living room yesterday afternoon."

         "Granted. We didn't expect you home."

         "Granted. I want you to be honest with me Stiles. When I get back to the station, I have the right to arrest Derek Hale for having sex with my seventeen year old son. You understand that right? As a man of the law, as the Sheriff, I'm obligated to do so."

         "Dad, please. I mean. was my idea. Derek...was seduced. You know Stilinskis. We're masters of...seduction."

         "Doesn't mean he has half a brain to...screw a minor. I just. I want you to know that."

         Don't let him. Done. Clouds fall and scatter.

         "Dad. I need you to keep quiet about this for me."

         Rain on Rahoon.

         "Derek, he's the first person, who really, gets me. I mean, you love me, but you don't get me. We're in front of mom's grave and I can't lie. I can't freaking lie that I probably love Derek and I want to...have his babies however we're going to do that even though I'm seventeen and he's twenty-four and I'm talking out of my ass right now because I don't want him to go to jail because I've been a horny slut. It's sad, but I probably won't ever do any better than him. I mean, holy freaking shit, those eyes, those arms, okay, I'm weirding you out right now, but come on dad, don't...don't. I can't. Derek, Derek's the only one who's ever going to make me feel this way, I'm sure of it, because, I think, I know, somehow we're going to make this work forever. So, there it is. I love Derek Hale. So please, keep him out of jail and keep letting him fuck me until I turn eighteen because God knows I'll wait for him to get out of prison."

         "Don't talk to your father Stiles. Your father shouldn't be the one having that conversation with you either."

         "I can't control myself."

         "That's a problem. Your grades go down at all, he's gone. You also need to start getting some extra-curriculars together so you can actually go to college. A good college."

         "You're using the threat of my boyfriend going to jail to get me into college?"

         "Yes." Stone-faced. "Her idea."

         They walk away from the grave. Say their goodbyes. It's quiet now. Too quiet. Just as she likes it. Where is she now? Somewhere far. Not too far and not too near. A distance away that allows her to watch, to listen. She likes the werewolf. She likes the tattoo on his back. She likes the fact that through all of this, through their intimate family moment, he stands from his distance, blushing like mad, because her son loved him. He was family now too. She would wait for his flowers one day, but until then, she would be content watching, just watching. If anyone could love her son, he could, because he wanted to be loved and to love. She could tell. Her husband had the same look on his face. The same harshness to his gait. Oh, their children, her grandchildren, she wanted a lot. She could tell he wanted one or two. One or two to give all his love and attention to.

         She respects that.

         He takes her son out to dinner one night and she watches from the table over. They laugh. He has a laugh people seldom hear. A smile people seldom see, but her son knows how to pull it out of him with such skillful ease. She knows where  he gets it. He gets it from his father. Her husband knew exactly how to make her smile when she needed a smile. The dinner is slow because the two talk through the hours, hardly touching their food, which is a sign of a great meal. After they're done, they head back to the car, and begin to kiss. She knows it is time for her to leave. She watches for a moment, to see her son close his eyes, to see her son happy. The last moments she spent with him were miserable. She missed his blissful face.

         It is Christmas Eve. Her husband invites him to their house. Her son is excited, and he cannot sleep the night before. It is a small, happy night for them. Her son is tired but he forces the other two to watch the movies she used to watch with him. The clay-animation movies about reindeer and elves. On the couch, he lets her son fall asleep on his chest, while her husband drinks his whiskey, toasting to the season. Oh, she feels alive again, only for a moment.

         It is New Year's. Her son's friends have a party. It is big, and they serve alcohol. Her son is drunk by ten o'clock, but she does not mind. She was just as wild as a teenager. When the clock strikes twelve, her son kisses him for good luck and for a good year to come. She hopes the best for them too, but she is not there, no, she is at the police station, with her husband, who is drinking with his friends, and she kisses him on the cheek though he cannot know. She wants him to be happy.

         It is her son's birthday. Her son is finally eighteen. Her son is going off to college. Her husband has a new girlfriend. The party runs long into the night, and it ends when he asks her son if he can move in with him in the fall. They agree. She is glad for them both. She is glad for her husband and for his girlfriend. It occurs to her that the time may come for her to move on, but she knows that there is one more thing they must do.

         Her son walks up to her grave. It is late August.

         "Hey. I just...wanted to say thanks. For everything."

         Oh, he has finally brought her the flowers she asked for.

         "This is Derek, Mom."

         "Hey, Mrs. Stilinski. I'm Derek. Stiles's, live-in boyfriend. Officially."

         He is cuter in person.

         "Dad didn't want to spoil our moment with you, whatever that means. I'm sorry it took so long to introduce you two. I didn't want to introduce a guy to you that...wouldn't stick, you know. I know, who waits nearly a year,'re worth the wait, Mom. I had to know if Derek was really special. And he is."

         She knows that. She knew that. But she is happy her, she is bursting with joy. She is crying. She can't hold back the tears.

         "I'm going off to college now. Like, in a day. Derek's coming too. We're living together. He's going to apply to graduate school there. He's a genius. So he'll get in. I'm sure. Mom. I just want to say that I love you. I think about you everyday. There's so many things I want to tell you about. So many things. But I'll end up talking my life away if I do that. I guess I want to say that I miss you. Maybe I'll miss you forever. But I'm alright with that feeling now. You know? I've been waiting for so long to get to this point where I stop...feeling so empty when I miss you. Now when I miss you, which is still a lot, I just...feel light. I'm weightless. I love you, Mom. So, until next time."

            She's gone.

Chapter Text


         "It's you. It's all you. You know ev...

         Tonight a track plays in Stiles's mind. He wonders who pressed play and which store sells the goddamned cassette because the lyrics are needless in the spine, twisted needles. Another sip of the flowery punch, the music, the dancing, the drag-queens, Scott and Allison, Lydia the queen of hearts, Jackson the two-faced lizard, and there Stiles sits, the Joker, the man with the funny thing to say and the face to turn to when things are grim, always the guy on the short end of the stick, the man without the girl but with all the problems, wallowing. Up there is a full moon and down here are a bunch of werewolves waiting to tear each other apart. He risks his life. He risks his livelihood. His father's livelihood. Shit. To end up alone on the floor of Lydia Martin's house, lost. That's all he is right now. Lost.

         "...ery day I saw her lying..."

         Is he talking to himself? No, someone's sitting next to him. Against the wall. Wearing a leather jacket, a white shirt, jeans, green eyes; can someone wear green eyes? English is full of expressions. Expressions that express the way people feel. How long can he keep loving Lydia until she notices him. She still thinks she is the center of attention, the belle of the ball, the most popular girl in school. If Stiles told her that she was the town crazy, would she finally turn around and embrace the town gangly? Tell him. Ask the guy next to him if telling Lydia she's all but fallen to the bottom of the lake where Stiles, king of the merfolk, has been waiting for her all this time.

         " that hospital, slowly dying..."

         His voice is broken. Classic Stiles. That's all he can say. What—a—fucking—joke—Stilinski. The guy must think he's crazy. Bilinski! Get on the field. He missed that game. The only game he would have ever played, and he missed it to go Alpha hunting with sourwolf grumpy ears. The worst of it is he came home happy, happy that he let his dad down, happy that he let Scott down, happy that he managed to stay king of the merfolk for another week. Look at the kid you raised, dad, the melted piece of plastic you raised, stalking gay clubs with his best-friend, following werewolves and khanimas, getting drunk on fruit punch. Not in those clothes. Not in these clothes. Not in these clothes. Sourwolf in his favorite Mets polo. Orange and Blue. Not his color? Fuck off Danny.

         "...I thought, how the hell..."

         The rollercoaster. Get him off. He wants off. Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into dew! Preferably Code Red. God. Prohibition years in the Stilinski house, sneaking in the Dew with Scott during sleepovers, playing XBOX until 4 AM hiked up on Dew and Cheetos. Talking about Lydia, still talking about Lydia, until Dad came down the stairs and told them to fall asleep. His eyes when he saw the four two-liter bottles scattered along the floors. Red, sleepless eyes, and his voice when he picked that XBOX up and closed the light for good. Never did sleep a wink those nights. Mrs. McCall's face the next morning, shaking her head, right before they fell asleep. 11:00 AM. Best boyhood summers. Scott's with Allison now. He's a wolf and he's happy and he has everything going for him minus the imminent threat of death at every corner. Why can't they go back to the Mountain Dew and the XBOX? Guy in the leather jacket, why can't they go back to the Mountain Dew and the XBOX?

            " I supposed to raise this stup..."

         Crackers. Stiles forgets he really can't say much else. The worst sort of death, the silent ones, not a bang but a whimper, don't shoot mister, Stiles wants a chance to plead, to be scared. That's why he puts himself in the headlights. He wants to face the axe head first, plunge, take the plunge, motherfucker! No, mom, he didn't mean to use the words like that. Stiles promised to be good for you. He promised not to cause too much trouble for dad. He promised but he didn't exactly follow through didn't he? Dad's out of a job. Stiles is out of his mind. Guy, leather jacket, what do you think, did Stiles disappoint his dying mother? Oh, he's used to your silence.

         " kid on my own..."

         Tell Scott. Tell Scott. Tell Scott. Your world can't shatter again. If it's already broken, then it can't break again. Unless someone wants to turn the shards into smaller, even more pathetic pieces of dust. Tell Scott how he's feeling. Get that magic best-friend advice medicine that makes the monsters shrink. No, not when the real monsters go bump in the night and kiss the girl of your dreams in the day. Oh Stiles, oh you magnificent son-of-a-mermaid-princess go jump in the pool again and maybe he'll let you hold him again for awhile. Guy in the leather jacket, does that sound cool? There's nothing on his face again. Just green eyes and a look like the ocean from heaven's eye.

         "...this hyperactive little bastard..."

         "If I let you hold me again, will you shut up?"

         The guy speaks. Stiles has hit the Freudian jackpot. Better let Jung announce the prizes because Derek freaking Hale is sitting right next to him.

         "...who keeps ruining..."

         Can he get him in Mets? No, Derek likes the Dodgers. Where...there are fantasies here, baseball games they attend, discussions they have about teams, arguments, make-up sex. Why does Derek like the Dodgers? Because Derek seems like the kind of Southern California douche who would get behind a team like that, that's why.

         "What is that you want from me, Stiles?"

         A trip down Highway 101. From San Francisco to Ventura. We take a stop at the beaches. San Luis Obispo. Santa Barbara. Santa Monica. Go surfing. Ride the waves. Get out of this supernatural mess of a town, the creepy trees, and all the memories. Just for a little while. Eat shitty food. Mess around. Your Camaro. Sex in a motel. Your smile during the sunset. Your sleeping face during the sunrise.

         " life? It's you..."

         "It's you that saved me, Stiles."

         Matching sweaters on Christmas. Rides on your back when you transform into the alpha wolf. Sex on weekdays. Stiles could write a list. He could. Then again, he doesn't know if it's his intersecting mommy-daddy issues and Derek's grumpiness that are making him gush all these things out at once, but Stiles decides on an explanation of the tattoo on Derek's back. Was it a three-leafed clover? Was Derek Irish? Lucky Charms in the morning and in the evening. No sourwolf face about breakfast for dinner either.

         "It's you that saved me, Stiles."

         "...It's you, Stiles..."

         "In the pool, at the vet's."

         "...You killed your..."

         "You kept me from drowning."

         "...mother. You hear..."

         "You drove me around all afternoon."

         " You killed..."

         "You saved me."

         "...her. And now..."


         "...You're killing me..."

         "I'm alive thanks to you."

         Humor helps. He had been drowning and humor kept him afloat for so long. Kept him from drowning completely. The pearl island he had been waiting for just came into sight. What is happening to the time around here? Dali painted the clocks melting, and now—what was in the flowery punch exactly—Stiles keeps floating back from the past and present. He lays his head on Derek's chest, and listened to Derek's heartbeat. Where is the sex, though? He was a teenage boy sitting next to the hottest guy in Beacon Hills. There needed to be more than just skin-to-skin contact.

         Heart-to-heart communication. Literally. What does badump mean in response to badump? When two people lie so close, especially when their hearts are aflutter, its like a freaking cardiotelegraph, one layer of myocardium to another. Stiles feels like a child again. No. Worse. He feels like he's nothing again, like that floating feeling before people get born, when they're sprites dancing in the freeform spirit earth. Oh, there goes Derek's hand, and they're officially cuddling like two stuffed animals on a little girl's bed. She's made them gay because 2012 is progressive. What a freakshow. This party is a freakshow of gay little girls with gay teddybears. Best thing is: no one can see this except Stiles.

         Because this Derek doesn't exist.

         Then all these flighty feelings are just that: flighty feelings ready to move at the touch of the wind. Lydia and her flower juice. Scott and his girlfriend. Derek and his warm, leather jacket. He wants to write a story where they have this amazing happy ending. He imagines it may go something like this, but who knows:


         Derek, wearing his sexy aviators, was in the stands as Stiles Stilinski scored the winning goal at the Beacon Hills championship game. He cheered. Jackson was on the bench. Stiles could not afford to be seen with Derek in public, because Derek was the desperate yet sexy twenty-three year old Stiles was secretly dated. But as Stiles high-fived his best-friend Scott, he smiled at Derek, because they both knew what was coming in a couple hours:

         Wild, crazy sex in Derek's Camaro with Stiles on top.


         A rough work in progress. He has another.


         They had to get matching tuxedos, of, too gay. Well, they were gay; that was a given if they were going to pursue the relationship. They had to come out to people and say: yeah, we're gay. How is he going to handle that, exactly, with Dad? He can't exactly...well, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. The worst thing in the world would be: dad I'm a werewolf and my girlfriend is a hunter and we're on two opposing sides of a feud. Poor, poor Scott. Good thing Mrs. McCall loves West Side Story. She'll eat the drama up. God, does that make Stiles Riff?


         Where the conversation lasts about five seconds


         Because fuck being the guy that dies.


         He has his pride. Even though he plays the bench, even though he's Robin to someone else's Batman, even though he plays second fiddle to a furry first fiddle, he wants to play that role with pride. That's nothing much to ask for. He knows what Derek's wolfed-out, Alpha eyes will look like when they finally learn that the least eligible male at Beacon Hills likes him in the let me count the ways fashion. It will be a hard stare. Like looking up at a skyscraper, a mountain, something impossibly tall, something he knows he'll never be able to scale with the body he has, no matter how long or how hard he tries.

         "Stiles, Stiles," Derek. Where's Derek, now?

         Reality is a harsh call. Even on flower punch, reality finds its way. Death. Taxes. So shall you fall into the waking world.

         "Drink the water, come on Stiles. Drink the water."

         "That's no way to sober a guy up."

         Baptism. Straight into the cold water. Up. Drops on his face, pool water in his mouth, and the absence of Derek's mercurial heartbeat. Scott hovering over him.


        Has a happy ending perhaps. He is certain that it does.



Chapter Text


         Stiles had been in college a year and a half, fucking around with his share of the campus population, male and female, whoever showed up on his half of the bunk. Stiles believed in open sexualities: if the tool fits, then you might as well stick it in. It was an easy-going way of life that brought its own sort of highs and lows. He was set to be a sexually-satisfied single man for four years, but, you know, as luck would have him, he met Derek Hale. Who was he? Some corporate something with a nice car, gorgeous green eyes, and a taste for guys like Stiles.

         Their initial meeting came as most initial meetings: through a smartphone dating application. Stiles used Jack'd. Plenty of filters, plenty of guys, with full Android support.

         HALEWOLF: Facepic?

         STILESHEEP: Holy shit dude, uh... I'm like 19.

         HALEWOLF: Facepic?

         STILESHEEP: Okay, creeper!!

         It was then and there that Stiles learned never to underestimate Derek Hale or his incredulous ability to seduce people over mobile devices. By people, he meant himself. Whether it was a u busy at 2 AM or i'm free at 3 AM or even the more degrading dtf @ 11:30? Derek Hale was some sort of magician. The word Stiles needed to use was gifted, but he was a little dumbstruck at the time to think of anything witty.

         HALEWOLF: [IMG] semi.

         STILESHEEP: [IMG] Ugh. Thats me. Still interested?

         HALEWOLF: Where do you want to do this?

         STILESHEEP: I'll take that as a yes. Ugh...I live in a dorm.

         HALEWOLF: We'll get a room for the night. Meet me at this address...3462 Telegraph. I'll be in the lobby. Be discreet.

         STILESHEEP: Iight. See you there, Mr. Big Bad Wolf.

         Did Stiles know that HALEWOLF would end up being the love of his young life? He  did not. He took a quick shower, grabbed a nightpack, and went his horny way. This was a casual hook-up, an unusual one, and if that picture was real, potentially the biggest catch Stiles had ever bagged. There was a slight breeze out, but Stiles remembered the night as one of the warmest ever. He found the hotel. There he was. Mr. Derek Hale, aka HALEWOLF, sitting in the lobby, looking as discreet as he could be. Stiles waved. Well, the first thing Stiles did was stare at his crotch. He wondered if it bulged, but suits always made guys look like they had big bulges.

         "HALEWOLF?" Stiles said.

         "Your name..." He paused. "What is it really?"

         "Stiles. Yours?"

         "Derek. Stiles, you said?"


         "Bullshit. What is your real name? Give me your ID."

         "You can't just..."

         "If you're thinking of blackmailing me to get a free ride through graduate school, you can fuck off." Those eyes were seriously green. Stiles shook in his worn white Converses. "Now, your ID, or this whole thing is..."

         "Okay, okay...are you a bottom? Cause you have a stick up your ass." Stiles pulled out his driver's license. "See? Stiles is just way easier to pronounce."

         "Fine. Let's get a room." Derek said. "You're frustrating, you know that? I'm a top, by the way. Your profile said versatile, but..."

         "You're not. I get it." Stiles said. Derek nodded. Stiles watched Derek flash a wallet with a rainbow full of different colored credit cards, each with a different spending limit, as they booked their room until next morning.  Stiles followed Derek's lead. He noticed he didn't bring anything with him except for his coat, his wallet, and his cellphone.

         "You're not spending the night?"

         "No. I suspected you were, though. So I booked the room. You brought a night pack and everything."

         "I have an 8 AM class tomorrow, so..."

         "I was in college too, Stiles." Derek said. He scanned the keycard, opened the door to the room, and let Stiles walk in first, biding his time before he shut the door behind him. The moment the door closed, Derek moved in, lights closed, as if he were going on scent and intuition alone; Stiles had been caught in some predator's trap.

         "Fuck." Stiles said. Derek had him by the wrists. "Wha..."

         No noise from Derek. Just a tongue running along Stiles's neck, tasting him, evaluating what had just landed in his web, while leading him to the bed, grinding into his hips with his own. Stiles struggled to keep up. He thought he might try to...taste Derek too, but by that time, Derek had started stripping him while stripping himself while using his mouth and tongue as some sort of nipple probe. Every_time Stiles let out a moan, twitched, arched, as Derek assaulted his chest's finer points, it seemed like the jolts—he didn't even know he could get off like this—became more frequent, more concentrated, more disarming. In the less than fifteen minutes since they had known each other, Derek was learning how to abuse each and every sweet spot on Stiles's body. He was the coital equivalent to genetically-engineered mutant monsters on sci-fi features: man thought they could control it, but oh how unprepared they were.

         "Ah, fuck, Derek, Derek..." Stiles did not like playing the call out your name card so early during sex, but he was blowing a fuse and he needed to do something to cool down. Derek hated talking. He loved being talked to, but he himself was the silent type. He simply reacted, moved, adjusted. "Don't with me like that."

         Stiles would learn a valuable lesson from their first encounter: order Derek Hale around and expect retribution, swift, often painful retribution. The second lesson Stiles learned that night: Derek's favorite form of punishment was denial. Suddenly, there were no hands on him, no mouth, no tongue, no heat, only a pair of pants half to his ankles, and his aching cock pressing against his boxer-briefs.

         Where was Derek?

         "Derek? DEREK."

         "You said not to play with you like that." Derek said. He stood over Stiles, nursing his own cock, face stolid as a rock. There was hardly any light in the room but Stiles could make out the faint outline in Derek's pants, protruding slightly leftward, teasing him. Derek had not played this game in a long time.

         "I meant...SHIT. Play with me, please." Stiles said, squirming around the bed. "We can even play Pokemon Red and Green."

         Even Derek, who had put on a strong face for this act, winced a little. "I was offended. When you asked me to stop...I thought you didn't like what I was doing, or something."

         "No. No. I was just. Did you not hear me moaning like a Tijuana whore? Derek, you're amazing and you're like a god and please continue before I explode."

         "Well, if you say so." Derek said. He unbuttoned his shirt  and positioned himself between Stiles's legs, pulling down the rest of Stiles's jeans. There was a new game Derek wanted to play which he knew Stiles would enjoy. He called this game Indecision. The key was to act as if you could not decide exactly where you wanted to start. You picked a body part, then you started up, then moved on as if you had a better idea, then again and again. Derek began playing with Stiles's thighs, snaking up them, tugging at the cloth of his boxer-briefs. He kept his hands moving, up and down Stiles's spine, across his shoulders, all while assaulting up Stiles's thigh, tugging at his boxers, applying tiny bits of pressure on Stiles's delicate member.

         "Shit. Just..."

         Then Derek moved on to his neck. His stomach. Eventually, Derek slipped off Stiles's boxers, and began nipping at his balls, occasionally touching Stiles's cock with his nose or forehead, but never really making contact.

         "God. God. God. Why...Why are you doing this to me, Derek. I'm going freaking insane here." Stiles resorted to biting his own hand. He figured there was nothing he could really do with Derek. He might as well just try and survive the night. He hoped he could cum in good time, but then again, he seldom lasted this long.

         Derek touched the tip of Stiles's cock with the nail of his index finger. After minutes of teasing, Derek thought this would be the result. He expected it.

         "FUCK." Stiles wailed. He slammed his head back into the mattress. Derek left him at that. He pulled Stiles's legs up, and pushed them apart.

         "Yeah, yeah. I'm..." Stiles muttered. He wanted to tell Derek he had cleaned up before he had gotten there, but he was preoccupied with the event.

         Derek wondered what kind of sounds would seep out of Stiles's mouth next. There was something in rimming that drove Derek wild, that made him want to fuck, so much so that it was by far his favorite form of foreplay. The steep invasion of privacy, of being inside Stiles's most sacred space, just, lingering there all the while driving him mad enough to...what was he doing? Giggling? Moaning? Screaming? It was strange. Stiles was strange. There was a rush to being with someone so strange, especially when Derek had been with so many ordinary guys. His tongue dipped back and forth. Stiles was loose enough. He was hard, leaking, and so ready to fuck this college kid.

         He pulled a condom out from his pants pocket.

         "Stiles, did you bring any..."

         "No...fuck me now. No lube. I'm wet enough from the oral bath you just gave me." Stiles had just ordered Derek Hale again, but Derek Hale was in no mood to play games. He just wanted to fuck him. He wanted to be inside Stiles, deep inside, and he wanted to cum. With Derek standing and Stiles's legs up on the bed, he held Stiles steady by the ankles and entered in slowly. Stiles was right. He slipped in easy, not as easily as with lube, but easy enough so that Derek could start pumping a few moments after he broke in. He moved his hips to a steady beat, steady enough to build himself up and hopefully steady enough to get Stiles off.

         Derek was one of the least selfish men Stiles had been with. At least, in terms of sex. It was one of the reasons why he would come back every_time Derek asked him to.

         They were both starting to sweat. Stiles had been sweating for awhile now, but Derek was starting to feel the heat. Through the windows, some light made it through into the room, and Derek could see Stiles clearly, could see the face he made, the twisted face as he bit into the bone of his hand. Was he in pain? Was he... Derek worried that he was going too hard and Stiles was keeping quiet because of the games they played or because he was older; some reason like that.

         "Stiles? Are you okay? Am I hurting you?"

         "No...I just..I'm so close to cumming, Derek. I just wanna cum when you do." Stiles said.

         It was then when Derek realized that Stiles was the kind of person he could genuinely fall in love with. He rocked into him, increasing his pace, and he started grunting. Derek wanted Stiles to know when to let go. He could give him that much. This kid, not even twenty years old, forcing Derek's stony heart open with his endearing gesture. Derek wrapped his hand around Stiles's cock, and start to work him to the motion of his thrusts.

         "I'm close." He said.

         "Derek..." Stiles said.

         They collapsed next to each other. Just panting, their lungs grasping for air. Thinking back on that night, they would have been content lying there forever. But time moves and reality moves along with it.

         Stiles looked at Derek, and asked:

         "Can we do this again? I mean...I didn't do much, but...fuck you were amazing. If you tell me what to practice I'll do it. I swear."

         Derek stared at his hands. His ringless hands.

         "I'm married, Stiles."