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Nothing Like Real Life

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“So,” Stiles says, squinting against the late-afternoon sun. He puts his hands in his pockets so he won’t fidget. “That happened. Is happening.”

“Shut up,” Derek says gruffly. He shifts uneasily, glancing at the piles of little witch-cat-fairy-whatevers and their guts spattered on the leaves and rocks all around him.

Beside Stiles, Scott doesn’t say anything. He’s holding onto the open zipper of his jacket with both hands like it will save him. He’s staring.

Derek glares at Scott.

“Yo,” Stiles says, pivoting his hips. His temples are damp with sweat but he was hardly involved in this fight so, generally speaking, he feels fine. “You’re staring. Scott.”

Now Derek is glaring at him.

“Hey!” Stiles yelps, hands flying out of his pockets to defend himself. “I didn’t do anything! I’m just trying to work out the etiquette here. Politeness: my middle name. Stiles Politeness Stilinkski.”

Derek gives him some relief by glaring at both of them. Scott, the big doofus, is still clinging to his jacket and staring. His eyes slide a little south, which since he’s sixteen and completely unsubtle, Derek doesn’t miss.

Before he can start getting a little long in the tooth about it though, Stiles claps a hand over Scott’s eyes.

“Yes, okay,” he babbles, staring very deeply into Derek’s eyes until he realizes that’s a pretty terrible idea. He switches to the very tip of Derek’s shoulder. “This was fun, with the flying monsters and the magic explosion. And by fun I mean it could have been worse.” When Derek growls Stiles starts to back up, dragging Scott with him, eyes still covered. “Really, Derek. We’re gonna…go now. I will do some research and Scott will be in time-out.”

Scott starts squirming and even trips over a root, but Stiles keeps dragging him. He’s still looking at Derek’s shoulder. It’s really the only safe place to look on Derek.

“And you,” he says, risking at glance at Derek’s stony face. “You just relax.” He looks down, for just a second. “Maybe…buy a bra?”

Derek doesn’t kill him. He just looks pissed-off and exasperated. It could totally be worse.


In the car driving away from the school, Scott says, “Dude,” desperately, which is Scott-speak for Something I don’t understand just happened. Help me understand. He’s let his jacket go, but now he’s holding onto his seatbelt instead. He’s puncturing it with his thumbnail.

“Okay,” Stiles says, as calmly as he can. He has to drive them home, not freak out and keep Scott calm and wolf-free. Three impossible things before dinner, totally doable. “Okay. Let’s process. A) We’re all alive and intact.”

Scott makes a strangled noise.

No,” Stiles warns, trying for his bad dog and/or Scott voice, which existed long before Scott caught the wolf, but he’s getting it close to perfect these days. “We are counting Derek as intact. It counts, Scott.”

Just for a moment he starts to imagine what it would feel like if it was him, and he jerks a little in his lane so he tamps it down ruthlessly. He can think about his own junk later.

“Secondly,” he says, focusing on staying in his lane, “we’re gonna figure this out. We’re smart, capable young men, and Derek’s never met a problem that he couldn’t rip in half and chew to death, so it will be fine. The internet will help us and soon this will be a fond, fucking crazy memory that we will never speak of again.”

By the time he’s finished talking he almost believes it. Things have gotten fucked-up before and they fixed them, more or less. Stiles can live with more or less.

“Dude,” Scott moans, ripping a big hole in his seatbelt, “Derek got turned into a chick.”

“Goddammit, Scott!” Stiles yells, swerving because he’s thinking about it, really thinking about it.


He takes a day. A personal day, to catch up on his math homework, stare at Lydia, and pretend like his life is totally normal.

He even watches some porn. Sitting at his computer in his tighty-whities, jerking it to a way-too long porn is the epitome of normal for Stiles.

Too bad Derek has to ruin it by showing up on his windowsill, saying, “Did you find anything?” in his Batman voice, which he should not be able to do anymore.

Stiles yells and falls off his chair, dick still in hand. He glares at Derek, who glares right back, which is still as effective as ever, maybe even more so because he makes for a super hot chick, but not a friendly-looking one.

What the hell?” Stiles whispers. From his perch Derek looks at Stiles’ face, his dick, the woman getting eaten out onscreen, and then his dick again.

Stiles jerks his underpants up, boner killed. He sits back in his computer chair with as much dignity as he can. The backs of his thighs burn from sliding off the chair.

“No,” he says crisply, folding his hands. “I have not found anything.”

Derek lowers his eyebrows at Stiles but then looks back to the porn.

Stiles is so dignified he’s not even gonna turn it off.

Derek refocuses, folding down from the windowsill. He’s wearing the same grey shirt and jeans he was wearing yesterday. He’s still swimming in them, the jeans awkwardly cuffed and the shirt hanging past his zipper. At least he doesn’t seem to be having the same problem he was having yesterday.

Stiles leans forward, hands still folded over his crotch. “You bought a bra.” He keeps his voice level, conversational, even though he wouldn’t mind demanding to know exactly how hilarious the experience was.

Derek glares at him, eyes a little blue.

Stiles leans back. “Never mind.” He does not say anything about how it’s good because seriously, Derek needs the back support. What kind of dude turns into a chick and has big boobs? If Stiles were ever to think about it, which he has been very manfully avoiding doing, he would think that dudes would have small boobs. He knows he would. He’d be like a mosquito-bitten board. Derek, the hot, lucky jerk, is buxom. He gets everything.

Derek is still glaring. Stiles may have missed something.

“I’ll look,” he says. “I’ll start looking.”

Now,” Derek commands.

“Yes, now,” Stiles agrees, watching Derek turn. When he climbs up on the sill, his shirt slumps down, revealing the beige of his bra strap.

Stiles thinks about that when Derek’s gone, while he locks the window and shuts the porno off and opens Google.


Stiles didn’t even get one day. Scott apparently needs six or seven. And to spend all of them with Allison, leaving Stiles to do research, his schoolwork, look after his dad and try to keep Jackson from getting all psycho-freak up in wolf stuff that is none of his business.

Four things. Yeah, okay. Slight incline in things to do. It’s fine. Who needs to sleep?

He buys his dad a big jar of multivitamins with his birthday money, uses the leftover to pay a freshman to get in Jackson’s way constantly so he can’t get in Scott’s way, and then uses the leftover from that to buy himself some only slightly suspicious-looking pep pills so he can write chemistry equations with one hand and scroll down webpages about magical genderbending with the other.

By the seventh day he’s very tired, but the pills work better than taping his eyelids open. So much better. He gets a lot done. He gets so much done he has time and energy to spare. So he jerks off twice in half an hour, thinking about a mishmash of the periodic table, regular porn, fairies with sharp little teeth and whiskers, and for four seconds before he comes, how hot Derek is.

It’s not like Stiles was blind to Derek before. Dude was hot as hell, even if he was pee-your-pants terrifying most of the time. He’s still scary, but the big, soft breasts really balance it out. Stiles hasn’t seen much else evidence of Derek’s woman-hotness, what with the giant clothes, but his amazing cleavage is enough for two big, exhausting orgasms.

Even off-brand pep pills are no match for Stiles’ love of breasts. He’s totally worn out after. He can barely organize his printouts before he has to give in and crawl into bed.

He’s more cozy than a cozy thing when Derek starts scratching around the window lock.

“Noooo,” he moans, frowning into his pillow.

“Stiles,” Derek says through the window. He’s wearing a tank top that appears to be held in place with elastic bands. Stiles scrapes himself out of bed to let him in.

Derek climbs in awkwardly, big jeans sliding all over the place. Stiles gets back into bed before Derek can go for his old standby move and slam Stiles into the wall or Stiles can embarrass himself by being inappropriate .

Derek takes a deep breath, frowns, and says, “Well?” as if Stiles summoned him here.

Stiles reaches under the bed and pulls up his best paper stack. He holds it out to Derek. “I’m not gonna lie, it’s not great. Usually the internet is my magical information buddy but this time it’s mostly porn with body parts in strange places on people you would not suspect of having those parts.”

Derek frowns at him and it’s so Derek that for a second Stiles stops thinking about the same beige bra strap from before awkwardly riding Derek’s shoulder.

“It’s comforting how some things stay the same,” he mutters.

Derek makes a face at him, like he’s crazy, then a face at the papers, like they smell bad. Then he sees the empty blister pack on Stiles’ desk and just makes a face.

“Well,” he says again.

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “I’m trying. I’ll try harder. Is it terrible?”

Derek shrugs, losing the bra strap completely, and makes no face at all, which means it’s horrible and he probably cries himself to sleep every night, if he wasn’t already, since he’s Derek Hale and his life Sucks with a capital-S.

“I don’t feel as strong,” Derek says.

Stiles mmms. He’s pretty tired.

“I’m sorry," he says again, his eyes closed. He means it.

He hears Derek sit down in his squeaky computer chair, sigh heavily, and start flipping through papers.


When he wakes up, way late for school and with the worst cottonmouth he’s ever had, a bunch of his carefully researched pages are ripped in half and his dad is looming over him, holding a beige bra, saying, “I thought I heard someone in here. Sneaking a girl into your room? Honestly, Stiles, I raised you better than that.”


Because he is a better person than Derek Hale could ever hope to be, not only does he bring Derek’s bra back, he washes it first. By hand in the kitchen sink, no less, because TV told him things like bras should be handwashed.

It’s a struggle, to keep his mind purely on the washing part of the exercise, instead of the bra that touched breasts part, but he does okay, and even hangs it up to dry.

He maybe shouldn’t have hung it up on the back of a kitchen chair where his father can see it and ask Stiles questions about the young lady that owns it, but he does pretty good, considering.

Especially the part where, since he’s grounded for the whole girl thing, he has to ninja out of the house at midnight to give the damn bra back. He’s not a wolf but the whole drive he can smell it, Tide-fresh, draped across the passenger seat, the straps stiff from air-drying.

He crams it into his jacket pocket when he gets out of the Jeep and puts his hand in after it. His fist fills one of the cups as he walks. He’s sure he’d be noisy enough if he was just walking, but he make sure to kick leaves and break a few branches, in case Derek is extra-aggressive at night.

Derek’s not out to greet him, but the porch light, one of those solar-powered things bolted to one of maybe five non-burnt or rotted boards, is on. Stiles walks into its light as Derek comes out onto the porch. His hair is all flat on one side and he’s wearing another rigged-up tank top. Stiles can see a black bra strap in the mix.

“You bought two bras?” Stiles starts off with. He meant to say something about why the hell Derek has a porch light for his crummy burnhouse, but a stupid porch light has nothing on underwear.

Derek takes a deep breath. “Stiles.” He sounds tired and dangerous and hot as hell. Stiles is off and running before he knows it.

“I washed this thing,” he says, dragging the bra out of his pocket, “with my hands. Because I thought you needed it after you apparently had some kind of research-induced fit while I was sleeping and just had to take your bra off and leave it on my floor for my dad to find. He’s really mad at me now! Because of you and your bra.” Stiles brandishes it.

Derek just stares at him.

“You didn’t even let me see,” Stiles finishes petulantly, arm dropping, bra dragging on the ground.

“See what,” Derek asks so flatly there’s basically no question mark.

Stiles is used to saying dumb shit so he has to mentally rewind his little speech and then he’s blushing. Not a lot, but Derek looks like he can smell it.

“Well, you know,” Stiles says weakly. “Do you know how many people have not worn bras in my room? It’s a very small number. So small, in fact, that the number is one. And I was sleeping. You could have woken me up.”

Derek processes that for a while, looking confused, which means he looks like he’s gonna murder Stiles, but for once he won’t be sure why.

“You wanted to see,” he says finally, gesturing so vaguely at himself he might as well just be stretching his fingers.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “It’s perfect.” At Derek’s withering look he says, “I mean, loaner boobs. And all the other stuff. It’s just there.”

“Attached to me,” Derek says drily.

“Yes,” Stiles says, “and you’re wonderful. A basket of kittens made of sunshine. Exactly the person with boobs and a vagina I wanted to see.”

Derek is looking at Stiles with this half-smirk on his face and maybe this is working for Stiles. He can be persuasive.

Derek says, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Stiles huffs. “Fine! Fine. Take your stupid bra. See if I care.” He stomps up the steps and thrusts the bra at Derek, who takes it by the cup. He’s still smirking when Stiles tromps back into the dark woods. Stiles can feel it on the back of his neck the whole way to the Jeep.


“Dude,” Scott says when he gets to Stiles’ locker. “Who are you seeing?”

He sounds hurt, and his face is like a Precious Moments doll when Stiles stops digging for his emergency Pop-Tart long enough to look at him.

“Falling for schoolyard lies again, Scott? Who started this one? Greenberg? Jackson? Who am I dating this time, Harris or that girl with halitosis in the AV club?”

“I don’t know. Your dad told me.” Scott is honest-to-God pouting. And clearly too wrapped up in pouting to see reason.

“Scott,” Stiles says in his bad dog voice, because Scott really is the baddest of dogs.

Scott ignores the voice. Keeps saying, “I tried calling you yesterday but your phone was off so I called your house and your dad told me you got grounded for sneaking a girl into your—oh. Derek.”

“Yes, ‘oh. Derek’,” Stiles mimics, still using the voice. Honestly, he shouldn’t bother with his normal voice around Scott. “The giant, be-breasted problem you have been ignoring because of your own be-breasted problem.”

Scott takes a break from looking sheepish to look indignant. “Allison is not my problem!”

“No,” Stiles agrees. “But she must be mine because she is preventing you from helping me. If we don’t fix this soon Derek is going to rip my scalp off. I can feel it. And I like my scalp.”

“Sorry,” Scott says, hiking up his backpack as the bell goes. “I’ll help.”

They start walking to Chemistry, throwing out ideas until Scott stops in the middle of the hall.

“What do you think a girl werewolf is like?” He asks, eyes wide.

“Oh, god,” Stiles moans. “It can’t be good. I don’t want to know.”


After school Scott has to go to work and Stiles is still grounded, but he figures if he’s helping then he can get away with it.

Dr. Deaton gives him a shelf of meds to organize, so he probably agrees.

When Dr. Deaton’s not in the room and in between actual work they go back to the problem at hand.

“Did you find anything?” Scott asks, wrist deep in fur clippings.

“I dunno, man,” Stiles replies, only slightly distracted by alphabetizing animal sedatives. “Like, ninety percent of the stuff on the internet is porn, five percent is stuff for transgender people and the other five is hippie stuff about how magic takes patience and the right kit that can be bought for $99.95 from Karen’s Magic Emporium.”

“What about books? Are there books?”

“I’ve been looking but I don’t even know what those things were.”

Scott’s lip curls. “They looked like cats.”

“Yeah, with razor-sharp wings and big fairy boobs. I don’t know. They were there and trying to eat our faces and then Derek killed them and then we almost froze with magic and he turned into Chesty LaRue. I was there and it barely makes sense. Remember when you were just a werewolf being chased by another, more dangerous werewolf and things were simple?”

Scott shakes his head ruefully.


After work they go to the big city library and poke around the musty folklore section. Scott looks up fairies and Stiles looks up cats.

After four books he’s dying for a search function. There are a lot of cats in fairytales and none of them are sexy fairies. Most of them just hang around in cottages while girls get kidnapped.

He looks over; Scott is asleep on his book. Stiles throws a pen at him and he snorts awake, blinking at Stiles.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Find anything?” Stiles asks.

Scott shrugs. “There’s a million things in here about fairies and their magic.” He yawns. “This book says they’re not even supposed to be very powerful.” He shoves the book over to Stiles. “Like, unless you’re a baby. Then you’re in trouble.”

Stiles reads. It’s mostly stuff he’s read before about how fairies are surprisingly malicious and do their best to steal babies or change them into other things. It does say though that they’re only really powerful in groups where they can make circles and there is supposed to be a head fairy honcho that holds all the power and deals it out according to fairy rank.

“Well, good,” Stiles complains. “Fairies make mafias. How helpful.”

“It says that when the ring breaks,” Scott says, “the babies turn back into people sometimes. If they don’t die from all the magic that comes out.” He points to a drawing of a really ugly baby with a muzzle-mouth and crunchy-looking wings. “Maybe since Derek killed all the fairies he’ll turn back? He’s not a baby; he didn’t die when they did.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says, looking at the picture. “But he definitely didn’t turn into a fairy. He doesn’t have wings and if he’s gonna have a face it’s a dog’s face, not a cat’s.”

Scott shrugs. “Maybe they’re different fairies? Cat-fairies?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Maybe.”


Scott said he would help, but when Stiles tries to get him to come break the waiting news to Derek all of a sudden he’s failing classes and eager to catch up.

“You go, Stiles,” he says. “He likes you.”

“Likes me! He probably likes the smell of my meat and imagining how great it will be to finally eat me. You just don’t want to go because all we have is a bullshit answer.”

Stiles rants for a while, but even he’s not immune to Scott’s puppy face so he ends up going it alone. After he goes home, reads the note that says You’d better be at the vet’s or I’m taking you there to get neutered, scarfs the half a sub left on top of the note, jerks off in the shower, and does a few other things to work up his courage. He hopes that by the time he gets to Derek’s he believes what he’s gonna say or Derek will kill him for not only having a bullshit answer but for lying about it.

It’s not quite dark when he gets out there but the woods near the Hale house are unnerving even during the day so Stiles hums and runs his mouth to make himself feel better.

“Derek,” he calls. “Are you here? If you’re on your period I can and will come back.”

He’s just saying it to say it and he’s not at the house yet so when Derek fucking flips down from a tree, landing on his feet and one hand in front of Stiles, he shrieks and lands on his ass in the leaves.

“I’m not,” Derek growls, looking down at him, watching Stiles gasp and clutch a fist over his heart. He’s wearing jeans belted as tight as they can go and no shirt, just the beige bra.

“Jesus,” Stiles gasps, flopping back. He’s not sure if his heart is gonna give out from the scare or the really impressive cleavage, but either way he’s a goner. “What are you doing?”

“This body,” Derek says, slightly disdainfully, “works differently than mine. I’m trying to figure it out.”

“No,” Stiles says. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

He feels hot and a little faint when Derek looks down at his chest and then adjusts his bra strap. His heart is working double-time now, pumping blood south.

“None of them fit,” Derek says darkly. “They get in the way.” He rubs his bare shoulder and his cleavage gets even more insane until he puts his arm down.

“Ah, yes,” Stiles says, trying to hold onto his sanity. “They do tend to get in the way of scaring the shit out of me.”

Derek looks him over, first like it’s only just occurred to him that appearing suddenly in the woods can be scary, and then he takes a deep breath and narrows his eyes at Stiles.

Stiles thinks about how he probably crushed a fox’s ghost when he fell over and how that’s really sad and unsexy. He forces himself up onto his knees and looks at Derek’s knees, his dirty jeans.

“So,” he says, “my delicious terror aside, I have bad news.”

Derek takes another deep breath and when Stiles looks up Derek is looking down, not at his face. Stiles shifts, going guilty-hot, and Derek looks up enough.

“What?” Derek rumbles.

“You may,” Stiles says. “Ah. You may have to just wait. For the uh, magic to go away.”

Derek’s eyes pop blue and his claws come out. “What,” he says again, voice garbling.

“Sorry!” Stiles says. “It’s just the way it is. It’ll dissipate! Don’t shoot the messenger or claw his face off!”

Derek clearly struggles for a minute, breathing roughly, his fingers flexing. His face starts to change, his mouth turning to a snout, but he catches it finally, staring at Stiles, and his lips melt back to normal.

“When all the little gremlin ladies or whatever they were exploded,” Stiles explains quickly, “they made, like, a mushroom cloud of magic and you got caught in the fallout.”

Derek crosses his arms and Stiles does not look at his chest. “Those were fairies, Stiles,” he says, as if it were obvious and Stiles is an idiot. “It’ll go away though?”

“I don’t know when,” Stiles says, “but yes. All the fairies died so it should go away.”

Derek hums, annoyed, but says, “Fine,” and starts to trudge up to the house.

“Fine,” Stiles mutters as he gets up, brushing crushed leaves off his ass. “Fine. No Thanks, Stiles. I could just kiss you. Come on into my creepy burnhouse. I made cookies!” He glowers at Derek’s long, smooth, beautiful back.

Derek stops walking. Stiles automatically pinches his mouth shut. Derek looks back over his shoulder.

“Are you coming?” he asks, and keeps walking.


Derek’s house is dark and smells like a thousand years of mold set on fire. In order to not die Stiles has to follow Derek pretty closely. He stares at the soft curve of Derek’s nape while he walks. He must get a little intense about it because before he knows it Derek stops but Stiles doesn’t until his nose smacks right into Derek’s nape.

Derek may be kind of a chick right now, but he’s still a werewolf so Stiles just bounces off. He rubs his nose and blinks. They’re in what looks like the kitchen, the last of the sunset coming in the window to light the warped fridge door and the shoeprints on the curling linoleum.

Stiles takes a few steps back to give Derek some space and check the room out. Everything’s uniformly black, no handprints on drawers or cupboards. Derek must eat somewhere else. Maybe in the woods.

“So,” Stiles says, intending to say something about that, when Derek shoulders his way into the last light and goes for his bra.

He’s inelegant, pulling it up from the back, getting it halfway up his breasts before he gets the clasp and the whole thing springs loose, revealing a lot of skin and small, pink nipples. He drops his shoulders forward and lets the bra slide down his arms and onto the floor.

Stiles’ mouth drops open. Derek’s breasts are just ridiculously perfect: too big to be handfuls, but his nipples are small and already hard, suckable. His ribs have a red line across them, which must be sore but for some reason even that is perfect.

Stiles’ insides clench hard, but he makes his mouth work. “Whu,” he tries. Then again, “What. What are you doing?”

Derek is standing there flexing his fingers again, uncomfortable but hiding it under indifference. “You wanted to see.”

“I—uh, oh.” Stiles isn’t just hot anymore. He’s on fire. He can’t look away and distantly he’s aware that he’s more than half-hard again, just from seeing tits. This is a new low for him. “Yes.”

“Good,” Derek says, and his voice isn’t as flat as it usually is. He stays still for a long moment and then fidgets. Stiles is mesmerized by the movement, until Derek puts a forearm across his breasts.

Spell broken, Stiles snaps back into himself. His cheeks are blazing. It’s hard to look Derek in the eye.

Derek seems at a loss, eyes dark, nostrils flaring, his mouth turned down. “You can go now,” he says, and turns away from Stiles.

Stiles blinks at his back, but finally shuffles away.


He drives around instead of going home right away, reeling. For a while he clenches his thighs to make his erection go down, but it stops being a deterrent around the hundredth time he sees Derek’s breasts in his mind. Around one-seventy it’s an encouragement.

Somewhere near three hundred he has to pull over and get out. He jerks off with one hand braced against the side of the Jeep, praying no one sees him tied up in knots like this.


He’s prepared to sneak into the house, but it’s empty except for a note about a double shift, so he lets his nervous, shamed energy take him up to bed and doesn’t even care if he bangs his shoulder on the wall a few times.

When he gets there the window is shut tight but on Stiles’ bed, laid out, are two bras, one black, one beige.

The black bra looks okay but it smells a little wolf-sweaty, in need of a wash. The beige bra, though, is sooty from being dropped on the floor and it smells like old fire.

Stiles sits on his bed and holds them for a while before getting up to soak them in the sink.


Scott thuds into the desk in front of Stiles and promptly turns around.

“How did he take it?” He asks, glancing around Stiles, probably looking for still-bleeding wounds.

Stiles makes a face. “About as well as can be expected.”

“But he didn’t freak out?”

“He didn’t rip my face or his shirt off. Mostly not the second thing because he wasn’t wearing one. Damn, he really does not like wearing shirts.”

Scott wrinkles the left side of his face up. “Why wasn’t he wearing a shirt?”

“It interfered with the body Werewolf God gave him.”

Scott looks at him blankly.

Stiles tries again. “He was doing, I don’t know, lady werewolf gymnastics and it didn’t fit so I guess he took it off so he could move freely or whatever.”

“Oh,” Scott says.

Stiles shrugs as Mrs. Zegler comes in. He’d rather not talk about Derek’s body right now.


When he returns the bras again, he’s still without Scott, who “has a big Chem test,” never mind that Stiles has the same one, but he does have a small stack of Allison’s shirts.

(The conversation that lead to Scott getting the shirts from Allison is one Stiles is sad to have missed. He hopes Scott went the I’m so into you I want to wear your clothes route.)

This time though, as he walks through the woods, he doesn’t hum or break sticks or act smart. He just walks. A big part of him hopes that maybe Derek’s not home. Maybe he’s out hunting for the Alpha or lurking around someone’s bedroom.

A small part of Stiles hopes for something else.

The doorbell on the Hale house is a burnt-out pit and the wood looks like it’ll crumble if Stiles knocks, so he just carefully pulls his sleeve over his hand and turns the melted doorknob. The door has to scrape over a raised floorboard but other than that it opens fine.

It’s impolite to do so, but Stiles leaves the door open to let the light from the porch come in after him. He needs all the help navigating he can get right now.

The foyer is empty except for some charred beams. The light from the porch spreads out evenly three ways: to the right, which Stiles vaguely remembers as the way to the kitchen; to the left, dark after the doorframe; and up the stairs to the second level.

Stiles doesn’t want to brave the burnt stairs, and there’s a thick fear inside of him of being trapped up there if the stairs collapse, so he holds his pile of clothes tightly and inches toward the left.

He’s fine while he has the light, but it doesn’t extend much into the room beyond the foyer and a few steps in he kicks something. Even though he knows it’s not living his breath still catches hard and his heart thumps like crazy in his ears.

In the middle of the room two electric blue lights turn on and Stiles knows who it is but that doesn’t mute the fear, just twists it up with something else.

Across the room Derek huffs hard, his eyes glowing brighter for a second before they fade into the dark. He shifts, something clicks, and then there’s light.

This room is a wreck, grey-black furniture all over the place, whole and in pieces. Derek’s sitting on the only acceptable piece of furniture, a very dusty couch, next to one of those plastic dome lights they sell on TV.

Derek is wearing a sweater that would have been too big on him before he changed, so now Stiles would call it a nightgown if he weren’t wearing jeans. For once he doesn’t look totally pissed to see Stiles, just semi-pissed.

“I brought you some stuff,” Stiles says. His voice comes out weakly and his arms tremble when he holds up the stack. He’s having trouble calming down and Derek watching him with narrowed eyes isn’t helping.

“Here,” he says roughly. His upper lip is sweaty. “Take it.” He walks on halting legs over to the couch and drops the stuff next to Derek.

Maybe being around werewolves all the time is rubbing off on Stiles, because he knows Derek’s going to make a move before he feels long fingers clamp around his wrist. That doesn’t stop him from jerking back until his arm is taut.

“Derek,” he squeaks.

Derek may not be a strong as he was before but he doesn’t even look like he’s taxing himself, holding onto Stiles. He’s just holding Stiles still, looking him up and down. His face isn’t as stubbly and angular as it was before, but it’s still not soft. Stiles is still scared of him, on top of his more complicated feelings.

He pulls. “Derek—“

Just like that, Derek lets go. Stiles stumbles back, bumping into an ashy, buckling armchair. His wrist is sore, hot. Derek watches him rub it. His own hands are resting on his thighs.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Derek asks. He’s asking in that flat way he asks all questions, but Stiles can hear real curiosity hiding in there.

Stiles closes his eyes tight, wearing his fingers like a bracelet to stop the throb. His fingers can’t stop the whole body throb though, that comes with hearing Derek say fuck me.

“No,” he says, still weak, lying so hard even he can practically smell the bitter of it.

The couch creaks and Stiles waits for the slam. When none comes he opens his eyes slowly. Derek is still on the couch, but he’s sitting forward now, bare feet flat on the floor, sweater collar hanging low.

“Come here,” he commands.

Stiles walks.

He lurches to a stop between Derek’s feet, clutching the hem of his jacket. His body is rolling hot and cold and his skin feels tight.

Derek looks at him, nostrils flaring. “Down.”

Stiles’ knees are on the floor before his brain processes it. The thump rattles his bones. He has to steady himself on Derek’s calf. It’s hard not to hold on.

Derek leans forward, elbows on his knees, sweater sleeves sliding down his forearms. His face looks like he’s just waiting to rip Stiles apart.

“Have you ever even been kissed?” he asks, intense.

Technically, yes. Stiles was a smart twelve year-old; even then he’d had an inkling that he wasn’t gonna be the one people braved Hell and high water to be with, which was fine. He had Scott. But even Scott had gotten kissed at summer camp, so Stiles had found Beth Schafer, who was sweet and stuttered, but smiled after Stiles had kissed her.

That’s probably not what Derek’s talking about though, so Stiles shakes his head.

“Jesus,” Derek hisses, but yanks him in by his jacket and kisses him anyway.

It’s a biting, sucking kind of kiss. Stiles’ bottom lip is sore before it’s even over, but Derek barely lets him breathe before moving to a deeper kiss, holding his head still.

Stiles tries to keep up, but mostly ends up with his mouth open and his hands holding Derek’s sweater, knuckles pressed against Derek’s breasts.

“Jesus,” Derek says again when he finally wrenches his mouth away. His voice is dark, rough and he looks angry, like Stiles made him do this.

Stiles clutches his sweater.

“Have you ever—“ Derek starts, but then he just drops Stiles’ face and starts working on his belt.

In his weaker moments, in his bed in the dark, Stiles had wondered if Derek had bought panties or some kind of underwear that would fit when he bought the bras. As it turns out he was wrong on all counts because Derek just didn’t bother.

Derek wriggles out of his jeans, dingy sweater pooling back over his hips but not far enough down that Stiles can’t see.

Derek is hairier than the women in porn, way hairier, which is not really a surprise but Stiles is having trouble moving past surprise. He holds Derek’s calf again and there’s hair there too, but before Stiles can say something about it, Derek shifts his knees and Stiles can see where there’s no hair, where Derek’s pink.

His breath catches. He’s shivering under his clothes, cock aching in his jeans. When he looks up Derek looks furious, but not with him.

“You want to?” He asks, raking the sweater up around his waist.

“Yes,” Stiles says, too fast. He must have another werewolf moment because he’s moving forward before Derek’s hand finds his neck to move him.

Derek doesn’t open his legs fast enough so Stiles ends up nestled in the soft crease of his thighs, breathing in dark hair and body-salt. He can just get the tip of his tongue out to feel the very top of Derek’s slit.

Derek growls so loudly every hair on Stiles’ body leaps, but he opens his thighs too and so Stiles sinks into his third real kiss.

He’s seen this a million times in porn, memorized it, thought of doing it to every girl he knows, but he can’t recall any of it right now, so he just ends up mouthing clumsily at Derek until he finds the bump of Derek’s clitoris and licks it wetly.

Derek tastes good. Kind of like how he smells, but faint and warm. And he’s moving, hips twitching this way and that, depending on where Stiles puts his tongue. He doesn’t make much noise, just breathes hard, but it feels like the top of Stiles’ head is gonna come off so he doesn’t think he could handle noise anyway.

Stiles keeps going until his mouth aches as much as his dick and he’s soaked from his nose down past his chin and Derek’s thighs are twitching. He wants to kiss more, maybe use his fingers, but Derek pulls him away by his nape. He comes away gasping wetly, still focused on Derek’s pussy until Derek shakes him.

“You wanna fuck me?” Derek asks, eyes tracking all over Stiles’ wet face.

Stiles nods, head bobbing on his sore neck. He fumbles at his jeans, dropping them and his boxers down to his knees and then scrambling back for them to get his wallet out. He’s kept a condom in there for over a year now, switching it out when it gets too old or squished or ruined by werewolves. When he pulls the little packet out Derek doesn’t even seem surprised, just watches him put it on impatiently.

He’s still on his knees on the floor and Derek is still slouched and spread on the couch.

“Should we—“ Stiles says, coming up higher on his knees, daring to touch Derek’s thighs. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for.

Derek just grunts, hips sliding down at the same time he yanks Stiles in by his jacket. He gets a hand between them and on Stiles, to guide him in.

Through the condom Derek is wet-hot and his knees are on Stiles’ hips and Stiles feels like he just got punched in the spine because he’s having sex. His hips push forward and he can’t go far because the couch sucks and the angle is weird but his body has some idea of what to do so he’s moving, his mouth open stupidly, holding onto the couch and Derek’s sweater.

He’s making noise, mostly ugly little hiccupping moans, and Derek is not. Derek is just watching him, eyes hot, still holding his jacket so the only thing Stiles can really move is his hips.

It’s enough. It’s more than enough. Stiles lets his hips work and his mouth make noise, his guts already feeling tight with orgasm. He sneaks a look down at the tip of his dick disappearing into Derek and he shudders, trying to shove in a little more as he comes.

His whole body pulses, everything moving toward his core, waves of heat making the small of his back and between his thighs sweaty. He’s too stunned to moan until it’s over and his cock is sliding out of Derek as he leans in to put his hot forehead on Derek’s bare shoulder.

His jacket is still rucked awkwardly up because Derek hasn’t let go of it yet, but he’s only holding onto it, not using it to throw Stiles into the wall so Stiles doesn’t complain, just tries to breathe and anchor himself back to earth with Derek’s shoulder.

When he’s ready to move he pushes back and Derek’s hand slides away, letting him shuffle back. He pulls the condom off and manages not to spill too much before he can wrap it in a tissue from his jacket. He doesn’t know what to do with it so he just puts it back in his jacket. Then he hikes up his pants with heavy hands and wipes his sleeve over his face even though it’s mostly dry by now.

Derek dresses much faster than him, hauling his jeans up and doing them up with his hips in the air before he rearranges himself on the couch again. Stiles feels dazed but Derek doesn’t look affected, just rumpled.

Stiles gets up slowly, body drained like he’s never felt before.

“I—“ he says, enough blood in his face to flush. “Thanks.”

Derek nods, pulling his feet up onto the couch. He looks over and pinches the edge of one of Allison’s shirts. “Why did you bring me these?”

Stiles stares at the pile of stuff. He forgot all about it. “It’s your stuff,” he makes himself say. “Dude.”


The small of his back is sore when he gets home and it keeps him awake so he wads up in bed, dirty clothes on the floor, and tries not to think about how amazing it felt and how he doesn’t even think Derek came.

He swallows hard, tasting nothing but toothpaste, and falls asleep hurt and oddly lonely.


He wakes up early and takes a long shower, scrubbing everything twice. Scott does not need to know that Stiles fucked Derek at all, but especially not now that he has a literally magic vagina.

He stinks of Irish Spring so bad it’s hard to concentrate on his Chem test. Scott doesn’t mention it.


He takes another personal day, this time to get over himself. The internet tells him that being confused is normal all the time when you’re sixteen, but especially when you’ve just lost your virginity.

So Stiles treats himself to a carton of pineapple juice, a skipped History class, a guilt-free jerk-off session and a long nap. After that, he feels pretty good. Wired from the sugar and groggy from sleeping, but that’s normal for him.

He even does some research, digging deeper now that he has fairy-confirmation, but everything is still either frou-frou horseshit or telling him that without the ring of power fairies are more annoying than menacing and he should just wait out his problem.

With little else to do but wait he ends up playing the Barbie fairy princess game online, and it’s really not a bad way to kill some time.


After a few days, the bras show up on Stiles’ bed again, folded in half on his comforter. For reasons he’s not very interested in examining, Stiles washes them. His dad complains that the dishes smell like Tide and asks how Stiles inherited this chore from his girlfriend, even though this is only the third time he’s done it.

“I don’t have a girlfriend. Maybe I’m a cross-dresser,” Stiles says tartly, rubbing at a stain. Who gets dirt inside their bra?

Dad rolls his eyes. “Stiles, you’re not a cross-dresser.”

Stiles throws up a soapy hand. “How do you know?’

Dad smirks at him. “That bra is not your size,” he says, ducking into the hall.

“They make padding for that!” Stiles yells after him.


Stiles leaves the bras on Derek’s porch in a grocery bag tied tight, in case it rains or something. He’s pretty sure Derek isn’t home but he has a study date with Scott so he can’t stick around to check anyway.


Sitting in Scott’s basement, eating pizza, they tackle the other huge problem in their lives: Chemistry.

“Harris is a dick,” Stiles says, chewing on his crust while he stares at the B- on his test.

“Whatever,” Scott says, miserable. “At least you passed.”

“I could have done better,” Stiles insists. “If Harris wasn’t a huge, rubbery wang all the time. Who let that psycho out of the teaching gate?”

Scott shrugs, fingering his red-marked test. “He’s shitty, but I guess I’m not trying very hard.”

“You have a lot on your mind,” Stiles says, rubbing his eyebrow.

“So do you,” Scott says. “I mean, you’re not like, me, but you’re helping with the Alpha and Derek and all this stuff and you’re still getting a B.”

Stiles takes Scott’s test from him and looks it over. A bunch of the red is pointing out dumbass mistakes: one wrong number that fucks up an equation, a formula written out of order, confusing lead and polonium.

“Scott, man,” he says, “you gotta pay more attention. You should have gotten like, a C on this thing.”

“I know,” Scott says morosely, putting the test in the back of his binder. “But it’s hard. Can’t we just talk about the Alpha or something?”

Stiles snorts. “Scott.”

Scott ducks his shoulders. “Sorry. But like, where is he? He hasn’t been around for ages.”

“I dunno, man. It’s never constant Alpha torture, is it?”

“I guess not,” Scott says. “But maybe he can like, smell Derek? Maybe it scares him? Are wolves matri-whatever?”

“No,” Stiles says, going for more pizza. He burns his tongue pretty bad and has to stick his tongue out and pant.

Scott watches him. “Do you think…” he says slowly, mouth frowning, “the Alpha would like, like Derek, because he’s a girl now?”

Stiles chokes on his second burning-hot bite. “Scott!” he coughs. “Seriously, stop ruining my life here.”

“It could happen!” Scott yelps.

“No, it couldn’t,” Stiles tells him, just a little bit prickly. “Now open your book. We have shit to learn.”

Stiles finishes his slice of pizza and tries to talk Scott through stoichiometry, which is a futile exercise but Stiles works at it for a few hours anyway, his tongue getting sorer by the minute.


His tongue heals slowly. But he’s busy enough for the week that he hardly notices. He aces a History quiz, does a damn good job warming the bench during a lacrosse game, stays up way too late reading about alpha wolves even though he doesn’t learn much, and spends precious little time looking at the curious thin scuffs in the paint on the windowsill around the lock.


He isn’t planning on saying yes, but when Scott says, “We have to go see Derek,” Stiles says, “Yeah, sure.”

Then he stops walking and says, “Wait, why?”

Scott’s holding onto his backpack straps like a little kid. “It’s the full moon soon. I need him to help me.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters, “help you not murder anyone.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees.

Stiles sighs. If it didn’t make sense he wouldn’t do it. But he really doesn’t want Scott to murder anyone, so he follows Scott through the woods and listens to him talk about the sweater Allison wore today.

“Yeah,” Stiles says as they break out of the trees in front of Derek’s house, “she does look nice in that shade of yellow.”

Scott hums happily, eyes half-closed to remember Allison better, as the front door opens and Derek steps out onto the porch. He looks annoyed to see them.

“Whoa,” Scott says, stopping short. “Allison wore that shirt, like, two weeks ago.”

“And she did not look like that,” Stiles whispers, because if Allison has ever worn that shirt before then she was not threatening to pop the three little buttons on the top or bust the side-seams with her hips.

Derek looks even more annoyed. He stops at the top of the steps and glares at them. “What do you two want?”

Scott is lapsing into his sixteen year-old stare, and Stiles isn’t far behind, but he manages to elbow Scott, who stumbles forward.

“Uh, the full moon is in like, a week.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Scott scratches his neck. “So, maybe, we should like…plan? I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“Okay,” Derek says gruffly. “Come back in a week.” He looks at Stiles. “You?”

Stiles stares at him. “What?”

“What are you here for?” Derek enunciates very clearly.

Stiles holds onto his blush by sheer will. “Maybe I just like these creepy, dangerous woods. Did you ever think about that?”

Derek rolls his eyes, shifting on his feet. When he crosses his arms the middle button on his shirt struggles to stay closed. Stiles looks at the tip of Derek’s shoulder very hard.

He keeps looking until Scott tugs on his sleeve. “Let’s go, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes him off and turns, thumping his shoulder into Scott’s as they walk away. Behind them the stairs creak as Derek goes back into the house.


He does his homework when he gets home so he won’t think about Derek being kind of a dick to him.

He writes half of his History paper and he’s fine, but when he takes a break to drink a soda and work on his Barbie fairy game score he finds annoyance creeping up on him.

He wants to go back after dinner, but his dad’s home for once and he wants to bond over bad take-out and old episodes of COPS. Stiles can’t say no to that. His dad even lets him have a few precious sips of beer while he grouses about the right way to put someone into a cruiser. The beer tastes terrible but right now Stiles will take whatever he can get.


He goes in the morning, wakes up long before his dad does, drinks a glass of orange juice and leaves without brushing his teeth.

His brain is still syrupy with sex dreams while he drives, but he hasn’t forgotten the sting of yesterday, of Derek being shitty to him.

The little sting comes with him through the woods, safe from the drying mist and the weak sunlight, up the front stairs and to the door. He pauses there, looking at the dirty doorknob, but opens it anyway, rubbing his hand on his jeans after.

With the morning light crawling in through every crack and hole in the house, it’s not scary, just starkly ugly. Everything is ashy, buckling in the middle and curling at the edges.

This time Stiles goes to the kitchen first. He walks in his own footprints across the crispy linoleum, looking around. The house doesn’t feel empty, but Derek’s not here and the air is still.

Stiles keeps walking and ends up in the room from before, looking at the back of the couch. The floor creaks, under Stiles’ feet and above his head. He walks to the couch and runs his fingers over the top of it. They come away dusty.

“Nice,” he says, wiping them on his jeans. On the floor in front of the couch is a spot that isn’t clean, but isn’t as dusty as the rest of it. Stiles can see the shape of his legs there, between Derek’s footprints.

“What are you doing here?” Derek says from behind him.

Stiles turns, heart jumping once. He knew Derek was here, but his body still can’t stop being surprised.

“I,” Stiles says, and watches Derek scent the air. His mind fumbles around accusations of dickishness, but Derek is always a dick, whether he physically has one or not. He squares his shoulders anyway, annoyed.

Derek takes a huffing breath and smiles, not nicely at all. He leans against the doorframe, t-shirt an awkward fit but his arms crossed casually.

“It’s early, Stiles,” he says.

“I know,” Stiles says back. Even he can hear the birdsong. “But there’s no time like the present to come say how much you suck.”

Derek breaks out of his lean, eyebrows up, smirking. “So that’s why you came?”

Stiles nods tightly. Derek takes a step forward and Stiles makes himself not step back.

“You didn’t come for any other reason?” Derek asks. When Stiles shakes his head Derek takes another step, predatory now. “Not because you woke up and wanted something from me?”

“No,” Stiles says, tilting his chin up. He’s lying and Derek knows it. He wants a lot of things, very badly, but he has to—

Suddenly Derek is right there in front of him, bright eyes in a gorgeous face looking him over and his heart is pounding and he must reek of arousal because he feels hot with it, even when Derek shoves him back against the couch and his spine hits hard, pain shocking through him.

He opens his mouth and Derek sucks the cry right out of it, replaces it with his tongue. Stiles whimpers, hurt, but takes it because he wants this. He tries sucking on Derek’s tongue and gets a little visceral jolt when Derek growls at him.

Derek holds him against the couch while they kiss, but that just means Stiles can touch the dip of his back, his hair, and haltingly, his breasts. He can feel how soft they are through the bones of Derek’s bra, and Derek lets him feel. He aches, his dick and his belly, and tries to hold on tight when Derek pulls away.

Derek is flushed, pink around his mouth and Stiles can see when he turns, behind his ear.

“Come on,” he says, not waiting for Stiles, so sure he’ll follow.


The rotting, groaning staircase was a deterrent, but now Stiles is here, tumbling down onto a clean mattress in a dirty room, into blankets that are still warm from Derek sleeping, with Derek who’s already digging under Stiles’ sweater.

“God,” Stiles moans, half into Derek’s mouth, returning the favour by going for Derek’s shirt. Underneath he’s smooth and hot like a furnace. Stiles kisses between his breasts, reveling. Derek’s skin tastes salty and Stiles can hear his heartbeat. He closes his eyes and tugs the cup of Derek’s bra down to find one of the nipples he’s dreamed about sucking for a week.

It’s small and hard, pulling tight when he sucks. Above him Derek makes a rough purring noise and scratches at the back of his neck, pulling him so close it’s hard to breathe. Stiles doesn’t care; he cradles Derek’s ass and sucks on his nipple until he’s woozy from lack of air and blood flow.

He lets go, gasping, and gets a thumb on the place his mouth just was to feel how it’s wet and blood-warm.

Derek shudders and groans, scratching his bare chest now, ducking to kiss Stiles’ numb, hungry mouth.

Stiles is mostly naked before he can emerge from the kiss, jeans and underwear around his knees. By the time he realizes Derek’s moving down, dragging his pants all the way off.

“Hey, wait,” he says faintly, reaching. Derek jerks them away from him and dumps them on his dirty floor. He puts a hand on Stiles’ blotchy-blushed chest.

“No,” he says, like Stiles is a bad dog, and shoves Stiles down.

Stiles goes, but not without a fight. He grabs at Derek’s hips and hauls him along, scrabbling up Derek’s back for the clasp on his bra. He works on it while he arches up against Derek’s jeans.

It’s hard to focus with Derek nipping his jaw and licking his bottom lip, but he’s determined and the clasp finally snaps open, going loose. Stiles wrestles the bra off Derek’s arms and flings it onto the floor. He sighs happily when he can get his hands on bare skin.

He squeezes and looks and pets and for some reason, Derek lets him, even makes soft noises when Stiles thumbs his nipples. Those noises do things to Stiles, make him hot from his ears to his navel, make his cock throb.

“Please,” he says, but Derek’s already shoving his jeans down his hips, rolling off Stiles to squirm out of them. It’s only a moment but Stiles keeps his hands on Derek, unwilling to stop touching, and he pulls Derek back when he can, trying to do that biting-kiss thing Derek did to him.

Derek moans, moving in his arms, soft and hard and deliciously hot. He rubs on Stiles in just the right way and Stiles feels faint. He has to reach down and grip his cock tight, pinching his eyes shut so he won’t look at how close he is to being inside Derek again.

When he’s under control again, it’s easy to slide his fingers over just a little. He presses gently against Derek, shifting until his fingers slide between Derek’s labia. Derek’s so, so warm there and a little wet down near the tip of Stiles’ middle finger.

“Okay,” Stiles says shakily. It’s supposed to be a question but the mark never makes it out. Derek moves a little, but Stiles is still looking at his fingers so he doesn’t see if Derek’s glaring or wolfing out or anything. Derek stays though, even twitches his hips a little toward Stiles.

Stiles touches him in slow up-down motions, rubbing in counterpoint to his hips. He watches until Derek starts getting wetter, shining Stiles’ fingers and then he can’t take it anymore. He presses his face into Derek’s soft throat and asks for it, his voice rough and ugly.

“Yes,” Derek hisses, pulling him up for angry, consuming kisses, rolling his hips like he’s been waiting, like Stiles has been holding out on him.

Stiles goes for his wallet again. If Derek thinks it’s weird that Stiles immediately replaced the condom in his wallet he doesn’t say anything. He just watches Stiles put it on with narrow eyes, breathing deeply, touching himself.

Condom on, Stiles scrambles back between Derek’s thighs, leaning down for kisses, trying to remember how he did this before. He ends up squirming against Derek, searching for purchase.

He’s almost there, fingers holding the base of his cock when Derek says, “Wait,” shoving at Stiles, pushing his hips away.

“What?” Stiles says, dazed and cold. “No. It’s. I can.”

Derek keeps pushing, until Stiles is on his knees. Then he moves, rolling onto his hands and knees. His shoulders are really tight until he takes a gusty breath and lets it out, arching his back and parting his knees. Then his shoulders are only sort of tight.

Stiles can’t move. He can see wet pink part of Derek’s pussy, the vulnerable line of his spine, the soft nape of his neck. He locks up, muscles frozen by hotness and what five minutes of googling has told him this means. He kneels, fists tight on his thighs, dumb until Derek looks over his shoulder.

“Stiles,” he says, dangerously low, shoulders twisting back.

“Yeah,” Stiles says absently, still staring at Derek’s nape, begging for a bite. Derek starts to close his knees and Stiles practically lunges to get his hands between Derek’s thighs. “Don’t! I’m here!”

For a moment Derek’s thighs press on Stiles’ hands, but he’s not really trying and when Stiles presses outward Derek goes with his hands, opening back up.

Stiles is quick then, blanketing Derek’s body, curling around him. It only takes one easy hitch of his hips to get inside. A noise gutters out of him and Derek answers it from deep in his chest. Stiles presses his face against Derek’s back, one hand on the bed, one hand on Derek’s stomach to hold on. His hips are already moving, jerking rhythmically.

“Oh my god,” he says, drunk-sounding. “This is so much better than last time.”

Derek grunts in agreement, hips flaring back.

Stiles pants while he fucks, his own moist breath on his face from Derek’s back. His body feels loose and powerful, electric every time Derek makes a noise. He tries moving in different ways – short and fast is what his body wants, but when he makes his thrusts long and rolling he can feel the struggle in Derek’s body under his, the way he’s holding on, so he tries to stick with those even though they make him ache.

He kisses Derek’s neck, wanting to say something hot and inspiring, but too gone to think of anything. When he presses his tongue against Derek’s throat though, Derek groans like Stiles just fed him the perfect line. He does it again, and again, lips drying, tongue wet.

Stiles’ orgasm surprises him. One second he’s okay, on the okay spectrum even though he’s sex-wrecked, and the next his toes are curling and he’s hot, fighting it.

“Derek,” he whimpers, body stretching for it, hips rabbiting even though he doesn’t want them too.

“Yeah,” Derek says, in that drunk, slurry voice, and Stiles loses it, crying out into Derek’s skin, his heart going hard and hips pushing tight against Derek. It feels immense but doesn’t last long, everything flushing out of him until he’s like a loose string, slumping over Derek’s back. Derek takes his weight, fingers tight to the mattress, back arched precariously.

“Sorry,” Stiles murmurs hoarsely, trying to pick himself up.

One of Derek’s hands shoots up, grabbing Stiles’ wrist, yanking him back down.

“Don’t,” Derek says, holding onto his wrist hard. His voice is strangely tight, full of some longing.

“What?” Stiles asks, obediently leaning down again until Derek lets his arm go, reaches back to cup his thigh instead. He holds Stiles close to him.

“Don’t,” he says again. There’s a flush on the part of his throat and jaw Stiles can see. “Stay still.”

Stiles holds very still, thinking he’s fucked this up, hurt Derek, until he remembers his five minutes of googling. He learned more than one embarrassingly hot thing in that five minutes.

“Oh,” he says, belly lurching. He blushes too. “Oh. Oh my god. Derek.”

Derek swallows hard, still cupping Stiles’ thigh. His shoulders are rigid under Stiles. He’s gonna duck and roll at any second. Stiles can feel it and that’s the last thing he wants.

To show Derek he’s totally on board with this whole crazy kinky thing, Stiles screws his hips up against Derek, as tight as he can, and wraps an arm around him, holding him still. As if he couldn’t leave, stuck deep inside Derek.

Stiles hasn’t gone soft yet, and he may never because Derek moans softly when Stiles pins his hips back, spreading his knees and dropping his chin, body going liquid. Stiles has to hold him up, and he also has to press his mouth against Derek’s shoulder to stay quiet, keep from ruining this amazing, lava-hot moment.

He keeps still and keeps Derek still too, impaled. But he does move his hand though, down Derek’s sweaty belly, to feel his pussy. He’s wet, so wet, and his hips jump when Stiles touches his clit.

Forget staying hard forever. Stiles may not survive this.

He uses three fingers, rubbing in tight fast circles that make Derek snarl and moan. He keeps his cock deep in Derek and when Derek comes Stiles can feel it inside and out.

He gets in a few last licks of Derek’s throat before Derek slides out from under him, dumping him face-first onto the mattress. Stiles marshals his limbs into removing the condom. This time he does spill some, fingers clumsy, but Derek takes it from him with a snort and then it’s gone with Derek and Stiles has his eyes closed so he can focus on trying to come back down to earth.

When Derek’s furnace heat and smooth skin come back Stiles halfway expects to get shoved onto the dirty floor and told to scram but instead Derek just shoves him closer to the wall and lies down.

“Five minutes,” Stiles mutters to be polite, arm flopped against Derek’s thigh

Derek snorts again, flicking his wrist lightly.

Stiles wakes up because his phone is ringing. Well, really, he wakes up when Derek cuffs his head and says, “Your phone,” just before it starts ringing.

Stiles rolls over reluctantly, away from Derek’s chest where he’d been sleeping, but obediently feels for his phone, finding the lump inside the leg of his jeans. He pulls it out and pushes it against his face.


“Stiles,” Scott pants, “Jesus.” He’s running or mid-sex or something.

Stiles stretches, foot bumping some part of Derek. “I know.”

Scott huffs. “No, man. Stiles. You gotta get Derek. There’s a,” he gulps,” thing in the woods by the school. Big thing, big boobs. Big teeth.” He’s running out of breath.

Derek leans over Stiles, his ear close to the phone even though he wouldn’t need much werewolf hearing to hear Scott starting to wheeze.

“What?” Stiles says, as Derek flings off the blanket and reaches for his jeans and bra in one movement.

In the background of the call something roars and it’s spine-tingling. Derek jerks around to look at the phone, doing his jeans up.

“Shit,” Scott exhales hard. “Get Derek!” He hangs up.

“Shit,” Stiles says, rolling off the mattress. “Shit!”

“Shit is right,” Derek snaps, digging a shirt out of a pile of clothes. He pulls it on and starts tossing Stiles his clothes. “Now hurry up.”

Stiles doesn’t bother with his underwear, just yanks his jeans up over his hips, fingers hard on the button.


They split it up when they hit the woods. Or Derek scents the air as soon as he gets out of the car and snarls, teeth long. He looks at Stiles once, face contorting with the wolf, and turns to the woods and bounds off.

“Hey!” Stiles yelps, throwing up his hands. “Derek!” he yells, but Derek is gone.

He sighs, sticking his car keys in the pocket on his jacket that zips closed and takes off into the woods too.


It’s late enough in the morning that all the dew has evaporated, leaving behind moist air and more shadows than Stiles is comfortable with.

He tries to walk in the sun and curses whatever makes the trees grow so thick in Beacon Hills. This is like the Derek’s breasts of forest canopies.

“Scott,” he calls softly, trying to keep his feet light. “Sco-o-ott. Come out, come out, let’s get the fuck out of here—“

A stick breaks. Stiles jerks around, looking everywhere. It looks like just another soon-to-be sunny day in the murder-filled Beacon Hills woods.

Stiles tries to breathe. Scott and Derek can probably hear his heart beating. Werewolves in New York can probably hear his heart.

Another twig snaps. Stiles thinks it may be him, so he very carefully steps onto the compacted-dirt path and only there. He shuffles forward.

“Scott,” he says, voice thin. “Now is the time to show up. Now. Now. Now--“

A bush up ahead fucking explodes with some kind of animal and Stiles is running before he even gets a good look.


“Shit!” He yells. “Shit! Fucking shit! Scott! Derek!”

The thing behind him roars and it sounds like a mountain lion on steroids. Stiles whimpers but he keeps running, the forest blurry. He can’t hear anything other than the echo of that roar and his legs already feel like lead.

He’s going to die, killed by a goddamn mountain lion before whatever’s after Scott can get to him.

It roars again, closer, and Stiles moans. He zigs and zags between some trees. The crunch of the animal hitting the trees is frighteningly near, but Stiles is afraid to look back. He doesn’t want to know how soon he’ll die. He just tries to run faster.

He run-slides down a hill, pushing off trees when he can, jumping over anything in the bottom of his vision. The animal crashes after him. Stiles’ legs feel like they’re gonna fall off, but up the hill and further back comes a deep roar that pulls at Stiles’ guts, but he knows it.


Another one, shakier, not as low, follows. Scott.

Stiles’ body floods with relief alongside the pump of adrenalin, but he’s too busy gasping to say anything or call to them. He’s at the bottom of the hill and the trees are getting thinner as he comes into the clearing from when this shit all started, still dotted with dried-up bits of fairies and their bones.

From behind him there’s a dry click and a big ugly buzz; Stiles makes it another two steps before something sharp pounds him on the back and he goes sailing.

He lands hard on a flat rock, but his reflexes must not have shit the bed because he manages to turn just enough to not break his collarbone or dislocate his shoulder. It still hurts like holy hell though, pain exploding up his whole side. He screams, but even still he’s trying to move. He manages to roll onto his back and get one elbow under himself.

His head is throbbing almost as bad as his shoulder, but he knows he’s not seeing things. His imagination is not so cruel. About fifteen feet away is the animal, if Stiles could even call it that. It – she – looks like the unholy hybrid between a supermodel and a mountain lion. She’s tall, muscular, and if Stiles was being honest, stacked. Scott’s comment about boobs makes sense now, because she has some huge ones. But her face is ugly, distorted like Scott’s goes when he wolfs out, but leonine instead of canine.

She’s naked but Stiles has no problem keeping his eyes on her face because she’s snarling at him, green eyes glowing. She folds her big dragonfly wings down with the same click she must’ve unfolded them with and crouches, sharp claws in the leaves.

Stiles draws a shuddering, painful breath and her tongue comes out, long and licking her muzzle. He finds another pathetic, puppyish sound inside himself and lets it go. She crouches lower at the noise, folding in a way humans can’t, watching him avidly.

Scott comes racing out of the trees, already roaring, already jumping. She turns and catches him easily with a clawed hand, flinging him. He flies at Stiles, thudding once on the ground before landing half on top of Stiles.

“Scott!” Stiles yells, feeling him. Scott’s out cold and his shirt is already turning red. But none of his guts fall out, so Stiles just holds onto him while the big fairy resettles herself.

She looks just about ready to make them her lunch when Derek appears with another gut-churning roar. She spins to face him, answering it just as loudly. Stiles clutches Scott, his lungs burning, his shoulder aching.

Derek circles the fairy, who focuses entirely on him, snarling lividly. Either she thinks he wants to eat Scott and Stiles, or she knows he fucked up her fairy mafia.

When she hisses, “Switcher,” in a prickly, breathless voice, then Stiles knows. But there’s no time for him to react because the fight is on. She launches herself at Derek, mouth open for his throat but he’s just a fast and then they’re colliding and rolling.

It’s all claws and fangs and snarling breaths, with the occasional body getting thrown into a tree. Stiles tries to keep up, but it’s so fast and before long there’s a lot of blood. It’s coming out of both of them, at least, although Derek is losing more, leaving a spattered trail behind him. He’s missing most of his shirt now, and a big chunk of his jeans and maybe his leg too.

He doesn’t stop through, trading blows and getting in hard claw swipes that have the fairy howling.

Scott starts coming around as Derek struggles to hold his own, twisting on Stiles’ legs and moaning.

“Scott,” Stiles hisses. “Get up.”

Scott moans again, and Derek looks over.

“Hey!” Stiles yells, but it’s too late. The fairy plows into Derek, driving him into the dirt, her teeth sinking into his shoulder. Derek screams, and it’s an animal scream, so consumed by pain there’s nothing human about it. He scrabbles at her face, trying to get his claws into her jaw. She grits her teeth, shakes, and Derek’s face is agonized, his mouth open but there’s not even any scream left.

Scott jerks and rolls off Stiles, but he’s still barely moving, wounds still pumping blood sluggishly, so Stiles feels around with his good hand until he finds the rock he landed on. It’s flat so he has to wing it like a discus but his aim is good enough. It hits the fairy in the head, jerking her teeth out of Derek’s shoulder and knocking her to the side.

His shoulder feels wrenched and he must be going into shock because the air feels cold then, and whooshes like it’s coming out of a balloon, but Derek’s up even though his shoulder is pouring blood down his chest and he’s wheezing.

He’d said he didn’t feel as strong as before, but that can’t be true. He must be stronger, because Stiles is sure the old Derek could have never punched through a mountain lion-woman hybrid’s goddamn ribcage.

Damn, he thinks, woozy, sick at the sight of the blood and the crunch that echoes.

But he has to get up, because Scott is getting up onto his hands clumsily and the fairy is down and Derek is almost down.

He hurts in so many places but he can move so he gets up, pulling on Scott’s sweater to help him up too.

Derek pulls his gore-covered hand out of the fairy slowly. He’s white, still bleeding, not healing. He looks up when Stiles kneels beside him and puts his hand on the wound but he’s breathing too hard to say anything.


Scott and Stiles have to practically drag Derek to the Jeep and he bleeds all over Scott’s hands and the blanket and the seat, but gaspingly tells them to take him home.

“You’re not healing,” Scott pleads. It doesn’t look like he is either when Stiles looks in the rearview mirror, but he’s hardly bleeding at all.

“Magic,” Derek says. “Will be fine. Home.” His head lolls back. Scott looks to Stiles but all Stiles can do is shrug against the weight on his shoulders and drive.


The Hale House has no water, which Stiles doesn’t realize until they get Derek up into the room with the mattress, long-cold from them being gone, and he’s still bleeding and he’s so dirty.

Stiles kneels next to Derek, putting as much pressure on the bite as he can with one hand and giving Scott his blood-slippery keys with the other.

“Water,” he croaks, “towels. Shit, Scott, I don’t know. Stuff!”

Scott nods and blurs out of Stiles’ vision. He slams the front door and Derek’s eyes swim open.

“It’s okay,” Stiles babbles. He pulls the shreds of Derek’s shirt off and fumbles his bra straps down. Somehow his bra is still in one piece, even though one half of it is caked in dirt and the other half is soaked in blood. Stiles reaches behind Derek’s back to undo it. He drops it and the shirt tatters onto the floor.

“Scott’s getting some stuff,” Stiles says, going back to pressing on the wound. It may be bleeding a little less now. “He’ll be back.”

Derek squints at him. He moves his hands a little. “Go,” he says, voice thready.

“No way!” Stiles says. “You’re hurt, man. Like, pretty fucking hurt here, Derek. We can’t go.”

Derek’s fingers, half-clawed, find Stiles’ jeans. He looks like he’s gonna puke, but he still growls, “Go, Stiles.”

“No-“ Stiles says, but Derek’s face changes, and he roars, all-animal again, and Stiles leaps back to avoid Derek’s swipe.

Moaning, Derek rolls onto his side away from Stiles, curling up to protect his belly. He still breathing hard but has it in him to go for Stiles again when he comes closer.

“Okay,” Stiles says, hurt and terrified. “Okay.”

He stumbles back and stands there for a second, watching Derek’s shuddering ribs, ready to cry or faint or something. Then he starts to leave.

The bra and shirt squish under his shoe, blood oozing out onto the floor. They stink terribly when Stiles picks them up, sour and coppery, but Stiles already looks like a murder victim and if Derek wants to die alone like an animal then the smell from that will be bad enough, so he takes the bundle downstairs and out the door.

When Scott screeches to a halt out front Stiles is waiting for him. He looks frantically puzzled when Stiles gets in, but Stiles just shakes his head and jams the bloody stuff into the bag of things Scott brought.


It’s noon on a Saturday; usually Stiles would be just cracking his eyes open. Today he drops the bag of stuff to save Derek on the bathroom floor, takes a hot shower and collapses into bed stinking like Irish Spring.

He gets up sixteen hours later, coming into awareness slowly, swimming through an ocean of pain to get there. He gets his gritty eyes open but it’s totally dark. He looks over at the window but the blinds are closed; Dad must’ve come in at some point.

Stiles’ shoulder feels like it’s a million sizes too big, but he can move it enough to sit up.

Dad left him a big glass of water too. It’s warm but Stiles drinks it anyway, parched. Once he gets his bearings he gets up, moving like he’s ninety.

In the bathroom he kicks the bag to the side and gets out the bottle of Tylenol, digging at the bottom where he’s stashed his T3s from the dentist. He takes one and drinks water out of his cupped hands before finally turning the light on to face himself.

He looks groggy and ill, but there aren’t any bruises on his face, just the huge one spreading down from his t-shirt sleeve. It’s possible Dad doesn’t suspect anything. Stiles will tell him he got drunk if he asks. That makes way more sense than a giant, malicious, naked fairy throwing him across a clearing before attempting to eat him. Before being brutally killed by one of the werewolves Stiles knows. The werewolf that’s in the wrong body. Not his best friend the werewolf. The other one. That Stiles has fucked.

Stiles drinks some more water before he freaks out completely.


After that he’s awake, even though it’s four in the morning. He looks over his unfinished Chemistry homework and opens the fairy game, but none of it sticks.

He dresses slowly, warmly, putting his worst sweater on, and eats a Pop-Tart in the dark kitchen, wiping the crumbs into the sink so his dad won’t know he was up.

He drives to the school and then walks from there, picking his way carefully through the woods. When he gets to the clearing it’s all shadows from the trees, but even he can see that there’s no body to drag away. The hulking, broken body of the fairy is completely gone. There’s only a depression in the leaves where she used to be, and all the other fairy bones are gone.

Stiles walks in circles for a while, kicking leaves out of the way to look. After a while he starts to see the pattern in the rocks and brushes everything off them to reveal it: the perfect circle with one empty space. He walks over to the depression and picks up the wide, flat rock he threw at the fairy, breaking the circle.

“Goddammit,” he says softly, still holding the rock. He looks up at the moon, waiting for someone to howl at it, but it’s quiet


He gets home before dawn and paces aimlessly for a little while, chewing on his nails. For something to do he straightens up a little, goes into the bathroom to put the stuff Scott brought away. When he dumps it out onto the floor the bra and shirt fall out, crusty with blood.

Stiles kicks the shirt into the wastebasket without a thought, but finds himself bending to pick up Derek’s bra. It’s stiff and looks like an art installation, half-dirty beige, half mottled brown-red-black. But it’s intact and Stiles is wearing his dirty-work sweater, blood still under his nails, so he turns on the water as cold as it will go and drops the bra in.


Scott heals, but it takes the better part of a week. Every day he shows Stiles the scratches and they both look at them, until Friday when Scott changes his shirt to go get burgers and turns around, bare-chested, saying, “Look, Stiles: nothing.”

Stiles nods, leg jittering, shoulder still sore. “Good, man. Good to know.”


He goes early again, because it seems right. He wears his dirty sweater and puts a few things in his car, garbage bags and a shovel, just in case. And before he goes he puts the bra, still horrifically stained but soft and clean-smelling, on the passenger seat. He’s not sure why he does that.

There is a way to drive straight up to the house, but Stiles still leaves the Jeep at the side road and hikes through the woods. He swings his arm, working out the lingering stiffness in his shoulder, which is still bruised, brown and green. He’s healing too, but there’s no werewolf cure for him.

He doesn’t call out as he approaches the house, but just before he gets to the steps the front door opens. He’s not sure what he’s expecting but when regular, hard, sexy Derek steps out instead of soft, sexy Derek he feels so much relief, but there’s other things inside him too. Longing, disappointment.

He has to force a smile, but it’s not actually very hard. “You’re alive.”

Derek is in full masculine regalia, grey shirt, jeans, even his leather jacket. He has a lot of stubble and his hands in his jacket pockets. “Yeah,” he says.

“When did it happen?” Stiles nods at Derek, his whole body.

Derek shrugs. “Few days ago. Hurt.”

Stiles puts one foot on the bottom step. “You look good. Different good. Well, regular good, I guess.”

Technically, he does look the same as he did a month ago, but Stiles can’t really see him as the guy he hated having in his car and whose main hobbies seemed to be brooding and threatening to kill Stiles anymore. Fucking someone, doing the thing that makes them come, it must change things.

Derek is watching his face carefully. He takes a deep, chest-expanding scenting breath and Stiles tries not to blush, but fails. Derek’s expression barely changes but he looks Stiles in the eye levelly, seriously. Stiles holds the contact, letting Derek see even though it’s embarrassing. But he doesn’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. He can’t lie.

For a while they just look at each other, still in the morning. Stiles lets the blush come. It goes away slowly, finally just leaving him warm and waiting.

“So,” Stiles says finally, holding his hand out between them. He smiles his bravest smile even though he knows it makes him look stupid. “I guess you’ll want your bra back?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, taking the bra, holding it loosely by the straps, eyes stuck on Stiles’ mouth. “Thanks.”