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Werewolf-Friendly

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Derek winces as he pulls back his black coffee, sucking cool air over his burned tongue and frowning as the contents of his knapsack spill out onto the ground in the process.  A jerk on a skateboard buzzes by, knocking into him slightly, and Derek holds onto his paper cup tightly as the guy calls out, “Watch where you’re going, wolf man!”

Frown turning into a scowl, Derek gathers his things and shifts his bag to his other shoulder, turning to walk across the quad at a quick pace so he won’t be late to his Sex and Gender in Antiquity lecture.  He is used to the name calling by now, three years of it have certainly numbed him somewhat, but that doesn’t mean that he’s not still annoyed by the lunk-headedness of it.  Just because he is one of the few werewolves on campus means he is up for constant ridicule by the majority of the student body, and even the fact that he made the Honor Roll each quarter and was on the school’s basketball team last year did nothing for his social standing.  He pushes his glasses up on his nose as he heads into the auditorium, sitting down in a dilapidated chair covered in faded dark velvet and squeaking the desk down.

“Hey Derek,” a voice from his left says, and Derek pushes his feet back to let Isaac shuffle by and plop into the seat next to him, his blond curls flopping with the movement.  Derek nods in reply, pulling out his notebook and a pencil and checking the lead.

“Did you do the reading for today?”

Derek gives Isaac a pointed look, because when had he ever not done the reading?

“Good, cause I need to look at your notes,” Isaac says, pulling on Derek’s notebook and flipping back a few pages.  “I think there’s a quiz today.”

“Then maybe you should’ve studied,” Derek says with a frown, snatching the notebook back and returning to its original blank page.  Isaac is annoying, but he is one of the only other wolves Derek knows, so therefore he tolerates him.  They had been random roommates as freshman, and Isaac had used his boyish charm to get them invited to several fraternity parties that had not only scarred Derek for life but scared him from a life full of frivolous partying, leaving him freed up for lonely Saturday nights from now into eternity.  Isaac refers to Derek as Grumpy Wolf, and Derek doesn’t care enough to stop him.  Plus he thinks it kind of suits him.

“I think your sister’s going to try and throw you a party for your twenty-first birthday,” Isaac says conversationally as the TA hands out quizzes beginning with the first row.  He tries to sneak another look at Derek’s notebook but Derek pushes it quickly into his knapsack and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I know.  I told her if she threw me a surprise party I’d rip her throat out with my teeth.”

The girl sitting in the row in front of them gasps and stiffens up, and Derek grimaces with chagrin.

“He’s just joking,” Isaac says with a sweet smile, immediately dropping it to a sharp glare at Derek as soon as the girl turns back around.  

When Derek doesn’t say anything, Isaac plows ahead with his one-sided conversation.  “She was talking about a blind date, too.  She seemed excited about it.  You better talk to her, bro, if you don’t want to be fending off some loser in a fedora.  Remember that guy she brought around to the Halloween party who dressed up like Red Riding Hood just because he knew we were all wolves?  What was his name, Jake, or John or Jackson or whatever?  Rude.”

Derek tries to ignore Isaac’s whispers, looking over the questions on the paper in front of him and writing his name neatly on the top line.  “Shut up.”

“Rude,” Isaac repeats, though this time he smiles before flicking his eyes back to his own paper.  They scratch on their quizzes in silence, Derek only having to elbow Isaac once or twice to keep him from cheating.

“I’m not going on a blind date,” Derek says with finality ten minutes later as they hand in their quizzes.

“Then you better be seen with someone soon, or Cora’s going to line up every eligible bachelor from here until eternity for you to turn down.  Just saying.”

Derek creases his brow as he thinks about it.  The last time he’d been on a date had been an entire year ago, and the time before that, well.  He doesn’t like to think about it.  Fuck.  It isn’t like he’s trying to be single.  The guys on the basketball team were all ridiculously straight—no homo in the locker room, bro—and it isn’t like anyone is banging down his door to hop on his werewolf dick.  Aside from the couple pervs who acted like he was some kind of exotic toy to be played with and experienced.  

Derek shudders and begins to copy down the notes he’d been too busy zoning out to understand.  He tries not to pay too much attention to the fact that he’s going to be a twenty-one-year old virgin very soon, because that just sounds pathetic, though not worse than having one of Cora’s boy toys hanging around with a leer.  He’d talk to Cora later.  

“What does ‘pansexual’ mean?” Isaac whispers, trying to peek over at Derek’s empty notes.

“It means you need to pay more attention.”

Isaac makes a frowny face on his paper and schools his features into the exact same look, and Derek has to laugh.

***

Friday evening and Derek’s sole plans are grilled chicken with broccoli and a book.  He frowns into his plate, wondering if he should call up Isaac to see what he’s up to or bite the bullet and have the conversation he’s dreading with his sister.  He cheats instead, grabbing his phone and typing out his message.

‘No surprise party or I’m not letting you borrow my car ever again.’  Texting counts as a conversation, right?

Cora’s reply is one of those sad crying faces, but a minute later she sends back: ‘Fine.  But I’m still hooking you up with that guy from my salsa class.’

‘No thanks.’

‘He said you have nice arms.’

‘And how would he know that???’

‘I may have shown him a picture of you.’

‘Cora.’

‘What.’

‘Rrrrrrrrrr.’

‘Love you grumpy.’

Derek waits five minutes before he replies to fully communicate his irritation.  ‘Love you too.’

Derek knows it shouldn’t bother him, but his birthday at the end of the week is looming over him like a raincloud, and Cora isn’t helping him feel any better.  He throws his book down, unable to concentrate, and contemplates going to the gym or maybe having a little wank session.

He ends up on his laptop in bed, scrolling through his favorite porn website.  It isn’t always his thing, but sometimes he just wants a quick jerk and to go to bed early, and wow if it isn’t glaringly apparent why he is still single, this is the moment it all crystallizes.

Dick in his left hand, Derek flips through the videos for something to catch his eye, finally reverting to an old favorite when nothing seems to pique his interest.  He watches the two bodies sliding and grunting, the mindless fuck just enough to get him over the top.  He cleans up his hands and stomach mechanically, resolving that this is the time he was not going to feel sorry for himself post-orgasm, but it still presses down on him like a heavy weight as he stares at his ceiling tiles.  

He ends up searching the cupboards and comes back to bed with a sleeve of Chips Ahoy, curling up with them and resigning himself to his new life mate: cookies.  It isn’t even 10:30 for fuck’s sake.  He rolls over and is just about to shut the laptop when an ad on the top of the page catches his eye.  

The typeset looks kind of classy, the title Hot Men 4 Rent not so much, but he clicks it anyways, confirms that yes, he is eighteen—and ugh, he doesn’t really need the reminder about his age—and then there he is, browsing a gay escort service’s site.  It isn’t actually as scary as he thought it’d be, and there is something called an ‘Escort of the Week’ feature as well as several guy’s profile pictures with little bios next to them.  He clicks on one of a guy chugging a carton of milk with no shirt on, laughing neurotically at the description and clicking out of the tab quickly.  There’s a filtering menu and suddenly he is clicking on ‘slim build’, ‘age 18-21’, 'Northern California', and a whole new list pops up.

He flicks through the pages idly, sure he’d never so much in his life actually send one of these guys an email, but unable to look away.  The site is an assortment of straight-up dick pics, muscled guys flexing in front of mirrors, and the occasional fully-clothed and more tasteful picture.  He clicks the ‘next’ arrow, briefly looking over the guy’s profile picture centered at the top.  It’s one of the clothed ones, and yeah, he is definitely cute with short, buzzed hair, and a slightly upturned nose, and Derek thinks he can make out a smattering of moles along his cheek that dip down to his neck.  That leads his eyes down to the guy’s tight shirt, a solid maroon color stretched over broad shoulders and a lean waist, and it’s definitely a good look on him.  He claims to be eighteen and he looks it, the slight smile on his face just a little devious, but it’s the small note on the bottom of the profile that Derek zeroes in on.  

‘Werewolf-friendly.’

He isn’t sure if he should be comforted or offended by the two-word statement, because he isn’t something to be ‘specialized’ in, and he doesn’t need some jerk kid thinking he is different.  He closes out the tab and eases another cookie from the pack, stuffing it in his mouth all at once and chewing slowly as he puzzles out whether he is mad at the ad or actually aroused by the guy’s pink lips, broad shoulders and visibly perky though clothed nipples even though he’s just jerked off.  He brushes off the crumbs from his chest and turns off his lamp, undecided, and haunted by dreams of empty cookie packages and calling up Escort Guy only to have him laugh viciously and just say ‘no.’  

Derek wakes up before the sun comes up and feels like shit.

***

Apparently Derek needs to learn to be more specific with Cora, because no surprise party means she can throw a regular one with plenty of notice.

“We’re just going out to the bar,” Cora says with a cheerful smile before wrestling with her chopsticks to stab into a California roll.  Derek picks his own up with ease, making an effort to tune out the buzz of the busy student union around them and tucking in his elbows as a large man shuffles past their table.  “Plus you can buy your baby sister some beer because you’ll be legal now!”

Swallowing, Derek opens his mouth to say no, but Cora cuts him off before he can even get the word out.

“It’s just a few people.  Isaac, and you remember my roommate Erica, right?  And her and Boyd are dating now so he’ll be there, too.”  She pauses and looks just slightly guilty enough to make Derek raise an eyebrow at her.

“And who else?”

“I met this guy at the gym named Ethan, super cute, super hot, and totally brainy.  You’d like him.”

Derek sighs, pushing back the plastic container of sushi and rasping a hand over his three-day-old stubble.  “Cora, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but.”

“Look, Derek, you’re like the oldest virgin I know!”

Derek kicks Cora under the table and glances around to make sure no one had heard.  “Can you keep your voice down?” he hisses between clenched teeth.  It’s bad enough he’s a known wolf, but if it got out that he’s a virgin he’d be toast in this town.

“Sorry, Der, but look, if I don’t help you, when are you ever gonna get off your ass and start sowing your oats?  Having a little fun?  You know mom would’ve wanted—”

Don’t play the mom card,” Derek says brusquely, grabbing up his tray a little harder than he intends, scraping his chair against the floor, and standing up quickly.  “That’s a low blow even for you.”  He fights the urge to growl, knowing that is the last thing he should be doing in a public place, and that thought sparks his anger towards Cora even more.

“Sorry, but you know she just would’ve wanted you to be happy.”  She doesn’t look sorry at all, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder and finally giving up on her chopsticks and just grabbing the sushi with her fingers.

Derek hitches up his knapsack onto his shoulder, unresponsive save for a narrowing of his brows, and he turns to go without another word.

“You better come to your own birthday party, Grumpy,” Cora calls after him, and Derek only grunts in reply.  He walks to toss the remainder of his lunch, the anger fading quickly with each step, and as he swings through the heavy double doors and out into the chill of Fall he only feels dull, empty, and alone.

***

“Hey, it’s the birthday boy!” Erica says as she stands to clap Derek in a big hug, squeezing him tight and pressing her curvy body into him for a moment before springing away.  Derek gives her a half-hearted smile and waves at Boyd who is scooching over so they could all cram into one side of a booth.  He‘s rather large, Erica smooshed up next to him, blonde head tucked beneath his armpit, and Derek makes an effort to smile at them though he knows from experience looking in mirrors that his wooden smile is something that makes milk curdle.

“You showed up,” Cora says with a cocked grin, though she looks relieved that he actually had.  Mercifully there is no blind date, so Cora had apparently listened to him for once in her life.

“Well, you’re family.  I’m required by law to tolerate you,” he deadpans, but relents with a small smile when she reaches over the table to punch him in the arm.  He fakes a scowl and a hurt oof that no one believes for a second, feeling a real grin seep onto the corner of his lips reluctantly.

“Go get us some beers, loser.”  

“Love you, too.”  But he slides out of the booth, the soles of his shoes sticking to the floor as he makes his way over to the long, dingy countertop at the far end of the room.

Isaac is waiting at the bar, trying to catch the bartender’s attention and giving Derek an exasperated look when he slides up next to him.  

“Hey man, happy birthday.  Maybe now that you’re here we’ll get some service.”

Derek just looks at him in puzzlement, while Isaac grins in his smart-ass, sardonic way.  “Come on, you know you’re hot.  You work out like eight times a week and have the biceps of a Greek god.  Show a little skin so we can bump up in the line cause I’ve been waiting here forever and you know how Cora gets.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek says, feeling slightly self-conscious, and also vaguely wondering how Isaac knows how ‘Cora gets.’

“You’re a ten, dude.  Ten and a half.  I’m like a seven on a good day.  Go up there and flex your muscles and maybe show a little fang.”

Derek frowns, leaning on the bar and playing with the broken button on his leather jacket.  “No.  I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“God, you’re like the oldest man-child ever,” Isaac quips, rolling his eyes and drumming his fingers on the bar top as they wait.  After what seems like an eternity due to Derek’s lack of willingness to whore his wolf out for a little extra attention from the busty bartender, they come back with three beers each, passing them around the table to the delight of the rest of their underage party.

By Derek’s fourth beer he begins to feel loosened up a bit, at least enough to slide off his jacket and let Cora convince him to play in the next round of Circle of Death.  He is astoundingly bad at it, knocking back a fifth beer and a shot in the process, and getting suckered into a drinking contest with Boyd and Issac. The girls cheer them on to see who can chug their beer the fastest and Derek loses but feels blissfully unworried for once, and like he may actually be having some fun. They move on to Truth or Dare and the alcohol begins to catch up with him and the subject turns to sex, so Derek decides that maybe he should take a break and head off to the bathroom before he gets sick all over Erica’s stilettos and/or reveals something embarrassing in his drunken state.

He’s just swayed his way over to the wall when someone stops him with a hand to his chest, fisting into his shirt.  He looks down at it in what seemed like slow-motion, and then along the long slender arm that is attached, and then at the pair of perky breasts and a smiling face.

“Hey, you’re Derek, aren’t you?  Derek Hale?”

Derek nods slowly, peeling the girl’s hand off his chest.  She leans closer, obviously piss-drunk, though Derek isn’t in any better shape.  She giggles and opens her mouth, stopping to giggle again, and Derek has a sinking feeling he knows where this is headed but he doesn't really know how to stop it.

“You’re like, a wolf, aren’t you?  With the claws and fangs and stuff?”  She is biting her lip, and she would be attractive if Derek didn’t feel like she was sizing him up like a piece of meat.

“I’m just trying to find the bathroom…”

“I’ve heard that werewolves have bigger dicks,” she says, laughing like she’s said something truly witty, and Derek wrenches his hand away from her.  He feels his mood darken, cutting through the haze of his buzz and leaving a sour taste in his mouth.  

"Excuse me," Derek says curtly, pushing past her and into the bathrooms.   He splashes cold water on his face and looks at himself in the mirror, anger simmering in his gut.  His fangs want to drop and this more than anything makes him even angrier, the animal urge a timely reminder of what he is.  That they're all right.  That he doesn't deserve any more than this. He decides he can't handle Cora's puppy dog face and walks the two-miles home, even though he knows it's horribly rude to leave without saying goodbye.  He'll text Cora later.

He stumbles up the two flights of circular steps to fumble with his key like a drunken idiot and throws himself on his bed, feeling worse than ever.   He’s still hammered, drunk enough to be indignant at the room spinning. He picks up his laptop, closing his eyes briefly and reopening them, feeling his stomach lurching unhappily.

Apparently drunk him is also lonely and wants to look at gay escorts, and he finds himself browsing that stupid website again.  Derek paws at the keys, retyping the website three times before finally getting it right and navigating until he finds the guy with the mole’s page.  And who is he kidding, he’s read that bio every day since that sad evening with the chocolate chip cookies, and has every facet of it memorized.  

Stiles, no last name.  Eighteen.  Student.  Good conversationalist.  Likes to crack jokes.  Fan of junk food but enjoys running.  Werewolf-friendly.  Werewolf-friendly.

And there is his phone number and an email address.  Plus all the moles.

The earlier irritation has only served to work Derek up, and now that he's calmed a bit he's just left with that trembling itch of wanting to be wanted, wanting to feel someone warm against him.  He's dying to see how far that line of moles goes down the guy's chest, and how those lean muscles wrap around long arms and sleek shoulders underneath that stupid maroon shirt.  He decides to give in to his baser instincts and falls back on his bed, pulling quickly on his dick as he thinks about putting the guy on all fours, kicking his knees apart, making him beg to put his cock inside of him.  He doesn’t even know where all this is coming from, but the thoughts spur him into a quick and dirty orgasm, flashing over his skin until he’s panting and covered in his own come, his shirt soaked with it.

Derek has never come so much in his life and now he’s been jacking it to Random Escort Guy every night of the week and practically crying in his pillow afterward, and what is his life.  He’s still tipsy enough to click on the email link, typing in a few lines before embarrassment gets the better of him and he just shuts the top of the laptop.  The room spins again, and this time he dreams of feeding cookies to Escort Guy which his dream-brain now calls Stiles.  Dream-Derek decides to go with it and fucks him silly.

***

He wakes in a panic, sitting straight up and immediately regretting the decision as his brain feels like it had been thwacked on the ground a few times and then punted.  This exact feeling is why he never goes out, he thinks sourly as he searches for the laptop, knocking into it with his knee as he rummages through the piles of sheets he’d cocooned himself in.

He opens it up, anxiety twisting in his gut as he pulls open his email and mashes the keys until he reaches the send screen.  And holy hell, he’d actually sent that email.  All it said was: ‘Hi, Stiles.  My name is Derek.’, but it’s enough to send terror through his hungover system.  He feels himself hyperventilating a little, heart thumping erratically as he tries to calm his nerves but his mouth is dry and he can’t stop his hands from shaking no matter how hard he tries.

Alright, it could’ve been worse, he reasons.  At least he’d spelled his name right.  And didn’t say anything else.  Particularly about how he’s thought about Stiles’ lips wrapped around his cock and the variety of naughty ways he’d like to see those narrow hips and lean thighs arranged.  But now, oh god, oh god, he has to do something to take it back.  Maybe send another email?  But what the hell would he even say?

He stands and paces the room, kicking at last night’s pants before going to sit on the toilet with his head in his hands.  After much painful deliberation he decides he’ll just call because god knows he doesn’t need to send another email, and he picks up the phone and dials the number before he can change his still-fuzzy mind.

“Hello?” comes a chipper voice, and Derek stares at the floor as he realizes he has absolutely no idea what to say.  Normally he plans out conversations in his mind before he picks up the phone, thinking of answers to all the possible questions and thoroughly freaking himself out.  Now he just sits there, freshly freaked out anyways and tongue heavy in his mouth.

“Hi.  Uh, is this Stiles?”

“Yep,” the voice says, sounding way too happy for this early in the morning.  And what the hell is Derek doing calling an escort at eight a.m. on a sunday morning?  “Who am I speaking to?”

“Oh, this is, uh, Derek.”

“Oh, Derek.  Hey, man,” Stiles says with something that sounded disturbingly like recognition.  “I got your email last night.”

“Oh shit,” Derek says before he can stop himself.  “Yeah, about that, I’m sorry.”  He doesn’t really know what to say.  I’m sorry that I was drunk.  I’m sorry that I jizzed all over my shirt thinking of spreading you open with my dick.  I’m sorry I’m a loser virgin werewolf who no one wants.

“Oh, that’s alright, dude.  Were you gonna…  finish that thought?”

Derek feels like a supreme idiot and he swallows two times before opening his mouth with no idea what is about to come out.  “Yeah.”  He can practically hear Stiles getting annoyed with him over the line, so he quickly spits out, “I saw your profile and was interested.”  Damn his headache for making him blisteringly honest in his hungover state, and fear suddenly lances through his body as he thinks that this is the moment he will be rejected.  Perhaps kindly, but rejected all the same.  And this really is not how he thought this conversation would go.

“Oh, cool.  I usually do a meeting first so we can get things straightened out.  Does that sound good?  Where do you live?”

“Emeryville,” Derek answers like an automaton, not quite believing where his recent life is taking him.  

“Awesome, that’s not too far from me.  Here, there’s this really good coffee shop on Bay Street, you got a pen?”

Derek nods even though Stiles can’t see him, fumbling around through his nightstand and fishing out a drug store receipt to write down the address on.  “Yes, I got it.”  Derek Hale, capable of finding pens and making accidental dates with escorts he’d drunkenly emailed and then jerked off to.  He’s a real winner.

“Okay, in a first meeting you need to tell me what you’re looking for, you know kinks, acts to be performed, what do you want in general, and I’ll tell you my prices and where my hard lines are.  I don’t bareback without negative test results which takes a couple days to come back.  This is all standard stuff, but you know, safety first as my dad always says.  And eww, I guess that was kind of weird, sorry.  I’m just rambling now.  Can you say something?  You still there?  I didn’t scare you off, did I?  Derek?”

“Do you always talk this much?”  Derek shuts his mouth quickly, constantly amazed at how badly he can fuck up a conversation with so little conscious effort on his part.  Stiles seems amused though, his laughter having a bit of a lilt to it, and Derek wonders about how Stiles’ nose moves with the movement, and what his hands are doing, and fuck.  He needs to slow the heck down because as much as he tries to ignore his tented boxer shorts, he’s getting turned on by a quick-talking escort who he’s strongly considering paying for sex, and if that isn’t a mind-fuck for eight a.m. after a hard night of drinking, he doesn’t know what is.

“And what will you be wearing?”  It’s a bit of a cheesy-sounding line, but Stiles makes it funny, probably smiling and fixing the hem of his shirt while he waits for Derek to chew his bottom lip off.

“I'll have on a green henley, and a knapsack.  It’s khaki.  Dark hair. And I wear glasses.  They’re kind of thick.”  Derek realizes he probably sounds like the nerdiest of all the nerds, and that’s not really that off from reality.  He knows it’s not like Stiles will really care, because he’ll be paying him to be there, but there’s still something vulnerable in wanting to be wanted, and he’s suddenly not sure he’s up for it.

“I’m looking forward to it.  Tomorrow night then, yes?”

And sure he is, it’s not like there’s not anything in it for Stiles.  It’s a Monday but Derek agrees anyways, if only for the sheer desire to get off the phone and stop making a fool of himself.  “Okay.  I’ll see you then,” he says awkwardly, pushing the button to end the call and putting the phone down on the countertop.  He stares at it like it personally affronts him before dropping his head into his hands and murmuring ‘Fuck fuck fuck.’  He stays there for a long time until he’s finally hungry enough to forage for food and comes up with only plain yogurt, the kind he hates.

***

Monday morning and Derek dresses in his green henley with a solemnity like he’s headed to a funeral.  He’s not even sure if his “date” with Stiles means anything will be happening tonight, but he massively cleaned his entire apartment and stashed his smelly gym equipment on the balcony just in case.  He tries not to think too much about it, because he doesn’t want an inopportune hard-on in the middle of The History of the French Revolution, but tonight he totally might have someone touching his dick.

He purposefully avoids Isaac and skips out on his normal lunch date with Cora, ignoring her texts as he putters around his apartment before deciding to hit the gym in the hours he has until he has to make an appearance at the coffee shop.  As he sits between sets on the Smith Machine, Stiles’ words bounce around Derek’s mind.  Kinks.  What kinks did he want.  What did he want to do.  What did he want to do to Stiles.

Well, his wolf side has a very specific list of things he wants to do.  And most of them involve pushing Stiles’ head down to the mattress and plowing into him like he's a bitch in heat.  He twitches, flushing with shame, because there’s no way he’d ask anyone to do that, not even if he was paying them.  Derek’s loathe to admit it, but those are the types of things that normally tip him over the edge when he’s jerking it.  The scent of lust, scrambling fingers and a slick back.  Parted cheeks and a knot squeezing in, painting pale skin with come and pushing it back inside.  He may be a virgin but he’s seen enough werewolf porn to get a good visual, and now he has to slide off to the showers so he can mount his hand and think about what Stiles’ moles taste like.

The need to be silent makes him come even harder, his knot popping out unexpectedly as it sometimes does when he’s really keyed up.  He pushes his forehead to the cool tile, ignoring the grossness of it as his come swirls around his feet and down the drain.  And well, he’s just screwed if this is the reaction he’s having from just the thought of fucking someone real.  He’s going to come in two minutes and Stiles will be nice about it but will secretly judge him and probably go back and tell all his friends how werewolves are big idiots.  Big dumb animals who only want to breed, and Derek can go back to living a life of solitude, but at least then he won’t have to suffer the indignity of being a premature ejaculator.

He pulls a towel around himself and prays to god he’s the only one who’s ever jerked off in that shower, because he forgot his shower shoes and that’s just disgusting.

***

Derek shows up to the coffee shop ten minutes early—compulsive earliness is one of his flaws.  One of many.  He normally drinks his coffee black but is feeling like he wants something a little sweet so he asks for three creams and three sugars, and when it’s finally cooled down enough to sip he thinks he might die of diabetic shock from the sweetness.  He’s fiddling with the cardboard sleeves and putting two back in the little box when he senses someone walking up next to him and pause.  He purposefully doesn’t look up immediately, prolonging the inevitable moment when he’ll have to open his mouth and speak, but then he finally does and his mind draws an absolute blank anyways.

Stiles is even more gorgeous in person than he'd imagined, an easy smile on his face as he appears to give Derek a brief once over.  “Hey.  Derek, right?”  Derek nods, and Stiles is much taller than Derek had imagined him, almost the same height as he is, really, and dark hair slightly longer than the buzzed cut he had in his profile picture.  

Derek nods dumbly, clutching his coffee cup to his chest.  “Hi.  Stiles.”  The word feels odd on his tongue, like he shouldn’t be allowed to say something so intimate to this stranger.  Stiles looks pleased though, honey-brown eyes lingering on Derek’s bicep and across the stretch of his t-shirt, and something inside Derek puffs up ridiculously.  Like he’s preening.  Fucking werewolf DNA.

“Let’s go get a spot,” Stiles says warmly, and Derek follows after him like a lost puppy, his coffee cup burning his hand without the sleeve but he doesn’t want to turn back around and go get a new one.  It does give Derek a chance to check out Stiles’ ass as he walks, and wow is it a nice one.  Stiles has on a casual plaid shirt and tight-fitting khakis, and Derek swallows heavily as he tries not to watch the way the pants bunch at his knees and ass, and the way he fills them out so nicely.

Stiles stops in front of a small table with two chairs set up in a hidden nook, and it’s far enough from any of the other patrons that their conversation will be able to be mostly private.  Derek slides into the wooden chair opposite of Stiles, feeling even more nervous as he realizes the talking portion of this meeting will now be beginning, and the way Stiles is staring at him with a slight curve to the corner of his lips is unnerving.

“The coffee’s good here,” Stiles offers, taking a careful sip of his drink and licking off the whipped cream from his top lip.  “You been here before?”

“Yeah, it’s not too bad,” Derek says, grateful to grasp onto small talk so he doesn’t have to go right into ‘sex’ and ‘virgin’ in the same sentence.  His palms begin to sweat, and he wipes them on his jeans and tries to look casual as he leans back in his chair.

“They make the best caramel macchiatos here.  Sooooo good.” Stiles grins as he takes another sip, obviously noting how Derek is tracking the movement of his lips and tongue which makes him smirk a bit more.  “I'm kind of dependent on caffeine.  It’s a really-bad-for-you addiction, but there are worse things.”

Derek nods, trying to smile but finding it hard to school his features into the right expression to give the appearance that he is not a robot.  He sips at his own drink, wincing slightly at the sugary taste and setting down the cup which is a mistake as he immediately doesn’t know what to do with his hands.  He settles for putting them on his lap which feels awkward, so he plays with the lip of the coffee cup instead, not knowing where to look and ending up studying an abstract painting that is possibly supposed to resemble a teacup hanging on the wall next to them.

“So is this your first time?” Stiles says, and it makes Derek twitch and look up in surprise.  It takes him a moment to realize Stiles means his first time calling up an escort, and not his first time having sex ever.  “It’s totally okay.  I know it can be kind of weird at first so, like, let me lay out the terms I normally go by, and you stop and tell me if you have any questions or anything, alright?”

Derek nods again, and finds the courage to say, “Yeah, okay.”

Stiles straightens up a little bit, looking slightly more professional.  Derek notices the way his gelled hair flops forward slightly before focusing on what Stiles is saying.  “So I assume you read the website, right?  The basic terms are that this is an escort service, so whatever you’re looking for—dates, cuddles, wild rides—it’s whatever you’re interested in.”

Derek has read the entire website, though it was rather cryptic about certain aspects of what “full-service” entailed.  

“So, you tell me what you’re interested in and we can go from there, set up another time to meet, or I’m free now if, you know…”  Stiles trails off looking over and seeming slightly perplexed at Derek’s answering silence.

“Dates are good.  And I, you know, also.”  Derek swallows, wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs and tugging at the collar of his henley.  “Also, sex.”  He’s half-surprised he even got the word out, but Stiles leans forward with his elbows on the table and gives a little waggle of his eyebrows.

“Awesome.  I’m totally looking forward to that part because, you know.  Damn.”  His eyes slide down Derek’s neck and Derek can actually feel his body temperature rising and blood spill across his cheeks as a flush blossoms.  

Stiles tactfully doesn’t comment, but lets the silence settle as he takes another long sip from his drink.  “Okay, so, my hard limits are no fluids except semen and saliva, must use a condom unless I have your clean bill of health, and no permanent marks.  Payments ahead of time, every time.  And you sign a contract agreeing to our terms.  Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes,” Derek says, feeling like one-word sentences are a pretty good achievement.  

“Also I’m totally into kinky werewolf stuff, so don’t be afraid to go wild with those things.  You are a werewolf, right?”  Stiles has a shit-eating grin on his face and Derek knows he must look surprised so he tries to temper his eyebrows.  “Don’t worry, you’re not obvious.  I’m just good at knowing that kind of stuff.  But you know, claws and fangs, a-ok.  Knotting?  Yes, please.”

Derek’s feeling hot under the collar now, the scent of Stiles’ interest warm in the air between them.  “No knotting.”  It hurts a little to say it, because oh does his body want to knot Stiles with a sudden, burning ache, but that’s a little too intimate for a casual encounter.  Derek knows it’s a slightly old-fashioned viewpoint, but, hey, he’s hiring an escort, so he cuts himself some slack.

“Ok, no problem,” Stiles says, completely nonplussed, and Derek relaxes back into his seat slightly.  He realizes he’s drained all of his coffee and he sets it back on the table, the sugar and caffeine making him feel jittery.

Stiles spends the next several minutes outlining his price points in detail, and shows Derek a typed contract in which he hand-writes a few provisions on the bottom.  Derek looks at the money without batting an eye, handing over a credit card that Stiles swipes with a handy attachment to his iPhone.  Derek has enough money to send himself and Cora to med school if he wanted—family money and life insurance payouts keep them more than just getting by.  He feels slightly guilty at spending those funds on sex for a moment before remembering Cora’s eager face, and he blinks, trying to shut down any type of emotion connected to family and loss and expectations.

Stiles drums his fingers on the tabletop, long, thin things that make Derek’s dick chub up just slightly in his pants.  “Do you live near here?  Cause I’m kinda eager to get my hands on you, big guy.  Get you to tell me what you like.  I bet you’re real vocal in bed, once you get going.  The strong, silent types always seem to pour out all the filth when they’re coming their brains out.”

The cup is crushed in Derek’s hand, body freezing up as Stiles’ words crawl through his blood.  Derek doesn’t really want to tell Stiles about his experience or lack of experiences, rather, and he faintly thinks that maybe he won’t have to.  His mind gets tripped up on the idea that maybe he’ll actually have to pay extra for being a virgin, because he’s some charity case that needs extra attention, and maybe he should’ve outlined that in the contract.  Although he is slightly happy that the word ‘virgin’ isn’t yet printed anywhere attached to his name and signature, so he decides to defer until it becomes relevant.  Which will hopefully be never.

“That’s, uh.  Yeah.  Good.  Okay.”  Derek stands, hoping that the look Stiles is giving him is not actually pity, but not really that optimistic about it.  “Are we… should we…  I’m actually within walking distance from here.”

Stiles stands up and claps Derek on the shoulder, the touch electric even through the layer of soft fabric.  “Great!  Lead the way.”  He looks actually happy to be leaving with Derek, maybe like he’s excited, but Derek doesn’t let himself believe for even a second that it isn’t paid enthusiasm.  They walk out of the shop with Stiles slightly behind Derek due to the narrow pathways between bean bags and flirting co-eds, and when they step into the cool fall air everything seems a bit surreal.  

The walk is only about five minutes, and Derek quickly learns that Stiles’ chatter-box mouth isn’t only business—he’s like that about everything.  There’s not too many people around them but Stiles cans the sex talk and asks Derek gently probing questions about where he lives, if he has a job, what he likes to do in his free time.  Derek answers succinctly: one-bedroom apartment, no, work-out.

Stiles shoots him a grin like he’s puzzling out who Derek is, and it’s slightly unnerving because Derek thinks he might be getting it right and they've only known each other for forty minutes give or take.  They grow silent as they reach Derek’s apartment building, a massive brick box with ivy crawling up the sides and a circular staircase that they trek up to reach Derek’s second-story apartment.  Derek knows it’s nicer than most college apartments—well, nicer by a lot—but Stiles takes it all in stride, not giving any outward indication of a reaction.

“Shoes off?” he says, pausing at the door mat, and Derek nods, wondering what Stiles thinks of that.  Derek leads the way into the interior, walking through the good-sized kitchen and into the spacious living room that’s sparsely decorated with furniture Derek rescued from his family’s home.  There’s a large full-length window at the end of the room, and the view is impressive, almost too dark to make out the campus bell tower and the domed roof of the conservatory in the distance, and the last rays of sunlight make the tips of the trees glow.

“Nice,” Stiles comments before dropping down onto the leather couch and bouncing a few times to feel how soft it is.  Derek forces his feet to move forward, sitting down on the worn spot next to him and feeling incredibly awkward as he leans back into the cushions.

“God, you’re hot,” Stiles says easily, bending his knee and sliding his foot up on the couch.  He bites his lip and looks so damn attractive it should be illegal.  Derek doesn’t reply, resisting the urge to laugh neurotically and ends up huffing a small breath through his nose.  “What, don’t believe me?” Stiles guesses which has Derek frowning at his intuition.  “Cause if yes, you’re ridiculous.”

He moves over on the couch until his toe is touching Derek’s thigh, and he’s so much closer now that Derek can’t help but trace the lines of Stiles’ face with his gaze.  The moles form constellations on the pale skin, and in a burst of confidence Derek lifts his hand to brush against a trio on Stiles’ cheek.  Stiles grins and turns his head to kiss chastely against the fingers before letting his mouth fall open into more of a gnawing bite.  He very slowly grabs Derek’s wrist and pulls him closer, drawing Derek’s thumb into his mouth and sucking onto it with a wet slurp.

“I’m not ridiculous,” Derek says breathlessly as Stiles’ tongue flicks across his thumb’s tip, and Derek’s cock feels a small throb.

“Yeah you are,” Stiles replies, though it comes out rather muddled.  Stiles’ lips look so good curved around Derek’s thumb and he knows it, smiling and biting down before dragging his teeth over the knuckle.  “Want me to blow you now?”

Derek nods, mute, watching with wide eyes as Stiles slides fluidly down the couch and pushes away the coffee table before settling between Derek’s spread legs.  He starts slow because Derek’s nerves are painfully obvious, taking his time by rubbing along Derek’s calves and thighs and over the bulge in his pants while Derek bites his tongue.  By the time Stiles pulls down his zipper and pushes a hand under his waistband, Derek is leaking profusely.  Derek raises his hips to help Stiles ease his jeans down, and as his ass hits the leather of the couch he feels odd with the contrast of his naked skin against the fabric and his shirt still hitched up around his stomach.

“Shit, that’s a nice cock,” Stiles says with appreciation that sounds genuine as he wraps his hand around Derek’s length and gives him a slow tug.  They watch the foreskin drag up and over the head and then back down, revealing the shiny, red tip.  Derek fights the urge to close his eyes, the visual of Stiles kneeling between his legs one he doesn’t want to miss out on.

Stiles pulls a condom out of his pocket and tears it open, a brief, brilliant smile lighting up his face before he pushes it into his mouth.  He holds Derek still with one hand and dips forward, swallowing him down with one easy swoop that both unrolls the condom and makes Derek mutter out an expletive and clutch onto the couch cushions.

The flutter of Stiles’ tongue has Derek jerking forward with his hips, and he may have done this part before but it’s been a long time and he’s having a hard time controlling any of his reactions, even with the latex dampening the sensation.  And when Stiles opens his mouth wide and suckles on the head, well damn, how did Derek not notice how gorgeous Stiles’ lips were earlier?  Maybe it’s just the way they stretch obscenely around his cock as he sinks lower and lower, and watching Stiles take his cock down his throat so easily has got to be the hottest thing Derek’s ever seen.

“Yeah, that’s.  That’s good,” Derek pants out as Stiles bobs up and down, hands splayed on Derek’s knees for a bit of leverage.  Stiles gurgles, apparently happy to have pleased Derek, curving his tongue on an upstroke and swirling it around the ridges of the head.  He pops off, a stream of spit connecting his bright red lips and Derek’s cock, and his face looking slightly flushed.  Derek suddenly wishes Stiles had less clothes on, but he’s loathe to say anything because he still feels awkward and doesn’t quite know what the etiquette is in this type of situation.

Stiles rests his jaw for a moment, laying his head on Derek’s thigh and adjusting his own pants before giving Derek slow, steady jerks while the other slides lower to cup his balls with sure fingers.  “Can’t wait for you to fuck me,” Stiles purrs, which confuses Derek because he doesn’t know if the fantasy of Stiles wanting him is going to work, and he doesn’t want fake praise.  But it does feel good, so good, and Stiles looks happy to be doing it.  In fact he looks as pleased as pie, diving back down to suck Derek’s cock down as far as he can, his throat swallowing so he can take Derek in that little bit more.

Growing braver, Derek pushes his hands into Stiles’ hair, satisfaction blooming as he finally fists into the long strands and tugs, the slight pain makes Stiles grunt.  It buzzes along his cock satisfyingly so he does it again and again until Stiles starts to make a sound akin to a mewl, and Derek freezes momentarily, worried he went too far.

Stiles pops off again, pumping Derek steadily as he licks his lips.

“Is this okay?” Derek asks, lightly fingering along Stiles’ sideburn and dropping his fingertips to Stiles’ mouth, Stiles eagerly sucking on the tips.

“Yeah, yeah, definitely.  Want you to fuck my mouth.  Want you to hold me where you want me and just use me.  Yeah, Derek.  Can you do that?”

Derek nods quickly, thinking Stiles is one hell of a salesman because he’s just nailed down in about five minutes what exactly Derek wants and made it seem like Derek is doing him a favor by agreeing to it.  Stiles’ tongue flicks and sucks, the whole ordeal becoming messier with spit and Derek’s pre-come leaking into the condom, and Derek’s fingers return to fisting as he begins to make tiny thrusts into Stiles’ mouth.  Stiles busies his fingers again, twisting and squeezing, and that combined with the white hot suction and Stiles’ muffled moans has Derek trembling toward that sticky-hot feeling right before orgasm.

“Fuck,” he pants eloquently as Stiles tongues at the tip before plunging down all the way again, nose pressed against Derek’s belly.  “I’m close.  I’m gonna—”  He’s used to giving warning, trying to give Stiles time to pull away, but with the condom it doesn’t really matter.  Stiles grasps on to Derek’s hip with one hand so he can’t be displaced and full-out moans when Derek freezes and stutters before spilling out in hot spurts and filling up the condom.  The slurping noises are obscene, Derek’s skin on fire with a tingling blaze as Stiles milks it out of him, and when he’s finished Derek slumps back and looks through heavily lidded eyes as Stiles licks his puffy, red lips and grins like he’s the one who’s just come.

Derek eases off the condom and then lets himself bathe in the afterglow for a minute, mind blissfully blank.  He briefly reflects on how he feels calm and relaxed rather than his usual post-orgasm blah, and it's a wonderful warmth that rolls across his skin.  He knows it doesn’t mean anything—he’s acutely aware of that fact—but it was a really fucking good blow job and Stiles is curled up next to him looking pleased so Derek can’t help but let a lax grin slide across his face.

“Your smile, dude,” Stiles says easily, and Derek notices how he’s got the heel of his palm pressed up against his crotch.  “You don’t even know.”

Derek moves an eyebrow, hedging a laugh as he leans over to grab a tissue and wipe himself off.  “You’re a funny one,” he says, and that’s possibly the longest sentence he’s said in the last hour.

Stiles makes a face that is truly ridiculous before returning to the bright smile.  He’s stopped palming himself and Derek is a little disappointed, suddenly very curious about what Stiles’ dick looks like and if he’s uncut, and if he’d be adverse to Derek kneeling down and sucking him off.

He’s just opening his mouth to say so when Stiles beats him to it, saying, “This was fun.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, surprising himself, because it actually was fun despite all of his awkwardness.  He doesn’t want Stiles to leave but he can sense that the evening is wrapping up so he tries to come up with something to say.  “Next time, do you think…”  And Stiles lights up at the words, and damn, it’s a good look on him.  Derek wonders if he’d look the same blissed out post-orgasm, a little sweatier though, and naked.  Definitely naked.  Next time he’d get Stiles naked.

“I’m kind of part-time,” Stiles says, and for some reason this makes Derek’s stomach sink.  “But I do have a Monday spot open, if you know, you want to do this again.  Some people do, like, a regular thing each week.  No pressure,” he adds quickly, spreading his hands wide.  “You can think about it, and call me later or whatever.  Or texting is good, too.  I totally answer those all the time even when I shouldn’t.”  He flashes his grin again and it is blinding.

“No, no, uh, next Monday works for me.”  Derek allows himself a small smile, not wanting to seem like a total freak.  “I have some other, uh, ideas.”

“Sounds perfect.  Why don’t you text me later in the week and tell me where you wanna meet.  Or if you just wanna come here, that’s good, too.  Also sexting.  We can sext.  I’m totally a good sexter!”

Derek laughs, watching the way Stiles fiddles with the hem of his shirt like he can’t stay still for even a moment.  “I’m not a good sexter.”

“I’ll teach you!  You’ll pick it up real quick.”  Stiles stands and Derek follows suit, trailing after him to the door.  It feels awkward ending an orgasm this way, but Stiles’ disarming smile makes Derek forget a lot.

They reach the door and without even thinking about it, Derek pins Stiles up to it, pressing tight so their bodies are flush.  It makes Stiles inhale sharply, and Derek dips his head to nose along Stiles’ neck and get a good whiff of his scent.  He smells like sweat and soap, the cloying taste of arousal and excitement definitely hanging in the soft dip of his collarbone.  Stiles stills, letting Derek take it in, tipping back his head slightly in a show of submission that is explicit and deliberate.

Derek surprises himself by growling deep in his chest and working his jaw open, mouthing along the cord of muscle there before wrenching himself away.  He looks down at the floor for a moment, hands flexing and claws feeling like they’re about to pop out, and he feels confusion flicker over his face because his wolf should be way easier to control than that, and, fuck, what is he doing?  A sharp breath from Stiles forces him to look up, and Derek is flooded with the scent of increased arousal, Stiles’ bright-red cheeks physical evidence of the blood Derek can hear rushing through his veins.

“I’ll just go now,” Stiles says weakly, and it pains Derek to nod and step back, because he didn’t pay Stiles for anything more tonight, and he doesn’t want to be disrespectful or pushy or needy.  Stiles smiles sweetly though, making it slightly dirty after a moment because he knows Derek can smell how turned on he is.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Derek says, feeling like he wants to kiss Stiles and irritated he hadn’t earlier when he’d had the chance, instead of just letting him drop to his knees right away.  Fuck, he’d have to be smoother next time.

“Night,” Stiles trills before disappearing behind the door.  Derek lays his cheek against the cool wood, listening to Stiles’ pulse all the way down the stairs until it disappears out the door.  He tries not to think too hard about it, but he can feel excitement thrumming in his gut as he thinks about the standing date he now has with Stiles, and how he has a week to think about just what he wants to do to that gorgeous body.

He tries to avoid the thought that Stiles will let him do all those wicked things to him because he’s paying him—and paying him an awful lot—but it’s easy to ignore when he’s trembling through his third orgasm of the day later to thoughts of Stiles’ lips and tongue, and Stiles’ hair tangled in his fingers.

***

Friday at lunch, and Derek’s waiting for Cora in the Union again, this time with a garden salad, no onions.  He kind of hates the place—too many people, too much idle chatter that he just doesn’t care about—but it’s between his classes and Cora always insists, and Cora always gets what she wants.

“Hey,” she says as she rounds the table and plops down with her tray of greasy french fries and a humongous burger.

“Does that have a fried egg on it?  You’re brave for trying that from the cafeteria,” Derek jibes with a half-smile, and Cora frowns at him with the typical Hale expression of disapproval.

“I have a high metabolism.  Get off my back.”

Derek raises his hands in surrender, picking up his plastic fork and dipping the tines in his dressing.  “Plans for this weekend?”

Cora chews for a while before swallowing heavily and taking a swig of her soda while Derek waits patiently.  “Party tomorrow night at Alpha Phi, you know the one werewolf sorority that had that raging party that you and Isaac got kicked out of.  Are you ever gonna explain that to me, bro?”

Derek bites back a laugh, because that story actually is funny, but he’d never tell his sister.  He has an image to keep up.  “Nope.”

“Asshole,” she says goodnaturedly.  “How ‘bout you?”

“Nah, no plans.  Got a big paper coming up for my History of Medieval England class, so probably will spend Saturday at the library.  The people at the coffee shop there know my order now.  Kind of embarrassing but, you know.”  He shrugs, pretending to laugh at himself but he doesn’t really feel like it’s funny.  He should stop being so honest with Cora.  Denial is a lot more fun.

His phone chirps but he ignores it, spearing another tomato and grimacing at Cora’s cheeks stuffed full like a squirrel.  

“So on Monday night Boyd’s having people over to watch the game.  And he’s inviting this friend who he says is really nice.”

“Nope.”

“Come on, Der.  It’s not even a date.  Just people hanging out.”

“I have plans,” he says, a little satisfied that it’s actually true.

Cora narrows her eyes at him, clearly thinking he’s lying.  “You just said your weekend plans were the library and a coffee, you don’t have plans for Monday.”

“Well, I do.  Tell Boyd I’m sorry though, because I missed the last one, and also he makes really good chili.”

“Whatever.  You don’t have plans, you just don’t want to go.  Quick, tell me what you’re doing.”  Derek can’t think fast enough and blushes immediately, shoving in a huge bite of lettuce so he doesn’t have to say anything.

“Oh my god.  Have you met somebody?  Do you have a date?”  She’s practically squealing, and Derek kicks her in the shins under the table.

“No, I do not have a date,” he insists, looking down when his phone chirps again and freezing when he sees who it’s from.

“Oh my god, is that him?  Or her?”  Cora looks like she’s going to snatch up Derek’s phone so he grabs it off the table and flicks off the screen, but not before seeing Stiles’ message on it.  He knows he’s as red as the tomatoes in his salad, and there’s absolutely nothing he can say to Cora because he’s always been a shit liar, and Cora is exceptionally good at calling him on his bullshit, even without her werewolf lie detector powers.

“No, it’s nothing.  I’d tell you if it was something, don’t worry.”

She reclines, seeming to consider this and then nodding tersely with her brows pulled together.  “Fine.  But you tell me about things when they get to be something.  Understood?”

Derek nods, feeling a little tension leave his shoulders and crumpling his napkin onto his tray.

“You’re lucky I have to book it across campus, otherwise I’d stay and grill you, you know,” she says fondly as she stands and pecks Derek on the cheek.

“I know.”  

She smiles and grabs her tray up, giving him a little wave before hurrying off while Derek gives a little sigh of relief at having dodged a major Cora-shaped bullet for the time being.

He waits until he can’t hear her quick footsteps anymore before checking out his phone again, his face turning red-hot as he reads the rest of Stiles’ message.

'I want your tongue in my ass.'

And holy crap, Derek’s not gonna make it ‘til Monday.