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Alpha Dog

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you’re not the first

or the last

but you’re possibly the prettiest

 

 

Derek is not having a good month. Part of it is because his grandma died, but most of it is because his uncle Peter has moved in with him as a result. All the while, his best friend has been away at lacrosse camp and then at his Aunt’s house in Miami, and he could just really use some emotional support right now, but no. Instead he gets his uncle breathing snide comments down his neck while he’s trying to finish his summer reading assignment because school starts tomorrow and he’s only halfway through the essay portion. He’s sure his teacher would probably look at his situation and give him an extension, but he doesn’t want her fucking pity. He just wants to get the assignment over with, which he could do if Peter would stop reading the screen over his shoulder and criticizing his word choice.

 

“I’m just saying cracking open a thesaurus wouldn’t hurt.”

 

“I don’t need a thesaurus. It’s a high school book report not a graduate thesis.”

 

“Well, your tone is flat, and your diction is piss poor.”

 

“Well,” Derek mocks. “It’s a good thing I’m not a fucking English major.”

 

“Language!” Derek hears faintly from somewhere else in the house.

 

Derek glares at Peter, hoping he’ll take the hint and fuck off. For a guy who just lost his mom, he sure is infuriatingly interested in Derek’s life. As if Derek even has a life. He seriously has one friend, and he’s nowhere near popular enough for him to be cool by association. He’s a bit of a geek if he’s honest, but so is Derek, and he really doesn’t have some kind of secret yearning to be popular or anything. He’s fine with only getting attention when Stiles comes up with some harebrained scheme that gets them both in trouble. He’s one hundred percent cool with being the sidekick. Sometimes, it feels like that’s his calling.

 

Peter shrugs and moves over to the other side of the room (thank god). Derek doesn’t even care what he gets into as long as he isn’t bothering him. When Derek finally looks up from the computer 20 minutes later, Peter is standing in front of his bedside table, holding the framed picture that Stiles had given him on the last day of school to “remember him by” while he was gone.

 

It’s them at one of Stiles’ lacrosse games, when he had unceremoniously jumped on his back in celebration of a victory and Derek ended up sprawled out on the grass with him sitting on his back cheesing for the yearbook photographer Matt Daehler. He looks kind of like a frog, his ridiculously long legs folded where he’s squatting on his back. Derek, meanwhile, is just face down on the lacrosse field, accepting his existence. He didn’t even know the picture was being taken until he heard the shutter of the camera.

 

“Who is this?”

 

“My friend,” Derek answers shortly.

 

Peter snorts in response. “You have friends?” When Derek doesn’t answer, Peter continues talking. “He’s pretty. Nice bone structure.”

 

Derek whips fully around in his desk chair at that, a deadly look on his face. “Don’t.”

 

“Don’t what?” Peter smirks, setting the picture back down in the most douchebaggishly graceful way possible. “I was only stating a fact. Why? Are you the cliche of all cliches? The guy who falls in love with his best friend, suffering silently until he eventually gets engaged to some jerk with a sports car?”

 

“I have a sports car,” is all Derek replies. There’s really nothing else he feels comfortable saying to that.

 

“And you’re a jerk. Maybe this will work out for you after all.”

 

••••

 

Derek is on his fifth time circling the school, trying to track down Stiles’ powder blue Jeep so he can park beside him. His fingers grip the steering wheel tightly as Peter complains for the five thousandth time that he needs time to pick up his schedule and books because he didn’t get to do it when everyone else did due to his late enrollment on account of his mom suddenly dying. He keeps phrasing it like that too, obviously trying to guilt trip Derek into parking in a random spot and getting in the building. Just as Derek parks in a spot in the back, beginning to suspect that Stiles isn’t there, a blue Jeep swings into the parking lot, going much faster than it should in a school zone.

 

Derek honks at him as he passes by him, and to his surprise he throws his car into reverse suddenly, backing into the spot beside him with a level of skill that only comes from driving illegally for four years before he got his license.

 

Derek gets out, leaning over to grab his backpack from the backseat as a low whistle rings out behind him.

 

“Nice ride, Hale.”

 

Derek smiles, he hadn’t realised how much he missed hearing Stiles’ boyish voice.

 

“Thanks,” Derek says, coming up from the backseat sliding his seat back in place. “Laura’s letting me use the camaro while she’s at school.”

 

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about the car.”

 

Derek’s thankful for his stupid joke because it gives him an alibi for his face reddening at the sight of him. He’s still Stiles in all the right ways, old baggy jeans, dumb graphic tee, flannel, chucks, but something is different about him at the same time. His skin’s a little glowier, eyes a little brighter, ridiculous lashes even longer— something! Maybe, all of the above. Not to mention, he’s definitely filling out his clothes differently. And he has actual hair on his head instead of his usual buzzcut. It’s like looking at Stiles for the millionth time but really seeing him for the first time. Again. Because that’s how it always feels when Derek looks at Stiles. It’s so pathetic.

 

“You must be the boy from the photo.”

 

Derek’s dreamy moment is shattered by the sound of Peter’s voice, the annoying lilt of his posh voice (seriously, nobody in the family knows where he got it from) like a record scratching.

 

Peter holds his hand out, and Stiles shakes it cautiously, pretty brown eyes widening at Derek in question.

 

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

 

Stiles’ shoulders loosen up as he finally looks Peter in the face, thankful he wasn’t supposed to remember him from somewhere. Peter’s leering down at Stiles, clearly checking him out and that’s so far past okay. Thankfully, Stiles handles it himself. “Stiles Stilinski. My dad’s the sheriff.” He smiles at him then, a sharp, wiry imitation of one anyway, and Derek can practically see Peter melt, his pupils dilating.

 

“Peter Hale.”

 

“Damn, how many of y’all are there?”

 

Derek cringes at how that sounds. Stiles is blissfully unaware of the supernatural community and the reputation that his family holds within it as the most influential wolf pack on the west coast. He’s wanted to tell him for ages, but at his mother’s insistence he’s kept his mouth shut. Peter, however, doesn’t know he doesn’t know, and is now looking at him with thinly veiled disgust.

 

“What’s that supposed-“

 

Derek cuts him off, grabbing Stiles by the juncture of his elbow and pulling him closer to his body. “You need to get your books, remember,” he says to Peter pointedly in a tone just short of rude.

 

“What? No escort?”

 

“Do we look like the fucking welcoming committee?” Derek has to physically hold back his laughter, using all his werewolf strength to hold his breath and not bust out laughing in Peter’s momentarily taken aback face.

 

Peter, the snake, schools his features as he slinks past the two of them with all the grace of a hunting cheetah. “Derek, no. You?” His eyes slip up and down his figure in a way that pinkens Stiles’ cheeks before he’s sauntered away, garnering a few smitten looks from a group of girls gathered by the steps.

 

“What the fuck is up with him?” Stiles asks, watching Peter’s retreating figure.

 

“You want the short explanation or the novel?”

 

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that little move you pulled,” Stiles says as they fall into step, venturing across the parking lot to the building.

 

Derek shrugs, hoping he’ll drop it.

 

He doesn’t.

 

“I’m gone for one summer and suddenly you turn into my personal body guard. Jesus, Der, are we in a whey shortage now? Have you been lifting school buses full of children?” He slaps one of his pecs for emphasis, eyes widening in excitement when he’s met with hard resistance.

 

Derek can admit he’s filled out a little over the summer. Without Stiles, the only two things that really held his attention were working out or jerking off, and since he has to run miles into the woods just to bust one in peace, he’d taken to the former.

 

“Holy shit! I’m so making you rip a phone book in half later. Can you knock out Jackson for me sometime? I bet you could take out the whole lacrosse team. God, I just wanna use you for evil. And I shall.” Stiles has hooked their arms together, clinging to his bicep as Derek walks and he practically skips down the hall, oblivious to the lust-filled looks being thrown his way.

 

Stiles is talking his ear off about a girl named Carmen who lives next door to his aunt and taught him how to roll joints. He’d chastise him about doing drugs, but people have just barely forgotten his ‘Saint Derek’ title and he’d rather not go down that road again. It’s not like he’d really done anything besides not go to parties and turn in his homework on time. Just because he’s not snorting coke off Cindy Hammond’s back with the rest of the rich kids in town doesn’t mean he’s a goody two shoes. He’s just not a fucking idiot. His inward thinking is interrupted by an excited, “Stiles!” and then Stiles is bounding off into the arms of his on-again off-again boyfriend, Scott McCall.

 

Derek wouldn’t exactly say that he hates the dude... but he fucking despises him with every bone in his body. Sometimes when he’s out hunting rabbits with his mom, he imagines it’s Scott’s neck he’s breaking. And it’s not for no reason.

 

He refuses to be made a fool of by his floppy haircut and puppy dog eyes and unassuming smile and friendly disposition. He’s a werewolf, and he hasn’t told Stiles yet. He practically begged Derek on his hands and knees not to tell Stiles, so they made a pact to keep each other’s secret, and that’s the full extent of their relationship.

 

Anyways, anyone who breaks Stiles’ heart more than once is as good as dead to Derek. When they finally end it for good, Derek’s gonna break his foot off in his ass. This was, admittedly, one of the things Derek thought about most while training this summer.

 

They must be on-again as Stiles grabs him by his stupid, tan face and lays a fat one on him. Derek’s never seen him kiss anyone like that, and judging by the bewildered look on Scott’s face when he finally pulls away, he hasn’t kissed him like that before either.

 

“Carmen also taught me how to do that,” he says over his shoulder with a wink. Stiles’ fluid sexuality is a secret to no one, so Derek’s really not surprised that he jumped on the first chance he had to get with a girl. He’s been gagging over Lydia Martin for years.

 

“Carmen?” Scott asks, letting him go to wipe his face off.

 

“Yeah, my aunt has this neighbor with a really hot daughter and we basically spent all summer making each other cum.”

 

Before Scott can open his stupid mouth to say something no doubt jealous and judgmental, Derek cuts in. “Well, this has been great, but I have homeroom across the building so. See you later,” he says to Stiles in specific. After Stiles says bye to him and turns around, Derek glares at Scott who has the common sense to look terrified.

 

••••

 

Derek sits down at his desk, pulling his phone out of his pocket when it buzzes.

 

To: Jerk
From: Bitch
Using intimidation tactics on my boyfriend???

 

Derek rolls his eyes before typing his reply. Little snitch.

 

To: Bitch
From: Jerk
Sorry didn’t mean to scare the fair maiden

 

The bell rings right as he gets his reply.

 

To: Jerk
From: Bitch
Shut uppppppp XD

 

Derek’s about to type something out quick before the teacher starts talking when he feels a tap on the shoulder. He turns around to find a pretty black-haired girl with a pleading expression.

 

“Sorry to bother you. I just, I think I forgot a pen. It’s the first day, and–“

 

Derek doesn’t wait for her to finish, fishing out a Batman pencil bag from his backpack. He’d filled the thing with a bunch of cheap pens and pencils because Stiles is forever losing his and borrowing Derek’s.

 

“Do you want a pencil too?” Derek asks, pulling out both and holding them out for her without waiting for a reply.

 

“Thanks,” the girl smiles, tucking a black curl behind her ear with a shy smile as she takes them. “I’m Allison.”

 

“Derek.”

 

Class begins after that, and the day is a blur of syllabus reviews until lunch. If Derek had to pinpoint one moment where everything began falling apart, it would be when Peter sauntered over to his and Stiles’ (and Scott’s (but not really Scott’s)) table, Lydia Martin and Danny Mahealani in tow.

 

Lydia looks perfect as always. Perfect to Stiles anyway, his whiskey eyes blowing wide when the redhead girl sits across from him. In Derek’s opinion, she’s just average, but Stiles seems to think she hung each of the stars by hand.

 

“What are you looking at?” Lydia stares at Stiles like he’s a freak, glossy pink lips pursing in distaste as she takes in Stiles’ less than trendy wardrobe.

 

“Uhhh, I like your shirt?” Stiles tries in an effort to save himself, which surprisingly works, Lydia perking up and smiling at him.

 

“Thanks. I got it from this new store at the mall. I should take you sometime. You could really use some.... guidance.”

 

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Stiles asks with a frown, tugging at his flannel.

 

Derek interrupts the interaction, not about to let Lydia make Stiles self conscious. “Nothing.”

 

It’s only then that Lydia seems to notice his presence, eyes flicking over his shoulders and chest hungrily before they finally meet his eyes. “And who might you be?”

 

“This is Derek. He’s my best friend,” Stiles cuts in eagerly, trying to redirect Lydia’s attention back to him.

 

“My nephew,” Peter comments beside Lydia, popping a fry in his mouth with an infuriating smirk.

 

“Hey, Derek,” a soft voice says beside him. It’s the new girl from home room. Allison. “Mind if I sit here?”

 

Derek shakes his head, watching as she takes the seat to his left.

 

“Hi, I’m Scott.”

 

Everyone is shocked to hear Scott introduce himself first. He’s more of a speak when spoken to kind of guy. People love to insist that Derek is too when the truth is he’s just not comfortable interacting with people he doesn’t trust.

 

“Allison.”

 

Stiles’ eyes discreetly flick back and forth between Scott and Allison, neither of the two noticing as they’re both apparently enraptured by each others’ presence. He assesses the situation carefully before sticking his hand out across Derek’s chest, startling the black haired girl out of her besotted trance. “Hi, I’m Stiles. Scott’s boyfriend.” He says it with a huge grin, but Derek can see the mean glint in his eyes, his nose wrinkling cutely as it does when he’s being a dick.

 

Allison’s face falls before she puts on an obviously fake smile, trying to hide her disappointment as she shakes Stiles’ hand. She probably thinks Scott’s gay now, which is so not the case if him making out with Lydia last year when he and Stiles were off means anything.

 

“Nice jacket. Where’d you get it?” Lydia interjects, completely disregarding the situation. The girls delve into some conversation about boutiques and Derek’s eyes drift to the other side of the table where Peter and Danny are discussing something that sounds really pretentious.

 

During a lull in the conversation Danny catches his eye and smiles at him coyly. Derek can truly not escape the horrors of people hitting on him today, can he? He’s already had one girl actually program her phone number into his phone. He’s glad that he has her number and not the other way around so that he has the option to never initiate a conversation with her.

 

Derek whips out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he gets to “Caitlin :)”, contemplating whether or not to just outright delete her number. Because, after all, Derek is gay. He has no use for it. His deliberation is interrupted by a text from Peter.

 

To: Jerk
From: Peter Hale
Could have Lydia or Danny, yet you pine after Stiles

 

To: Peter Hale
From: Jerk
Could shut up yet you speak

 

Peter rolls his eyes with a smile, satisfied to have gotten a reaction from Derek. He’s such an infuriating piece of shit. Machiavellian in every sense of the word. He lives to torture the people around him, which is probably why he says the words, “Stiles, you look just as ravishing now as you did this morning. Tell me, what’s your secret? You’re glowing.”

 

“Uh, I dunno,” Stiles shrugs, mouth full of chicken strip. “I started using actual conditioner instead of that watermelon scented 3-in-1 kids wash.”

 

And the worst part is he’s not even being sarcastic. Derek has taken many showers at Stiles’ house, and he has a love-hate relationship with that soap. On one hand, it makes him smell like Stiles, but on the other hand, he has to wash his body like three times because it’s so mild.

 

Scott gapes at Peter. The audacity of him to flirt with his boyfriend in front of his face. It’s almost as bold as making googoo eyes at the new girl in front of his boyfriend.

 

Peter laughs at that, a mildly condescending sharpness to it. “You are a trip, Mister Stilinski. I can see why Derek keeps your company.”

 

Derek screws up his eyebrows at Peter in judgement. That was laying it on a little thick, even for Peter’s dramatic self.

 

Stiles perks at that, like he’s just been reminded of something as he turns to Scott. “You need to feel this.” 

 

He grabs Scott’s wrist and jerks his arm over so that his hand is rested against Derek’s chest. Scott looks absolutely miserable feeling Derek’s muscles, so Derek clenches them and makes one of his pec’s jump under the boy’s hand, trying to suppress his smug satisfaction as Scott reeks of jealousy while Stiles gasps excitedly, ripping Scott’s hands away and replacing them with his own. Derek feels like his heart’s about to beat of of his chest at the contact, but he does his best to level it out so that Scott doesn’t hear it.

 

“Can I make a request?” Stiles asks, a hand firmly on either side of his chest, having turned their bodies to face each other. “Will you please do it to the beat of crazy frog?”

 

Derek just shakes his head, pushing his hands off him with a smile. “I can’t do it that many times.”

 

“Well, you better learn because that’s what I want for Christmas. And one of those giant reese’s cups. And a pair of Ray-Bans. And-“

 

Derek stuffs the brownie off his tray into Stiles’ mouth, earning a disgruntled squeak that morphs into a blissed out moan, his eyes crossing being falling shut as he chews it slowly, savouring it unlike the one off his own tray which he gobbled up before they even sat down. The sound goes straight to Derek’s dick as he imagines stuffing his mouth with something else and earning a similar reaction. Apparently Scott and Peter share the sentiment by the mixture of pheromones that plumes over the table. Derek shivers at the mental image of Peter with a boner, his own deflating rapidly. Peter truly ruins everything.

 

••••

 

Peter’s eyes flutter open as he writhes awake in his new bedroom, a warmth low in his belly that’s casting a haze over his mind. Clarity comes to him slowly, a full minute passing by before he realises he’s rutting down into the sheets. He turns his face into his pillow and groans frustratedly, knowing that he can’t possibly cum in this household lest he desire everyone to smell it.

 

It was so much easier living with his mother, an old wolf with dulled senses who couldn’t tell her ass from a hole in the ground half the time. He got away with so much under her roof, whereas here Talia and Mordecai track his every moment like he’s a fucking inmate. Talia in particular is extremely distrusting of him, while Mordecai just stays out of her way. No matter how buff he is, the man is still a human and no match for an alpha werewolf.

 

Peter looks at the time, 3:30 a.m., before flipping onto his back and pulling his dick out of his boxer briefs. Nobody should be awake at this hour, so he’s safe to at least edge himself a bit.

 

After nearly a whole month of not being able to jerk off, his dry hand feels like heaven, the head of his dick rubbing against the inside of the blanket as he strokes himself slowly. On second thought, he better not smear precome all over his sheets, so he kicks them to the end of the bed and takes a second to admire the way his engorged penis stands out red against the pale plane of his toned stomach.

 

 

[TRIGGER WARNING: THE NEXT PARAGRAPH HAS THE NONCON FANTASY]

 

 

Peter jerks off to the sight of himself jerking off for a few minutes before his mind starts to wander, images of honey brown eyes and a mole dotted tummy. His hand speeds up as he thinks about holding him down and fisting his cock over his vulnerable little midsection as he pleads with him. He thinks about spilling over his ribcage marking him with his scent before he’s suddenly cumming in real life, unprepared for the spurts of cum that rain down on his body in thick droplets from his eyebrow to his belly button.

 

Well, if everyone didn’t know what he’s gotten up to, they will now.

 

••••

 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Peter says as he slides into his seat behind Stiles. By some wonderful twist of fate he’d ended up in the same second period World Literature class as him, along with Stiles’ fifth period chemistry class ever since Peter had submitted a change of schedule form yesterday after school so that he could gaze upon his visage or whatever it is he’s supposed to do as his Romeo.

 

What he really wants to do is get under his skin, ingrain himself into his life, program himself into his personality until he couldn’t get rid of him even if he wanted to. That’s all.

 

Stiles whispers, “why me” under his breathe at a volume any other human wouldn’t be able to pick up, but Peter hears it loud and clear. It widens his smirk as he turns in his seat to humor him. “Sup?”

 

“It has come to my attention that you could use a little.... extra help in this class, and, well, I’ve read every book on the syllabus multiple times...”

 

Stiles furrows his eyebrows, squinting at him like he’s a fucking idiot with those adorable honey brown eyes. Today, his hair looks soft and slightly curled, a baseball cap slapped backwards on top. He’s got on these beat up denim overalls, a white and red raglan shirt, and his dusty little sneakers. He looks like a The Little Rascals character, and his spunky personality does nothing to contradict the comparison.

 

“Are you asking me to tutor me?” Peter opens his mouth to speak, but Stiles isn’t finished talking so he closes it respectfully, more than willing to hear what he has to say. “Besides the fact that that’s weird on so many levels, how would you even know how I’m doing? We’re one week into the class. We haven’t even had a test.”

 

He knows he can’t tell Stiles that every time he opens up his copy of The Iliad his scent sours with anxiety and frustration. Derek had made it very clear a few nights ago that Stiles didn’t know and couldn’t know. So Peter can’t even drop a hint at being a werewolf.

 

Peter rubs his neck, feeling the phantom pain of being slammed into a wall. “Homeric poems can be difficult to read. I know how to read them, and I can teach you.”

 

Stiles rolls the thought around in his mind for a second, eyebrows wiggling. His eyes suddenly turn to slits, lip curling. “What do you want out of it?”

 

“Me?” Peter asks, laying a hand over his heart as he feigns innocence. “Why would I want anything?”

 

“Because that’s the kinda person you are.”

 

“Oh? So now you know what kind of person I am?”

 

“Yeah, I have fuckin eyes.”

 

The teacher, a mean old bitch steps into the room with a stack of papers under her arm, shutting it loudly to startle the class into attention. Stiles jumps around in his seat, so Peter has no choice but to lean forward, breath ghosting across the sun-kissed skin of his neck as he says, “Think about it.”

 

Goosebumps break out across his skin, his breath and heart rate quickening.

Chapter Text

Peter’s lurking in the hallway after lunch since he wasn’t too keen on sitting there and listening to Lydia‘s play-by-play of her and Jackson, her obnoxious boyfriend (who praise all that is beautiful has B lunch), having a lovers quarrel over whose beautician they would be visiting to get their eyebrows waxed after school while Danny and Allison awkwardly tried to make conversation, and Derek glared silently at his peas as if to make them disappear from his tray. Stiles and Scott had left a few minutes ago; Peter suspects to participate in some extracurricular activities in the nearest empty classroom.

 

Which is why he’s so shocked to hear them talking in harsh whispers in the boy’s bathroom.

 

“It would only be for like an hour twice a week!”

 

“I don’t like the guy.”

 

“Derek will be there.”

 

“I don’t like him either.”

 

So Stiles is actually considering his proposition. This is truly turning out to be too easy. He feels like maybe he should stir up a little more drama before going in for the kill.

 

••••

 

When he walks into chemistry, he’s pleased to find Lydia’s also in the class. That’s a guaranteed partner, so he moves across the room, ignoring Lydia’s questioning gaze and Derek’s suspicious glare from the lab bench across the aisle from hers. Not two seconds after he sits beside Lydia, a tragic girl with frizzy blonde hair is standing in front of him.

 

“That’s actually my seat.”

 

Lydia and Peter look up at her in tandem, both with flat, fully unconcerned looks.

 

“I’ll sit here,” the girl squeaks, sliding across the aisle into the spot behind her, beside Derek, who’s looking at them like they’re scum. Peter could care less, turning to Lydia with a sly look that she returns, a smirk quirking on her pretty pink lips.

 

“So, what brings you to fifth period chemistry?”

 

“Couldn’t stand the second period teacher. Mrs. Whatshername. With the god awful perfume.”

 

“Plum?” Lydia huffs out a laugh, shaking her head with something like pity. “I would have stuck with her.”

 

“Why?”

 

Lydia nods her head toward the door where a skinny man with glasses and a black satchel breezes through the door, his buttoned shirt and ill-fitted tweed jacket reeking of arrogant hipster prick. And when he opens his mouth, Peter can only dream of tearing his throat out. Goddamn, his cadence holds the essence of every book character that Peter has ever hated somehow squeezed into one disgusting little man.

 

His hatred for the man is only solidified when Stiles and Scott spill through the door, seconds before the bell rings, and the man still finds it necessary to admonish them despite the fact that they were technically on time.

 

Stiles and Scott take the lab bench in front of Derek and the blonde, who is making moon eyes at Derek as he’s distracted watching Stiles. It’s all a bit pathetic really, buuuut....

 

Peter analyses the girl slowly. He imagines under all those clothes there’s a nice little figure, and if she put a modicum of effort into taming her static hair, maybe used a moisturiser or two, then she would actually be attractive. Peter leans toward the middle of the aisle, closer to her, like he’s getting something out of his bag, and inhales, and that’s when he notices it. The metallic stench on her. Something’s off. He’ll have to do some digging on her later. She could be the missing piece in this drama of dramas.

 

••••

 

“So,” Peter starts, playing with the gold rings on his fingers. “Your lab partner is pretty cute.”

 

Derek makes a face, taking his eyes off the road for a second to give Peter a bewildered look. “Erica?!” When Peter just nods and raises a judging eyebrow, Derek tries, and fails, to school the utter disgust off of his face. Don’t get him wrong— Derek is a douche, but he’s usually more of a brooding, emotional douche than a superficial douche. “I mean, why... why would you say that... about her?” His face scrunches up again, nose wrinkling.

 

“Is there something wrong with her?”

 

“No. She can be a little standoffish though. And she’s epileptic. Not that that’s a problem, it’s just I can smell the sick on her, and it’s not the most attractive thing ever.”

 

“Are you certain it’s epilepsy? Has she had seizures at school or something?”

 

Derek nods, scent souring at the unpleasant memory. “Yeah. A couple times. The last one was really horrific though, and some dick sent a video of it to the whole school.”

 

“Huh,” Peter replies, staring forward at the wood-shrouded road with a slowly developing manic grin that does not go unnoticed, Derek giving him a couple of side-glances, each one becoming more panicked than the last before he finally asks:

 

“What’s that look for?.... Peter.... I hate that look on your face.... What’s that look on your face?... What are you planning?.... Peter! Answer me, dammit!”

 

“Oh, nothing!” Peter sing-songs. He’s just one teeny tiny bleeding heart speech away from hitting Derek’s social life with a minor apocalypse.

 

••••

 

During a particularly long and awkward silence at the Hale family dinner table (as a result of Mordecai sending Cora to her room for swearing), Peter slithers into action. “Talia.”

 

The woman in question doesn’t even look up from cutting her quite frankly dry chicken breast, snapping his name back at him as if he’s already annoying her despite the fact that he hasn’t spoken to anyone since he got home from school hours ago.

 

“As you know...” Peter replies, still calmly but he fixes his tone to be a bit sharper, so she knows her churlish little attitude isn’t necessary for the remainder of the conversation, “... I would never ask you for anything not only because my dignity is more valuable than anything you could ever give to or do for me, but also because I generally try to avoid any interaction with you at all times-“

 

Talia growls in warning, eyes flashing red across the solid oak dining table, but Peter ignores her, raising his voice slightly to emphasise that he’s going to continue talking whether she likes it or not.

 

“–but there is something you can do for someone else.”

 

This piques everyone’s interest, Mordecai swallowing his food quickly to hear better while Derek stares at the side of his head in pure horror as he finally realises what Peter’s had planned since the afternoon. Talia doesn’t say anything, just stares at him impatiently.

 

“There’s this girl at school-“

 

“And you want to impress her or something?”

 

“No, actually. I’m not like your children. I don’t pine. When I see something I want, I take it,” Peter clarifies indignantly before continuing. At this rate, it’ll be another two days before they let him get to his point. “Her name is Erica, and not only does she suffer from epilepsy, she’s also routinely tormented by her peers because of it. I think it would be very selfless and wise of you to give her the bite so that she can live a normal life— or better yet so that she doesn’t commit suicide. She’s in a dark place, Talia. I’m not sure she can take much more of this.”

 

His sister eyes him skeptically, trying to figure out his angle but his master plan is so convoluted she’ll never even come close to pinpointing what he gains from all of this. The only minor kink in the plan is that Peter is anything but selfless himself, so everyone is well aware that there is something in it for him even if they don’t know what it is. The objective at this point is just to distract everyone well enough that they don’t know they’ve been had until it’s too late.

 

“Do you really think I believed a single word you just said?”

 

“I know you didn’t detect any irregularities in my heartbeat, but if you must insist then ask Derek. It’s true.”

 

Talia looks to her son who’s having a silent meltdown, not wanting to confirm Peter’s statement thereby furthering his evil scheme, but also not wanting to lie at risk of being caught and punished. “Is it true?”

 

“I mean, yeah, but, mom, it’s Peter!” Derek busts out after a few moments, dropping his silverware to grab his hair in frustration and then motion to Peter hysterically. “You know he’s doing that thing where he lies by telling the truth!”

 

Talia nods in understanding, pursing her lips like the uppity, self-righteous bitch she is. “Do you know why he’s asking me this?”

 

“No...”

 

“So you can’t think of a single reason?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Tell me about Erica, then. How’s her disposition? What’s her home life like? Social life? Criminal record?”

 

“Uhhh,” Derek replies, trying to mentally dredge up any information he has on Erica. “She’s never been in trouble before that I know of. She’s kind of a pushover, but she always smells like she’s sad or angry. She doesn’t have any friends. I don’t know a lot about her family. I only met her mom once after she had a seizure in class last year and I helped her by reading her little keychain thingy and she was nice. Erica’s not a bad person, but Peter’s up to something.”

 

“I feel like Erica benefitting from the cure of the bite heavily outweighs your fear of what I’m ‘up to’ in terms of long-term importance. And now that I’ve brought it to your attention, as an alpha it would reflect poorly on your character to ignore it. You’re more preoccupied with your distrust of me than the fact that she’s suffering. I hope you all feel ashamed of yourselves.” Peter stands up, tossing the napkin from his lap onto the table dramatically. “And the chicken was dry.” With that, Peter whisks himself up the stairs, smirking as the scent of their collective guilt permeates the air.

 

••••

 

Derek cannot believe his mother. For the first time in all of history, she’s falling for one of Peter’s tricks, and the worst part of it is that she’s aware of it too when she sends him to school the next day with the order of getting to know Erica better before she makes a final decision.

 

Either thankfully or unthankfully (Derek’s not sure), Peter has basically forced the girl into being his lab partner in chemistry, so it’s far too easy to slide into a casual conversation with her while they set up the day’s experiment.

 

“Are you ready for the pop quiz this week?”

 

The girl blinks up at him owlishly, brown eyes wide in surprise at someone voluntarily speaking to her. “Uh, h-how do you know?” she replies awkwardly, hands shaking as she holds the striker up to the Bunsen burner. “Like it’s a pop quiz.”

 

After a few unsuccessful strikes due to her sweaty hands, Derek gently tugs it out of her fingers, lighting the fire. “Stiles asked if we had one this week, but when Harris said no I could tell he was lying.” Stiles glances back at him at the mention of his name, eyes flicking between him and Erica before he turns back around. He’s pretending to have tuned back out of his conversation but Derek knows he’s still listening so he covers his tracks. “He has a tell— his nose. It twitches a little.”

 

Erica nods, hands folded in her lap, then answers him. “Then to answer your question: no. I’m not ready.”

 

It feels like sealing his fate when Derek says, “My dad was a chemistry major before he became a full-time house husband. If you want- I mean, you don’t have to or anything- I promise I’m not sex trafficking you or anything- Not that I have a reason to be thinking of sex trafficking at all because that’s definitely not what’s going to to happen if you.... come over.” Derek closes his eyes trying to escape this truly mortifying moment in his life’s history. His whole face is probably red, and Scott and Peter are both snickering to themselves. Stiles, thankfully, is silent. As is Erica.

 

Derek finally wills himself to open his eyes and finds Erica staring at him with those shocked eyes again, mouth opening and closing like a fish before she finally squeaks out, “Like to your house?”

 

“Yeah. Is that... okay?”

 

“Yeah, totally, that’s fine. Awesome. Um, if you give me the address I can text my mo-“

 

“I can take you,” Derek blurts out.

 

“Oh, cool. Okay. Uh, I guess I’ll just wait for you by the main doors after school?”

 

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

 

“Cool.”

 

“Cool.”

 

••••

 

Derek mentally curses Peter as he says goodbye to Erica and tries to scurrying out of the room before anyone can stop him. Keyword: tries. Stiles reaches out and grabs his arm, accidentally getting himself dragged off his stool. Derek catches his flailing body just in time, hauling him back up by the armpits of his blue and green flannel.

 

“Fucking, ouch. Remind me to never try that again,” Stiles complains, rubbing at his stomach where he caught the edge of the table. He unceremoniously sweeps all the papers on his desk into his open backpack, kissing Scott goodbye as he links his arm through Derek’s and guides him out of the classroom and into the bustling hallway. “So... Erica?”

 

Derek inwardly groans. And maybe outwardly too. Just a little. “Please, don’t make me talk about it.”

 

“No, no. It’s fine. I just thought when you finally showed interest in someone, they’d be a little more, ya know...” Stiles trails off, shrugging with this odd look on his face. If Derek didn’t know Stiles well enough to be sure he’d never talk down on someone as innocent and undeserving of hate as Erica, he’d think he was insinuating something negative about the girl. But he does know Stiles, and Stiles isn’t that person.

 

“What are you trying to say?” Derek asks suspiciously, untangling their arms. Stiles at least has it in him to look remorseful as he quickly backtracks.

 

“I wasn’t like-! I wasn’t trying to say anything about her. It’s just you always struck me as more of an Amy Pond guy than a Mia Thermopolis type.”

 

“First of all, Mia Thermopolis was pretty for pretty much the whole movie. Second of all, I’m not interested in Erica. I just wanted to be nice is all.” And third, he’s gay, but there’s no way in hell he’s telling that to anyone. Once everyone realises he’s gay, his forlorn stares at Stiles and casual touches won’t seem so casual anymore.

 

Stiles snorts. “Well, that’s not what Erica thinks.”

 

“And how would you know?”

 

“Because she’s been pretty much in love with you since you stopped that guy from putting a spoon in her mouth when she had that episode at school last year.” Stiles rolls his eyes at Derek’s disbelieving expression, groaning and throwing his hands up. “I swear you’re so oblivious it hurts.”

 

“Like you’re any better,” Derek retorts sharply before he even registers what he’s saying, at which point he instantly regrets it.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Oh nothing, just that half the student body has been checking you out, and you don’t even notice,” Derek bullshits. Praise every deity, it works, and a very painfully awkward conversation about feelings is averted.

 

Stiles stops with him by the door to his class, punching him in the chest. “They’re not looking at me, you idiot! You’re like 230 pounds of rock hard muscle, now. It’s like walking around with brick wall.” he exclaims, slapping his pec for emphasis in the same place. “Hitting you hurts me.”

 

Derek can feel the tips of his ears blushing as he refutes Stiles’ claim and scurries off in the direction of his own class.

 

If Erica’s as in love with him as Stiles claims she is, then that has to directly tie into whatever Peter’s got planned.

 

••••

 

Derek and Erica have been chatting next to his car for five minutes before Peter finally graces them with his presence.

 

“Where have you been?”

 

“Oh, I got held up by this girl trying to shove her breasts in my face.”

 

Erica coughs awkwardly as Derek shoots a harsh glare at him. “If you’re done being gross, can you please just get in.”

 

“Actually,” Peter says with a sly look of satisfaction, “I’ve got a previous engagement. Pick me up at eight-thirty.” Peter spins on his heel and walks across the parking lot, ignoring Derek’s inquisitive shouting. He doesn’t even know where Peter’s going, how is he supposed to-

 

His words make sense when Peter approaches a dingy little Jeep, popping the door open and climbing inside smoothly. Derek tries not to grit his teeth angrily as he makes no attempt at conversation with Erica on the drive to his house, but it’s just like Peter to not take no for an answer. If he tries anything with Stiles, Derek won’t hesitate to dismember him and cremate the pieces. Nobody messes with Stiles. Nobody.

 

••••

 

Peter slips his satchel’s leather strap over his shoulder as he follows Stiles through the garage of a quaint little mid-century home. It’s nothing compared to the Hale micro-mansion, but on a cop’s income it’s not bad. Unlike Talia’s house, it looks well-lived in, despite the Hale house being well over a hundred years old. Then again, Talia’s pretty much destroyed that historical landmark with all her renovations and bullshit.

 

Stiles has been rambling a mile a minute ever since he got into his death trap of a car, not even pausing to make sure Peter’s listening, which he hasn’t been, so it’s a little jarring when he finally goes silent, looking at him expectantly as they stand in the middle of an outdated kitchen. Everything is yellow, and frankly it’s horrifying.

 

“Come again?”

 

“Do you want to study in the living room or my bedroom? There’s more space down here, but the wifi router is in my room so it’s faster up there.”

 

Peter has to hold back his grinch smile. It’s too easy. He makes it easy. He knows what he wants from him, so either Stiles isn’t afraid of him or he’s an idiot. Then again, he would also be an idiot to not be afraid of him. “Your room.”

 

Stiles eyes him suspiciously, despite the fact that he gave him the option in the first place. “Okay, I’m about to eat my fucking arm, so you can have a snack if you want, but I’m eating with or without you.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

The boy shrugs, flannel shirt flopping with the movement. “Suit yourself. Take this.” He shoves his child-sized Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack in Peter’s arms before he can protest. It’s a testament to how much he likes Stiles that he doesn’t chuck it into the floor as he would if anyone else tried that shit on him. Stiles pulls a chair up to the ancient yellow refrigerator, standing on top of it to reach the cabinet above. Even with all his height, he has to stretch onto his tip toes to get his arm all the way in, feeling around blindly before he releases a triumphant ‘ha!’, and his hand re-emerges with a box of Wheaties.

 

Peter can’t say he’s ever been prouder of his taste in men than when he reaches inside and pulls out two twinkies and a bag of gummy worms.

 

“Dad a health freak?”

 

Stiles snorts, closing the box and stashing it back in the hidey hole. “I fucking wish! The only way to get him to eat a vegetable is to take away all his other options.” He pushes the chair back to the table and grabs his bag from him, leading Peter around the corner and up a set of stairs. “Once I came home early from practise and caught him six Ding Dongs deep into a Hostess box, and that’s when I knew I would have to commit with him if I wanted him to change his diet. Well, I mean, make him think I did anyway.”

 

“Huh. That’s... weirdly... sweet of you. Never met someone so concerned with their parents’ eating habits.”

 

“Well, he’s all I have, and if he dies, then I might actually go full Batman. Except the poor version. And if you try any fuckshit, I’ll go Patrick Bateman.”

 

He says it so casually before throwing his bedroom door open that Peter almost misses it. He doesn’t even realise Stiles is all the way across his room, kicking off his shoes before he comes back down to Earth from the way his heart rate just skyrocketed. He has to tuck his hands into his pockets to hide the protruding claws.

 

“You think you could?”

 

Stiles looks up from digging books out of his bag, head cocking in confusion. “Could what?”

 

“Go Patrick Bateman,” Peter replies with as much feigned nonchalance as he can muster up at the moment. He moves toward him, just to get out of the doorway so he doesn’t look like a fucking creep lurking.

 

“Oh, definitely. And I have that whole damaged childhood angle to play up in court, so watch your paws. Also sit down. I don’t like you hovering like that. And get out your books cos we ain’t here to chitchat.”

 

Peter chuckles, following his instructions as they come. “I never would’ve guessed.”

 

••••

 

There’s going to be another death in the family, Derek decides as he finally escapes the torture chamber of his car and breathes sweet, beautiful fresh air that is devoid of the sickening scent of Erica’s arousal. He hadn’t even fucking done anything. All he did was drive. He didn’t even talk to her for fucks sake.

 

His mother opens the front door before Erica even closes her door. She’s so slow.

 

“Mom,” Derek grumbles, trying to move past her into his home, but the woman stops him with a hand on the chest and a stern look.

 

“Derek, it’s rude not to introduce your guests.”

 

“Erica, mom. Mom, Erica,” he rushes, barely concealing his pained yelp as he pushes past his mom and receives a sharp, clawed pinch to the side. His mother gives him evil eyes before turning back to Erica and bringing the girl in for a hug. His mom holds the girl just a touch too long, getting a few good sniffs of their guest.

 

“Hello, darling. Please, excuse my mannerless son. You’d think he was raised by wolves.” The older woman ushers Erica into her home, the blonde looking around in wonderment at her surroundings.

 

“Nice digs,” she huffs, brown eyes wide. She sits down at the dining table where a pitcher of lemonade and some cookies are waiting for them.

 

“Derek has told me so much about you,” his mom says, taking the seat beside Erica, and it’s probably the first time he’s genuinely wanted to spontaneously burst into flames because Erica blushes— blushes— and his mom shoots him a sly smirk across the table where he’s chosen to sit. It’s as far away from them as he could sit without his mom ripping him a new one.

 

Erica just sits there awkwardly, hands wringing nervously in her lap. The fact that she’s equally as uncomfortable as him only makes Derek feel a little better.

 

“So, do you play any sports?”

 

Erica looks at his mom like she’s crazy because anyone with eyes should be able to tell she’s not exactly the athletic type. “Uhh... no?”

 

“With those legs? I would have never guessed. Why not?”

 

“I have epilepsy?” She says it like a question because it’s so unusual for people to look at her and not automatically see the epileptic girl. Her reputation precedes her. And not in a good way.

 

“Oh! Forgive me, dear.” It’s kind of scary the way she feigns surprise. That’s what happens when you’re forced to handle pack diplomacy because your so-called emissary is a shady recluse. (Derek is not fond of Deaton. The guy creeps him out.) “Derek might have mentioned that actually. Apologies. It must be hard for you. I remember how awful high school was, and I had it pretty easy compared to some of the other kids.” If by pretty easy she means was class president and prom queen, then Erica’s experience by comparison is literally traversing through the circles of hell.

 

“Yeah, it’s whatever,” Erica says, munching on a cookie, not noticing the way his mom’s eye twitches at Erica’s flippant dismissal. His mom is one of those old school people who think women should be graceful in a way that demands respect in itself. Her mindset a really weird combination of ‘traditional’ ideals and blazing feminism that doesn’t always sit well with Derek, even though he’s usually not the victim of her crusade to make everyone act like a 1950s nuclear family. He knows his role (the placid, well-behaved middle child as opposed to Laura’s driven, golden child and Cora’s rebellious youngster), and he plays it comfortably.

 

It’s safe to say she’s not very fond of Stiles. The word ‘toleration’ probably best describes his best friend’s relationship with his mother. Because Stiles is almost the anti-thesis of everything his mother believes a gentleman should be. Stiles is all backwards hats and muddy sneakers and clumsiness, while his mom is tight belts and flowing shawls and alpha.

 

“No, it’s not whatever. Those words are for quitters. Are you a quitter?”

 

Erica looks at Derek, panic clear on her face. His mom can be kind of intense, but to people who don’t know she’s a werewolf, she just comes off downright terrifying. Derek shakes his head minutely, Erica almost exactly mimicking the action as she’s probably afraid to make any sudden movements.

 

“I-I just... there’s nothing I can do about it.”

 

 

“What if there was?”

 

The blonde girl gives his mother a look, like she’s a fucking idiot, and Derek has to hold back his snicker even thought he knows he’s not really hiding anything from his mom. She can hear the hitched breath of aborted laughter perfectly clearly, and Derek can perfectly clearly see the way her eye twitches.

 

Erica opens her mouth like she’s gonna say something then closes it then opens it again before finally shooting a deathly glare at his mother. She stands abruptly. “Thanks for having me-”

 

“Derek, maybe you should talk to her.”

 

The switch in atmosphere is so immediate Derek almost chokes on the smell of gasoline and matches wafting off of Erica. For a split second Derek thinks Erica going to lunge at his mother, but then she exhales and her hands unclench and her heart rate plummets back to a steady thump. Somehow, it’s scarier than if she had lashed out, the way she calmly stands there with her eyes closed, willing away involuntary physiological responses. Most werewolves can’t even do that.

 

Derek is one of those weres that can control their responses. Control is kind of his thing. Most of the time. (Aka when Stiles isn’t involved.) Derek’s a teeny bit territorial over him, and that can lead to a bit of aggression on occasion. He’s still working on a way to box up his feelings towards Stiles and ship them to hell where they belong.

 

Derek cuts his eyes to his mother whose lips are stretched into a wide smile, proud eyes fixed on the girl. She wants Erica in her pack, not just because she feels guilty but because Erica‘s already a wolf.

 

He doesn’t even get her name out before her pulse shoots back into overdrive, eyes fiery as she snatches her bag off the table and storms out of the house.

 

His mom leans back in her chair, taking a sip of lemonade. She doesn’t even have to say anything, the pointed look she gives him is enough to have him groaning and reluctantly following the girl out the front door. He easily catches up with her, rounding her so he can block her path.

 

“Leave me alone!” she screams, finally unleashing her pent up rage and throwing her backpack at him. Her words echo through the forest, bouncing off the trees. “Fuck you and your family! Why would you do that to me?! Do you want to hurt me?! Want me to have a fucking seizure?! I can’t-“ Her voice cuts off, a sob tearing out of her as she stumbles in the opposite direction with her arms over her head.

 

And Derek goes into full panic mode because on top of a girl crying (which he is not equipped to deal with as his mom has literally never cried in his entire life and his dad usually comforts his sisters), there’s also the fact that she could have a seizure at any second.

 

“Erica, tell me what to do.” When she ignores him, he catches her by the shoulders, turning her around. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

 

“Y-You. And your mom,” Erica whimpers. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

 

“We want to help you.”

 

“You can’t!” she screams in his face, and it’s only by a hair that he catches her fists before they rain down fury on his nose. He holds her wrists together, pinning them against her chest.

 

Listen,” he commands in the closest thing to a roar that won’t scare her directly into a seizure, his eyes flashing beta yellow. That shuts her up immediately, all her hysterics screeching to an abrupt halt as she stares up into his eyes not unlike prey getting one final look at its killer. He instantly feels bad and loosens his stance, shoulders dropping as his grips drifts down to her biceps in a less threatening hold.

 

“We can help you. We want to help you.” Derek grimaces as he tacks on the next line, knowing the leverage he has over her. “I want to help you.”

 

“Are you gonna kill me?” is her reply, but her tone is so deathly calm it’s worrying. It’s like she’s ready to die or something.

 

What?! No!” Derek exclaims just as quickly, accidentally shaking her in his grip as he tries to get it through her thick head that he’s not going to hurt her. He can practically hear little bells tinkling around in her head with the motion.

 

“You... want to help me?”

 

“Yes.” I’ve only said that ten fucking times.

 

“Why?”

 

Derek flounders at the question, looking around the shaded woods for help but it’s just them alone on the road. “Because...”

 

He must take a second too long because her eyebrows flatten and her lips twist up in anger. “That’s what I thought. I’m just a charity case. I don’t need–“

 

He internally weighs out the consequences of failing his mother to whatever could happen next and decides that he’d rather not be on the receiving end of one of her world famous ass rendings, so he sucks up what little of his pride he has left and smothers Erica’s words with his own lips. Although it’s a bit too aggressive and the collision hurts, which is to be expected considering he’s never kissed anyone before and he kind of didn’t think teeth would be as important of a factor as they’re imminently turning out to be.

 

Erica makes a surprised and pained noise that quickly morphs into a pleased whine as he pulls away. He kind of wants to lick the dirt to get the metallic taste out of his mouth, but he holds off. She probably wouldn’t take that too well.

 

Oh, Derek,” she sighs dreamily like some kind of damsel from a cheap harlequin novel, and Derek has to fight the urge to vomit (1) because it’s so fucking embarrassing, (2) because he’s in way deeper now than he ever meant to be, and (3) because he’s fucking gay. Everything is happening exactly to Peter’s plan he realises bitterly. He manages to keep his face schooled into something hopefully other than disgust.

 

“Let us explain.”

 

And so he leads her back to the house, noting that he still has two hours before he has to get Peter from Stiles’ house. Stiles is probably doing a lot better than he is right now, even with Peter’s insufferable presence.

Chapter Text

Hey yall, I usually don’t like to get serious like this (or post annoying ass note chapters), but if it bothers you in any way that this fic started out featuring a heterosexual rendition of a homosexual pairing, then you can read literally any other fic on this entire website. Not to be an asshole or anything. Just please don’t make yourself read something you’re uncomfortable with.

I’m the kind of person who likes to be 100% transparent, so when I mentioned in the comments that this started out with Stiles as a girl, I wasn’t implying that that version was in any way superior to this one. I just wanted y’all to know why I had any grammar mistakes or rogue feminine pronouns (which I usually have anyways bc my brain naturally interchanges he/she).

On top of that, the original and the slash versions are DIFFERENT. I would never just go through and change pronouns to make a story gay for reads. I literally spent DAYS rewriting this whole thing so that other people would have the chance to enjoy the story the way I do without some super obscure tag interfering. The only times I did just change the pronouns were when I saw something worded in the original the same way I wanted it worded in this version, which I admit is kinda often because there are a lot of interactions that work regardless of gender, and there are a lot of funny things I didn’t want to leave out.

And it’s a WIP. I haven’t even finished writing it! I only have like 30,000 words on it so far. There’s a point in it where it becomes something completely its own and doesn’t follow any of my previous ideas ft girl Stiles. I’ll probably end up posting the original because I worked hard on it, so if you don’t believe that the fics’ plots actually diverge then you can see for yourself.

The only reason I write f/m genderswap is because it’s easy for me to identify with both of the characters and lets me jump back and forth between perspectives in a way that makes writing mentally stimulating. I like povs that incorporate/challenge gender norms from multiple gender/sex related experiences. As I am biologically female and get the Woman Experience (TM) in my day to day life, I have to admit I kind of like to see how I can manipulate the story of an originally male character to incorporate the bullshit I deal with.

I do self-insert a lot but since y’all don’t really know me, you probably wouldn’t know that I usually break off bits and pieces of my personality and give them to all of the characters. In Never Ending Nights is probably the only fic where I completely self-inserted /my personality/ for Stiles’ girl alter-ego, not because his alter ego is a girl but because his alter ego is a hypersexual chaosperson and that is exactly who I am.

I also write genderswap because I love women. I love talking about them and describing them and making them beautiful because it’s fun. Men are beautiful to me too, but their clothes and hair are usually boring to describe especially when they have short hair you can’t do a lot of things with fucking sue me. Penises are fun to describe tho.

On the topic of why I don’t have any f/f fics, I actually have tons of f/f headcanons and a bunch of f/f fics I’ve written but never published simply bc I’ve never finished them or been satisfied with them but mostly because a LOT of them are one direction fics and I no longer feel comfortable writing rpf especially when I know it makes the people involved uncomfortable.

That’s what I like about Sterek, because the actors who played them don’t have a problem with fans shipping the characters even though Jeff Davis screwed the fucking pooch. (Lets be honest though all the canon relationships in that show lowkey sucked and were unhealthy.)

Also I don’t really publish my m/m sterek stuff bc (as stated) I’m a highly sexual person and I usually end up writing sex and on top of never having had anything in my ass I also don’t have a PROSTATE SO IM WORRIED ABOUT WRITING GAY SEX POORLY. Like, I can’t very well rely on other slash fics because most of them are written by females who are just going off what other females have written. It’s easy to write dick stuff because I’ve got a boyfriend (who won’t let me touch his prostate for science) and any time I have a dickstuff scene I just run it by him. Also it’s easy because the software is there for me. It’s just that unfortunately the hardware isn’t if you know what I mean.

I’m very anal (no pun) about fact checking my fics and basing them in truth because I have ADHD and I hyperfocus on little things and end up researching them for hours. But I just can’t seem to come to a conclusion on buttstuff.

Also like, do I ignore the poop do I not ignore the poop what do I do here

ANYWAYS, I hope I covered everything in this note, but if I didn’t, now is your time to ask. This would be the appropriate chapter to call me on something you have a problem with or to ask extremely personal questions. I’m giving you full permission. Unless you say some fuckshit and insult me (or imply that I don’t know my own sexuality/gender identity bc that is a touchy touchy subject ok i have lots of gender dysphoria issues that i like to ignore please let me suppress my emotions), I promise not to get mad.

So in future updates I hope that we can stop competing for the most problematic comment section ever just because I rewrote my fic and loudly proclaim my love for women every ten seconds. It’s not that deep I promise I’m just a dumb fucking goofy ass bitch and I don’t pay attention half of the time to the shit I say even tho I should so I don’t have to waste everyone’s time with annoying fakeout note updates

Chapter Text

Stiles slams his hand down on the floor where they’re spread out, leaning forward to shout the words, “I am trying!”


“Are you now?” Peter sneers, calmly gathering his books into an organised pile that he slides into his bag.


“What are you doing?” Stiles barely disguises his panic as Peter packs all of his things. He lets him fret for a moment, lets Stiles think that he’s about to cancel their little arrangement because he’s so hopeless, and then, when Stiles grabs his arms to stop him in distress, he just smiles at him.


“Sweetheart, I know I’m fantastic company, however Derek’s just arrived.”


Stiles answers his smirk with a confused cock of the head, but right as he opens his mouth to comment, the doorbell rings. Stiles shoots him an incredulous look.


“Jesus. You Hales and your hearing,” is all he says before he bolts out of the room and down the stairs, leaving behind him a wake of peachy happy pheromones. It sickens Peter. He’ll break him of that soon enough. It’ll be him Stiles is so eager to see.


Peter stalls and listens intently to what’s happening downstairs.


“Der,” Stiles says breathlessly. There’s a shuffling of fabric like a hug and then the door closes behind him.


“Where’s the imp?” Derek replies, knowing full well Peter can hear him. The older boy just rolls his eyes, taking a moment to rub his pillow against his neck, scenting it thoroughly before he throws it back where it was. He lets his hands glide over everything he passes by, marking his territory if only to piss Derek off the next time he’s alone up here with Stiles.


By the time he gets downstairs, Stiles is sitting on the dining table, legs crossed, as he periodically shows Derek pictures on his phone.


“This is Chad from some school farther upstate. He’s the one who filled Jake’s sandals with shaving cream during the prank wars. Classic. I hit him with a water balloon full of ketchup, and I thought he was gonna kill me. Between you and me, I got an unhealthy adrenaline rush from him pinning me to the floor by my neck.”


Derek seems happy to listen to him prattle on, nodding and humming in all the right places, like a practiced dance. Derek’s eyes never stray from Stiles’ even when he’s flailing his arms out in big exaggerated motions. Peter almost feels for him.


Almost.


“Der,” Peter simpers, revelling in the way his nephew’s shoulders tense up to his ears at the mere sound of his voice, leaning against the doorframe with crosses arms. “I’m ready to go.”


“Aw, can you guys stay for a little bit? My dad still won’t be home for a while, and I don’t wanna be alone.”


Derek opens his mouth to object, but Stiles hits him with these wide watery eyes, sucking his lip into his mouth as he bats his outrageously long eyelashes, and Derek just melts. To be fair, Peter wouldn’t be able to say no to that face either.


“Fi-“


Derek doesn’t even get the word out before Stiles is leaping off the table with a victorious fist pump, his entire demeanor flipping on a dime. Peter is so impressed with his skills in manipulation. “Sweet! I’ll make popcorn, and we can talk about all the late tryouts you’ll be attending next week.” Stiles winks at Derek before he can protest, digging through his snack stash again.


Peter can’t help but fear for his life just a little when Stiles forgoes the living room couch and drags them both up to his bedroom. He hopes the buttery, salty scent of the popcorn will drown out his earlier shenanigans, but by the way Derek stops dead in his tracks in the doorway, Peter supposes he was hoping for too much. The thing is, he didn’t really think he’d be present when Derek discovered his little... werewolf dibs-calling. And not so soon after, the his scent still thick in the air.


Derek slowly turns around, mammoth shoulders heaving with the labour of his angry breaths. He gives Peter one look, out of the side of his eye, and that one look promises so much future pain that Peter winces proactively.


“What are you freaks doing?” Stiles asks, flopping down onto his bed. His head lands on the pillow, and Stiles doesn’t even blink as he wiggles back and forth getting comfy, inadvertently covering himself in Peter’s scent.


Derek’s mouth stays clamped suspiciously tight, his front lips protruding just the barest amount with the hint of his fangs. He just shakes his head and collapses in the pile of extra blankets Stiles has stacked against the wall across from his bed.


“Every time!” Stiles yells around a mouth of popcorn, shooting up in his bed as he chokes a little. He hacks it back into his mouth like a chihuahua and keeps chewing. Peter takes the rolling chair at his desk, trying to to feel anything but disgusted and failing. “Every time I fold them you do this!”


“Then stop folding them.” Derek’s hiding his mouth behind one of the pillows, but Peter can hear the lispy drawl his fangs cause by overcrowding his mouth.


“But if I don’t fold them, then you won’t do this, and then my blankies won’t smell like you. Why can’t you just rub on them in an orderly fashion?” Stiles sounds exasperated, not even blinking at his admission. Peter’s beginning to think he doesn’t really know what the word “embarrassment” means. He’s so shameless. It’s a delectable trait. Talia probably despises him.


Peter rolls his eyes as Derek pulls the pillow even higher to hide the blush on his cheekbones, but the red tips of his dumbo ears completely give him away. He looks so ridiculous. This heaping chunk of muscle nesting in a pile of blankets with a pillow hugged to his front like a preteen girl at a slumber party in 1994.


“So, how’s Erica?” Peter asks Derek, not only to shatter their little moment; he’s genuinely interested in why his nephew reeks of the girl. It’s like he’s been rolling around in her bed.


Derek glares daggers at Peter from his nest in the corner, but Stiles perks up too, eyes flicking between the two boys.


“Yeah, what’s going on there?”


All Derek can do is grimace. A chill runs up his spine at the phantom taste of sickly blood that Erica left in his mouth. It’s still there if he smacks his tongue around even though he swallowed the whole pack of mints he keeps in his glovebox.


“That bad huh, big guy?” Stiles soothes, leaning back on his elbow while he scoops a handful of popcorn with his other hand. He never had any intention of sharing it with them. He only offers to share things as a formality.


Also the big guy thing is new, and Derek’s glad there’s a pillow blocking his face so nobody sees the ever present blush that’s decided to take up residence on his face tonight.


“Mom... she scared her off, and then made me go after her.”


“Sounds like Talia,” Peter drawls at the same time as Stiles snorts, “Sounds about right.” They share some kind of look that spells out a mutual understanding.


“Anyways,” Derek stresses, rolling his eyes as he brings the pillow down now that his fangs have receded. “She was crying and- and screaming at me and I didn’t know what to do so-“


Stiles flips the bowl of popcorn, sending a tsunami wave of kernels over his head as he flings himself onto the edge of the bed, staring at Derek in pure alarm.


“You didn’t!” he gasps, gasping again when Derek throws his face back into the pillow.


“I thought you said you didn’t like her!”


“I don’t! I panicked!”


“Well, you can’t just lead her on! You’re in this now. Three months, at least so it doesn’t seem suspicious. You don’t have to screw her, but some heavy petting and oral will be required to keep her off your scent. How good are you with your tongue?”


The way Stiles asks it so seriously, like his convoluted plan is even a legitimate option, makes his brain do a hard reset in the middle of the conversation. He’d rather not talk about his tongue in front of his uncle who’s face down on the desk, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.


How is this his life? How is this his best friend? Stiles can’t be serious.


Derek chances a glimpse at him, and all he can do is groan when he sees that Stiles is in fact serious. He’s on his knees, leaned over the edge of the bed, which he grips to steady himself. He’s blinking earnestly at him with his huge bambi eyes, bits of popcorn stuck in his hair.


Yeah, he definitely can’t tell him how he “is” with his tongue.


“Come on, Der-bear. This is a judgement free zone– shut the fuck up, Peter. Before I shut you up.”


“I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you try,” Peter replies smoothly amidst his residual giggles, flicking away the wetness around his eyes. “Although, you’ll find my pain tolerance is quite high.”


Stiles curls his lip at him before turning back to Derek. “Listen, I know you don’t want to be labelled a player this early into your hotdom, so you’re gonna have to follow through with Erica.”


“Yeah, well I don’t think I have a choice anyway because mom loves her.”


Stiles’ eyes widen, like two barrels of cream soda before he squeaks, “Talia?”


“That’s the only mom I have.”


“Oh.”


“Speak of the devil,” Peter mutters, hitting the button on his phone. “Talia!” he greets in a fake cheery voice. “Dearest sister, fearless protector, how may I serve you this evening?”


Stiles’ lips twist into a reluctant grin before he full on snickers, slinking across the room so he can eaves drop on the call, which Peter is more than happy to let him press his ear against the other side of the phone, his cheek brushing the back of Peter’s hand where he holds it.


Derek listens in from his blanket pile.


“Peter! Where are you? Derek isn’t answering his phone.”


“We’re at Stiles’ house.”


“The Stilinski boy?” his mother asks, as if Derek and Stiles didn’t practically grow up in each other’s pockets. He can practically her the way her lip curls in disdain, and so can Stiles who pouts against the phone.


“Stiles,” Peter corrects. Kiss ass. “Anyways, Derek and I both found it rather rebarbative of two young, able bodied men to leave a tragically defenceless, waif of a boy–“ Stiles keeps his head to the phone, but shoves his middle finger in Peter’s face. “–all alone at this hour of the night.”


Derek makes grabby hands at the phone, and lovely, loyal Stiles plucks it out of Peter’s hand and delivers it to him. Even though he knows Peter let Stiles take it, it still makes him feel a little smug.


“Mom?”


His mother sighs on the other end of the line. “Derek, honey, you know how I feel about you staying at his house.”


“We could leave when his dad gets home. He’ll be home early in the morning, though.” Derek is using his sincerest, most timid voice on her because it’s the only way to guilt trip her. She has a hard time using alpha voice on him over the phone, so it’s only a few seconds of silence before she breaks.


“Derek– Fine. If it’s all right with his father, then all three of you will stay here. I don’t trust the three of you alone for a second.”


“Relax, Talia. We were going to watch a movie. Not have an orgy,” Peter says flippantly, knowing Talia can hear him just fine.


Stiles scrunches his nose at him, whispering, “That’s incest.”


“I think you’re confused about who we’d be fucking, dear,” he whispers back, lips stretching into a predatory smile as Stiles goes bright red, eyes zoning out over his shoulder.


He comes to a second later, head shaking back and forth as he snaps out of it. “The Patrick Bateman thing still stands,” he hisses.


It’s only then that Derek realises his mother has hung up on him, and he’s been holding the phone to his ear for no reason. He tosses it back at Peter without warning, grumbling in his head when Peter actually catches it and Stiles looks impressed.


“Come on then,” Derek huffs, pushing himself out of the pile of blankets. “Text your dad and pack a bag.” He extends a hand to Stiles, who’s sitting on his knees on the floor beside Peter in an accidental show of submission. He doesn’t know any better though, so he doubts Peter will take it to heart. Stiles uses both of his hands to grab Derek’s one and squeals in delight as he tugs him upright like he weighs nothing at all (which, he really doesn’t anyway). He may flex his arm a little more than necessary, but it’s worth the starry eyed look Stiles gives him in response.


“I’m seriously gonna buy some watermelons and make you beat the shit out of them. Holy fuck, Derek. I bet you could fell a tree just by punching through the trunk.”


“Yeah, Der,” Peter swoons, bringing his clasped hands up to his cheek with a dreamy sigh. “Wouldn’t that be swell?”


Stiles shoves him in a way that might have hurt Peter if he were human before moving around him and searching through his closet for his maroon and white Beacon Hills Adidas duffle bag that he uses for everything.


“Undies, toothbrush, charger, pillow,” he mouths to himself over and over as he flitters around the room, grabbing things that aren’t even on his list and tossing them into the bag. Derek’s pretty sure he sees him throw in one of his PlayStation controllers. Derek doesn’t even have a PlayStation. He has an Xbox, and he doesn’t get to use it most of the time for anything other than watching videos because he has homework to do and essays to pre-write and chores to complete and Stiles to wrangle.


By the time Stiles gathers all of his stuff and they actually get back to Derek’s house, it’s 9:45 p.m. and his mother is tapping her foot impatiently on the front porch. She seems a little thrown when Stiles gets out of the backseat, head tilting just the slightest bit in consideration. She must notice that something’s different about Stiles as well. It’s sort of like Stiles has developed an almost intrinsic femininity that subtly balances out his abrasive personality. It’s hard to explain in words, but it feels like his aura is softer, like he’s tuned into some source of delicate energy even though he’s still the same oddball he’s always been.


“Mrs. H,” Stiles smiles winningly as he climbs the stairs, pillow and backpack clutched to his chest. Derek shoves Peter out of the way and snatches Stiles’ duffle from the trunk. He growls lowly at Peter, who has sense enough to back off with his hands raised in surrender. He can take care of Stiles just fine on his own.


“Stiles,” his mother greets, not unkindly. “How have you been? You haven’t been around much.”


Stiles can’t stop himself before he makes a face because Talia most definitely never wants to talk to him, much less know how he’s doing. The woman kind of hates him, which is funny sometimes because Stiles gets to lord his impenetrable bond with Derek over his own mother’s head.


“Oh you know, I’m good. I had lacrosse camp then my dad dumped me at my aunt’s house in Miami because quote-unquote ‘I don’t have the time to chase after you all summer now that you can drive, you little gremlin’. Not that my aunt did much chasing after me anyways. I just did want I wanted to all summer. It was pretty lit.” Stiles giggles to himself at the accidental pun, Talia’s usual disdainful expression (or as everyone has dubbed it, her Stiles Face) back in full force.


Stiles jumps a little when be notices Derek has snuck up and is standing directly behind him with Peter on the stairs, leaned against the railing.


“I’m assuming you haven’t had dinner,” Talia says to Derek who makes an apologetic face. The woman gets really weird about eating well rounded meals and family time and all that bullshit.


“Sorry, the thing with Erica happened, and then I had to get Peter from Stiles’. Time just got away from me.”


“Well, let’s head inside. Your father is in the kitchen making something quick, then it’s off to your rooms.”


Stiles drops all of his stuff beside the staircase, veering left into the kitchen with a bit of a skip in his step. The only person in the Hale house possibly better than Derek is his dad. “What’s for dinner, Mortie?” Stiles shouts happily, revelling in the way the man jumps, flipping pasta sauce all over the counter. He turns around with a unconvincing glare that quickly breaks into a smile.


“Stiles. How have you been, son? We missed you around these parts.” Mordecai gives him a side hug, tucking a dish towel into his hands with a pointed look. Stiles gets the picture and starts cleaning the red splats off the counters as he tells him the same abridged version of his summer that he told Talia, but with a bit more pizzazz. Derek’s dad is awesome. He’s got this cool black hair with grey streaks in the sides, and Derek’s beautiful, beautiful facial structure, and he dresses like a business vampire from middle America in button downs and fitted trousers, all in rich, dark colours. Not to mention he’s super cool and knows all this chemistry stuff and has helped Stiles blow things up for fun many a time. It’s a wonder Talia managed to swing someone with this much personality when she’s such a stale fucking piece of bread.


Mordecai is basically his second dad, and he’s probably the reason why Talia hasn’t outright banned Stiles from their house.


“Is that the pasta with the zucchini and sausage and parmesan?” Stiles asks, leaning over the stove with hungry eyes.


“Of course. Only the best for my adoptive,” he jokes, and Stiles preens.


“Well, isn’t this sweet.”


Derek pulls out a barstool from the island, rolling his eyes at Peter’s catty antics where he knows Stiles will see. Stiles smirks, leaning against the granite counter by the stove. It’s only a few seconds before Cora comes sliding down the bannister to the grand staircase, practically leaping into Stiles’ arms.


“Never leave me with these idiots again.”


“Cora,” Talia says sharply, clearly not enthused by her daughter taking a joyride on the staircase then insulting her entire family. “Please set the table.”


Cora lowers her eyes and grumbles something under her breath that Stiles doesn’t catch but Derek and Peter’s eyes widen at. Stiles looks at Mordecai who just shrugs.


Talia just calmly drops a bundle of napkins and silverware into Cora’s hands. “Be that as it may, you’re still grounded. Stiles isn’t an exception. After dinner, it’s back to your room.”


Dinner passes by without a hitch, well the first ten minutes anyway.


“So, Derek, I hear you had a little friend over today,” Mordecai says before popping a forkful of pasta into his mouth to hide his shit-eating grin.


Derek blushes, attempting to sink lower in his chair but his newfound bulkiness prevents him from really going anywhere. “Please, dad-“


“No, I would personally love to revisit what happened with our dear Erica,” Peter adds.


“Erica Reyes?” Cora asks, wrinkling her nose. Which is the proper response, in Stiles’ opinion. It’s not even that Erica and Derek are on two different ends of the hotness scale. It’s how anti-social and a little mean she is that’s throwing Stiles off about the whole situation. In a way, Erica and Derek act a lot alike, but that should prevent either of them from engaging, right? Like forces repel. Opposites attract. And Erica not-so-subtly called Stiles a loud-mouthed, ignorant asshole last semester when Stiles accidentally hit her face with a dodge ball in gym class as if it’s Stiles’ fault she didn’t dodge the ball. It’s literally the name of the fucking game.


“I can’t believe it either,” Stiles grumbles, aggressively forking a few pieces of meat and shoving them into his mouth. Then it dawns on him. Didn’t Derek invite Erica over to study with his dad? Unless, he didn’t actually invite her over to study. And that probably means that he does like her and he’s just too embarrassed to tell Stiles the truth.


“Just always thought it’d be you,” Cora shrugs.


“What? I’m dating Scott, and Derek’s straight as a fucking board,” Stiles says automatically, looking to Derek for help but it appears as though he isn’t breathing. Talia clears her throat testily, and oh yeah. Stiles forgot there’s a strict no cussing rule in this stupid house.


“Well I’m dating Boyd but we all know the end goal is Malia.”


Talia drops her fork while Mordecai appears to momentarily choke on a piece of pasta. The woman gives his back one hard slap before he’s back to normal, swallowing quickly with watery eyes.


“Malia is 16,” Derek points out, thankful that the conversation has shifted to something other than his sexuality and his hopeless crush on his best friend.


“Yeah, but when I’m 19 and she’s 22, that won’t even matter. Or when I’m 15 and she’s 18.”


“When you’re 19 and she’s 22,” Mordecai states with finality, taking a brisk sip of water.


Cora gives her dad a look that can only be described as ‘preemptively apologetic’, shrugging apathetically. “When it happens, it happens, dude. True love waits for no one.”


••••


When they get upstairs, Stiles catapults himself into Derek’s bed, rolling himself up in the blanket like a burrito before wiggling to an upright position and sighing happily. “Can we just trade blankies? Bruh, I don’t know what the fuck they put in your body spray but that shit knocks me right the fuck out.”


Derek drops Stiles’ things on the floor, sighing as he hears his mother mutter something about Stiles’ foul mouth to his dad in their bedroom across the house. At least that’s what he thinks she says. He can’t really hear what she’s saying. Just that she’s saying something in clipped little bursts of muffled sound. They’d taken special care to sound proof the master bedroom as much as possible to save the kiddies from the emotional scarring that hearing their parents’ wild BDSM sex would cause. Unfortunately, Derek came home from school early one day, and now he knows that his dad calls his mom ‘daddy’ too.


Unfortunately times two: the sound proofing doesn’t work both ways due to his mother’s ridiculous alpha hearing. So even in the event that he had a person in his room willing to suck his dick, it couldn’t happen. Not unless his mom was at work, and his father suddenly decided to stop being overbearing and popping in every five minutes to offer him and Paige snacks with an infuriatingly knowing smile. He was literally so close to kissing her, but every attempt was thwarted and then her shitty parents dragged her off to Scandinavia to do whatever the fuck there is to do in Norway.


Derek is still a little salty even though he had his big gay awakening last year and realised he wasn’t even attracted to Paige. He was just desperately following the hetero agenda in a last ditch effort to get his dick sucked.


“Yeah, okay. I can’t imagine the meltdown my mom would have if you separated my comforter from the matching sheets and pillow cases.” Derek bites back a satisfied grin as his mom makes an offended sounding noise.


Stiles barks out a laugh, falling over on the bed. His eyes sparkle mischievously as he all but purrs, “How rebellious of you, Saint Derek.” It’s just as ridiculous as he intends it to sound coming out of a puffy navy blue cocoon. He looks like one of those creepy little Booohbah creatures Cora loved.


“I will make you sleep in the car,” Derek threatens, getting down to pull the handles on the second mattress disguised as drawers. His mother had insisted on the trundle bed, probably with a mental image of Derek and another well-mannered boy from school becoming thick as thieves in their developmental years. Instead, she got Stiles: defiant, muddy, and cursing by age nine. The fact that Stiles’ dad was deputy sheriff at the time is probably the only thing that stopped his mom from flat out telling Stiles to get out of her house and never speak to Derek again after their first sleepover.


Not like that would have worked on Stiles. He just kind of bulldozed his way into Derek’s life in kindergarten by taking both of their snacks out of the snack bowl at recess and forcing Derek to take his chocolate chip granola bar instead because he liked Derek’s Gushers fruit snacks more. In the end, it was a happy trade, but Derek doubts Stiles would have taken no for an answer anyway.


Stiles fakes a gasp, unraveling himself from Derek’s bedding, his hair sticking up on top where it got mussed up while rolling around. “I’m a dignified member of society! You’ll treat me with respect!” he huffs, clearly mocking a certain someone as he hops off the bed and starts digging through Derek’s dresser, inadvertently scenting all of his clothes in the process with his happy pheromones.


“Where’s that shirt with all the tree frogs on it? The soft one?” he asks impatiently, unfolding the neat rows of shirts. His dad is gonna freak at him.


“Sorry, I think I wore it already.” Accidentally on purpose. Every night last week and this week knowing that Stiles would eventually come over and demand to wear it.


“No, fuck you,” Stiles curses stubbornly, going over to his hamper to dig through it. “That’s my shirt. You know it’s my shirt. Why would you wear it?”


‘Because I’m a genius,’ Derek thinks to himself, trying not to show how entirely chuffed he is that Stiles is going to wear the shirt he’d slept in three nights in a row already, that his scent is going to be all over Stiles so strongly even Scott might throw a fit. It’s so satisfying that he seeks it out as well, a nice way around his mother’s strict ‘no scenting’ rule. She would never suspect Derek of doing something so deviously convoluted in order to circumvent a dumb scenting rule. Sometimes, it pays to be a goody two shoes.


Stiles pulls his A Nightmare on Elm Street hoodie over his head, the bottom of it rucking up the t shirt underneath (because of course it fucking does), a barely tanned expanse of soft looking skin revealing itself in the process. He has a couple of moles here at there, all of which Derek is well aware of.


And suddenly Derek has a face full of sweatshirt, the door to his bathroom swinging shut behind Stiles. He smothers the embarrassment of being caught staring with the black material, taking several greedy gulps of Stiles’ sweet smell. A shiver runs down his spine, and he drops to the floor out of habit, doing his customary push-ups to will away his boner.


“Thweet Jethuth.” Derek looks up to find Stiles standing in the doorway to his bathroom in his ridiculous Beacon City Zoo shirt and a pair of bright pink boxer briefs that Derek vividly remembers having a red kiss mark on the ass, his toothbrush hanging out of his foamed-up mouth. He must have washed the product out of his hair in the sink because it’s plastered wetly against his forehead, so long now that it reaches his eyebrows. He turns around and spits into the sink, quickly gargling with water before bounding over to him. “Think you can do that with me on your back?”


“I’m one hundred percent positive I could,” Derek answers back easily, taking the bait. If Peter’s little phone catching trick from earlier wowed him, then this is gonna blow his freaking mind. He gets down into position again, allowing Stiles to clamber on top of his back and sit cross legged. Stiles is very bony, and it’s definitely not comfortable for him, but Derek could give two shits about his personal wellbeing in this particular moment.


“Mush!” he exclaims in delight, unnecessarily slapping Derek’s ass like he’s some kind of race horse. He rolls his eyes at the unintentional dog joke, but starts moving up and down nonetheless, imparting a little of his werewolf strength to keep Stiles steady and counteract his uncoordinated wobbling. “Oh my fucking god, is it weird that I want you to throw me through a sheet of drywall?”


Derek pauses, giving him his best wtf look over his shoulder.


“Okay, so it’s weird. Fucking sue me, dude. Break my fucking neck. Snap my arm in half like a twig. Hold me against a wall and–“ Stiles cuts himself off with a yelp as Derek tilts and dumps him into the floor. He’s doing push-ups because he doesn’t want a boner and now he’s thinking about holding the object of his affection against walls. Stiles doesn’t need Reese’s cups or Ray-Bans. He’s getting him a long overdue filter for Christmas.


Derek grunts at his sounds of distress, leaving the room to get an extra blanket and also a few seconds without Stiles’ cinnamon bubblegum scent cloying up his senses with ideas of things he can never have. He diverts at the last second and opens Laura’s bedroom door, letting her ever-calming scent of lavender and cupcakes wash over him.


Before she left, she was the one that kept everyone sane. The mediator between the pack and its alpha, and everyone’s suffering a little without her. Yeah, she was annoying and an attention hog and stupidly perfect all the time, but she would always step in when their mom got a little too intense and diffuse the situation diplomatically. Her alpha training definitely had something to do with that, but Derek thinks it was mostly just her.


He doesn’t let himself feel embarrassed as he grabs her comforter off the bed and wads it up in his arms. He won’t hear the end of it from her over it come fall break, but maybe if he’s submersed in all scents his sister, then he won’t get any unwanted boners, and that’s really Derek’s main goal of the evening because Stiles looks damn good in his clothes.


He kicks the door to his room shut, finding Stiles already snuggled up in his bed. He’s so kindly tossed one of his pillows onto the second bed. Even though Derek can’t see his face, his humming bird heart beat lets him know he’s still awake.


Derek drops the blanket on top of it, going to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. He goes over to his dresser next, pondering what to sleep in. He decides on a pair of WWE pajama pants (that he’s pretty sure Stiles gave him as a joke). He changes his pants in the bathroom, tossing his jeans in the hamper before undoing his smart-looking button down shirt and tossing it in as well. He leaves on the undershirt though because he must protect his virtue somehow.


“Is the gun show in town?”


Derek startles, whipping around to find Stiles’ smiling face peaking out of his blanket. “The what?”


“You know. It’s a joke. About your bodacious bod.”


“I don’t know how you two aren’t dating,” Cora says from her room, causing Derek’s eye to twitch. He hates when she and Peter eavesdrop.


“Bro, don’t make that face. You look like a serial killer.”


“Coming from the guy who just asked me to break his neck.” Derek gets into the spare bed. “You’re sending me mixed signals, Stiles.”


“Okay, maybe don’t break my neck,” Stiles says above him. “But like, some light choking would be nice.”


Laura’s blanket has the intended effect, at least momentarily. He’s seriously considering running to the other side of the preserve just to get off. His exercise the want away method worked a lot better when Stiles wasn’t a tangible presence in his every day life. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”

Chapter Text

When Stiles wakes up the next morning, Derek’s bunk is empty, but the door to his bathroom is closed. Stiles contemplates the pros vs cons of waiting for him to get out of the shower, but ultimately decides that he’d rather not see Derek dripping wet and glistening. Instead he reluctantly rolls out of bed and grabs some fresh underwear from his duffle before leaving the room.

 

The hallway bathroom is nicer anyway, intended for guests, so he’s excited to use the swanky ass shower Mrs. H had installed. He’s almost down the hallway when a door on his left clicks open. A sleep soft Peter emerges, looking equal parts sexy and cute in only a tight pair of boxers.

 

And, like, yeah, he’s with Scott and Derek is smoking hot inside and out, but Stiles still has eyes, okay? The whole Hale family is gorgeous, and Peter is no exception. On the surface at least. Peter still gives him bad vibes every time he opens his annoyingly beautiful mouth.

 

“Stiles, looking lovely as ever.”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Stiles replies, trying to breeze past him, but he grabs his arm, pulling Stiles into his room. “Oi, lay off the hands, buddy!”

 

“Sorry,” Peter replies with no hint of remorse, keeping Stiles crowded against the back of the door.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter answers plainly, but when Stiles looks closely, his pupils are dilated way past what’s normal and the whites of his eyes are tinted pink.

 

“Are you high?”

 

“A little.”

 

“Dude, it’s like, 8:30 in the morning.”

 

“Which is when Talia and Mordecai have their weekly fuck. It’s the only time.”

 

“Oh, cool,” Stiles replies, trying to play it cool even though he’s been dying to smoke again since he’d last seen Carmen. He’s not addicted or anything. It was just a really fun time, but that’s probably because every time he and Carmen got high, Stiles ended up with Carmen’s tonsils on his dick. He’s been classically conditioned to associate smoking with getting his dick sucked, and right now he really misses the daily blowjobs.

 

For some reason, Scott refuses to do anything sexual with him, which was fine and dandy before Stiles found out what another human touching his penis felt like, but now he’s going fucking insane. The first piece of evidence: he wants to bone Derek. Like, since when? He’s honestly feeling so sex deprived that it’s driving him to want his best friend’s dick. It’s that bad.

 

Which is yet another reason to want to get out of his mind high.

 

“I could be persuaded to share...” Peter says lowly into his ear, pressing his chest against Stiles’. He’s not really into it, no matter how much he visually appreciates Peter, but he’ll hear him out first.

 

“Define persuaded.”

 

“Hmmm... how about a kiss?”

 

Stiles can feel his eyebrow raise skeptically of its own accord. “A kiss? A single kiss?”

 

“Thirty seconds, with tongue, and I get to grab your ass,” Peter adds with this infuriating smirk like he already knows his answer. And Stiles would love to prove him wrong but... there’s not a lot of people in the area willing to sell illicit drugs to the sheriff’s underaged son.

 

“Fine,” Stiles grumbles, making sure Peter knows exactly how much he doesn’t want this. His reluctance doesn’t seem to have any effect on him, though, as Peter’s hands instantly cup his ass and pull Stiles into him, and wow this guy has a massive hard-on. Awesome.

 

Not.

 

Stiles lets Peter tip his head back with one of his hands before he dives into his mouth tongue-first. There’s no preamble kissing or anything. Just full on tongue. Stiles does his best to keep up, but it honestly feels like Peter is very poorly attempting not to cannibalise him. Stiles starts counting Mississippi’s in his head, getting only to twelve before Peter starts grinding his dick against his and that was so not in the agreement.

 

He tries to protest, but Peter keeps his iron grip on him, hand holding his head in place so he can’t pull back or protest. In fact, it’s like the more he struggles against him, the more into it Peter gets. So Stiles lets him get to thirty then goes completely limp in his arms, which he apparently takes as a sign of submission or something equally weird and starts mouthing across Stiles’ chin and down his neck.

 

“Peter,” Stiles hisses now that his mouth is free. “Time’s up, asshole. Let go.”

 

Peter languidly sucks a few more kisses into his throat before pulling back, and stepping away. “Sorry,” he apologises with a self-satisfied smirk.

 

Stiles wants to kill him. But he also doesn’t want his brave sacrifice to be for nothing, so he holds out his hand and flutters his eyelashes at Peter sarcastically.

 

The older boy just rolls his shoulders and makes his way across the room, opening an inconspicuous wooden box on the shelf. Nestled amongst a pile of what looks like potpourri, is a baggie of weed, a grinder, some rolling papers, and to Stiles’ delight, a couple of pre-rolled joints. Peter ambles back across the room with one, dropping it in Stiles’ outstretched hand with a fake smile that Stiles returns before slipping out of his room and running back down the hall to Derek’s bedroom. There’s steam coming out of the crack of the bathroom door, so he figures he has a little time to stash the joint in his bag before running back down the hall to actually bathe and wash what feels like slimy frog handprints off his body. He might even gargle with soap water. Or bleach if the soap water doesn’t do the trick.

 

••••

 

Derek is waiting for him on the bed when Stiles gets back from his thorough scrubbing. “Hey, didn’t meant to hog the bathroom.” He’s in his jogging gear, which consists of a black tank top and some basketball shorts. Honestly, if Stiles didn’t feel super guilty about making out with Peter— not because he cheated on Scott since his boyfriend really deserves it after the Lydia debacle, but because Stiles knows that Derek borderline despises his uncle and letting Derek’s familial arch enemy eat out his mouth feels like breaking his trust— he’d be all over that.

 

Also if Derek wasn’t straight. Not that he’s said that or anything, and it wouldn’t surprise Stiles if he wasn’t, but Derek just acts like a hetero more often than not. And he’s 2-0 with girls in the lead so it’s not an unrealistic assumption.

 

“It’s fine,” Stiles smiles, drying out his hair with a towel. He digs through his designated drawer, finding a pair of basketball shorts and an old long sleeved Hurley that’s actually a little tight around the shoulders now that he has it on. Oh well, he’ll make it work. “Can I come with you?”

 

“Jogging?” Derek asks, eyebrows raising in surprise.

 

“Yes, Derek. I am an athlete after all.”

 

“Well, I guess you can come,” he says in a suspicious tone with a skeptical look in his eyes. “If you can keep up with me. I don’t want to have to stop for you to throw up.”

 

“First of all, that was only twice during suicides. And secondly, are you doubting my stamina?” Stiles smirks in a flirty tone, backing into the wall instead of smoothly slinking into the bathroom as he had intended. He stumbles to the left with a blush before slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door.

 

Derek waits patiently, staring at his sneakers. He only looks up once the blow dryer turns off and Stiles slips out of the bathroom looking like a wet dream with his slightly curly hair resting softly against his forehead. His shorts and better fitted top leave the lines of his body more explicitly defined than usual as Stiles is pretty self conscious about showing off his body, and, therefore, tends to layer on baggy clothes. His shoulders are definitely broader than they used to be, and the majority of his baby fat has all but disappeared, exposing the lean muscle in his shoulders and arms that he’s acquired from years of lacrosse practise.

 

Stiles drops into the floor to put on the navy blue Adidas sneakers he’d arrived in.

 

“Are you going out like that?” Derek blurts, instantly mentally slapping himself because why would he want to make Stiles feel self conscious??

 

Stiles looks up at him like he’s crazy, and that’s when he sees the cluster of barely there pink marks on his neck that were most definitely not there last night. He can already feel his blood beginning to boil, his pulse pounding in his ears drowning out whatever Stiles has to say about it being hot outside.

 

“Can I have one second?” he asks very calmly, excusing himself as Stiles nods in confusion. He’s barely in the hallway before he wolfs out, claws and fangs forcefully extending as he marches up to Peter’s door. He throws it open, taking in the suddenly empty room. The curtains to the open window flutter in the breeze, the sound of the Camaro starting up cutting through the birds chirping, and Derek would chase him, but he’s got Stiles to attend to. His Stiles.

 

Besides, Peter has to come back sometime. And when he does, he’s going to get the ass beating he deserves, no holds barred. Derek’s gonna put that fucker in a coma.

 

He goes back to the room, meeting Stiles just as he opens his bedroom door to look for him.

 

“Are you ready? You seem a bit... tense.”

 

“Peter took the keys to the Camaro without asking.”

 

“Oh, what a douchebag.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says pointedly, jogging down the stairs with Stiles behind him. “He is a douchebag.”

 

“Gimme, like, one sec. Forgot deodorant,” Stiles says when he hits the last step, scurrying back up the stairs and into Derek’s room.

 

In the meantime, Derek makes a glass of pre-workout for Stiles. He’ll need it to keep up with him. He also fills two water bottles and puts them in his utility belt, along with his cell phone and a strawberry protein bar for Stiles when he no doubt starts complaining about breakfast halfway through his run.

 

Stiles bounds down the stairs a couple of seconds later, taking the drink from him with a thankful hum as he gulps it down, and Derek tries not to stare too intensely at the graceful line of his throat as he tips his head back to get the last drop out of the glass. This seemingly impossible feat of willpower is made much easier at the sight of the bruises marring his skin.  “Okay, let’s do this shit.”

 

••••

 

“Der, please let’s go back,” Stiles whines for the fortieth time. They’re only five miles into his fifteen mile run, which has turned into more of a walk with Stiles lagging behind the entire time. Derek told him not to sprint at the beginning and to ask him to slow down if he was going too fast so he wouldn’t get tired out, but did he listen? No. Because he has a major problem with authority and doing anything he’s directly told to do.

 

“Suck it up. You asked to come.” And fuck you for making out with Peter. This is what you deserve.

 

“Because I thought it would be fun,” Stiles fake cries, dropping to his knees on the dusty trail. “I can’t go on. I haven’t even had breakfast. It’s a hundred degrees. I’m hungry and tired.”

 

Derek sighs loudly, just so Stiles knows how entirely annoyed with him he is before he turns around and backtracks to sit on the ground by a tree, out of the way of the trail. Some people bike out here, and he’d rather not get ran over. Stiles crawls over to him on his hands and knees, looking every bit as pathetic as he probably hopes he does. When he’s finally settled against the tree beside him, Derek pulls out the protein bar and tosses it in his lap, setting Stiles’ water bottle on the ground beside him as he takes a few big drinks from his own.

 

“I love you,” Stiles whines, ripping open the bar and stuffing half of it in his mouth. “Please let’s go back,” he repeats around the mouthful of awful strawberry chewiness.

 

“We have two and a half miles until we turn back. Can you stop bitching?”

 

“Ooh, Derek cussed. I must really be getting on your nerves.”

 

“Look,” Derek says, knowing his mother won’t be happy that he’s exercising his werewolf abilities in front of Stiles if this gets back to her. “Let’s make a deal. If you can last these last two and a half miles, then I’ll carry you six of the miles back.”

 

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “You’ll carry me six whole miles? Like consecutively or broken up?”

 

“Broken up, obviously. One mile on then a quarter mile off until we get back to the house.”

 

“And you can do that?”

 

“Stiles, I bench 450,” Derek brags as he stands and stretches his supraspinatus, lowering the number so its not too suspicious. “I’m sure I can carry you a couple of miles. You’re— what— 150? Maybe less?”

 

Stiles just stares up at him, mouth hanging open absently.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Did you kill Derek?”

 

“What?”

 

“Did you kill Derek and replace him and that’s why you’re suddenly all muscley and kind of aggressive and tall?”

 

“Maybe we should go back. Are you feeling okay?”

 

“No, Derek,” Stiles sighs pitifully, slumping against the tree. “I think I need you to carry me. Right now. With your arms.”

 

Derek gives him a weird look, but starts packing their bottles and his trash back into his belt, before slipping his arms under Stiles’ knees and back and lifting him up like he’s nothing. Holy fuck.

 

Stiles is a horrible fucking person, but it’s hard to care when there’s only two very thin layers of sweaty fabric between him and Derek’s pecs. If Scott doesn’t touch his dick the next time he sees him, he’s jumping ship and by ‘ship’ he means ‘Derek’.

 

“Hey, Der.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Have you ever smoked weed before?”

 

“Not... no?”

 

“Would you like to?”

 

Derek looks at him with his fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows furrowed. He doesn’t say anything, just glares at him until he explains himself, which he proceeds not to do out of spite.

 

“C’mon, Derbear. All the cool kids are doing it.”

 

“Do I look like a cool kid?”

 

“The cooliest.”

 

“You’re not peer-pressuring me into doing drugs.”

 

“It’ll be fun. We can go to the store and get snacks then go back to my house when Dad leaves this afternoon. We haven’t hung out just us since I got back, and I miss you,” Stiles tries, switching up his angle to make it seem less illegal and more sentimental.

 

“My mom doesn’t like us to be alone at your house since that one time you decided to make a bomb out of toilet cleaner and foil.”

 

“And we both know you always do what your mom says,” Stiles retorts a little meanly, keeping his eyes trained on his perpetually bruised up knees when he feels Derek bristle at that. It’s a bit of a low blow, picking on Derek’s insecurity of being known as a goody two shoes, but Stiles really wants to see what an inebriated Derek looks like. He’s never seen him let loose ever, and it’s probably why he acts like a coil wound to its limit. Eventually, he’s going to snap.

 

“I just value my freedom, Stiles. Cora’s grounded for the next week for saying fuck at the dinner table. Imagine what she’d do if she caught me doing drugs.”

 

Stiles can’t help but giggle to himself. “Say fuck again.”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“C’monnnn, Derek. Okay, so you won’t smoke with me. At least do this. Gimme something, big guy, I’m dying out here.”

 

“You know, I think you’re feeling a lot better. You can probably walk.”

 

Stiles goes limp in his arms, pretending to be feint for a couple minutes while Derek grumbles about him being annoying and hikes him up roughly. Really, it just gives Stiles a few more minutes to scheme until he finally comes up with the perfect line.

 

“I guess I’ll just ask Scott to smoke with me.”

 

“Over my dead body. There’s no way I’m leaving you alone with that sack of rocks while your judgment is impaired.”

 

“So you’ll smoke with me?” Stiles asks a little over eagerly. He just really wants to get Derek fucked up. He doesn’t even care that Derek insulted Scott because, if Stiles is honest with himself, he’s pretty sure Scott’s cheating on him with that new girl. Scott’s been getting on Stiles’ nerves anyways with his whole ‘I want it to be special’ line he keeps pulling to get out of making him cum. Their first kiss was at a McDonald’s, and now all of the sudden he’s worried about stupid ass bullshit like the location in which they fuck. They were literally in his bed alone in his house. Can’t get more blandly romantic than his own fucking bed.

 

“No. I’ll just supervise.”

 

••••

 

Peter’s returned the Camaro by the time they get back, but apparently he’s accompanied Mordecai and Cora to the grocery store so Derek doesn’t get tear out his trachea just yet.

 

Stiles touches everything once he’s in the front seat, turning all the nobs and pushing various buttons no matter how many times Derek attempts to swat his hands away. He finally, finally gets Stiles to settle on some fuzzy Spanish radio station after five minutes of scanning, Stiles listening along like he actually knows what they’re saying. Hell, he might. You never know with him.

 

They get to Stiles’ house just as his dad is starting a baseball game on the dvr.

 

“Pops,” Stiles greets informally, not even stopping as he continues past the couch to the stairs. All these years, and it’s still weird to Derek how casual Stiles and his dad are with each other. Derek’s mom would have a heart attack if he didn’t stop to properly greet her.

 

“And you are?” his dad asks, even though Derek’s seen the man about a million times before.

 

Stiles snorts from the stairs, leaning over the railing to say, “Really dad? It’s only been a couple of months. I’m telling you a little ginseng green tea can’t hurt.”

 

“Derek, sir?” Derek answers timidly, confusion probably evident on his face. He doesn’t really have a lot of run-ins with the Sheriff of Beacon Hills if Stiles isn’t involved due to his spotless record and penchant for staying around the house. In fact, when Stiles isn’t around, he doesn’t see the man at all.

 

The man’s eyes light up in recognition, an easy-going smile replacing the stern, thin line of his lips. “Sorry, I didn’t recognise you with all the… you know,” he says, motioning vaguely towards Derek’s person. “What are you all bulked up for, anyway? Trying out for a team?”

 

Derek shakes his head and shrugs, trying not to blush. The attention this new physique has brought him is embarrassing to say the least. He doesn’t like talking about himself. “No.”

 

“Oh, is there another reason? You’re not being picked on, are you?”

 

“Nope- uh, no sir. Stiles was gone, and I was bored.”

 

Stiles ‘awwwwwwwww’s very loudly from the staircase, his father shaking his head at his son’s antics with a chuckle.

 

“Well okay then, I guess. You two don’t get into too much trouble.”

 

“You know us,” Stiles says, suddenly awkward, running back down to grab Derek’s arm so he can tug him up the stairs with him. “No trouble ever. Two perfect angels-“

 

Derek nudges him forward up the stairs before Stiles has any more time to put his foot in his mouth, pushing past him to get into the room. Derek dumps Stiles’ bags on the floor along with the collection of convenience store snacks Stiles had made him hide in his backpack to sneak past his dad. Honestly, he probably has more to worry about with sneaking Doritos past his dad than he does with the singular joint he’d flashed Derek in his bedroom after their run (walk).

 

“Okay, so we have like three more hours until he goes to work. Wanna do my homework for me?”

 

Derek huffs, accepting Stiles’ laptop from him. Stiles is honestly one of the smartest people he’s ever met, but off his ADHD meds he couldn’t focus on his own shirt long enough to tell Derek the color. Not to mention it’s just a paper on the Battle of Hastings. Piece of cake.

 

****

 

Stiles is just about vibrating out of his shoes by the time his dad finally leaves the house with the lunch he’d packed for him. He doesn’t want to make it seem like he’s up to anything, but he’s dying to try to convince Derek to take a hit.

 

“Okay, so like, you sure you don’t wanna partake? It’s a single joint. It can’t get us that fucked up if we split it.”

 

Derek resolutely shakes his head, flipping through an essay about Erikson's theory of psychosocial development that he’s been reading on his Kindle. He’s only there to supervise, and so he does, watching over the top of his tablet as Stiles lights the joint, holding the flame to it until the excess paper burns off and he pulls a lungful of air through it. It actually smells awful. All of those Jonas Brothers fanfictions Derek read were lying. It most definitely is not sweet smelling. It smells like a dead skunk.

 

Stiles coughs a little, his eyes watering as he stares at the joint in surprise. “Shit, okay. Peter is not fucking around.”

 

“Peter?” Derek asks, and Stiles looks caught.

 

“Yeah.... He gave it to me. This morning.”

 

“Peter doesn’t give anything to anyone,” Derek replies, trying to appear cool and uninterested even though the correlation between the feint hickies on Stiles’ throat and Peter’s generous gift of weed is suddenly becoming apparent. “He’s a manipulator. He doesn’t do anything unless he gets something out of it.”

 

“I know.”

 

Stiles already appears to be regretful of his decisions, so Derek drops it. If he does it again though, Derek’s having a very uncomfortable conversation with him about pimping himself out to his uncle for drugs. “So, Peter smokes huh?”

 

“Well, he was high as shit when I saw him this morning so probably.”

 

“He drove while high?!” Derek shouts, dropping the Kindle on the bed so he can attempt to tear his own hair out. Laura will literally kill him if she comes home to her baby totaled. She trusted Derek out of everyone in the whole wide world to take care of her most prized possession. Imagine if he failed her. That would be so devastating.

 

Stiles cringes, blowing smoke out of his nose. “Yeah, he’s a dumbass.”

 

“So... Peter was actually high?” Derek probes after a minute of calming breathing exercises. “Like the drugs worked?” Derek knows werewolves can’t get drunk on normal alcohol, but he’s never actually had the balls to ask his parents or Deaton if they can get high on normal weed. If it was aconite laced, Stiles would probably be seizing by now and Derek would be sneezing up a storm or passed out.

 

“Yeah? Why? You wanna try?” Stiles takes in his apprehensive expression before shuffling across the bed on his knees. “This is a judgement-free zone, Der. We all have to start somewhere.”

 

Derek hesitantly takes the outstretched joint from him with furrowed brows. “I don’t like the way you just said that. Okay, how do I do this?”

 

“Just like inhale but from your diaphragm so it actually goes into your lungs. Don’t just hold it in your throat. Then give it a sec and exhale.”

 

Derek does as he’s told, passing it back to Stiles as he holds his breath for a couple seconds. The smoke tickles his throat and lungs uncomfortably, but it’s nothing intolerable. He looks at Stiles, silently asking when he’s supposed to exhale and Stiles just guffaws.

 

“Uh, now?” He keeps babbling as Derek slowly exhales a cloud of smoke. “Jesus, I coughed up my lungs the first time I tried. You don’t have to hold your breath by the way.”

 

Derek shrugs, not really feeling anything yet. It’s not until his sixth hit that he notices his eyes feel kind of tight and he’s wearing a dopey smile but he doesn’t remember why.

 

“Dude, you’re lit,” Stiles giggles, looking up at him from where he’s on the floor, leaned against the edge of the bed beside him. He’s dipping a Dorito into the cream center of a Little Debbie cake. “We still got a little to go. You smoke half then hand it back.”

 

“Half,” Derek repeats, hitting it four more times before giving it back to Stiles. He closes his eyes, head rested on Stiles’ pillow that’s saturated in his scent, breathing it in deeply as a never-ending song plays in his head. He wishes he knew how to write music because this shit is genius. As it is, he can barely keep his eyes open, holding his hand out for Stiles to fill with pastel melty mints that he immediately crams into his mouth. “I don’t care if I never have sex. These are good enough.”

 

“That’s cos you haven’t.”

 

“Haven’t what?”

 

“Haven’t been sexed up.”

 

Derek snorts at Stiles’ stupid ass terminology. He’s not some harlequin damsel. Nobody’s going to sex him up. If anything, he’ll be the one doing the sexing up.

 

“If you say so,” Stiles replies around a mouthful of chocolate cupcake.

 

“I’m like... I’m a man.”

 

“Sure you are.”

 

“I could totally sex someone.”

 

“Sure you could.”

 

“I have a big dick.”

 

Stiles whips around at this, dropping the half eaten chocolate cupcake into the Dorito bag carelessly. His mouth is dropped open in a wide smile, a too loud laugh sounding as he looks at him in disbelief.

 

“I wasn’t doubting you,” he grins, resting his arms on the edge of the bed and his head on his arms.

 

“Good.”

 

“You’re one of those wait til marriage guys aren’t you?”

 

Derek peeks his eye open to watch Stiles as he draws a lazy pattern with his finger on his sheets. “No. I tried to fuck Paige last year.”

 

Stiles splutters at this. “Krasikeva? She’s a prude!”

 

Derek closes his eye again, a self-satisfied chuckle rumbling deep in his chest as he recalls the way she kept trying to get them to ‘study’ at her house so they could finally be alone. His mom never allowed it, though, effectively cockblocking him. “She was gagging for it. You couldn’t smell her.”

 

“Well I fucking hope not. Ew.”

 

“She smelled like baby powder and dandelions.”

 

“How come you never told me?” Stiles pouts, or at least the little extra ‘hmph’ in his voice sounds like he’s pouting.

 

“Because nothing happened.”

 

“Do I smell like something to you?”

 

“A lot of things.”

 

“Like?”

 

“Peaches when you’re happy. Tar when you’re angry. Salt water when you’re sad. Apple pie when you’re content. And sometimes like Big Red gum, but I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

 

“That’s like... really poetic. Can you really smell me?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Like right now?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“What do I smell like now?”

 

“Peter’s soap. Doritos. Chocolate. Hawaiian punch. That weird cinnamon gum smell. That one’s still new. Throws me off.”

 

“Wow... wanna know what you smell like to me?”

 

Derek hums, eyes cracking open as far as it feels like they’ll go when Stiles clambers over his body and drops onto the bed beside him, taking big exaggerated sniffs of his chest and armpits.

 

“Sweat, but like good sweat.” Sniff. “Old Spice.” Sniff. “That hella expensive body spray.”

 

“Oud Wood,” Derek supplies for him.

 

Stiles snorts at the name, before going back to sniffing him. “You smell like skin.”

 

“Like skin?” Derek grins, quite frankly finding it adorable the way he’s practically crawling all over him and sniffing like a baby werewolf coming into their senses.

 

Stiles smiles back at him, dropping down so that he’s draped across his torso, head resting on his chest. “Good skin.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Skin.”

 

Derek snakes his arms around Stiles’ shoulders, holding him tight in place as he turns both of them over. The last thing he remembers is Stiles humming an All Time Low song directly into his chest. Maybe this particular drug isn’t so bad.