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almost famous

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Muchas gracias a jooleah xo 


It’s a Friday when it happens. Or at least, that’s when he finds out.

He wakes up, showers, brushes his teeth, gets dressed as usual. He drives to a coffee shop near BHHS—but not the one beside the school, because even at seven-thirty in the morning, it’s already crawling with students—and orders two bacon, egg, and cheese bagels and a Cafe Americano. The barista, a bubbly girl named Lauren, blushes profusely when she sees him. Someone behind the glass display of donuts cranes his head to get a better look at him. It’s odd, but not odd enough to dwell on. He carries on with his morning.

He parks his Camaro in the staff parking lot, carries his leather briefcase into the building with him and heads to the Social Sciences department office. He has a desk in the back where he dumps his things, having already eaten one and a half bagels and is nearly finished his coffee. He sorts through his folders and binders, reviews the day’s lesson plans for the two courses he teaches, and greets the other teachers that come in with a polite nod.

Nothing out of the ordinary happens again until first period, a world issues class at nine a.m. sharp, when it seems like most of his students are looking at him with a renewed interest. While it shouldn’t be a bad thing, they’re not paying attention to a word coming out of his mouth, and he catches more of them texting than usual. He wonders briefly if he has something on his face, maybe in his teeth. Maybe wearing a lavender button-down is pushing the limits of fashion these days.

When lunch rolls around, he hears his name being whispered in large groups of girls. This wasn’t a particularly new development; ever since he began teaching, he’s been told (by brave and inappropriate young girls) that he was “a total hottie”, but those not-so-hushed tones were never accompanied by the chorus of gasps and giggles he’s experiencing today. There’s probably a new rumour going around about him, he decides. Last year’s gossip states that he’s secretly a werewolf and secret agent from Canada. Hell, a month ago, some students found out about his messy break-up with the woman who teaches yoga at the gym he goes to. Beacon Hills is a small town. Shit really gets around.

In the afternoon, it all comes to a head. He finishes up some marking during his prep period, turns his cell phone on and is immediately flooded with text messages. Usually he’ll have two or three between the time he turns it off before school begins and the time in the afternoon when he can check, but he’s got texts from about a dozen people, and his phone freezes and is slow to load in an effort to handle the amount of vibrating going on. It’s alarming and his instinct is to assume the worst, like someone in the family is in the hospital, or god forbid, dead. But that subsides when only two of his sisters have sent messages, and the rest are friends, old co-workers, that sort of thing. Still, he braces himself as he reads through them quickly.

Then he tells himself he’s gone illiterate or everyone in the world is high, because he is not willing to believe what he’s being told.

He isn’t sure what happens first, if he breaks out into a cold sweat or if his mouth dries up and his stomach starts trying to flip itself upside down, but it’s all happening in quick succession and suddenly he’s leaning over a nearby garbage can and dry heaving in a frenzied panic. His hands shake as he dials his sister’s number. Laura’s in New York, and he can’t remember what she could be doing at this time, considering the timezone difference at all, but she picks up on the third ring.

“Derek.” She sounds relieved. “Fucking finally, I was wondering when you would call me.”

“What the fuck is going on.” He demands. “What—who—”

“Deep breaths.” She says, which does absolutely nothing to calm him. He’s standing now, pacing the room like a caged tiger. “Okay, so, first of all, Cora and I only just found out this morning, or else we would’ve told you earlier. But it was only posted last night.”

“Posted where, and by who? Who the fuck would do this?” He’s a half second away from putting his fist through the door when something in his brain clicks, and he and Laura say at the same time, “Kate.”

She curses under her breath. “Okay, okay, we can fix this, we’ll just email Stiles Stilinski, tell him to take it down or you’ll sue, everything will be fine.”

“No, everything will not be fucking fine, I’m going to lose my job, I’m a fucking high school teacher, Laura! I’m going to get fired.”

“Listen, no, it’s still early, like, maybe no one has seen it yet.”

At this point, Derek’s whole life collapses in on itself because the strange interactions of his day suddenly make sense. “My fucking students have seen it.” He rasps, about to retch into the garbage can again. “That’s why they were giving me these weird fucking looks, whispering—”

“Derek, honey, I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now, but why in god’s name would you let Kate fucking Argent take nude pictures of you in the first place? Did you really think she would just delete them after you dumped her? Really?”

“Fuck off.” He snarls while wondering the same thing. “What fucking website is this, who runs it?”

“I just told you, Stiles Stilinski.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

Laura snorts. “Oh yeah, sorry, you don’t even have Facebook or Twitter, of course you wouldn’t know about internet celebrities.”

“I don’t have time for the pop culture lecture, okay? I have a fucking class to teach in twenty minutes where I’m going to assume everyone’s seen my fucking package, so just tell me what the URL is and how I can fucking contact this guy.”

She rattles off a web address and a contact email she says is on the site, promises to get in touch with their family lawyer in case it escalates to something more, and hangs up. He doesn’t have the time to get to a computer, nor does he think it a solid idea to get himself even more irritated right before a class, so he does a quick Google search of “Stiles Stilinski” on his phone instead.

Pages and pages of hits on this kid. Derek furrows his brows. From what he gathers from browsing around, he’s twenty-four and some sort of spoiled L.A. punk who’s famous for partying and running a site called, a ‘revenge porn’ site where people submit private and incriminating pictures of people they want to get humiliate, including their social media information and in some unfortunate cases, their cell phone numbers. Guys with small dicks trying to look macho, girls with uneven breasts posing in their bathrooms, and thousands of comments from people all over the world absolutely tearing these people apart. It’s immature, it’s offensive, and it’s wildly popular and wildly pathetic. The “submit” page happily guarantees that ending up on their homepage gets their life ruined in twenty four hours or less. The site gets thirty million page views a month.

Derek reminds himself he’s at his place of work and therefore unable to flip his desk over and throw a chair across the room.

There are some featured news articles about lawsuits filed against him that he, unsurprisingly, won. Rich brat like that could no doubt afford a good lawyer. So there goes that idea of suing the shit out of him. From the kid’s Wikipedia page—he has a fucking Wikipedia page about him, the entitled little shit—he finds a link for his Twitter page. His tweets are vulgar, as expected, ranting and raving about tits and asses. He retweets of the pictures girls send him of their bodies and asks for responses from his two hundred and fifteen thousand followers, “show me those yoga booties, you fucking sluts” “nominate ratchet bitches for #twittersugliestgirl” “anal a vegetable and send me pix”. He posts videos of girls going down on him, pictures of girls laying ass-up in his bed with lines of coke on the backs of their thighs. He rates their sexual performances. He tells them to call him ‘Daddy’.

Though he’s still seething about Kate, he reserves some of that anger to focus on this Stiles kid, because if he puts up a fight when asked to take the pictures down, Derek will drag himself to Los Angeles and tear his throat out with his teeth.

The rest of the school day drags on. Kids look at him weird and he brushes it off. He growls at his students a little more than he usually does, which he feels sorry for in retrospect because it’s not their fault. It’s just unnerving to know that likely half the student body has seen these photos that he barely remembers taking and feels annoyingly out of the loop. No teachers have mentioned anything, nor has the school administration summoned him to the main office yet, so he figures this buys him some time. If all goes well, the pictures will be taken down over the weekend and he’ll act like nothing happened come Monday. If not... well, there’s two whole days for the situation to get worse. He tries not to think about that. He goes over the speed limit on his way to home and heads straight to his laptop to pull up the AlmostFamous web page.

He doesn’t have to hunt for his pictures, it seems, as his body is plastered on the front banner with a star over his crotch that reads “MONSTER COCK OF THE DAY.” He feels his face grow hot, a mix of embarrassment and resentment. He hesitates for a moment before clicking on it, and it takes him to another page with a set of three pictures of him. One of him in the doorway of Kate’s bedroom, dripping wet from a shower with a towel over his shoulders, one of him laying in her bed, hands behind his head, hard and naked as a jaybird, and the last one of him with his back to her, showing his ass and triskele tattoo between his shoulder blades while he was apparently looking out the window. He grinds his teeth, remembering that night, how she swore those pictures would just be for her, just to ‘remind her what was waiting for her at home’ while she was away in France.

In his defense, he really did forget she took those. If he knew she still had them, he probably wouldn’t have broken up with her before she left to see other, specifically, now that he was certain where his interests lay. But that’s neither here nor there.

Out of sheer morbid fascination he lets his eyes wander down to the comments section. Not that he cares what a bunch of faceless, nameless people on the internet have anything to say about him, especially ones who frequent such a sleazy site, but he’s assaulted with incredibly detailed lists of what a few hundred underaged girls would like to do to him. He winces. It’s all so disgusting and shameful, and he quickly scrolls back up to read the blurb under his pictures.

‘MCOTD goes to Derek H. of Beacon Hills, California! He’s newly single and apparently a raging faggot, sources tell us, sorry ladies, but if you’re a man interested in this musclebound beastly fucker, hit him up. No FB/Twitter because apparently he’s like a teacher or something retarded like that, but maybe if you’re bad he’ll spank you in detention lmao’

He slams his laptop shut and rubs at his temples. “Fucking breathe.” He reminds himself out loud. He counts to twenty, opens his laptop back up and types so fast and feverishly, he cracks the “s” key in half. The email he composes is concise and a little threatening, ordering to take those pictures down because they were both taken and submitted without his permission (which is mostly true) before he takes further legal action (which he could, and he might have a fighting chance, who knows) and to please respond ASAP (before he trashes his house in a fit of rage).

Derek doesn’t text anyone back but Laura, and answers a call from his younger sister Cora who came bearing supposedly good news. “I totally drove down from college today, a two hour fucking drive but it was worth it, I went to the gym and keyed Kate’s car.” She declares proudly. “And I broke off the driver’s side mirror, too. God, I fucking despise her. I always have. Why did you date her for so long, Der? She’s a witch.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” He mumbles tersely. Especially because she’ll suspect him first, not that she didn’t deserve it, but still.

“Well too late. No one fucks with my big brother.”

He smiles for the first time all day, a small lift of the corner of his mouth.

“Stiles fucking Stilinski. I never liked him, either, you know.” She continues. “I have some friends who are obsessed with him, they think he’s gorgeous, and they partied with him in Hollywood last summer or something. I know some guys who think he’s ‘the man’ because he fucks like five girls a week.” She makes a gagging noise.

Later, he checks his emails while he makes dinner. He checks them after he finishes eating dinner. He checks them every half hour while he sits on his couch and marks essays on GMOs while watching the last three episodes of Hannibal that he’s missed. No response. He expects not to get one this quickly but still grunts impatiently at his empty inbox. The initial shock has worn off into a bristling frustration, which he supposes is better because at least he’s able to fall asleep frowning rather than stare sullenly at his ceiling until dawn.

When he wakes up, he goes through half of his usual morning routine before remembering the events of the day before. He walks briskly to his laptop, toothbrush still in his mouth, and is relieved to see (1) New Unread Message. What’s not so relieving is the email itself.

‘Heeyyyy Monster cock
lmfao dude sorry not sorry im not taking those pictures down.
Trying t sue me is just gonna b a waste of ur fuckin money.
Suck a dick, cyaaaa. $TILIN$KI OUT!!’
Sent via iPhone. Received: 3:49 AM

Derek already knows where he’s going to bury him in the backyard.

He’s only twenty eight, too young for his life to get fucked over. He considers his options, realizes he doesn’t have any, then punches the mirror in his bedroom. He mutters to himself as he picks glass shards out of his knuckles when his phone rings. He glares at it briefly, sees Cora’s name pop up on the display, and picks up.

“As much as I like to hear that my baby sister has taken up vandalism of personal property as a new hobby, I’m not really in the fucking mood to—”

“What are you doing tonight?” She interrupts.

“Looking for a new fucking job before I get fired from my current one.” He growls. “If you’re trying to take me out to get my mind off it, just fuck off. That Stiles kid won’t take my fucking pictures down from his shitty fucking website. I just destroyed my mirror pretending it was his stupid face.”

She makes a noise, urgent and excited. “You can still destroy him! Well, not actually destroy, I don’t think becoming a murderer will help with your job situation, but you know what I mean. You know, friendly-angry conversation, that sort of thing. Totally your forte. He’s coming to Beacon Hills.

“What?” He snaps.

“Yeah, tonight. Well, right on the edge of Beacon Hills. That warehouse district, you know it?”


“Good. So I was creeping his Instagram. A few weeks ago he posted a schedule of concerts he’s attending and he’s booked to make a special appearance at some rave there.”

“Booked?” He scoffs. “People actually book him to show up at parties?”

“He’s like the main attraction, the town’s gonna be crawling with dirty bitties trying to show him their tits.”

He has no idea what a bitty is but he screws his face up in disgust anyway. “Okay, so I’m going to tell that little bastard myself to take me off his site.” This seems like a solid plan. He can be persuasive when he needs to be, he thinks, flexing his fingers. He goes to the bathroom and grabs stuff out of his medicine cabinet for his cuts while Cora rambles on.

“Doors open at eleven. He might not be there that early though. It’s like eighty bucks at the doors to get in.”

“Eighty bucks is nothing to me. My job’s on the line. My reputation.”

“Want me to come?”

He smirks in spite of himself. “It’s not an ambush. I don’t exactly need backup or anything. I’m gonna talk to him. Maybe yell.”

“Probably yell.”

“Okay, fine, probably scream.” He rolls his eyes. “Anyway, the little shit will be doing drugs and god knows what else with high-school-aged girls, so I’ll just call the police. I work out with half the deputies. And while he’s dealing with possession charges, I’ll tack on defamation suit.” He adds, surprised that he didn’t think of that earlier.

“Good idea, that snarky little caption is a clear example of libel. Well, I’ll come anyway, slap him around a little. Remember what dad told us when mom wasn’t around? ‘Don’t get mad, get even.’ Serves him right. He’s a fucking turd.”

“Fine. Text me, if anything.”

“Will do. Wear your leather jacket, it makes you look ominous.”

He snorts but can’t deny that it’s a good idea.

He spends the rest of his day at home. He’s running low on groceries so he orders breakfast and lunch from a nearby soup and sandwich place that delivers, and plans on going to the twenty-four hour supermarket late at night. Less people to see him and judge him. The thought of old ladies shaking their heads in disapproval upsets his stomach and he’s thanked several different gods several different times that his mother hasn’t yet found out.

He shaves, flips through folders of paper he needs to mark and correct, does light sweeping and dusting and vacuuming. By three, he starts getting antsy. He doesn’t really go out much but on weekends he likes to go for runs through the preserve so he kills two hours on the treadmill in the mini home gym in his basement, but it’s not the same. He puts on Forest Gump to calm himself down and stretches out on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and drinks soda right out of the 2L bottle. Seven o’clock rolls around and he types out ‘Stiles Stilinski’ into Google Images on his phone, just to see what he’s getting himself into.

So the thorn in his side, the bane of his existence, is a tall skinny boy in skinny jeans, covered in tattoos from his neck to his feet. In some photos he has a buzzcut and in others he has a short mohawk. His lobes are stretched huge and he has two silver studs under his bottom lip. He looks how Derek pictured him; a smug delinquent. A link takes him to Stiles’ Instagram, where he’s got pictures of his photoshoots where he apparently models band merch and various clothing brands that look like they got chewed up and spit out by Hot Topic. Other photos are shots of him at parties, doublefisting bottles of Grey Goose and Hennessy, licking Patron off girls with teased hair and way too much eyeliner. There’s an alarming amount of photos of him showing off his weed in different vintage filters. The captions are an incoherent mess. “w/ Allison Green frm @TheMillionaires #idefinitelyfuckedher #shewasntlyingaboutthebombasspu$$y ahaha” “Warped Tour isnt the same w/o Mitch Lucker, missin u bro, getting sloshed in ur name #ss #pourin1out4u” “Riverside wit my homie T. Milllly #kush #eyesChinathroughmyRaybans”. He apparently has some sort of entourage, a crew of similarly-styled young people who stick to him like a shadow. They wear a ridiculous amount of gold chains like they’ve got something to prove. Mob mentality and all that.

Stiles smirks in all the pictures, a stupidly attractive smirk on a ridiculously pretty face and Derek wants to smack it right off his mouth. He wants to shout at this kid, scare him into submission and wash his hands of this mess.

Somehow he manages to fall asleep and wakes just after nine. The hours are crawling by at a pace too slow for his liking. After a shower he takes a speedy grocery shopping trip with his hood on and sunglasses covering his eyes, and he’s in such a rush out of there that he nearly forgets half the list of food. The cashier, he couldn’t have been older than seventeen, winks at him and he growls back. This is no way to live, lurking in the shadows like he’s the fucking Phantom of the Opera. He’s going to have to move out of Beacon Hills at this rate.

By the time he’s unpacked everything in his kitchen, Cora calls to let him know she’s on her way and will meet him there at midnight. That’s still too much time to kill. With nothing else to do, he goes back on the AlmostFamous site and glares at his naked form. Since he last checked, there’s been a flood of new comments, much to his chagrin. He doesn’t check them, opting to get dressed instead. He wonders what would be more effective, going in slacks and a dress shirt to look as professional as possible or dressing like a hitman. Then he eyes his old black leather motorcycle jacket hanging in his closet and the choice is suddenly clear. He pairs it with a black shirt, black boots, and dark jeans, and is in his car by eleven.

It’s not hard to find the warehouse. As soon as he drives into the area, he follows the cars that all seem to be heading in the same direction. There’s a line-up from the front doors that wraps all the way around to the side of the building. A bouncer at the front holds a clipboard, maybe a guestlist of some sort. Derek parks a ways away and gets his phone out. Nothing from Cora yet, she’s probably still driving. He’s torn between calling Kate to tell her to burn in hell or doing something mindless like playing solitaire while he waits, and the latter option wins because he’s gone this long without contacting her—a new record for him since he met her three years ago. He barely hears Cora’s Audi pull up beside him until she honks.

They get out of their cars and she smoothes the wrinkles out of her dress. “I checked Twitter, Stiles tweeted that he’s already here. Let’s rock this bitch.”

“Don’t be dumb, we’re just going to talk to him.”

She laughs. “Yeah, dressed like a bodyguard for the Mafia? Right.”

“You’re wearing high heels.” He points out.

“I took a self-defense class for strippers once, I can do this. Also we’re at a rave. I can’t look like trash if this is going to end up on Worldstar.

“What the hell is that?”

She rolls her eyes. “Nevermind. God, you’re medieval for your age.”

They cut right to the front of the line, pointedly ignoring the shouts of protest from the people behind them. They push past a small group of people smoking something that is definitely not tobacco, and approach the security guard. “I’m not here to party with these little kids.” Derek says flatly. “I need to talk to Stiles Stilinski. It’ll take two minutes.”

“Are you on the guest list?”

“No. I just need two minutes.”

“I’m gonna need some ID.” He says, bored.

Derek goes into his wallet and Cora starts to dig through her purse. “Look, I’ll pay the eighty bucks if that’s what you want, I just need to talk to him before—”

“Oh my god,” A hand lands on his forearm, and he snaps his head up to look at a girl grinning wickedly around a joint and holding a glass of whiskey. “You’re Monster Cock.”

“Shit, dude, it is.” Her crowd of friends, reeking of marijuana, step closer and peer at him. “You’re hotter in person.” They giggle.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” He says angrily.

The bouncer raises an eyebrow. “If you’re on the site, you get in for free.” He pulls the door open and steps aside.

“Oh, perfect, great.” Cora links arms with him. “I’m his plus one. Me. I’m with Monster C—yeah, whatever. He’s my brother, I’m not gonna say it. Don’t give me that look.” She furrows her brow at everyone and Derek tugs her alongside him into the warehouse.

There are strobe lights and flashing laser lights, and apparently a fog machine going that makes him cough. A stage is set up at the far end of the building for the DJ, and tables off to the side with kegs, bottles, and cups. There has to be at least three hundred already inside, and a hundred more outside. He wonders how legal any of this is, if they have any permits or licenses to do this. Likely not.

“Where is he?” Derek calls out over the sound of the music, looking to his sister.

She shrugs and they both look around, squinting. “If you see something like a VIP booth or a roped-off section, that’s probably his people.”

He huffs, lacking the patience to run the perimeter in hopes of spotting him. He just wants out before anyone else recognizes him, and God forbid any of his students see him here.

Cora, as if sensing his edginess, walks over to a young shirtless man leaning against the wall. She rests a hand on his chest and smiles coyly at him, and suddenly he’s pointing to a flight of stairs nestled in a corner of the building, leading up to a second floor that looks more like a reinforced platform with a balcony railing that overlooks the crowd and DJ below. She pats him on the cheek twice and gestures to Derek to follow her there.

They sidestep, push, and shove their way around people to the bottom of the stairs. He hears someone go “Isn’t that Monster Cock?” and he shrugs them off and It’s indeed roped off but they duck under it and climb to the second floor.

It’s a little darker up there and it takes Derek a second for his eyes to adjust. Finally he sees three couches and two tables where people are seated or standing around. There’s only maybe a dozen people and none of them turn or acknowledge him until Derek has marched right up to them, Cora in tow, and stands solidly at the foot of a dirty table, littered with cigarette butts, condoms, crushed beer cans and other unsavory things he doesn’t even recognize.

“Which one of you is Stiles Stilinski.” He demands. It’s a dumb question because he knows perfectly well who Stiles is but he doesn’t want to give the impression that he cares, doesn’t want Stiles to feel any more self-absorbed than he probably is.

Some of them look at each other, others burst out laughing. Stiles, from his seat in the middle of a couch, hands the bong he was holding off to the guy beside him and stands up. He straightens to his full height, which is more or less the same as Derek’s, and regards him for a moment. “You look familiar.” He says carefully.

“I don’t give a fuck.” Derek says. “Take my pictures down from your stupid website.”

“Nah, I don’t think I will.” Stiles grins at him, cocking his head to the side as if he’s still trying to figure out who he is.

One guy, some douchebag-looking blond guy wearing his snapback backwards, points at Derek with a knowing smile. “I fuckin’ remember you, dude, the big dick guy with the back tattoo.”

“Shit, yeah, Monster Cock.” Stiles throws his hands in the air. “You know, I was kinda hoping I’d see you in Beacon Hills, you’re a crowd favourite.” Off to the side, a camera flash goes off and Derek snarls.

He takes a deep breath. “Listen kid,” He begins, pinning Stiles with what he knows to be an absolutely pants-wetting glare he gives his class before a test to remind them not to cheat. “I’m a fucking high school teacher. This is my career you’re fucking with. You wouldn’t even begin to understand what having adult responsibilities entails because you and your little gang of community-college-dropouts clearly have no direction in life and no intention of achieving anything worthwhile, so let me make this perfectly fucking clear; I do something that contributes to society, and I do it damn well. It’s my job to educate young people so they don’t become reckless, snot-nosed punks like you. I’m a law abiding citizen. I’ve done nothing to anyone and I don’t deserve the shit you’ve caused. My stupid fucking psychotic ex girlfriend shouldn’t have had those pictures in the first place. So you’re going to take them down before I call the cops on this fucking makeshift Sodom and Gomorrah you’ve set up here.”

While he speaks, Stiles yawns theatrically, pretends to check his watch, and earns a few laughs from his cronies.

“He means it, dumbass.” Cora holds her cell phone up. “We’ll call them right now, try me.”

“Listen, old man.” He says mockingly. That smirk is back on his face, the one that makes Derek’s blood boil. “I’ve been in this game a loooong time, this isn’t my first rodeo. Do your worst. But you’re of legal age, you clearly consented to them being taken by the looks of them, they were legally submitted to me by the legal owner of the photos with the knowledge that she was giving me full rights to upload them. And if you’re gonna try that whole ‘slander’ thing, I’ll let you know right now that all that’s gonna do is force me to delete any comments I’ve made about you. That’s it. The pictures, however, will stay.”

It makes Derek cringe knowing how well-versed he is in shady laws. He stands in silence, seething.

“So maybe next time, don’t date dirty bitches. Or just don’t let them have their cameras around you when you’re waving your junk around.” He shrugs.

Derek’s hands ball up into fists at his sides, and Stiles catches the movement. “What are you gonna do, bro? Hit me?” He raises an eyebrow challengingly. “Menacing. I like that.” He coos.

Cora shakes her head. “Yeah, fuck it, I’m calling the police.” She gives Derek a long-suffering look. “I’ll meet you outside, Der. It’s too loud in here.” She moves quickly across the floor and heads down the stairs.

Stiles, unperturbed, snaps at his friends to get their attention. “Let’s roll. Pull the cars up to the back. Get our people out of here.” He directs without budging an inch from his spot, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. He probably has, given his line of work and his impossible-to-not-want-to-strangle attitude.

“Hang on a sec.” He winks at Derek and pulls his phone out, typing rapidly.

“What the fuck, no.” Derek laughs incredulously. “I’m leaving. I’m not getting arrested with your punk ass.”

Stiles ignores him and slides his phone back into his pocket. The smile on his face is nothing short of devious, which doesn’t bode well for anyone. “Proposition time. There’s something we both want and an easy way to get it.” He says with conviction.

“What are you talking about? Do you want me to pay you off or something?” He puts up a resistant front but if it comes down to it, it would probably prove to be worth the money.

Stiles scoffs. “Does it look like I need the cash?” His bottom teeth glint in the light, and Derek realizes he’s wearing gold grills. He’s clearly a kid with more money than he knows what to do with it, it makes him sick.

He bristles. “What do you want?”

“Fuck me.”

Derek pauses. “What did you just say?”

“I said, fuck me. You want the pictures, you gotta fuck me for them.” He says casually. There’s no hint of joking in his tone. It takes Derek a few moments to gauge how serious he is. “Listen, it’s now or never. Cops are coming, aren’t they?”

He nods, though still uncertain.

“Okay, big guy. Come back to my hotel room and I will delete you completely off AlmostFamous, scout’s honour.” He holds three fingers up. “You gonna do the dirty with me or what? Clock’s ticking.”

Downstairs, there are a few shrieks as the music screeches to a stop. Derek looks Stiles straight in the eyes until the lights suddenly cut out and they’re submerged in darkness. “Tick tock.” Stiles says impatiently.

He swallows, then grits the words out like they leave a bad taste in his mouth. “Just tell me when and where.

He can hear the triumphant smile in Stiles voice. “Right on. Okay, let’s bounce.” He gets his phone out and turns the flashlight app on to illuminate the way. He holds Derek by the arm, which makes him uneasy, but given what he has agreed to do, is the least of his concerns. Stiles walks him over to a side door which he has to kick open, dust flying everywhere, which leads onto a fire escape. People are already driving off, they hear the tires squeal and people yelling as they bolt across the parking lot. Derek belatedly thinks to call Cora but has no idea how to explain the situation.

“Where are you parked?” Stiles asks, climbing down ahead of him.

“Other side of the building.” Derek follows him down, and by the time they hit the ground, they hear the police sirens.

“Your girlfriend’s a saucy one.” Stiles remarks, jogging to keep up with Derek’s long strides.



Derek looks back at him over his shoulder. “She’s my sister. You seriously waited for her to leave, thinking she was my girlfriend, before you asked me to have sex with you? Thinking she was my girlfriend? Classy.”

Stiles shrugs and doesn’t look embarrassed at all. Of course he wouldn’t. He whistles at the Camaro as they approach it. “You got this on a high school teacher’s salary?”

Derek ignores him and notices that Cara’s car is still parked. He swears under his breath, unlocks the doors and slides into the driver’s seat. “Seatbelt.” He barks.

He leisurely reclines the seat back and answers his phone as it starts to ring, only buckling up when Derek smacks him in the stomach as they drive away. “Yo, I’m taking a honey back to the hotel.” He says to whoever called him, which makes Derek’s grip on the steering wheel tighten. “Wait, who? Aw, shit.” He sighs, propping his foot up on the dashboard. Derek smacks him again and he drops his leg. “I’ll call his mom or something I guess, I don’t know. Fuck.”

Not that Derek cares, but Stiles launches into a long winded admonishment. “That little stunt, posturing for god only knows what reason, was a little fucking excessive. My buddies Scott and Isaac got arrested. Thanks.”

“Wouldn’t have escalated to that if you just did what I asked.” He counters.

“You wouldn’t have to ask if you didn’t let those pictures get taken.”

They slip into a tense silence, Derek glaring at the road and Stiles tapping away at his phone. “Where’s your hotel?”

“The Holiday Inn on Franklin Street.” He mumbles. Stiles grants him a few more minutes of blessed silence before sitting up and turning to him. “So your name’s like, David, right?”


“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Derek.” He hums thoughtfully. “So, you really are gay, huh? Your ex wasn’t just spewing bullshit in her email to me?”

He glances at Stiles from the corner of his eye. “Yes. Why, are you having a sexual identity crisis?” He says sarcastically.

“Fuck no.” Stiles sneered. “I know I’m not a faggot.”

“But you just like to have homosexual intercourse for some reason.” It wasn’t a question.


He parks by a convenience store a block away from the hotel. They don’t talk or touch or even look at each other until they get to the room. As soon as Stiles shuts the door behind him, he flips all the lights on and starts shedding his clothes. Derek does a quick sweep of the room, and it’s much cleaner than he expected it to be. A pile of suitcases sit in a corner and empty containers of fast food are crumpled by a trashcan. The bed is big and looks clean. Hopefully it is.

Stiles takes the beanie off his head and pulls his white v-neck off and this is the first time Derek gets a good look at him. He really is tattooed all over, the colours are vivid and the designs that wrap around his torso and arms draw his eyes in. He’s also not as skinny as he thought, his chest had some definition to it and those were definitely the shoulders and biceps of a man who works out. Turns out he’s a little more than good-looking.

He extracts his phone from his back pocket and places it on the bedside table. Without so much as a warning, he pulls his jeans and boxers down in one swift motion and steps out of them. “Now’s not the time to be shy.” He reprimands, flopping down onto the bed to take his socks off.

Derek stands stock still, still tentative and averting his eyes. “I need to know that you’ll keep your word. That you’ll delete everything.”

“I said I would.”

“I don’t trust you.” He states. “This isn’t a joke. I like my job, I’m not getting fired over this. I’ve wanted to be a teacher since I was in junior high. I work hard and I care about my kids. I have a fucking week-long class trip to San Francisco in four months that’s already been paid for that I refuse to let you ruin and I don’t care how much you don’t care about my boring life compared to yours, but I stranded my sister and came here in good faith so you’d better hold up your end of the bargain.”

Stiles groans loudly. “Yeah, I get it, and I’m a man of my word. So how about I start off by deleting one picture? Will that get you out of your pants?”

His voice wavers. “Yeah, I guess.”

Once he fishes his Macbook out of one of his suitcases, he types away for a few minutes before turning the screen to show Derek that one of the pictures has been taken down. He looks at the remaining two mournfully before he puts the laptop onto the bedside table. “Okay.”

It’s uncomfortable, undressing in front of Stiles. Not that he has a reason to be ashamed of his body—not that Stiles hasn’t already seen it—but because he’s lying back leering at him like he’s a piece of meat. It only serves to fuel his hatred. He shrugs his jacket off and places it on a nearby chair. Next goes his shirt, which makes Stiles nod approvingly. He looks sourly upon his life choices as he finally drops his jeans and his underwear.

Derek sits on the edge bed, on the cold white sheets, and folds his arms over his chest. “Do you have condoms?”

“Obviously I do.” Stiles says slowly as if speaking to a small child. He reaches into a dufflebag beside the bed and tosses one at Derek.

He holds it in his hand, an idea forming in his mind, and looks expectantly at Stiles. “Where’s yours?”

“Uh, I don’t need one. You’re fucking me, remember?” He draws lazy circles on his skin around his navel and Derek tries not to watch.

“Yeah, but you’re wearing one too.” Derek turns his nose up. “No offense,” He says contemptuously, “But I don’t know where you’ve been and I don’t want to get your cum all over me. Furthermore, no kissing.”

Stiles purses his lips. “Are you serious, dude?”

“Don’t call me dude.”

He blinks. “I don’t have anything. I swear to God.” He insists with a glare. “Do you want my fucking medical records?”

“How about you delete one more picture instead?” Derek raises his eyebrows.

Stiles pouts. “You win this round.” He leans back over, does whatever it is to the web page, and tilts the screen for Derek’s approval. The final picture looms like a dark cloud. He slides the laptop back. “Can we get this show on the road?” He falls back onto the pillows, spreading his legs to give Derek an eyeful. He starts pulling at his cock with a cheeky half-smile, those long fingers and tattooed knuckles working him to full hardness.

Derek’s cock twitches. He shifts his position a little but doesn’t make a move towards him until Stiles wrinkles his nose at him. “Okay, enough games. I am a whore but I am not a liar. It might be a shock to you, but I am clean. I’m actually very careful; you think I’d still be getting girls if I wasn’t?”

“I don’t know you or anything about you.” He says stubbornly.

“And you don’t need to. Just help me blow my load and I’ll be out of your hair. We leave in the morning for Sacramento, and you’ll never see me again.” He replies adamantly. “So just lie down so we can fucking get down to business.”

He apologizes to his mother in his head, forlornly wondering what has become of his life as he eases onto the bed and leans back. The lights feel too bright, like spotlights on his shame. “Can you do something about the lights?”

“Nope.” Stiles rolls over to him and puts a hand gingerly on Derek’s chest and gives his pectoral muscle a light squeeze. “I wanna see all of you.” He moves in closer and Derek can smell the weed and booze off him. Stiles noses at his jaw while his hand wanders, reveling in the hard muscles and smooth skin of Derek’s abdomen. His fingertips trace the top of his pubic hair and it’s evident that his groin doesn’t find Stiles as revolting as his brain does.

It takes next to nothing for his cock to start plumping up, a clear betrayal of the dismay he means to project. “I’m so pissed off at you.” Derek mutters.

“Good, fuck me like you are.”

It’s the push he needs to lean forward and tentatively slide their mouths together, a clumsy mess of hard bites and purposeful licks that make Stiles moan immediately. He tastes bittersweet, like cheap cigarettes and flavoured vodka. The kiss ends as quickly as it began, a nicety they efficiently get out of the way as Stiles ruts against Derek’s thigh and sneaks his fingers lower to finally wrap around his length. To his delight (and Derek’s mortification) it fattens up in his hand. He pulls up, then down, and the foreskin slides back easily to reveal the shining head, flushed dark red. He tightens his grip and makes Derek hiss, precum pearling at the tip. “Aww, is that for me?” Stiles whispers.

He moves down the bed, settling between Derek’s legs to get a better look. “Oh, god, look at that. It’s fucking beautiful.” He says reverently, both hands on it now and swiping at the wetness with his thumb. Derek grunts. “I fucking want you inside me so badly.” He says softly, eyes fluttering shut when he lowers his head to take it in his mouth.

Derek shuts his eyes and inhales sharply. “You don’t have to.” Stiles ignores him and makes a pleased sound around his dick as he takes it as deep as he can, and it takes more self control than it should for Derek to not buck his hips upwards when it touches the back of his throat. Stiles moves slowly, bobbing his head and lightly tugging at his balls, those ridiculous gold grills a gentle pressure against the underside of his length. “Fuck.” He says loudly, jamming a fist in his mouth to bite down on.

Stiles licks a long stripe following a particularly prominent vein up the side of his cock, his tongue soft and warm and velvety. “Look at me, Derek. You know you want to.”

Against all better judgement he peers down at Stiles kneeling over him, his cockhead nestled under that sinfully reddened cupid’s bow of his lips. Between Stiles’ legs, his member is leaking onto the sheets. He notices that the two moles on the outer corners of his eyes aren’t actually moles, but tiny tattoos of diamonds. Stupid body modifications aside, the view alone was almost enough to make him shoot down Stiles’ throat. “Okay, you made your point,” He curls his toes when Stiles nips boldly at his foreskin. “Lube?”

He pulls off with a satisfied smirk, retrieves a small squirt bottle from the dufflebag before lying down on the other side of the bed. “Want me to do it?” He pops the cap off and pours a small amount into his hand. It smells of peaches.

“No, I want to.” He says hoarsely, surprising himself by admitting that out loud and carefully avoids Stiles’ gaze as he sits between his parted thighs to concentrate on pouring the clear liquid. His skin there was soft and pale, a stark contrast to the dark tattoos on his calves and stomach. It drips onto his balls, down his perineum and over his asshole. It’s a small pink pucker, glistening invitingly, so he wastes no time in slicking up his fingers and pressing one in. It’s unyielding at first, lusciously hot inside and he sees Stiles’ stomach tense up at the intrusion. But he wraps his hand around his dick and jerks himself off, and eventually his body is relaxing enough for Derek to push a second one in. He moves roughly, scissoring and opening him up. He’s not trying to tease him or make him enjoy it; he’s making it quick and dirty and he just wants to get in there as soon as possible.

“Yesyesyesyesyes.” Stiles babbles, throws his head back, squeezes at the base of his cock. “More, I need more, you fucker, I can take it.” He obliges and Stiles is taking three thick fingers beautifully, his hole stretched taut around his knuckles, but draws the line at a fourth.

“You’ll thank me later.” Derek says gruffly.

He grabs Derek’s wrist to still him and looks at him defiantly. “I like how it feels, okay? Fucking do it. I don’t have all night.” Stiles kicks at his shoulder to make him move back.

Derek sniffs, locates the condom from where he dropped it in the sheets and tears the wrapper open. “Bossy little bitch.” He says under his breath.

“Fuck you.” Stiles retorts. It worries Derek how much he wants to.

The latex rolls on (it’s a little more snug than he likes but asking for a bigger one means enduring another demeaning “monster cock” comment) and he dribbles a little more lube onto himself before he moves back into place over Stiles.

He draws his legs up and holds them by the backs of his knees, looks at Derek keenly with that stupid smirk and wiggles his bottom. “Take a fucking picture. It lasts longer.” He hisses.

Derek’s nostrils flare in annoyance and he wonders if he can maintain a headache during sex as he lines up with Stiles’ entrance and shifts forward, just enough to breach him with the tip. He waits a beat before sliding the rest of the way in, a series of short nudges that make Stiles writhe, his knuckles going white as he digs his fingers into his thighs. His ass is hot and tight around him, filthy-slick and glorious.

Stiles gasps for air and bears down to he takes the final inch, and his forehead and chest bear a thin sheen of sweat that Derek would feel guilty for under regular circumstances. But he’s not a total monster, and so he slowly lowers himself to nip at the smooth skin of Stiles’ neck, running his teeth gently along his collarbones. He moans wantonly and moves his hands to grab at the bedsheets beside him. His skin pinks up where Derek’s stubble rubs firmly against it, in the white gaps between his tattoos. Across his chest is a pattern of roses surrounding a detailed crown above a banner bearing a single name. It’s darker than his others, beautifully shaded and well done, if Derek has to be honest. He’s struck with the unsettling thought that it’s probably his girlfriend’s name, so he rears back up and clears his throat. “Ready?”

He takes a deep breath and nods, prompting Derek to grind against him, slowly, grabbing at his hips to keep him locked in place as he thrusts carefully. Stiles bites down hard on his bottom lip to muffle his groans. It’s heartening to see that he can reduce this mouthy kid to nothing but a whimpering mess, he thinks, lets himself get a little cocky over it. Boldly, he rolls Stiles’ nipple between his thumb and index finger, making him cry out in surprise.

“Not so fucking chatty now, eh?” He murmurs, pace quickening as he pistons his hips back and forth. His hand slides up, resting momentarily around Stiles’ neck before cupping his jaw and turning his face to look at him. “That’s all you needed, a good, solid fuck to shut you up?” He nearly bends him in half as his thrusts grow harder and more purposeful.

Derek gets both of Stiles’ hands in his, holding them above Stiles’ head. He trembles, cock dripping between them, whining at the obscenities Derek whispers in his ear. “So fucking hungry for it, I bet you’ve been wanting to spread your legs for me since you saw my fucking pictures.” Stiles locks his legs around him, helpless and nodding ardently. “You wanted this, you fucking wanted this and now look how good you’re taking it.” He growls, biting soundly at the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. Stiles arches up and curses, body clenching tight. “Yeah, you feel so fucking good, I love you like this, thrashing around on my prick like you can’t fucking handle it.”

“Kiss me.” He begs, breathless, and Derek obliges if only to swallow his pitiful moans when he rolls his hips upward and Stiles all but screams into his mouth.

“Do you want me to make you cum?” Derek snarls against his lips. “Do you want me to let you?”

“God, yes, pleasepleaseplease.” He whines. Tears well up in the corners of his eyes and roll down his cheeks.

“I can’t hear you.”


“Louder.” He commands in a low voice.

“Fuck, Derek, please, I can’t... I need to...” He squirms as if in a panic.

Derek takes great care to reign himself in. He lets go of Stiles, sits back on his haunches and pins him with a calculating look. As he pulls back, his dick slips halfway out. Stiles’ forehead creases in worry. He reaches up, scrabbling to grab a hold of his arms, his face, his hands, anything, panting and reddened with embarrassment. “What the actual fuck?”

“One more picture.” Derek says, eyes falling to Stiles’ erection, swollen and pink. He takes it in his hand and squeezes, just to feel the warm weight of it. He rubs at the slit and gathers the precum with his fingers, then moves down to trace the rim of Stiles’ hole where he’s still seated inside him. “Please.”

Stiles stays still for a moment, just breathing and regarding him, eyes heavy-lidded and questioning. “Give me a second.” He rolls his eyes and stretches over to the laptop on the table. He clicks around a little, finally hitting a big “x” in the corner of the screen. A warning pops up on screen.

‘Are you sure you want to delete this post?’

“Do the honours, big guy.”

Derek doesn’t even hesitate in clicking OK. The screen refreshes and the post is gone. It’s gone. A thousand people could still have the pictures saved, sure, but that’s another battle for another day. But there’s a matter at hand to attend to and he plans on delivering.

He pulls out and rolls Stiles over onto his stomach before he can draw breath to complain. He pulls him up by the hips, forces his legs apart and slides back in, the sudden penetration making them both moan. He establishes a good rhythm, just hard enough to keep them on edge and slow enough to draw it out. Stiles is fucking back now, pushing back against him, minutely circling his hips. Derek makes a broken sound and quickens his pace, draping himself over Stiles’ back to bury his nose in the nape of his neck.

Stiles has a hand between his body and the sheets, pumping his length frantically as every thrust hits just right. Derek doesn’t have the fortitude for any more lewd comments, just pounds into him with an ardour he forgot he possessed. He loses himself in the feeling of the pleasure pooling in the pit of his stomach, threatening to spill over.

“I’m close,” Stiles grunts, to which Derek immediately bats his hand away from his cock.

“No, you’re gonna cum like this.” He insists. “Just like this.”

He shakes his head. “No, I can’t, I’ve never—”

“You will.” He nips his earlobe hard. He grabs at the firm globes of Stiles’ ass, dragging his fingers over the supple curve of it before he spreads him open to watch where his dick disappears inside him. “You should fucking see yourself,” he murmurs, pressing down until Stiles lays flat on the bed while he ruts between those spread thighs. He nestles his face into the back of Stiles’ ear and grinds down his hips down.

He sobs Derek’s name, clutching the pillows in shaking fists, louder and louder until he seizes up and lets go, sweating and cumming and wetting the sheets under him. Derek can hold out for a bit longer, just enough to pull out once more, use the last of his strength to flip Stiles over and straddle his chest and arms. He hurriedly rips the condom off and pulls at his dick once, twice, three times to cum in hot pulses all over the affronted expression on Stiles’ face. He squawks, eyes wide and flopping around wildly. “Wait, what the fuck are you doing, no, I don’t fucking think so—” It’s a flailing mess of long limbs, colourful new curse words, and incoherent shrieks in a spirited attempt to escape from under him.

Derek pays him no mind, simply reaches for Stiles’ phone, satisfied, and doesn’t even try to hide the shit-eating grin that’s taken over his face. He types in the passcode he’s seen Stiles use all night, stupid kid didn’t even try to hide it, opens up the camera and bravely shoves it in his face. “Derek, I will fucking end you—” The flash goes off. He texts the picture to himself before he rolls off the bed.

He hums merrily to himself as he picks his clothes up and takes a second to stretch out lazily before starting to put them back on. He’s sure his torso is a smorgasbord of bodily fluids and lube but complimentary hotel soap makes him itch.

Stiles remains sprawled out, now perfectly still save for a twitch in his jaw, as if trying to process what had just happened to him. The cum is drying on his face, sticking to his eyelashes, and he looks thoroughly fucked out. “Everything okay?” Derek asks conversationally.

It’s nearly three full minutes before he speaks. “I think I’ve just about planned your entire murder.”

“Then we’re even.” He says shortly, doing up his belt.

Stiles sighs raggedly, defeated. “You’re lucky you’re beautiful, you son of a bitch.” He gets to his feet and stalks over to the bathroom, slamming the door like a petulant child. He spouts a new string of inventive threats and there’s the sound of water running, and by the time Derek has slipped his jacket on, Stiles comes back out with a towel around his hips and a tight-lipped look of frustration. “Look, I don’t have to explain or justify myself or my actions to you, but... It could’ve been handled differently, I admit. It’s just, you know, you came up to me in front of my crew and just started freaking out on me.” He says hastily, almost angrily, looking around at anything but Derek.

He blinked. “Would it have made a difference if I asked you privately? I emailed you too, you know, and you told me to, quote unquote, ‘suck a dick’.”

“Well, I was probably hammered, and no one can really get a straight answer out of me when I’m intoxicated, so... But, you’re right, it wouldn’t have made a huge difference if you asked me privately. You have to understand, dude—I mean Derek, sorry.” He finally looks at him wearily. “You have to understand how many threats I get on a daily basis about taking pictures down. So making an exception for you would mean making an exception for everyone else, and that’s no way to run a business.”

“Does that have to be your business though? You’re young, you’re lively. You’re clearly smart, running your own website, marketing yourself like this. You can find something better to do with all that going on in there.” He thumps Stiles’ on the temple with two fingers.

“That’s such a teacher-y thing to say.”

Derek shrugs. “You’re not my student, though, so I’m not getting paid to tell you to reach for the stars. I’m just being honest.”

“No, I know. My dad’s not proud of it. And why would he be? I’m glad my mom isn’t here to see me like this, how I ended up...” He trails off, looking away again. His shoulders are tensed up and he worries at his bottom lip until it’s nearly purple. “She expected more of me.” He admits.

“Your chest tattoo.” Derek says softly.

Stiles nods. “Yeah. It was my first one, got it done in some sketchy dude’s basement in Huntington Beach when I was sixteen. The one year anniversary of her death.”

“Well, I’m no one to tell you what to do, and even if I was, I doubt you’d listen anyway. Just remember that you’ve got other options. You could go back to college or something.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He sounds like he’s had this conversation a million times before, and maybe he has, but wasted potential disappoints Derek like nothing else. The moment feels raw, like he’s touched a nerve, so he bites his tongue and accepts that answer for what it is. Stiles leans against the wall and rubs tiredly at his eyes. “I’m gonna shower. So... You can go. Good night. Or, what’s left of it, anyway.” He says dismissively.

Before he turns to go, Derek catches him by the crook of the elbow. “Thank you. For deleting the pictures.”

Stiles chuckles weakly. “Thank you for the sex?” He offers. “And for putting up with my shit. I guess it’s worth your job, right? You must be a good teacher. And a good guy.”

Derek leans in slowly, giving him plenty of time and room to decline, but Stiles stands his ground, one final act of haughty defiance, true to fashion. Their lips brush, a tender touch, sighing into each other’s mouths before he pulls back. “College. Think about it.”

“You’re not the boss of me, big guy.” He says, eyes sparkling, as he shoves Derek out the door.

His phone dies sometime during the drive home. When he finally plugs it in at his house, he’s got two dozen missed calls and texts from Cora, which start with ‘where the hell are you’ and ‘why am i hearing from people that u left with the fucking douchebag stilinski kid’ and end with ‘fine don’t answer me. not helping u bury the body! crashing at my ex’s, bye...’. He laughs heartily at the picture message of Stiles from the unknown number with an LA area code (which he saves, for reasons unbeknownst to him) and falls asleep with the taste of sour booze and sweat on his tongue, a flavour he knows too intimately and won’t soon forget.












Four Months Later

Derek lays a few shirts, varying shades of grey, on his hotel room bed. He selects one from the middle of the bunch, and starts to tug it on when his phone rings. He frowns at the caller ID, a Beacon Hills number, but picks it up anyway. “This is long distance, Erica. Make it quick.”

“Geeze, missed you too, asshole.”

“I’ve only been gone a day. We just arrived yesterday afternoon, I’ll still be gone until Saturday.” He grumbles. “So what did you want? I’ve got to meet my class in the lobby in like, ten minutes; we’re going to see Alcatraz.”

She snorts. “You should sound more excited, then. You’ve been raving about seeing that decrepit prison since we were in college.”

“It’s not decrepit.” He snaps. “It’s historical and haunted.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He can practically hear her eyes rolling as she flips her hair over his shoulder. “Anyways, I have two questions. First one—are you ever gonna tell me, or your sisters, or anyone how you got Stiles Stilinski to take your pictures down off his site?”

“No.” He says grimly.

“I thought as much. Okay, second one—can you go on his site right now?”

He glances at his laptop on the desk. He approaches it cautiously, frown deepening. “Why?”

“Well, you don’t have to, I just think you should.” She says, sounding more cryptic than he’s comfortable with. “Okay, well, bye!” Once she hangs up, he opens a new internet window and types in the URL for Stiles’ site. He hasn’t been on it in ages, and now he’s gripped with worry that those godforsaken pictures had been put back up. Slowly, he scrolls down to the newest post.

‘A little birdie told me this guy’s been spotted in the San Fran area. What a motherfucking coincidence, so am I! Come out and play? (No more photoshoots please, if you catch my drift.)
PS. Sorry I haven’t been posting much recently. College is a fucking drag.’

Attached, a picture of Derek glowering at Stiles the night of the rave. Must’ve been taken while he was shouting, because he looks like a leather-clad blur. Well, honestly, he hardly looks recognizable. He rubs his chin with the back of his hand in quiet deliberation when the last sentence of the post snags his attention again. College.

He grabs his phone, goes into his contacts to find Stiles, a number he forgot he had. It rings and rings, and he hangs in anticipation. “Talk to me, baby.” Stiles answers obnoxiously.

“You dumbass.” A smirk slides across Derek’s face.

“Nope, not dumb, I’m a college man now. And you’re a teacher. So watch your fuckin’ language.”

“Or I could just give you detention.”

They share a laugh, until Stiles clears his throat and gets straight to the point. “Just tell me when and where.”