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1000 Pieces

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Once in a while the shit stops hitting the fan.

When that happens, the pack makes the most of it. Or makes the least of it, depending on how you characterize sleeping for obscene amounts of time between frantic bouts of sex.

The pack is as boning-obsessed as the doctors and nurses on that doctor show. The one with the knitting and ferry boats that Stiles mainlined on Netflix a couple of years ago when he needed background noise to work on a book report on The Iliad. Except no one gets herpes from nurses because the werewolves are all like, supernaturally disease free.

Not that they're reckless or anything. Erica brings home condoms from Planned Parenthood by the gallon. Or whatever measurement you use for condoms. Boatloads. Bucketsful.

Stiles might be a little sex-drunk. It happens.


It started happening when the pack paired up or piled up on the slow days, the ones Stiles fondly refers to as their days off. Days off include, but are not limited to, actual weekends, school holidays and evenings when there's no lacrosse practice—but only when those times also coincide with no immediate life-threatening danger. That intersection is annoyingly rare.

When Scott first took Stiles aside to tell him, "So dude, sometimes some of us do stuff. Um, have sex. It's not weird," Stiles felt sick with nerves. He played it off like it was totally normal for Scott McCall to have orgies with other teenagers. Then he went home and freaked out thinking shit was going to go down like a bad gangbang porno or the way he secretly hoped college parties sometimes did, with games of Twister turning naked and penetrative. Stiles jerked off in the shower, thinking about Isaac blowing a disembodied penis that hopefully wasn't Scott's.

It wasn’t like Stiles thought group werewolf sex was a bad thing. In fact, according to a steady pattern of euphemisms in nearly every book and article on pack dynamics he could find, sex was a healthy method of bonding and affection. The Hale pack definitely needed bonding, and probably a decent amount of affection.

It was just—these were his friends. More or less. It would be like watching dogs hump. A kind of that’s sort of awful but you can’t look away thing.

Except it wasn’t awful.

The first time Stiles was around for "sometimes some of us do stuff," Erica and Boyd started it. Boyd pulled Erica onto his lap on the old park bench in the depot, squeezing her thighs and smiling like Erica was the only good thing in the world. She faced him, rocking her hips forward, and they started making out. Not the dark corner of a party kind of making out. Like face-crushing hands under shirts, zippers down making out. They were obviously going to fuck. Right there on the park bench. In the middle of the goddamned depot.

Standing like two feet away, Stiles got hard instead of reacting in a reasonable way, such as telling them to get a room. There were practically a dozen empty storerooms for awkward PDA's sake.

One minute they were talking about how weird the enchanted trees in Beacon Hills Preserve had been that afternoon, and the next Stiles didn't know where to put his hands. Or eyes. And no one else in the room gave Boyd and Erica a second glance. Maybe this happened every day and Stiles always managed to miss it thanks to horrible or awesome timing.

Just as Stiles felt like he was going to implode with indecision (stalk away to his Jeep? masturbate in the barely functioning bathroom? keep watching, slack jawed and bone hard?) Erica grabbed his wrist, werewolf fast, and tugged him onto the bench.

"Whoa, hey," Stiles said, thudding down. "This isn't cushiony."

Boyd and Erica moved as one, smiling and panting in a way that wasn't scary or creepy, despite the hands under Stiles' clothes and the moist lips against his skin. He liked it. He liked it so much he made quiet, needy sounds and pushed his crotch at anything resembling friction. When in Rome and all that.

They opened his jeans and stroked him off together while Erica rubbed Stiles' head and Boyd nosed his cheek. Dazed with orgasm and the momentum of suddenly-sex, Stiles dropped to the dusty concrete and sucked Boyd off with Erica, tasting the waxy-smear of her lipstick and the sharp tang of Boyd’s body. Erica showed Stiles how she liked being fingered while she got herself off and Stiles decided that bodies were the best thing ever, and then he fell asleep drooling on Erica's boob.

Pack sex wasn’t always simple.

No matter how much a jagged part of Stiles wanted to kiss Lydia, he knew would be too weird. And as nice as Jackson’s body was, he was a living bonerkiller. It wasn’t even his crappy attitude, it was the way he loved Lydia so goddamned much. His douche-button seemed to switch off around her. He hid his face against her hair and she fucked him, and it was beautiful. Sometimes Jackson cried in her arms.

So whatever.

That was fine, because Isaac loved kissing everyone. While kissing and dry-humping the third or fourth time, Stiles and Isaac fumbled their way into what Stiles was absolutely certain was the world's most uncoordinated session of 69ing. When Stiles put his mouth around Isaac's dick and felt warm suction on his own, it was like discovering cock for the first time. Which, to be fair, had only been a few months before not counting Stiles’ own cock, but still. It was like sucking himself off. Sort of. He mostly mouthed senselessly at Isaac's shaft and got his teeth in the way while Isaac gave crazy-good head, full of hard-pulling sucks and constricting swallows. Isaac was a pretty great guy, and he had good hair.

Stiles was so busy becoming sexually liberated and congratulating himself for finding a healthy way to decompress from near-death situations he failed to notice a key thing about the pack’s group tumbles: Derek never got involved.

Derek didn’t even watch, which was kind of surprising given Derek’s tendency to take observation to a really intense, unsettling level. Every time the pack started touching and kissing and getting hot and finding the lube and Erica’s vat of condoms and clean sheets for the flotilla of mattresses on the floor, Derek just... left.

Eventually, after eating Allison out while she sucked Scott off, and trying really hard not to look at Scott’s balls (they were nice balls, but they were still Scott’s balls), Stiles pulled on his boxers and climbed up to the loading dock where Derek was lurking.

Out of habit, Stiles checked the alarm system panel on the way out the door. The yellow light blinked reassuringly, not armed by getting power from the generator humming in one of the storerooms.

Derek leaned against the wall, artfully shadowed.

“What’s your deal?” Stiles asked, swatting away a moth. It was muggy and sticky and he was sticky too and he needed a shower.

Derek stepped into the light and watched him. He didn’t look angry, but his nostrils flared visibly. “Allison?”

Stiles wiped his mouth. “Um.”

“Someone has to keep watch,” Derek said. Which was pure, unadulterated bullshit. Stiles knew this because Stiles had personally supervised Danny’s installation of a closed circuit surveillance system and the super effective alarm system. Deflecting Danny’s resigned, half-hearted questions about why someone wanted to install cameras around an abandoned train depot had been hard work.

“We could fuck next to the monitors,” Stiles suggested.

Derek’s eyebrows gave a tiny, thoughtful dip before he shrugged. “Okay.”

It wasn’t until he was following Derek back inside and down the dimly-lit hallway, watching Derek’s back muscles ripple as he pulled his shirt off, that Stiles’ brain caught up with his bravado. Stiles palmed his crotch, reassuring his cock; he was not going to blow this opportunity just because his fail-brain was trying to tell him that he wasn’t exactly the pick of the litter and that Derek was probably going to regret the decision to make Stiles his first—something. First foray into group pack love? First whatever this was. God, brains were dumb.

Derek turned abruptly, and Stiles walked right into him, still holding his cock loosely over his boxers. They were in the makeshift surveillance room, which was really just an oversized closet with no chairs or tables or squishy places to have sex.

“Are you still wet?” Derek asked, startling Stiles out of trying to think of something snappy and distracting to say that didn’t involve freaking out, backpeddling or the semi-chub in his fingers.

Stiles clenched his ass without really thinking about it. He was still warm and well-fucked and slick with lube, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to blurt that Isaac had a tremendously large penis, and was Derek aware of that? “Yeah.” He shivered.

Derek turned Stiles, guided his palms to the wall, and pulled his boxers down. Stiles’ insides jumped around like rabbits as he stepped out of his boxers. It wasn’t rough handling, it was just... efficient. Efficient in a nice way that made Stiles’ brain snap to silence like someone tripped over the power cord, except there wasn’t a cord, there was Derek’s broad-headed cock running up and down his ass crack and nudging at the divot of his hole.

Stiles widened his stance and tucked his face against one arm and let himself get loud when Derek fucked him. It wasn’t tender or slow or even hot the way playing with the others’ bodies was. He didn’t have time to build to the drunken heat of arousal. He didn’t even get hard. He just got hammered with a steady rhythm that erased everything but the hot slide and deep punch of Derek’s cock.

Derek didn’t stop until he came, balls deep and hugging around Stiles’ middle to hold him close and jerk into him with frantic, shallow thrusts.

“I forgot to watch the monitors,” Stiles said, panting between each word. Derek came a lot. Maybe it was an alpha thing.

Derek went still, and then laughed. He pulled out and crouched behind Stiles. Stiles froze, half-expecting alpha werewolves to be really into felching for some instinctive reason that he wasn’t completely sure he was prepared for.

Derek tapped Stiles’ ankle until Stiles lifted his foot, and then helped Stiles step back into his boxers and pulled them up for him. Not felching then, just surprisingly tender assistance.

“Are you all right?” Derek asked.

Stiles turned, blinking back from where his mind immediately had immediately gone, which involved measuring tape and Isaac’s cock and Derek’s cock and would they both have to be hard to get an accurate measurement? And how would that be accomplished other than very carefully?

“Huh? Yeah.” His legs were shaking, but in an awesome way.

“Okay,” Derek said, zipping up his jeans. He picked up his shirt and walked away without another word.

Accustomed to Derek's awkward exits, Stiles stayed behind to jerk off to the grainy view of the empty parking lot on the monitor. When he came, he felt come sliding down his inner thighs. He laughed hoarsely, because dripping with werewolf jizz wasn't even weird to him anymore.

And it’s not to say that the first time with Derek had been bad—in fact, it had been good to the extent that Stiles could only classify as epic. But the more Stiles thought about it later, which happened often, especially in the shower and in the foggy moments after hitting snooze on his phone, the more Stiles wondered at the lack of intimacy.

When Stiles fucked around with the rest of the pack, with the exception of Scott because no and Jackson and Lydia because sigh, they kissed. They kissed a lot. They kissed and licked and rubbed and did things that Stiles was starting to realize had a lot to do with being family. He’d find that totally fucked up if it didn’t make sense, if it didn’t click like he’d been walking around with a fractured bone in his chest his whole life—like that fracture had finally been set. He slept better at night now, wearing kiss-marks and bruise-colored hickies and sex-taste on his tongue.

They were intimate. They were family. They were pack—even the humans. And Derek was supposed to be the grumpy glue that held them all together, but he wasn’t.

Stiles couldn’t pinpoint exactly why this distressed him. But it felt like putting together a giant puzzle, which he hated doing in the first place, only to find one tiny piece missing.

He decided to do something about it.

The next time Stiles and Derek fucked, Stiles forgot about his plan to fix things and jerked off and came with Derek still in him and practically blacked out from how awesome it felt. The time after that Derek sucked him off and Stiles forgot to breathe, let alone enact his plan.

What it eventually took was attacking Derek before they were distracted by penises.

Stiles got in Derek’s personal space and did one of those awkward side-steppy things like two people almost colliding head-on in a hallway. He saw his moment and went for it, darting in like a bird. The kiss lasted about half a second before Derek wrenched him away and held him at arm’s length, with an expression that indicated that Stiles not only carried but probably invented cooties.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked.

“Trying to eat your face. What the fuck do you think, Derek?”

Derek’s eyes did a skittering, surveying kind of thing. He maintained his utterly gentle but infuriatingly firm hold on Stiles’ arms. “Why?”

“Because you’re not the glue. I mean, you’re the missing piece. Work with me here, dude.”

Derek took a noisy breath. He drew Stiles back slowly and kept his eyes open.

He kissed Stiles softly, his tongue skimming Stiles' lips as if he wasn't sure what Stiles would taste like. Stiles' throat caught with a deep groan; he liked being kissed. It sent little jolts of happy right to his cock.

When Derek released Stiles’ arms, Stiles cupped his face, and Derek made a soft sound that made Stiles hurt all over.

That time, they fucked slowly, and Derek pressed his mouth to Stiles' ear and shook. He didn't get loud—he never did—but his breathing took on a different pitch, all uneven and sweet.

Stiles forgot to gloat over his plan working flawlessly until he was back at home four hours later, feeling the scrape of his toothbrush against his stubble-raw lips. He smiled.


Tonight, the shit isn’t hitting the fan. That was earlier in the day, or the day before, depending on what time it is. It’s hard to tell in the depot with the dusty windows covered with rotting cardboard and duct tape. There’s an unspoken rule that no one checks their phones when it’s naked time.

Derek is still far from affectionate. But he allows Stiles to lead him by the hand into the fray.

He never breaks contact with Stiles’ body.

Derek squeezes a slow stroke from Stiles’ shoulder to his bicep, over and over. Erica curls up against Derek’s side, her fingers fluttering between her legs and her eye makeup smudged. Boyd is asleep, too tired and hurt for fucking tonight. He's bracketed gently between Lydia and Allison with Scott and Jackson walling them in and dozing.

Isaac gets keyed up the way Stiles does, though rarely at the same time, which is a good damn thing. This time it’s Isaac burning off his rattled energy. He pushes hot, tight thrusts between the press of Stiles’ sweaty thighs. The thick roll of his dick feels good, sort of like a massage.

Stiles has a lot of stamina; he’s first line now and Finstock works him like a dog. But he isn’t like the werewolves, and like Lydia and Allison he’s barely conscious after fourteen solid hours of adrenaline and trying to keep tabs on no less than eight utterly reckless people. Plus, all the sex.

Isaac whines when he comes and snuffles against Stiles’ shoulder and rearranges himself, sticky dick and all, to fall asleep against Stiles’ back. Erica bucks her hips twice and settles with a thick whuff of breath. She meets Stiles’ eye and winks, and he’d swear she’s wagging her tail. Somewhere.

It's dark and quiet in the depot. Stiles listens to the sounds of gentle stirring and sleep-even breathing.

“You don’t have to be so alert,” Derek says very softly, as if he’s worried about waking his pack. His wandering touch makes its way to Stiles’ lips. Stiles sucks a fingertip into his mouth. It tastes like dirt and blood. He spits it back out and cleans his tongue by licking Derek’s nipple. A lot.

Derek rubs his head. “Go to sleep.”

And Stiles does, eventually, but not before he realizes that he’s only putting sleep off because he’s happy like this, admiring every perfect piece of their strange, beautiful picture.