Upper East Side, Manhattan
8:00 AM

Stiles wakes up with a start to the loud blaring of his alarm, swatting it silent immediately - and sweating like he has been running all night. Which actually he had just been doing, in his dream - but that doesn't count, does it? Lately he has been having recurring dreams of being chased through the woods by a big, black, hairy creature with red glowing eyes. He blames it on all the stress. His senior year back at Beacon Hills High School had been anything but a pleasant experience, and he is glad he can finally put it all behind him.

The whole experience had been a completely nerve-wrecking one. Pressure had been mounting from the very beginning and even without the whole Scott-Allison official breakup fiasco, life would have been just as hellish. Scott had begun drinking shortly after the split and Stiles, ever the good friend, would be the one dragging him home at odd hours in the night from obscure, shady bars and deserted alleys - all the while putting on a completely fake facade for both their sakes so suspicions would not be drawn, and covering up Scott's tracks for him. Of course that hadn't been the worst of it. Which would have been when Melissa had actually come to know about it all, then his dad, then their friends, then the entire school, then practically the whole frickin' town. Scott had been involved in a drunken brawl and had been stabbed nearly fatally. Fingers had inevitably been pointed thereafter, and although Scott had obviously borne the brunt of it, enough frowns and disappointed head-shakes had been directed at him too.

Allison had stopped talking to him after that, and he knows that she blames him for not doing anything while Scott went on his downward spiral. He blames himself too. And of course his dad would still look at him with the tiniest bit of suspicion despite all his assurances that he hadn't been drinking with Scott. Jackson and Lydia's split shortly after had affected him to a lesser degree, but it too added up in the ultimate tally of stress-inducing events. Jackson had only become more of a douche after that, thereby making everyone else's lives just that much more unbearable. Stiles had tried asking Lydia out then after literally weeks of mental prepping, which in the ultimate scheme of things had proven not only to have been a complete waste of time but also a cause for even greater anguish at the prompt rejection he had received. Lydia, meanwhile, hadn't wasted a single second moping over the breakup and had buried her nose in her books for the remainder of the academic session. She got into MIT, unsurprisingly. Allison was accepted into Yale, and Scott settled for Beacon Hills Community College.

Stiles being Stiles, had practically applied to literally every single college in the country. Of the several acceptance letters he had received, he chose Columbia University, which is how he found himself here now - sweaty and alone in bed in a posh apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It had come as a startling surprise when Jackson had rather timidly asked him if he wanted to share his apartment with him. Stiles now wonders if Jackson had actually paid a rather large donation to get into Columbia but decides to atleast grant the guy the benefit of the doubt. After considering the pros and the cons of the arrangement, he had accepted the offer. After all, Jackson had asked rather nicely and perhaps they both could be better off with atleast having a familiar face around in a completely new city. Also, it wasn't like his financial situation is in any spectacularly sound condition. Unlike Jackson, he could only afford to study here because of his scholarship.

Today, however, is the first day of class and he has no time to be rolling around in bed all day, reminiscing about his halcyon highschool days at Beacon Hills. He groans as his stiff neck protests against his attempts to roll off the bed and slumps back into the pillow with a sigh.

"Jackson!" he calls out but receives no reply and wonders if the guy had ever decided that he had partied enough and returned last night. Probably not.

He stumbles off the bed and goes straight to the kitchen where he sets up a pot of coffee before marching off to the shower. He wonders if he should do something about his stiff morning wood but decides he doesn't have a second to waste and instead concentrates all his willpower into making it go away. Back in the kitchen he pours himself a glass of milk and a bowl of cereal and has a hurried breakfast, downing his caffeine fix in between.

He has butterflies - a whole army of them - in his stomach as he tries to make up his mind on what to wear. He reminds himself that he isn't going on a fashion parade and that even with his best efforts he could hardly ever make a fashion statement anyway, and subsequently throws on all his favourites. Which would comprise of his long loyal light brown pants, a thin white V-neck T-shirt, his indispensable grey jacket, and an old pair of nondescript Converse shoes. Doing a quick mental run over all the stuff he would need for the day, he rushes out the door and takes the elevator down. He wishes he could have dismantled his jeep, packed it in a suitcase, and brought it here to New York where he could have lego-ed it back together. He misses his baby already. He hates trying to grab a taxi early morning.

Of course it's raining when he steps out. And the universe isn't even trying to be discreet about the fact that it's trying to seriously fuck up his life. It's a frickin' downpour out there. He runs out in the rain, madly waving and literally screaming like a banshee for a cab. One pulls up after several minutes but there's a frail old lady standing beside him, trembling under a tiny umbrella, and how could he...

"Thank you, son," she says with a kind smile as he helps her into the taxi. He smiles back with a nod and that would have been the highlight of his day had it not been for the fact that he's getting thoroughly soaked through and he has his first class to not be late for.

He stands out in the rain for several long minutes making quite the spectacle out of himself, but he doesn't really care. When a lone cab pulls over at last he makes a mad dash for it, but a man beats him to it first.

"That's mine!" he literally shrieks, feeling like the metaphorical kid-whose-candy-was-snatched. He is fuming.

The man is wearing a sky-blue button-down shirt tucked in over close-fitting black pants; he has a couple of books clutched in one hand and a black jacket in the other. He is soaked through as well and Stiles tries not to stare too much at how his shirt is clinging to his skin. He is obviously very well-built and frankly, if he isn't sex on legs Stiles doesn't know what is. Stiles is gaping, he realises belatedly, and when he slowly raises his eyes up to his face, the man is looking at him with a cocky grin. And did he mention he is also extremely good-looking? They are about the same height. His eyes are lucid blue, and-

"So?" the man suddenly speaks, startling him.

"What?" he asks timidly, obviously having not heard whatever had been asked of him earlier.

"Get in the cab, we're sharing," the man replies, looking amused- and what's that look he's giving Stiles?

Stiles swallows nervously and wordlessly steps into the cab as the man holds the door open for him. He gets in after Stiles and smiles at him. He then places his stack of books beside him on the seat on the other side from Stiles and scoots over closer to him to make space for his jacket as well. Their thighs touch and Stiles feels a jolt of electricity travel all the way down his spine. He is suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm.

"Where are you headed?" the man asks him, still smiling at him. Stiles thinks he has never seen a sexier smile in his entire life and panics when he struggles to form words into a reply.

"I have a 9:30 class to catch," he says after a tumultous battle with himself, trying desperately to present a calm front despite all the internal flailing taking place.

"Me too," the man replies and there's that look in his eyes again that Stiles can't quite place yet, but it sets his heart racing nevertheless. "Columbia?"

"Yes," Stiles attempts at his calm pretence again but his voice terribly betrays him when it comes out as a small whimper. The man only looks amused.

"Derek," he says and extends a hand.

Stiles slowly shakes the hand and as he touches skin for the first time he feels something stir somewhere on his body. For fuck's sake, he's only just met the guy and he's already having all sorts of stuff going all hooyay inside him.

"Stiles," he all but gasps breathlessly. Because- merciful lord, not only is Derek giving him that look again, but now he is rubbing his thumb against the back of Stiles' hand.

Stiles is most definitely having a major crisis in his pants right now and all the willpower in the world is doing nothing to stop its relentless progress. He then makes the unforgivable mistake of glancing down at his very visible bulge. Derek follows his gaze and Stiles has never felt more embarrassed in his life. He knows that his ears are already bright red and the heat coming off his face could have put a small radiator out of work. He is surprised, however, when Derek's grip on his hand tightens just a little and he looks up to see his adam's apple bob as he swallows, his lips slightly parted and eyes gleaming with what Stiles could only describe as...desire. Lust.

Oh god. Stiles immediately jerks his hand back and clears his throat as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Derek's face is inches away from his and Stiles can feel his breath hot on his neck. His pants are too tight now and he can hardly move without making himself any more obvious. Derek makes a sound like he's supposed to say something but suddenly at a loss for words, and then leans back against his seat. Stiles feels a shocking pang of disappointment and has to scold himself for being so desperately horny. He should have jerked himself off in the shower after all. Well, it's much too fucking late now.

Derek starts unbuttoning his shirt and Stiles can only look on and feel panic rising inside him. But then Derek stops after only the top three buttons and pulls a white handkerchief out of his pocket, proceeding to wipe himself dry. Stiles swallows and tries to look away but cannot. He can see Derek looking at him out of the corner of his eye with a smirk. He barely catches a glimpse of a muscular, precision-chiselled chest straight from the statue of some Greek god before Derek begins buttoning up again.

"You should dry yourself too," Derek says, turning to face him with a grin that should literally be outlawed in atleast a few dozen states with immediate effect.

Stiles only nods dumbly and begins to remove his jacket.

"Here, let me," says Derek, reaching out and helping Stiles, who hardly gets an opportunity to protest as Derek's hand brushes against the back of his neck and he swears he didn't actually let out a small moan.

Once Derek has helped him out of his jacket he suddenly feels naked and exposed. It's not like his super-thin T-shirt literally plastered to his skin is making him feel any more clothed than a frickin' newborn baby. He pulls out his own handkerchief and starts wiping down his neck. He can feel Derek's gaze burning into his skin as he dries himself. Carefully he glances sideways and sees Derek's eyes roaming all over his body. He feels heat rise to his face again. He knows that Derek can see it all on his face, in his eyes, in the way his whole body is trembling with anticipation.

"See? Much better," Derek says in a cheerful, husky voice and smacks his thigh.

Stiles smiles back laboriously but immediately gives up all pretence because Derek's hand does not leave his thigh. Instead he's gently rubbing it and Stiles has to bite his lower lip to prevent an obnoxious, needy sound from escaping his throat. His throbbing cock is pressed up against his skin - hot and in need of immediate release. Derek glances down at the huge bulge in his pants and licks his lips. Stiles fails to stop a small whimper from escaping his lips. This is fucking torture. His left hand is grasping his jacket for all he's worth and his right hand is somewhere- he has no idea if it's even attached to him anymore.

There's no use pretending now. His breath comes out in thick, needy pants. He thinks he sees the cab-driver glance at them through the rear-view mirror but when he actually looks at him in panic, his eyes are on the road. Derek's breath is uneven and his face is too fucking close to his again. When did he-

Stiles can't stop the loud moan when in one swift movement, Derek's hand climbs all the way up and settles on his hard cock. However, the sound is muffled by Derek's mouth as he swoops in and captures his lips, trapping the sound. Stiles' brain has exploded into tiny, microscopic bits. There's just white noise now. Absently he feels Derek remove his jacket from his grasp and drape it over his legs. But he can't even fight it because Derek is furiously rubbing his achingly stiff dick and kisssing him with a passion he could only describe as savage. Beastly. Hungry. Derek takes his bottom lip between his teeth and gives it a small nip before sucking on it.

Stiles doesn't even know what's happening anymore. Derek continues to stroke his cock through his pants relentlessly. Several moans rumble up his throat but die away at his lips as Derek's mouth muffles them. His right hand, he discovers, is snaking up Derek's thigh all on its own. He barely manages to brush Derek's hard erection before his hand is slapped away. Derek, however, breathes a soft moan into his mouth. After that he abandons all rationality. Or rather, all rationality abandons him. He begins to thrust against Derek's hand. He closes his eyes and actually kisses Derek back for the first time. They breathe in through their noses noisily. He wonders how on earth the driver could not know what the hell is going on in the back. He couldn't care less however.

Derek pushes his tongue into his mouth and he accepts it hungrily as he continues to thrust violently against Derek's hand which is rubbing his needy cock hotly through the fabric. He whimpers and moans his pleasure into Derek's mouth where they drown out. He feels the pressure building up at the base of his cock as his balls tighten. Derek senses it and increases the tempo of his stroke till all coherency is effectively massacred inside Stiles' head. He can only dig his fingers into the seat and keep thrusting forcefully into Derek's hand. Again and again and again. Until he finally explodes inside his pants. His legs kick out under the force of his release and his whole body arches up, a violent tremble passing throughout. Derek's mouth ravishes his with a hunger he himself reciprocates.

Then he comes crashing back down to planet earth. And opens his eyes. And dares not move. Derek pulls away from him with a satisfied smirk. Stiles is flushed outside and sticky inside. He blinks rapidly several times but cannot seem to get his brain to start functioning again. The taxi pulls to a stop. Derek pulls out a bill and hands it to the driver.

"Keep the change," he says, eyes still on Stiles.

Stiles only stares dumbfounded as Derek gathers his things and exits the taxi.

"Nice to meet you, Stiles," he says, ducking his head below the door to give him a grin and a wink.

Then he's gone. Stiles still doesn't move and is only startled into a scramble for his own stuff when the driver turns around to face him. He is a little, chubby man, and presently with a sly grin.

"You are getting out here, right, sir?" he asks.

Stiles nods and proceeds to leave, but stops.

"How'd you know this was our stop?" he asks incredulously.

"I picked it up from your conversation," the driver replies sheepishly and promptly whips back around to stare straight ahead.

Stiles can only give the back of his head a disbelieving gape before he stumbles out and rushes for his first lecture, feeling very uncomfortable in his pants. He is already running late though. He rechecks his schedule for the hundredth time and makes absolutely sure it's a Twentieth Century Fiction lecture he's supposed to be attending now. As he approaches the class, he makes a sudden frantic grab for his schedule and stares at it in disbelief. Surely Prof. Derek Hale couldn't possibly be... He shakes his head, letting out a small laugh at the absurdity of the thought.

His laugh is only fading away in the shape of a faint smile when he enters the room. He knows he's about ten minutes late. But then he promptly discovers that that could very well be the least of his worries right now. Because straight up ahead on the podium is the one face he could never forget. And they just stare at each other, mirroring each other's expressions. Mostly shock. Utter mortification on Stiles' part. Until Derek's face slowly breaks into a smile.

"Have a seat, Stiles."

As Stiles mutely and obediently walks up to an empty seat, he can't help but feel like he's being sent away to the metaphorical wall of shame. He can feel Derek's eyes drilling into the back of his head. When he had applied to Columbia, he most definitely had not signed up for this.

Stiles wants the world to know that once again, the universe has managed to royally screw his virgin ass, thank you very much.