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Pole Dancing is Great Exercise

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People don’t actually have a distinct, natural scent that they put out. It’s more that a person is a specific combination of smells. When Derek smells teenage boy, spunk and sweat and junk food, combined with anxiousness and Adderall and a tiny bit of grief enter the strip club, he doesn’t let it throw off his routine. He’s almost done; maybe Stiles won’t even notice him up here.

But of course Derek doesn’t have that kind of luck. He can hear the moment when Stiles spots him up on stage, can hear that always restless heartbeat jackrabbit. Fuck. He chances a brief glance towards Stiles in the middle of a pole move that would be mindboggling if he weren’t a werewolf and, sure enough, Stiles has his goddamn phone out.

Probably taking pictures.

Derek doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t want the sudden surge of blind rage to cut into his haul for the night. Besides the insurance money from the fire, this is his only source of income. He has nothing to be ashamed about. Stiles isn’t going to make fun of this. Who would believe him, anyway?

So long as Derek deletes those pictures before Stiles can send a mass text or something.

This place isn’t fully nude, so the most the patrons get is a peek at Derek’s ass. They seem pretty happy, though. When the routine ends, he makes sure to smile and give a little bow before disappearing backstage. Then he hurries, just pulls on his jeans and his leather jacket because he doesn’t want Stiles to make an escape before he can get at that phone.

Turns out Stiles is waiting, leaning against that god awful Jeep like he knew Derek would want to reprimand him for being here. Derek comes to a stop in front of him and holds a hand out expectantly.

Stiles blinks those big stupid eyes. “Um… I can’t actually rip out my own heart and hand it to you. That kind of ritual sacrifice requires at least two peo—”

Stiles. Your fake ID, now,” Derek snarls.

Stiles sighs, but fishes the fake ID out of his pocket. Derek grabs it and shreds it to pieces with his claws. “Hey, that cost me eighty bucks!”

“I don’t care. Phone.”

Stiles hesitates, holding his phone close to his chest. “You’re not gonna break my phone, man. I’ll do something. Something you won’t like. Like, maybe I’ll scream and people will come running out here. No phone breaking, Derek!”

Derek ignores Stiles and extracts the phone from Stiles’s grip. He doesn’t break it, but he does open up the gallery and go through it to delete all the photos Stiles took. Video, too. Jesus. “If I hear one word about you going to your computer savvy friend about recovering these deleted files, there will be hell to pay.”

“I wasn’t gonna blackmail you or anything. I just…”

“You just what? Thought it would be a great idea to find out where I spend my Wednesday nights and check in on me? Drive half an hour out of Beacon Hills this late on a school night? How considerate.”

Stiles’s face contorts in an expression Derek can only describe as somewhere between annoyed and insulted. Kid’s face is too elastic. Derek doesn’t like it, doesn’t like how he takes too much time trying to interpret it. “No, actually,” Stiles says. “I had no idea you would be here. It’s just that this is the one night a week they have male dancers and there aren’t exactly a plethora of strip clubs in the Beacon Hills area and maybe I was trying to work up the courage to spring for a lap dance but then there you were. Couldn’t you have taken a moment to wipe the baby oil off your chest? It’s really distracting. Like, won’t it get all over the inside of your jacket?”

Derek rolls his eyes very dramatically. “Stop trying to change the subject. You don’t come to places like this. It’s against the law and I’ll lose my job if they find out I know you’re underage.”

“Why do you work here anyway? I figured you, like, lived off the wilderness or maybe you’re independently wealthy.”

“I don’t live off the wilderness, oh my god, you need to spend less time on the internet. And I am pretty well off, but I don’t exactly want to use the insurance money from my dead family to buy Hot Pockets and Diet Coke. I’m allowed to work like a normal person.”

Stiles is back to blinking. “You… you drink Diet Coke? And you eat Hot Pockets. Wow, the air of mystery is just totally gone. Here I thought you drank the blood of your enemies, but really you moonlight as a stripper to keep yourself in junk food. And now all I can picture is you in the grocery store comparing calories or something. I am so mad, I can’t believe you ruined all of my perceptions of you in one fell swoop.”

“Go home, Stiles, and don’t come here again. I’ll know if you buy yourself another ID,” Derek says.

Stiles grabs his phone back and glares. “You’re not my father. I’ll do what I want, thank you very much.”

“No, I’m not your father. Thank god. But I am your Alpha and you’ll listen to me on this. If you’re going to be doing irresponsible things in the middle of the night, do them in Beacon Hills.”

It’s clear immediately that Stiles is not pleased, that Derek has said something very wrong. “Since when are you my Alpha? Um, news flash; I’m a human. You don’t get to use your werewolf hoodoo to make me fall in line. I didn’t even know humans could be in packs, but I think you kinda have to ask before you just go assuming I want to be. It’s not like you invite me to pack slumber parties or whatever it is you guys get up to, man, all you do is harass me when you need something. Nothing about that says pack. So mind your own damn business.”

Derek recoils. Internally, of course. Never externally. He’d assumed… Why wouldn’t Stiles want to be pack? Is it something to do with Scott? He’s just leaving that whole situation alone. It’s not hurting anything but his pride that Scott would rather be on his own. And since when does Derek think of Stiles as pack anyway? It’s just that Stiles is always there and, really, Stiles has the most sense of all the teens.

Which is really kind of terrifying, actually.

Stiles opens the door and climbs into the Jeep, starting the engine before rolling down the manual window. “Also… Dude, I totally emailed myself those pics as soon as I took them. Obviously.”

And then Stiles peels out of the parking lot.

Derek sighs. Trust Stiles to always be one step ahead, the exasperating little shit.

 

He lets things stew for a few days. He doesn’t think Stiles is going to make a joke out of the pictures, not really, but he doesn’t exactly want to be around if Stiles decides to. And he kind of wants to figure out this pack thing, too, because he can admit, if only to himself, that sometimes he wishes it was Stiles Peter Bit instead of Scott. Only sometimes, though.

It’s Friday night when Derek rings the doorbell to the Stilinski residence. Because the Sheriff is at work and, contrary to popular belief, Derek does know how doors work. Though sometimes they are awfully inconvenient.

Stiles opens the door without even checking to see who it is. And Stiles is the one with good survival instincts, god help them all. “Derek. Holy crap, you’re at my front door. Why are you at my front door?” Stiles asks, eyes wide.

“Just let me inside.” Honestly, it’s like dealing with children.

Stiles scurries out of the way and ushers Derek inside. “Jesus, what if someone saw you? What if someone tells my dad that some creepy older dude came calling? People will think that my virtue is in question or something.”

“No one saw me. Besides, I’m pretty sure no one cares about your virtue,” Derek says, rolling his eyes and heading right up the stairs.

Stiles follows behind him. “Dude. If we were just going to my room anyway, there was no point in the whole door thing. Unless you wanted to prove old dogs really can learn new tricks?”

“Wow, dog jokes, so original. Have a seat.”

“Man, you would’ve gotten points if you just said ‘sit’ instead. Missed opportunity,” Stiles says with a sigh and a shake of his head as he plops down in his computer chair. “Okay, so, I imagine this is about the whole… thing. With the strip club. I promise I haven’t even thought of getting a new fake ID. Much. And I haven’t shown anyone the pictures, either. I do actually value my life.”

Derek takes his jacket off and drops it on the bed. Then his tank top comes off, too.

Stiles’s mouth gapes open. “What on god’s green earth do you think you’re doing? I mean, I know you’ve been in various states of undress in my bedroom before, but I don’t think you had quite this level of bloodlust in your eyes at the time. Gonna murder me naked so you don’t have to worry about bloodstains on your clothes?”

This is the future of the human race. “Do you think I’d go through all this trouble to kill you?”

“Probably not, no. So, what is this then? Not that I’m unappreciative of the view, I mean, I’d have to be blind and in a coma to not appreciate what is an objectively… No, seriously, what the hell?”

Derek toes his shoes and socks off as he unbuckles his belt. “You never got that lap dance you were after.”

“Um, okay, non sequitur. I already said I’m not going back.”

“No, you’re not. Because I’m going to give you one,” Derek says, unzipping his pants. Stiles’s eyes are wide and confused and drawn to the motion. Derek can smell the lust this time, now that he’s looking for it and it isn’t muddled by all the scents from the club.

“One what?”

Why does this have to be like pulling teeth? “A lap dance. Would you like me to draw you a diagram before we begin?”

For a moment, it looks like Stiles is going to say yes, yes he actually would like a diagram. But then he settles uncertainly in the chair, hands on the arms. “This is going to be the crankiest lap dance in the history of lap dances, isn’t it? Is it going to end with exsanguination?”

Derek smirks a little bit. “Maybe.”

He shoves his jeans down and kicks them off to the side.

Stiles’s gulp is audible. “Designer briefs. I mean, I knew that, I saw before. But that was on a stage. I always figured you for a boxer briefs dude. And shouldn’t you be taking your time with this whole striptease thing?”

“This isn’t a striptease. And I do wear boxer briefs normally. Now stop talking about my underwear,” Derek says. He steps closer to Stiles and reaches out to grab Stiles by the wrist, guides those stupidly attractive hands to his hips.

“Shouldn’t there be music?” Stiles asks. It’s clear that Stiles doesn’t know if he’s supposed to hold on or what, so he’s just awkwardly cupping his hands where Derek put them.

“Do you have lap dance music?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then shut up. I can keep a beat without it.” Derek starts moving then, hips swaying from side to side as he inches forward between Stiles’s legs. He takes a perverse amount of pleasure in the way Stiles’s pupils dilate and his heart races. In the smell of his confused arousal and the flush on his face. Like hell Stiles doesn’t want to be pack. Not that that’s why Derek is doing this. Not really. It’s just, well, if Stiles is going to be going to shady places on a school night to get something like this? Derek is going to prove that Stiles can have it right here at home. And it’s kind of a thrill to be dancing for someone he wants to dance for. He gives a little spin and looks over his shoulder at Stiles as he slides Stiles’s hands down his thighs and back up again, trying to encourage Stiles to participate a little.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, it should be illegal for your ass to be this close to my face. It’s like hypnotizing or something. B-bewitching. Your badonkadonk is bewitching me, Derek. Do you do this often?” Stiles asks.

“Not really, no. Special occasions only,” Derek says as he drops a hand to the arm of the chair for leverage and sits right in Stiles’s lap, grinding his ass down against him in slow circles.

Stiles moans and his hands finally grip Derek’s hips tight enough. “I think—yeah, definitely we should be stopping this now.”

Derek reaches his free hand back to run over Stiles’s hair and down, settling in a grip at the nape of Stiles’s neck as he undulates back against Stiles’s body. “Why? Aren’t you enjoying it?” he teases.

Stiles is panting now and his hands seem to run up Dereks’ sides without Stiles really noticing. Those hands have a mind of their own. They’re so distracting, moving all the damn time. “Uh, yeah. More than I, um, should? And I don’t even have any singles to shove in your briefs. I swear to god, Derek, I will jizz in my pants if you keep this crap up…”

Derek takes that as his cue to straddle Stiles instead. Kid can take his weight; treading water for two hours supporting the both of them is pretty much lifelong testament to Stiles’s toughness and strength and endurance. He presses Stiles’s hands to his naked chest and he swears Stiles’s eyes cross for a second as Stiles lets himself get his grope on. Derek can’t say his pecs have ever felt so fondled before.

The grinding is a little different now that it’s crotch-to-crotch and Derek is hard, too. He’s surrounded by Stiles’s scent and his stupid… stupid everything, Jesus. He likes Stiles’s stupid everything. He leans forward to nose at Stiles’s jaw, letting out a pleased sort of rumble with a flash of red eyes—

And then the computer chair, apparently a cheap piece of shit, breaks and collapses beneath them and Derek ends up splayed on top of Stiles, who is lying uncomfortably on the pieces.

“Ow,” Stiles says.

Derek is trying not to laugh. Seriously? Why is his luck this shitty?

“No really, ow, I’m gonna need you to get off me. Like now. I think I broke my spleen. And my spine.”

Derek sighs and kneels up, hauling Stiles off the wreckage and depositing him on the bed. “You didn’t break anything, don’t be a baby,” he grumbles. He sits on the bed, too, and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m totally allowed to be a baby, dude, I was like yay close to actually achieving orgasm in the presence of another living being,” Stiles pouts, holding his thumb and index finger about a millimeter apart to demonstrate just how close he was. “Even if it was gonna be a horrifically embarrassing orgasm. It still would’ve totally counted. And my chair’s wrecked. Dad’s gonna be pissed.”

Derek really doesn’t need the reminder that Stiles is underage. He’s just not thinking about that right now. He shifts a little closer, thigh pressing against Stiles’s. “The night is still young,” he says. “And apparently not even almost breaking your spleen can ruin your hard-on…”

“Oh my god, you just said hard-on,” Stiles snickers. “And, seriously, who actually says, ‘the night is still young’? Isn’t that a Billy Joel song?”

Derek rolls his eyes. He didn’t mean it as a quote but, even if he did, there’s nothing wrong with Billy Joel… “I think maybe your smartass mouth might ruin mine, though.”

Stiles continues to be amused for a moment before he seems to sober a bit. “Is this because of the whole ‘you’re not my Alpha’ thing? Because I think a seduction-based recruitment technique is a little overboard, man. And also kind of rude considering how obvious my stupid teenage attraction to you is…”

Derek sighs. Why does it seem like no one ever notices how fragile Stiles is? It’s right there if anyone bothers looking. Or maybe it takes one to know one, so Derek is the only one that can see it. “I’m not seducing you. Or, at least, I’m not trying to seduce you into my pack. I do want you in my pack. I want you in my pack so much I didn’t realize you weren’t. But this isn’t about manipulation. I’ll go if you want me to. I just want you to know that you don’t have to drive to that far out of Beacon Hills to get something you want. That you can get what you need right here.”

Stiles blinks at him and Derek wonders what part of that Stiles is stuck on. “So, what, you’re going to put up a stripper pole at your place to keep me entertained?”

“No. Well, maybe I could be talked into that. It’s good exercise. But that’s not really what I mean.”

“You’re offering up your body so I don’t go wandering off outside of werewolf running distance. Sounds pretty selfless, dude.”

“It really isn’t,” Derek insists, leaning in to nose at Stiles’s jaw again and breathe in Stiles’s scent. At least the bed probably isn’t going to collapse beneath them. Hopefully.

He can hear Stiles gulp. “Should I be worried about you having been exposed to something? Is sex pollen a thing?”

“I don’t know what that means, but I think probably you’ve been spending too much time on the internet again. I’m using my words, Stiles, can’t you just hurry up and decipher what I’m really talking about?” Derek asks. He can’t do all the goddamn work here. He’s doing the best he can.

Stiles gesticulates wildly. “How the heck am I supposed to know what you’re talking about? It sounds like you’re… Are you into me? Really?”

Derek kisses Stiles. It’s the best idea he’s had all night; Stiles can’t talk when his mouth is busy. Is he Stiles’s first kiss? Probably not. Teenagers are always playing some kind of kissing game. But this is no kissing game and it’s clear Stiles is a little out of his depths. That’s alright. Derek urges Stiles to lie back and settles between those legs. They aren’t quite coltish, there’s strength in Stiles’s thighs, but the knees are on the knobby side. Derek has seen Stiles in shorts; it’s hard not to want to drag his teeth along the back of those knobby knees. He works a hand up under Stiles’s shirt, feeling along the curve of Stiles’s hip. He bets it’s covered with moles. He pulls back to look down at Stiles’s face. “How far do you want this to go?” he asks. Because it’s important to have consent, even if this is still illegal.

Stiles looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Jesus, however far it takes to get that orgasm. I’m dying here.”

Derek lets out an amused sound. “Yes, but how would you like to have that orgasm?”

“Oh. Oh. Well, um. Probably not with the penetrative acts. Not tonight. But also, probably not with the whole in my pants thing. So… somewhere in the middle?”

Derek can work with that. He makes quick work of unfastening Stiles’s jeans and tugs them off by the cuffs, which makes Stiles flail like the spaz he is to get his own shirt off. Derek draws a breath to comment on it, the spaziness, but he’s distracted by Stiles’s Spongebob boxers. More specifically, by the spot of precome really inappropriately oozing over Spongebob’s face. Derek yanks the boxers off next before he does something like lick that spot.

He can do that some other time, when Stiles isn’t wearing cartoon character underwear.

“Holy crap, man, I know I said I was lacking in the patience department at the moment, but shouldn’t there be a little finesse to all this?” Stiles asks. He shuts up real quick when Derek licks his cock, though. He doesn’t linger there for very long, because he needs to get out of his own stupid designer briefs. They get tossed onto the floor somewhere; neatness is not a priority right now. He smooths his hands up Stiles’s torso and follows them with is tongue. “Oh god. Oh god…!”

Derek thinks Stiles is overreacting a bit but, hey, it’s an ego boost. He mouths at Stile’s collarbone, worrying his teeth into tender flesh. There are little moles littered just everywhere. It’s enough to drive a man to distraction, but he can spend time on those later. He hauls Stiles’s knee up against his hip and grinds his dick against Stiles’s.

Stiles moans and grips at Derek’s shoulders, those legs going around him. He growls and licks a path to Stiles’s jaw, where he bites gently.

And Stiles comes with a startled moan. Derek keeps rutting against Stiles and, after a few moments when Stiles is able, Stiles moves with him. Derek kisses Stiles, feels out the contours of his mouth and tastes him. He presses his face to Stiles’s neck when he’s close, though, wants to smell him and feel Stiles’s heartbeat against his lips. He snarls as he comes, his hips jerking to a stop.

Stiles is petting at his hair. Derek kind of likes it. Not that he’d admit it out loud, of course. He listens and he thinks that Stiles’s heart is almost calm now, more at peace than it usually is. Post orgasmic bliss suits Stiles well. Derek nuzzles at his jaw and cheek. “You alright?” he asks, because one can’t just assume that everything is okay by the sound of someone’s biorhythms.

Stiles nods. “Oh yeah, I’m great. Awesome. That was frottage. I like frottage. It’s a great invention.”

So, the rambling doesn’t stop then. The corners of Derek’s mouth turn up in a little smile. He leans up on an elbow to quirk a brow at Stiles. “I don’t think it can be called an invention, per se. Probably more of a discovery.”

Stiles smiles at him. “The tips of your ears are red,” he says, running his fingers over Derek’s left ear. “It’s pretty cute. Is it like a sex flush thing? Because, man, I bet I’m all splotchy and red if that’s the case.”

Derek wouldn’t say splotchy. He looks down at the mess between them. That’s always something he’s appreciated on an animal level. He wants to rub it into Stiles’s skin, but he doesn’t. Not this time. He shifts out from between Stiles’s legs and settles beside him, close with a proprietary arm thrown over Stiles’s middle. “So, how was it?”

“What, you want a score? ‘Cause I don’t have any comparison, man, so right now I’d have to say ten out of ten, would recommend. A plus plus. Please don’t tell me you do this stuff with your puppies though, dude, because that would be whack.”

“Dear god, don’t say ‘whack’. And no, I don’t have sex with my Betas,” Derek says.

“Good, because that would be weird. And icky. So, I totally think you should install a stripper pole at your place.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stiles echoes, nodding. “And you can teach me how to use it.”

“No way; you’d break your neck within five minutes.”

“Well, then you could turn me into a werewolf,” Stiles reasons.

Derek sighs. “Alright, but only if you’re dying.”

Stiles looks at him curiously. “You’d only give me the Bite if I were dying?”

“Do you want to be a wolf?”

“Not really, no. Neat superpowers and all, but I like being human just as much as I like being alive.”

“Then I’d only give you the Bite if you were dying,” Derek assures. “Are you going to fall asleep?”

“Not a chance. I’d get on my computer again, but some asshole broke my chair.”

“Some asshole who was rocking your little world with a lap dance, you mean.”

“My Alpha, the asshole,” Stiles coos, pinching Derek’s cheek.

Derek scowls at him because, really? Cheek pinching? But that’s not the important thing right now. “Your Alpha?”

“Yeah. I might as well just give in now, you know? God knows what you might try next if I don’t. It’s really a safety hazard to let you go around lap dancing people to death. My back really couldn’t take it again.”

“I’ll buy you a better chair,” Derek says, hauling Stiles close and nuzzling at him some more. “I’m a good Alpha like that.”

“Oh, hey, perks besides orgasms. I approve.”

“The orgasms really don’t have anything to do with being in my pack,” Derek insists. “They are completely different things.”

“Hey, if I’m banging the Alpha, do I get to be like the queen of the pack? Because that could be neat.”

Derek sighs. “You are in no way emotionally ready to be in a relationship.”

“Neither are you.”

“Probably not,” Derek agrees.

“Let’s try it anyway?” Stiles suggests, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Might as well. I’d probably rip the arms off of anyone else that laid a hand on you now.”

Stiles snickers. “Whoa there, Chewbacca, such violence won’t be necessary.”

“I’m going to sleep now,” Derek says, hold tightening on Stiles.

“Sure thing.” Stiles grabs his Game Boy off the nightstand and squirms around so his back is to Derek. Derek just huffs and presses his face to Stiles’s neck, snuffling at it.

“Keep the volume low.”

“I will. I can totally be considerate of my Alpha slash lover. And I can totally expect another one of those shiny orgasms before my dad gets home from work, right?”

Derek nips at Stiles’s nape. Lover; Stiles is unreal. And adorable. And pack. “Right.”

“Cool.”

Derek falls asleep, soothed by Stiles’s content heartbeat and the smell of the two of them in Stiles’s bed, sweaty and covered with semen. It’s a nice smell to a werewolf.