Disclaimer: See initial chapter.

A/N: So, I thought I'd add another chapter to this, and see where it went. It went in a direction that I had not anticipated it going in, and I worry that the tone has changed quite a bit. Hopefully that won't be a problem for readers.

Warning: Kissing and mutual, through clothing, orgasms, no actual sex. Also, run-on sentences (on purpose), loose grammar, made up words, and just going with the flow of the writing. Please forgive any errors that you may find (especially with the math) and just enjoy (if this is your cup of tea).

Dereksexual

Stiles' cheek and lips are smarting, his neck tingling, and he shoots as surreptitious a glance as he can at the reason for why his body is thrumming like he's been electrocuted, or struck by lightning. No doubt there is brain damage, because he can't think straight, can't get his mouth, his hands, his...anything, to work properly.

It's not fair, because the very reason for his own inability to string together two coherent thoughts is sitting very smugly beside him with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. And that's when Stiles recognizes the boy in the man, the very boy who'd spilled his secret with another little boy, who promptly spilled the beans about the secret and bit a mother on the ass, getting himself banned from a perfectly good park that had the best swing set in town.

It's not fair. It wasn't fair then, and it sure as hell isn't fair now. Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the dancers, keeping Derek in his peripheral vision.

He'd gone through 'torture' with his father showing Derek that photo album at the beginning of their non-date, and now he's going through another sort of torture. One that he'd very much like to put an end to, because what Derek had done to him in the car, that, well, that had turned him into putty, had stripped him of all of the fantasies he'd ever entertained about kissing someone – male and female – and had left him wanting, craving, needing more, but Derek wasn't giving him more. He'd stiff-armed him the minute they'd set foot outside of the car. The car that had sported very foggy looking windows, which, by now, probably looked normal.

"Hey, Stiles, wanna dance?" Scott, face flushed from dancing, skids past Stiles, before catching himself and moving to stand in front of him and Derek. He spares a look at Derek, who, for some reason unfathomable to Stiles, makes a sound that's too much like a growl for his liking.

"Yeah, sure," Stiles says, wincing at the hurt look that Scott gives him. His best friend is such a puppy dog that it's almost pathetic. He's way too easy to crush with a look or a wayward word.

Derek seems to stiffen beside him, and Stiles holds out his hand to Scott, letting the other teen pull him up and propel him out to the dance floor. For a split second, he entertains the crazy thought of kissing Scott, wonders what his best friend would do if he kissed him right there on the dance floor, where everyone, including Derek, could see. He banishes the thought almost as soon as it surfaces.

Tonight's not about baiting broody werewolves who tease the hell out of him, and leave him feeling like a jellyfish drying out on a sandy beach. No, tonight's about having fun. About leaving crazy behind and just enjoying himself for a change.

Though, in all fairness, it's kind of hard for him to enjoy himself when he can feel Derek's eyes boring into him from several feet away, though there are other dancers between them.

"What's wrong, Stiles?" Scott asks. He's shimmying like a maniac, grinding his ass against Stiles' groin in a manner which is suggesting far more than it should, given that Scott's his best friend, and doesn't really mean anything by it. "Derek giving you a hard time?"

The unintentional pun isn't lost on Stiles, and it's all that he can do not to say something inane. It's also hard to take Scott seriously when his ass is in such close proximity to Stiles' groin, and Stiles stifles an absurd giggle that threatens to spill over. It's all rather ridiculous, and he feels much warmer than he thinks he should, even dancing all out as he is, and he can feel Derek's eyes, like laser beams, boring a hole between his shoulder blades.

"Derek's just being Derek," Stiles says, when he's managed to tamp down on his hysterical fit of giggles.

He's seriously losing his mind, the electricity of Derek's kisses are still addling his brain, making it hard for him to concentrate on anything other than the feel of the werewolf's eyes on his back, which, well, technically, he shouldn't be feeling in the first place. It's not rational. Not sane. Not that he's ever been particularly rational or sane, but, still, it's less sane than normal, and that's saying something.

"Translation, he's being a dick," Scott says, and he gets a serious look on his face, which reminds Stiles of a puppy that's got its heart set on chewing up its owner's slippers. He stops gyrating his hips, much to Stiles' secret relief, and squares his shoulders.

Stiles places a hand on Scott's chest when he realizes where this is heading. No way does he need, or want a wolf-wolf confrontation. Derek had escorted him to the junior prom to avoid all of the drama, the danger. He doesn't need Scott and Derek creating it, though there is a small part of him that is thrilled with the idea that, if there is a confrontation, it will be over him. To an overly hormonal, swooning teenager, which admittedly, he is, it's kind of appealing.

He groans as he realizes that, in all of this, he's behaving like the girl, or, in his case, the monkey in the middle, or maybe the banana that the monkeys are fighting over. None of it is flattering, and he wonders if it's too late to stay home, let his father tell Derek more and more embarrassing stories of when he'd been a kid and had even less impulse control than he does now. That would have been far less dangerous, possibly far less embarrassing, and there'd have been no kissing, no electrifying of his lips or his cheeks, or his neck, and definitely no movement southward. Definitely no Derek-eyes boring holes into the center of his back. No, just good, old-fashioned embarrassment at the hands of his father.

He's not even aware of the danger lurking behind him – he's so focused on the whole Scott-Derek conundrum – until it's suddenly upon him, shoving Scott so hard that it makes the teen fall flat on his ass, dragging Stiles backward by the scruff of his neck, like he's a newborn puppy who'd wandered too far away from his mother's teats. And that's so not an image he needs entering his head right now, because, once the blinding, heart-stopping, panic subsides, he realizes that the 'danger' is, in fact, not so dangerous after all. Well, if a glowy-eyed, angry, possessive werewolf, can be considered non-dangerous, that is.

Stiles struggles to turn in Derek's grip, so that he can face him like an almost man. He'll be eighteen in nine months, four days, and twelve and a half hours (not that he's counting down the days or anything, he just knows these kinds of things).

"Stop man-handling me," Stiles grumbles, finally pulling free, only to realize that the reason he was able to free himself was because Derek let him.

They're in a hallway that's only partially lit, and they're both out of breath. Derek's eyes are dark and smoldering, and, for a brief second, Stiles thinks he actually sees flames in the irises. It's unnerving, and Stiles swallows back the retort he'd had ready on his lips.

"It was you," he blurts out, when the silence has dragged out uncomfortably, and they've done nothing other than breathe and stare at each other and Stiles feels like Derek's eyes are gathering little bits of his soul as time drags on. And he knows that maybe, at the most, thirty seconds has passed, but, measured by teenage years, thirty seconds is equivalent to a lifetime.

Derek blinks at him and then frowns, his eyes losing some of the smoldering danger, clearing out into a shade of blue that Stiles doesn't think he's seen in them before. Not that Stiles has taken the time to note all of the different shades of blue, or green, or whatever the color of the moment is, in Derek's eyes. Not that he's got a notebook stuffed beneath this mattress that he keeps that kind of information in. No, he won't be reaching for this non-existent notebook, long after Derek's dropped him off at the end of their not-date, and feverishly noting down everything that happened tonight (minus the embarrassing parts that were out of his control).

"What?" Derek asks, and Stiles finds the way that his forehead crinkles in his confusion is rather endearing, maybe even cute, but he knows better than to utter any of that aloud. He really doesn't want to be flattened against a locker, well, not in the way that inciting Derek's anger would make that scenario happened, unless...

"What was me?" Derek prompts, moving closer, eyes narrowing in the way they do when he's starting to lose patience, and how does Stiles even know any of this?

He shouldn't know things like this about Derek. About anyone. But he does. He knows lots of things. Things he shouldn't know. For instance, he knows that Scott will be looking for him and Derek, that, though Derek's dragged him to an out of the way corridor, it'll only be a matter of time before they're discovered, not nearly enough time for the wolf to ravish him against the lockers.

"When I was a kid. It was you I met in the woods," Stiles clarifies, fully aware of the way that Derek's closing in on him – like a hunter stalking its prey. Derek's frown grows deeper, the lines giving Stiles a good idea of what he'll look like when he's aged. Not bad. Still hot.

"The werewolf," Stiles whispers, swallows as Derek stalks forward, takes a step back, and grimaces when his hip slams against a lock.

Derek smiles, and there's nothing kind about it. It's predatory, all teeth and too little lips. More an animalistic grin than a smile and Stiles supposes that's exactly what it is. He has no idea how he inspired such a look from Derek, but there's nothing new about that. He has no idea how he inspires any of the looks that Derek casts in his direction, any of the moves the man-wolf makes toward him.

"You were that," swallow, blink, "that werewolf," breathe, concentrate on breathing, "in the woods..."

Any more words that Stiles might have wanted to say are swallowed up in a kiss that makes the very ends of his hair, let alone his toes, curl. Derek's lips, though they'd been lacking in substance when they were stretched over his feral grin, are like fire, licking at him, and Stiles wraps a hand around the back of the man's neck, pulling him closer, begging for the burn, the flames to engulf him.

Derek's tongue, his taste, the feel of his hands as they grip and grope, awake things inside of Stiles that he didn't know were allowed to 'be' awake. Indecent, unholy things that cause Stiles to surge forward, to wrap his legs around Derek's middle when he tries to pull away. Things that probably shouldn't see the light of day, except, they are, and they will, and now that they've been awakened, they don't want to go back to sleep, or be relegated to the backseat, unless Derek's in that backseat with him.

And, before his lips, his mouth, his body, is relinquished, Stiles knows.

Without a doubt.

Without any reservation, and with no sense of wrongness that he's not asexual, bisexual, heterosexual, homosexual, he strictly, now and forevermore: Dereksexual.

It's a thing, Stiles is certain it is. Whatever this is, this…Dereksexuality.

It's real, and Stiles has it.

Has it bad.

Real bad.

When Derek pulls away, sucking in a greedy breath of air that isn't Stiles', lets Stiles breathe unrecycled Derek-air, Stiles shivers in the sudden cold, seeks out the warmth of the lips, the mouth, the crushing weight that, moments ago, was pressing him against the lockers – 115 and 116.

He blinks, pulls in a gasping lungful of air in a manner that's not unlike the panic attacks that he's had in the past. He's dizzy and exhausted in a way that's as close as close to satisfaction as he's ever been in his life, and wonders what it would be like to take things one step further, if he's ready for that next step.

The look in Derek's eyes – a mixture of longing and guilt – tells him that, ready or not, Derek's not going to take him there yet. And Stiles thinks that maybe that's okay, for now. Maybe it's even better for him, for them, if they do wait, take things slow, raging hormones be damned.

He knows his father will be happy to know that he's not planning on engaging in lewd sexual acts with an older man, a man with a sketchy past, just yet, though he doubts his father will be comfortable with the knowledge that, instead of using Derek to make some nonexistent teenage object of lust jealous, Stiles had unwittingly used Scott to make Derek jealous. Not that he's going to tell his father about any of that.

It's not a lie, not telling his father what happened with Derek – in the car, in the nearly dark hallway, on the way home, if he's lucky – it's not like keeping a secret from his dad, just establishing and maintaining healthy, teenage boundaries with his father. Simple. Somehow he doubts that his father will buy that as an explanation when he asks for details about tonight over a batch of cookies and a glass of milk.

"At least I didn't terrorize the masses by biting little old ladies on the ass," Derek says, voice a low and throaty tease.

He nips Stiles' neck, latching blunt human teeth on and then releasing, licking a path from neck to ear. And Stiles knows that he should be disgusted by this, because, 'ew,' he's being licked, but he's not disgusted or grossed out – far from it.

"Scott's found us," Derek whispers in his ear, making him shudder, making him lose his mind. Not that he's had much of a mind tonight – electric shock will do that to you, make you lose your mind. Stiles knows he's read that somewhere, or maybe it's lightning that has brain damaging effect. As it turns out, Derek and lightning have a lot in common, both are detrimental to Stiles' heart and mind.

"Let's give him something to talk about."

That's all the warning that Stiles gets before his world, literally (and that's literally in the recently acceptable figurative sense of the word literally, and not the actual, literal sense of the word) explodes.

He sees stars – white pinpricks of light behind closed eyelids – and it feels like something inside of him is going to burst free, that he's going to maybe give birth to an alien, like Sigourney Weaver, or maybe, maybe, maybe he's just going to come undone, fall apart at the seams. He grinds against Derek, needing the friction, the feel of Derek's own hardness pressing, rubbing, grinding against his own. He doesn't know what he's doing, never dreamt of doing it like this, in a public place with his best friend watching.

And, before he really gets a handle on what it is that he's doing, hips moving with purposeful intent, he kind of spontaneously combusts, whimpering with the loss of heat, the loss of the tightness that had been building up in his gut.

All that's left is the feel of Derek's lips, his tongue, an uncomfortable warm stickiness in his boxers that he knows he probably should feel embarrassed about, because, they're coupled together in the middle of the high school hallway, and Scott's standing there, watching them, but he's not embarrassed, because it was fucking beautiful, and Derek has that same sticky wetness – a wet spot spreading out from the zipper on his slacks – that he does.

Derek sets him on his feet, and Stiles grudgingly accepts the move, knowing that they can't stay locked together that way forever, at least not in the middle of the hallway. He can see Scott out of the corner of his eye, mouth opening and closing in shock, eyes bugging out of his head. His cheeks are red, though the rest of his face is pale, and he almost feels sorry for him, but there's something else at work inside of Stiles, and unthinking, he wraps a possessive arm around Derek's waist, and says, "Mine."

Derek quirks an eyebrow and gives him an unreadable look, and Stiles shrugs as he turns to face his best friend whom he's loved since he was old enough to understand what love was. Scott gives them an abashed smile and a tiny wave, before he excuses himself and scurries back to the gymnasium. It'll take a night of movies and video games, maybe two or three, to make things right between him and Scott, but Stiles is okay with that.

"Yours, huh?" Derek asks when they're alone again. His eyes are dark again, some kind of silvery glint in them, and Stiles is going to have to make mention of that in the notebook that he doesn't have stashed underneath his mattress.

Stiles nods, completely serious. "Mine," he repeats, and then he twists and turns and sinks his teeth into Derek's ass, which is, well, hard and yet rather springy, and completely his. He thinks he remembers, now, why he bit that mother in the ass, why he bit all of the mothers, the other children, his parents – what he'd really been looking for was his werewolf, his family, the one he'd met in the woods that day, and secretly wanted for his very own. He had him now, and, well, he didn't ever want to let him go.

Derek slaps him on the ass, and they wrestle. Derek snags him in a headlock, and Stiles wonders at this side of Derek, if this is what Derek was like before he'd lost his family. Before the fire. Before he'd fallen in love the first time.

Derek kisses him and then lets him go, and there's a smile on his face. An honest-to-goodness smile. It makes Stiles smile. Derek slings an arm across his shoulders and Stiles snakes one around his waist.

"Time to go, Cinderella," Derek says, ruffling his hair.

Stiles frowns. "But it's only ten fifteen. We don't need to be back until…"

Derek blows on his ear and sucks on the lobe. Stiles starts leading the way to the car, understanding dawning quickly. Forty-five minutes, give or take ten for driving time, to make out with Derek before he's got to face his father, and the dreaded photo album again – there are at least two more of them that Stiles hopes his father has forgotten about, but with his luck, his father already has them lined up on the coffee table, waiting for their return.

Reviews keep me off crack, not really, I don't do crack, (can you 'do' crack?) but they do make me feel happy and like I've not wasted my time. Show me the love (if you don't mind). Thanks