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Slap on the Wrist

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Derek has never been in a situation quite like this before.

The police car isn’t anything new. He’s been in the backseat of a squad car more than once, trussed up and chastened and raging inside. He’s been cuffed and shouldered into place until the fury in his gut threatens to overspill, until he’s five seconds away from shifting just enough to snap the chains, jump the officers, and run and run and run for however long it takes to be left alone again.

He’s not in the backseat this time, but being manhandled up against the side of a squad car isn’t the new part of this equation. Refreshingly, handcuffs aren’t actually a part of the equation either, but he can catch sight of them now and again if he cranes his neck enough to glance through the passenger’s side window.

Derek likes to think not much fazes him anymore. First of all, he was raised in a fucking werewolf pack, which tends to set the bar fairly high. Second, he lost his entire family when he was still a kid and still has more trouble than he’d ever admit putting distance between himself and those memories. Third, he’s been known to eat peanut butter and pickle sandwiches if there’s nothing else in the house and he can’t bring himself to buy groceries.

He’s also played the part of the strange, foreboding outsider so many times that emphasizing his standoffishness has become second nature, to the point where he sometimes can’t remember how to interact like a normal human being.

Which, if he thinks about it—which he isn’t—is something he’s pretty sure more than one smart-mouthed high school student has said to him.

So even though Derek has lived a fairly colorful live, he’s never been in a situation quite like this before.

And speaking of smart-mouthed high schoolers…

“He’s gonna fucking hear us,” Derek hisses, giving up all pretense at playing it cool because there’s nothing remotely cool about dry-humping against a vehicle belonging to the goddamn town sheriff while it happens to be parked outside said goddamn sheriff’s quaint suburban house.

There’s a light on in one of the upper windows, which could be anything from a red herring to a red alert—sometimes people fall asleep without switching the lights off, it happens, it could be nothing. But if Derek’s noticed anything about the Stilinski family, it’s that neither of them are exactly known for minding their own business.

The mouth that’s been working its way across his collarbone stretches into a grin that reeks of diabolicalness even though Derek can’t see it. “Maybe you should be a little quieter then, huh?”

And the sharp, sudden sting of a bite blazes across the join of his neck and shoulder.

Derek isn’t supposed to get off on biting. Where he comes from, a bite indicates a different kind of intimacy. A bite is a gift given, a bond made, a pact between packs. Something like this messy, mediocre layman’s bite should make him bristle and sneer. It certainly shouldn’t make him buck his hips and try to twist his fingers in soft, tickling hair.

A laugh against his cheek, a thigh slipping between his legs, riding up, and those eyes are still boring into him. Bright with mirth and something that clearly has to be sadism.

“We could—the back—we could.”

The only answer he gets is a disdainful snort. “What, get it on in the back of a car, are you serious? There’s not enough room in there to do anything, how do you not know that?”

Derek has a few choice retorts all picked out, but then the hand that’s been busy slipping up the back of his shirt suddenly decides to reverse its route.

“Oh, god. Please. Fuck. Please.”

He could bite back. Draw blood. Lean in and let his claws snick out just quick enough to leave long, damning scratches, then disappear into the night and have the last laugh.

Derek might not have known his limits when he was a kid, but he does now.

Those eyes meet his again, lidded and laughing and seeming to burn right into his thoughts. Ruthless. Like the palm still pressing between his legs, through the damnably thick denim of his jeans, rough and desperate and just short of not fucking enough.

Shhh.” It's the softest of admonitions, cresting his ear like a delicate kiss. “Remember? Wouldn’t want anyone getting curious.”

Right, because there’s still that upstairs window to worry about. Even though Derek hasn’t seen the curtains so much as twitch, he has to admit his powers of observation aren’t exactly on point just now. Stiles and the sheriff are going to be the death of him, that’s just cold brutal fact, and Derek doesn’t have the wits to be annoyed, not while there’s a wet, wicked tongue teasing its way into his mouth all over again.

His cock aches, leaks another burst of precome into the front of his underwear, and of course the fucker is still snickering like somehow he knows. Like he’s the one with heightened senses. Derek barely strangles a growl, reaches to tries to grip and tug and urge that mouth lower, but no dice.

Please.”

He doesn’t even mean to say it. His belt is worked half-loose, heart racing so fast it’s probably audible to every wolf in a hundred-mile radius, fingers of one hand fanned out over his own stomach—not moving, nearly clinical, but the urge to touch himself is so overwhelming he’s ready to throw shame by the wayside and get off in his own fist.

“Please what?”

There’s the predictable Stilinski contrariness he knows and loves. His voice is almost a drawl. Such a prick, it must run in the family, and Derek can’t even find the words to say so because he’s too busy gripping that clever, clever, too clever for its own good hand like his life depends on it and coming in his jeans. Head back, cold state-issued car-top metal against his skull, twenty-one gun salute orgasm knocking him off his feet in every sense but the most literal. And even that’s only by a narrow margin.

Hot and horny and coming against a car. Derek pulls back his hand, looks at the innocuous little nail marks he’s left in pale human flesh, there at the nape.

It’s like being sixteen all over again, caught up in the moment and not knowing his own limits. Isn’t that a thought.

He can hear the sound of muted, self-satisfied chuckling once he comes back down fully. What’s really funny is he can’t even be bothered to pick a fight over it.

“It’s not safe for young men to be wandering around the woods themselves. You sure I can’t give you a ride back? There’s no way of knowing how much trouble you’ll get yourself into unsupervised.”

“If you’re so concerned about me running around committing felonies, maybe you shouldn’t be helping me.” He probably sounds about sixteen right now, an unflattering mix of defiant and whiny at the same time. Fuck everything.

“Indecent exposure is a misdemeanor in California, not a felony,” says the sheriff, and god, Derek isn’t sure whether he wants to grind him into a pulp or just grind him into the nearest hard surface.

“You’re not setting a very good example for your son, you know,” he shoots back, like he knows anything about father figures anymore.

The sheriff’s grin is a quick, star-bright crescent in the moonless night. “Look out for yourself, Mr. Hale.”

Derek doesn’t acknowledge him again. He turns and walks away down the driveway, melting into the shadows the way he’s been doing for years.



Happy April Fools!