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The whole thing starts with Stiles' naked body, which is, apparently, "perfect."

"No, but seriously though," Heather says, when she sits down across from him. "Wait until you see him naked. He's literally perfect. There is no one in the world more perfect."

Stiles has no idea who she's talking to, and he's not immediately sure it's him she's talking about, either. On the one hand, Heather's treating him to a lingering look, like she's got x-ray vision. (Not that she needs it; she obviously remembers how he looks beneath his clothes.) On the other hand, he has a hard time believing Heather thinks that anything about him is even perfection-adjacent.

It's a testament to their lasting friendship and Stiles' adjustment to life in Los Angeles — which is weird in unexpected ways — that he only raises his eyebrows at her. Not that it matters, since she ignores him anyway, in favor of talking about him. And his body. She reaches out and actually squeezes his biceps with one hand, like she's testing the muscling on her livestock or something.

"Not really," she says, to whoever it is that's on the other end of the phone. "A little wiry, I guess. Broad shoulders, though, and he's got unexpected moves. Yeah." She laughs, throwing her head back, and her eyes crinkle up, like she's remembering something nice. Stiles hopes it's his moves. In bed. Because he does like to think they're good, but she did kind of dump him unceremoniously after the second time they slept together, so it's sort of hard to tell with her. "Right? Seriously. No, we won't even have to dye his hair or anything. And he's got moles already, nobody's going to know if they're in the wrong places or something. Yeah. Yeah. No, really, Markie should be flattered, if anything he's getting an upgrade."

Stiles sighs and snaps his intro psych textbook shut, because he's clearly not going to get anything else done. There's a girl at the next table who's staring at Heather with a disgusted look on her face, so either Heather is drowning out other people's Bluetooth communications with her oversharing, or the girl's a newcomer to Los Angeles, where people share graphic information about their latest colon cleanse routine while they're standing in line at the juice bar. A conversation about Stiles' naked body in a coffee shop is hardly the worst thing she's ever going to hear.

"Oh yeah, he'll totally do it. Yeah. Later." She hangs up her phone with a decisive jab of her finger, and then she drops it onto the tabletop. When she says, "Got a job for you, Stilinski," it's not exactly a surprise.

"Not that I don't appreciate it, but it kinda sounds like the job is porn." And, well, he does appreciate it, because Heather was the first friend he made when he moved down to go to UCLA, and she also divested him of his virginity, and somewhere in there she taught him how to find jobs as a film and TV extra, which pays well and is surprisingly easy to fit in around his classes, if he's willing to completely forget about the idea of sleep once in awhile. But for all that he's sexually liberated now and everything, he's not super interested in actual porn. He'd probably have to go all the way to the Valley — never worth it — and then he'd get home late and wouldn't be able to find a parking space anywhere in the same ZIP code as his apartment. The math isn't working for him on this one.

Heather just scoffs and rolls her eyes at him, though, reaching across the table and snagging what's left of his coffee. "It's not porn. And don't worry, I know you're still not an actor, it's not a speaking part either."

"Thank god," Stiles says, because having to talk on camera is maybe his second-biggest fear, after swarming hornets. If he shudders a little it's only because the air conditioning in this coffee shop is cranked up way too high. "So what is it exactly?"

"Body double. It pays a principle performer rate, and a really generous one at that, a thousand bucks for a day's work."

"Body double," he repeats, dubiously. "Doesn't that usually mean like... ass double? I do have a really nice ass."

"It's alright," Heather says, with a wave of her hand. Alright. Maybe this is why they broke up, because she underappreciates Stiles' obvious assets.

Like his assets.

"They really pay that much to double?" he says. He's sensing a catch. "I interviewed a stunt guy for my thesis and he didn't even make that much for jumping off actual buildings."

"Last minute job, unusual film, there are plenty of reasons to justify a higher pay rate." The look on his face is still skeptical, maybe, because she snorts at him like he's being ridiculous and says, "Relax. You trust me, right, Stilinski?"


He does trust her, which is how he winds up standing in the corner of an industrial loft apartment, stripped down to his underwear, while a couple of complete strangers perform an objective evaluation of his body. He's hemmed in by a few free-standing racks of clothes, mostly artfully worn designer jeans, which by indie film standards constitutes a "wardrobe department." The racks don't make for much of a barrier, and they don't exactly afford anything like privacy, especially with half a dozen crew members wandering around on the other side, setting up lights and cameras.

It hasn't escaped Stiles' notice that they're mostly pointing everything toward the large, low bed set up in the middle of the room. He has a feeling that his nudity right now is probably the least of what he's going to be asked to do.

The evaluation of his worthiness is mercifully short, at least. The director, Laura, tells him to give them a spin and makes pleased noises when his back is turned. He chooses to believe she's voicing her approval of his excellent ass, because he frankly needs the boost to his self-esteem after Heather told him it was just alright.

The guy standing next to her, Boyd, says, "He's fine by me," with a one-shouldered shrug. "He could be Markie's brother, if we don't get too good a look at his face."

"I'm not sure if I should be insulted by that," Stiles says, weakly, but they all ignore him.

"Heather, get him into Markie's wardrobe, okay?" Laura says, and that appears to be that. "And have Carl do something with his hair."

And just like that, they're gone, leaving him alone with Heather. She's already thrust a pair of those carefully distressed jeans into his arms and starts flipping through the rack looking for something else that will hopefully not turn out to be a cock sock.

"Okay, stop fucking me around," Stiles hisses, the moment they're alone. He's putting the jeans on, but only because he has no idea what Heather's done with his own clothes. They were on the folding chair behind him a second ago; now they're gone as if they never existed. "I know I'm new to this whole movie thing, Heather, but even I know this movie is low-budget. They don't even have real craft services. Yeah, I saw the stack of empty pizza boxes. There's no way they're going to pay a thousand bucks for a non-speaking part."

"Keep your voice down," Heather hisses, and pulls him into the furthest corner, practically into the racks of clothes, like that's going to keep anybody from hearing them, especially since he's like ninety percent sure that Laura at least is a werewolf. "Look, I told you you're a body double. That means your body is doubling for the guy who's not here for shooting today. You were cool with that!"

"Yeah, and don't think I didn't notice that you volunteered to drive me here so I can't just back out and leave," Stiles hisses back. "What are you not telling me? You said this was an unusual film, is this a weird fetish thing or something? Because you know I am a one hundred percent kink-shaming-free zone, but that doesn't mean I want my naked body involved with all of it."

"It's nothing you'll have a problem with," Heather hedges.

"So tell me!" Stiles almost shouts it, and he'd maybe be embarrassed about that, but he's ten seconds from stealing her car keys and making a run for it.

Heather slaps her hand over his mouth, drags him into a crouch like they're joining a really terrible huddle, and says, "You have to promise not to freak out. I didn't tell you earlier because I didn't want you to have time to freak out about this."

He tries to talk around the hand over his mouth, but it mostly comes out as an unintelligible garble, and only the word "porn" is really audible. Heather tightens her hand a little further just to drive the please-shut-up message home, and then uses the other hand to flick him in the forehead.

"It's a werewolf sex scene, Stilinski!" she says, and that shuts him up pretty comprehensively. "It's a full-on shifted-werewolf-on-human sex scene, and it's going to be very tastefully done, nobody will actually see your dick, but the thing is I need you to not get a chubby over the very idea of it right now. You need to be a professional. Do not get yourself worked up about this."

Stiles wheezes like he's just been punched in the chest, and he's already failed because he's definitely got a mental chubby, and probably the literal erection is on its way. He pries Heather's hand from his mouth and holds onto it, because he's pretty sure he's going to need her to anchor him to the world so he doesn't just float away in sheer joy.

"A werewolf sex scene," he says, in the kind of awe-struck whisper children sometimes use to talk about Santa Claus. "You're talking about with a real werewolf, though. Not a human actor. Because you know werewolves don't usually even get to play werewolf parts in the movies, it's fucking bullshit, it's—"

"Jesus, I know," Heather says. "Everybody who knows you knows. Everybody who's ever been cornered by you at a party knows more than they ever wanted to know about the history of werewolf cinema, Stiles. But listen, I need you to focus right now, okay? Here's what's going to happen. Your co-star is a werewolf. He's also really hot and you need to try not to flip out. He's going to shift on camera, which you also need to not flip out about. And then you're both going to—"

"Wait, what?" Stiles' brain is stuck on shift on camera, shift on camera, and that's it, it's official, he is in fact freaking out. Heather was right to worry. "He's going to actually do that. On camera. Himself. No CGI."

"Breathe, Stilinski," Heather says, but Stiles hardly even hears her. He's not exactly breathing. He's maybe going to hyperventilate a little.

"I need to re-think my entire thesis," he says, faintly. He might pass out. Or cry. Or cry while passing out. This is the greatest day of his life. "I need to— oh my god, do you have the script? Do you think they'd let me look at the dailies? Do you think they'd—"

"I think you need to stop, and listen to me right now. This isn't just some thing you heard about on your favorite film nerd blog or whatever, okay? This is a werewolf-run production, filming sequences that are going to be groundbreaking firsts in filmmaking, and you are literally a part of it right now. I need you to focus on getting this job done, and you can fanboy about it later. I know this is going to be difficult for you, between the film nerd thing and the massive werewolf kink thing—"

"I do not—"

"—but we can't sit around and wait while you have the vapors. So pull it together. Put your pants on." She stands up, finally finds what she was looking for on the racks, and shoves a white button-down into his hands, too. "Button it up, but leave it untucked. No socks or shoes. The guy you're doubling for is Markie, the character's name is Ryan, and it's incredibly likely that nobody will remember your name so if somebody says 'Ryan,' that's you, okay?"

"Okay," Stiles says. He isn't entirely listening, but he is pulling the shirt on, to free up his hands for the jeans. Apparently his black boxer briefs are acceptable because they're letting him keep his own underwear. He's trying not to let his mind devour itself over the question of what exactly a sex scene is going to entail and whether his partner for said scene will be within their rights to eviscerate him if he gets an actual erection. He figures it's pretty inevitable at this point.

"God, this was my worst idea ever," Heather says, but when Stiles is dressed she still drags him over to have his hair and makeup done — it only takes twenty minutes but he spends the entire team quietly freaking out, just as Heather predicted he would, so she maybe made the right call with springing the whole thing on him. Heather disappears and reappears several times, obviously getting on with her actual job, which probably doesn't include babysitting Stiles at every moment, and when she turns up with a headset and a clipboard it's almost a relief; a P.A. without the paraphernalia looks kind of naked and vulnerable.

While Carl is wrapping it up with his makeup brushes, Heather grabs a seat in the next chair and continues with the run-down. "They shot most of this scene yesterday, so you're only doing the physical stuff. Laura will tell you where she wants you and what she wants you to do, so don't worry about that. Markie pulled a full-on diva and refused to do the shoot last minute, and everybody's on edge about it, so don't be surprised if there's tension. Derek — that's the guy you'll be working with today — he's kind of the strong, silent type on a normal day, but he's probably freaked right now, so don't take it personally if he isn't real social."

"Sure," Stiles says. He can be chill. He can. He wonders if he could make a special request for some kind of hard liquor to go with the craft service-style pizza.

"Pretty sure he's going to hate you," Heather says, and pulls him up from the make-up chair when Carl declares him finished. "But don't worry, he's not allowed to kill you."


Derek doesn't hate him, which seems like a minor miracle, because the guy looks like he possibly didn't sleep at all last night, and there's a tension at the corners of his mouth that says he's having to actually concentrate to keep his fangs in.

When Heather introduces them, Derek shakes his hand and says, "Thanks for signing up on short notice."

"Right, sure, of course, I mean, it's no big deal," Stiles says, because he isn't capable of intelligent speech anymore. Heather told him Derek was hot, she didn't mention the like the surface of the sun part. He's almost too hot to be real, like he's going to turn out to be a mirage or a hallucination or something. His dark hair is artfully tousled and his beard's cut short into the sort of stubble that's supposed to look careless but probably takes a hell of a lot of maintenance in reality. He looks like he was created in a lab, maybe. Or on Mount Olympus. He doesn't look very confident, though, and certainly not film-star cocky; mostly he looks at Stiles like he's just waiting for Stiles to disappoint him, too.

"You're going to shoot a gay sex scene with a shifted werewolf," Derek says, his thick eyebrows raised. "It's kind of a big deal."

It's a big deal to some people, is what he doesn't say, like the person Stiles is here to replace, who's clearly an asshole.

Stiles shrugs and tries to say something casual and smooth, but what he actually says is, "I'm kind of into it."

Heather groans an, "Oh my god," and walks away with her hands over her face, but Derek laughs, and some of that tension around his mouth eases, so Stiles is considering it a job well done.

That's all the time they have for getting acquainted, though, before another P.A. appears out of the woodwork to call them to set, which seems kind of unnecessary since "set" is only like ten feet away. They walk the distance together, though, in step and shoulder to shoulder, and Stiles thinks maybe the whole thing won't be so bad, after all.

Laura has a lot of directions for him: stand here, do this, react that way, take a step here, keep your face turned away, put your back to the camera there. The picture she sketches of what she wants from the scene is... well, it's going to be intimate. That's one word for it. Almost soft-core, would be another word. Stiles already knows it's going to get an NC-17 rating no matter what they do, because the ratings board likes to call anything that even hints at werewolf sexual content "explicit," so he supposes it makes sense that they're not pulling punches on what the actual sex looks like. Laura assures him she'll be calling plenty of cuts and resets, if he needs a moment to regroup. He'll be fine. Maybe. Probably not.

"You ever shot a sex scene before?" Derek asks, before they move to take their places. He's leaning in, voice pitched low for privacy even if half the people in the room are werewolves, and he's so close that his breath washes hot against the side of Stiles' neck.

"I'm not really an actor," Stiles tells him, and wonders whether they knew that, if they were all hoping for more than... well, him. "So no, definitely not."

Derek doesn't seem bothered by it, just grins slow and wide and says, "Me neither. But I've heard there's generally a mutual pact of non-judgment. You know, sorry if I do, sorry if I don't." Then he gestures sort of vaguely at his own crotch, and— oh.

"Is it bad if I say I definitely will?" Stiles says, and Derek just shakes his head, laughs, as he strolls over to his side of the room.

Stiles steps up to his own mark, can feel the tape beneath his bare toes, and he'd really like to remember everything Laura's told him to do, but once the cameras are rolling, it all just disappears from his head. There's only Derek, standing opposite him, a few steps away, visibly settling into his character's skin. It's amazing to watch, as much a transformation as the physical one he'll perform in a few moments, and when he looks up at Stiles, the nervous jitters and the defensively rounded shoulders and all the rest of it is gone.

Derek stares at him, his eyes glowing lantern-yellow, for so long it'd be uncomfortable, if Stiles weren't already helplessly turned on. It takes maybe too long for Stiles to remember that he's supposed to feed Derek a line, one that's already been shot in the last day's filming, to give Derek his cue to go.

"I'm scared," Stiles says, and acting is such a lie, because Derek's staring at him like he's dinner and he's nothing even remotely like scared. That's completely the wrong word.

"Scared of what?" Derek says. His hands rise up to the buttons on his shirt, and he starts undoing them, slow and steady, one by one. "Scared of this? Of me?" The shirt falls to the floor. He unbuttons his pants, pushes them down his hips, along with the briefs underneath, and he's just— Stiles doesn't really have words for what Derek is. Beautiful, yes, but the word seems so inadequate to describe the corded muscle in his shoulders, the strength of his thighs, the steady confidence of his stance as he kicks the last of his clothes off and spreads his hands.

"Tell me what you're so afraid of," he says, and Stiles isn't even thinking about what he's actually supposed to be doing, as Derek's body begins to find its new shape.

It's startling, at first, just the sound of it, as Derek's bones rearrange themselves, stretching and contorting. Stiles takes an instinctive step back, feels like he should turn away but knows he's not supposed to; he's never seen anybody shift fully, not in person. Bitten wolves can't even do it, and born wolves have always been shy about letting anyone see it; it's a hell of a lot more private that just getting naked in front of someone. There was a time when doing this in front of anyone could get a werewolf killed, and it's not like they're living in a post-supernatural world even now. The fact that Derek's doing this on camera, that he's going to let the whole world see it, hits Stiles all over again, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it, because Derek's still changing, wavering a little on his feet as his center of gravity shifts, his legs twisting and cracking beneath him, fur sprouting thick and black where there used to only be skin.

Stiles forgets what he's supposed to do, exactly, when Derek is standing in front of him, tall and strong and magnificent. He took a step back, before, and now he takes one forward, reclaims the lost ground, pulled in like he's trapped in Derek's orbit, and he doesn't really want to escape, anyway. He stretches out a hand to touch before he remembers that he's not actually supposed to, Jesus, what is he doing, he's completely fucking this up, he's—

Nobody calls cut. The cameras keep rolling.

Derek just steps forward, smoothly, into Stiles' outstretched hand, and Stiles only has a moment to appreciate the way his fingers sink into the thickness of Derek's pelt — there's really no other word for it — before Derek's pressing right into his space, splaying clawed hands against his back. Stiles needs to— he really needs to feel that on his bare skin, like right now, so he pulls his hands away and puts them to work on his shirt instead, his fingers trembling on the buttons.

He only gets half of them undone before Derek starts helping, from the bottom, his claws dangerously — okay, tantalizingly — close to Stiles' crotch as he slips one carefully between the fabric and the last button, then cuts the button off with a twist of his claw. It takes force, and his claws in this form aren't razor-sharp, but it's unexpectedly sexy, as a very small and civilized act of destruction. It's not like the room is anywhere close to silent, with all the equipment running, but Stiles could swear he hears that button hit the floor. Derek follows it with another, and another, and when the front of Stiles' shirt finally falls open, Derek helpfully pulls it off of him, claws bunched in the fabric, his fur brushing against Stiles' forearms, his body pressing closer by necessity, and Stiles can't help but sway in, closing the distance, pressing a kiss to the short fur on the side of Derek's muzzle.

The sound Derek makes is definitely a whimper, and they're entirely off-script now as far as Laura's carefully choreographed scene is concerned, but she doesn't rein them in, so they just keep going, and going, and going.

Stiles runs his hands down Derek's sides, over the crests of his hipbones, maybe too close to his sheath for politeness, but Derek doesn't seem to care, only pushes himself into Stiles' hands. He's not shy with his own hands, either, and they feel exactly as amazing as Stiles dared to dream: the pads of his fingers and palms of his hands are thick and rough, tough black skin like an actual wolf's paw pads, while the fur around them is silky-soft and the drag of claws is— Stiles tries not to think too much about it, because there's some part of his brain that's gleefully hoping for welts.

Derek's mouth works at him, too, tongue tracing long strokes along the column of his throat, nipping at the corner of his jaw, breath washing against his skin over and over until the confusing sensation of hot breath and the sudden cold of that same moisture as it evaporates has his head absolutely spinning. He's breathing too fast and he's definitely, absolutely, incredibly hard in his jeans. They're not even his jeans actually. Probably someone's going to have to wash his jizz out of that Markie guy's wardrobe, and he'd feel bad about that except he's pretty sure it's going to be worth it.

Derek grunts, like he can sense Stiles' attention wandering — it's sort of a natural hazard of Stiles' brain — and pulls him back, literally and figuratively, by hooking a hand in the front of his pants. He grasps at the denim like he's intending to open the fly, before he remembers that he isn't actually supposed to, and instead he grips tight and reels Stiles in, but he's got both jeans and boxers in his claws, so mostly it just makes room for Stiles' hard dick to find a more comfortable position. It slaps up against his belly and he's sure that the cameras can't see it but he knows for sure that the leaking tip settles between two of Derek's knuckles, because he can feel that vividly, never wants to stop feeling that, isn't sure if he'd be entirely embarrassed about coming, just from that.

His partner doesn't seem to mind, at least. Derek doesn't pull his hand away; he carefully shifts his hand a little deeper, nuzzles at the side of Stiles' face to block him from view — right, fuck, Stiles is supposed to be keeping his face turned away from the cameras — and then very carefully, very gently, squeezes the head of Stiles' cock between his knuckles.

Stiles says, "Fuck," and Derek makes sort of a whuffling, growling sound in his ear and bears him down bodily against the mattress, and that's when somebody — somebody who is Laura, the director — makes an aggrieved sound and says, "Cut!"

"Oh my god," Stiles says, against Derek's neck. There's not anywhere else he can say it, really, because Derek is right on top of him, sniffing him, pinning him to the bed. Derek's hand is still more or less down Stiles' pants, and he smells surprisingly amazing for a giant canine. Stiles basically wants to keep him there forever and ever amen.

"Not bad, but maybe keep your hands off each other's dicks for the next take," Laura says. "It's called 'acting,' okay? Let's reset, everybody. Take two."

Derek doesn't even bother to get up, before he shifts back into his human skin again, and then he just stays there, lounging on top of Stiles, all naked and tempting and really, really inappropriate. He even shifts his hips downward, just the tiniest bit, and smirks at the hardness in Stiles' jeans. It's kind of hypocritical, since Derek isn't entirely soft either, against the crease of Stiles' thigh, but if Derek chooses to make his point about it by demonstrating that both hips and dicks do not in fact lie, Stiles doesn't mind.

"Did I mention I'm writing my thesis about the history of werewolves in film?" Stiles offers, and if his voice cracks a little over it it's only because he's so turned on he can hardly breathe. "This is all, um. Very exciting. For me."

"I can tell," Derek says, with a devastating smirk, and then he dips his head back down and just breathes against Stiles' neck for a second. Stiles begins to suspect that he's just waiting to get up until he won't entirely embarrass himself with the state of his dick. "Tell me about it over dinner?"

Nobody's ever asked Stiles to tell them about it, so it takes a second for the message to sink in, but then Stiles is smiling slow and Derek's nose is dragging along his throat in a way that is decidedly not professional, and Stiles says, "I could be persuaded. But craft services doesn't count. You have to actually take me out. Someplace with chairs. And clothes."

"I can do that," Derek says. His smile is surprisingly soft-edged, for all that his mouth was full of wickedly sharp teeth just a moment ago. He finally pulls himself up and off of Stiles' person, and Stiles tells himself that it's premature to feel bereft when he's about to be paid to repeat the entire mind-blowing experience. "Now come on, we've got cinema history to make. With our dicks."

Stiles is laughing too hard to get up, for awhile, but nobody seems to mind that much, and the assistant director only has to call "Places!" twice before he pulls it together and rolls to his feet.

Derek's standing in his place, wearing his clothes again, and he smiles this time, before his eyes light up yellow like they've been ignited. He reaches out first, this time, the way it's supposed to go, and Stiles doesn't flinch back from the outstretched claws or the long white teeth, just lets himself be pulled in like he's meant to, like he wants to, effortlessly finding his mark.