Rating: M for language and sexual content including underage gay sex.

A/N: Much of this story has been plucked directly from role-play on Twitter between MisterStilinski and AlphaOfBeacon. Thank you to RicaResin for inspiration, for letting me use her words, and for her beta work and editing. Thank you to OhMyPumpkinPie for patience and cheerleading.

If you're going to read The Call, read it first before The Message.

I'm considering making a permanent move to AO3 (Archive of Our Own). My pseudonym over there is DandyboyDaniel (Notice the 'b' is lowercase, unlike here.) If you like this and want to read more stories like it, you might have to follow me over there.

Spoilers for Season 2. Not entirely season 2 finale compliant.

Disclaimer: Jeff Davis, Viacom, MTV, etc. own everything except my OC's.

The Message

Derek didn't know what to call this.

He and Stiles weren't friends, so they couldn't be labeled as Friends With Benefits. Though it was a secret, it was questionable whether he actually liked Stiles, so it couldn't be called an Affair. They never did anything alone together outside of screwing around to merit Seeing Each Other. Even a Fling had too much expectation attached to it, and Derek never knew if anything else was going to happen beyond what they were doing.

It was Fucking. No other way to explain it. It didn't matter that they hadn't actually fucked; it was still the best word for it in Derek's mind. Fucking had no implications of any particular sentiment. Fucking was sex with no attachments, no affection.

So when Peter raised an astute brow and asked what was going on between Derek and young Mr. Stilinski, Derek shrugged and replied emotionlessly, "We're fucking." This was, of course, after Derek's fruitless insistence that nothing was going on.

Both of Peter's eyebrows arched even higher in tandem with the inquisitive upswing of his words, "You're fucking?" He didn't sound surprised, just curious.

"We're fucking," Derek repeated, never altering the flat cadence of his declaration, lest he reveal anything more than absolutely nothing.

He couldn't lie to his uncle, who was perceptive and observant on top of being able to detect fluctuations in heart rate that correlated with deceit. Even if Derek could have somehow managed to lie flawlessly with nary a flutter in his veins, up to this point, he hadn't been careful enough. Derek couldn't deny the new level of awkwardness every time Stiles was around, which was in increasing frequency (of the times Stiles came over and the level of awkwardness). Stiles had a good reason to be at the house so often. He was helping the pack with renovations. But that good reason had become an excuse. Stiles hadn't been coming for the brownie points. He had been coming for what almost always happened after laying down floorboards or installing insulation.

"Just fucking?" Peter pried, using that first word like a crowbar to get underneath Derek's cryptic statement, flavoring it with insinuations that there was something more. Something else.

Derek responded with impatience. "Yes. It's just fucking."

Peter smirked knowingly and gave Derek a sideways glance. "Oh, I'd hardly call 354 text messages in one billing cycle just fucking."

Damn it. Peter just had to get them new iPhones – him and his stupid Apple obsession. Now Derek's stalking repertoire had extended from slow drive-by's in his Camaro past Stiles' house to creeping at the touch of a button (touch screen - whatever the fuck.) Peter had put them on the same family plan because it was less expensive, but more likely, it was so he could monitor the pack's communication.

Derek's lips formed a deep frown. "What would you call it, then?"

"I'd call it sexting," Peter proposed.

Derek was still trying to get over the notion of Peter as his vengeful, psycho, former vegetable uncle and get used to Peter as a snarky technophile with a metrosexual sense of personal style. It rubbed him the wrong way to hear the word sexting coming out of his mouth, more so than the word fucking.

"Whatever," Derek snapped shortly, "It's just sexting."

"Well, if it's just sexting…" Peter trailed off, cocking his head to the side shrewdly.

"I think I just ended it, though." Derek spoke softly, using the somber tone of his voice to plead rather than outwardly begging, "But don't… Don't tell anybody." Derek sighed heavily, wearily.

"Don't tell anybody what? It's nothing." Peter put on an innocent grin like the cat that ate the canary.

~D~

Three months ago, it all starts with a harmless text message:

Hey. Got a phone. Here's my number in case your ass needs saving.

Which is quickly amended in another message:

Doesn't mean I'm at your beck-and-call. Emergencies only.

Derek is only vaguely aware of why, on impulse, he has just opened that line of communication between him and Stiles. It has been a month since the diffusion of the Kanima situation. Scott is keeping his distance from the pack, probably scraping together the pieces of his life to make some semblance of normalcy for the sake of sanity, both Scott's and his mother's. By default, Stiles has not been around either.

There has been a nagging voice at the back of Derek's psyche that needs to know Stiles won't keep away forever; needs to ensure he won't. But he won't blame Stiles for wanting to go back to the life of an average teenager, absent of mortal danger, sans supernatural beings, away from Derek.

It catches Derek quite off guard – this strange, inexplicable compulsion to be in Stiles' proximity. It is definitely a compulsion. Not a need. Not a want. It is very much like the nerve-grating, constant hum and rattle of traffic on 8th Avenue - the sound outside his former apartment in Manhattan that he couldn't sleep without when he returned to Beacon Hills. Derek didn't know the compulsion was there until Stiles suddenly wasn't.

When Derek receives an almost immediate reply from Stiles, he is pleasantly surprised.

STILES: Thanks. If you require MY ass-saving awesomeness, let me know. No emergency is too small when I'm bored.

STILES: FYI I'm fucking bored.

Derek snorts with amusement and responds:

DEREK: The pack needs your immediate assistance. Dire emergency.

It is probably a bad idea to bait Stiles.

STILES: ?!

DEREK: We're laying down new floors and could use an extra set of hands.

STILES: Next time you cry wolf (lol!) I will ignore you.

Over the next two weeks, there is a rapport between Derek and Stiles in their text messages that doesn't exist in person. It feels easy to talk to Stiles this way; easy to joke and banter when his annoying little elfin face isn't in Derek's. Derek would daresay he actually enjoys it. Stiles comes over and helps with renovations a few days after school and on the weekends. Derek has come to expect a text message from Stiles when he gets home, usually with a complaint.

Such as:

I must say, I prefer Driving Miss Derek to slave labor. But my piece of crap jeep doesn't. Still have bloodstains on the seats.

Or:

You're paying for my tetanus shot. Never mind I'm still covered under my dad's insurance.

And the ever amusing:

I got a splinter, bitch.

Derek understands that Stiles' intention isn't to whine, but to let him know that he got home safely, unmolested by the alpha pack, which is an ever-present threat. Derek usually replies with Thanks for your help and a witty retort if he can come up with something, which he usually ends up erasing before sending when he deems it not funny enough.

One day, Stiles' routine complaint text turns flirtatious.

STILES: I'm getting carpal tunnel syndrome because of you. Not because you're hot. It's your fucking floor.

DEREK: You should be grateful. No other hot guy is going to call you over to bang on his floor.

STILES: We've been banging on your floor for over a month now. I think you should buy me dinner before we bang on your floor again. Not that I don't enjoy banging on your floor. I just don't want you to think I'm cheap.

DEREK: Dinner is the least I could do, since banging on my floor makes you so sore.

STILES: I wouldn't be so sore after banging on your floor if it weren't so big.

DEREK: It's not that big. It's only 10 inches. I mean 1700 sq ft.

STILES: It FEELS bigger. Oh the pain!

DEREK: The house is actually 2100 sq ft, but we only bought enough Pergo to cover 1700.

STILES: You are NOT 10 in. I call bullshit.

DEREK: 10 ½ in. actually.

STILES: Shut up! Is that a werewolf thing? Or a lucky dude thing?

DEREK: It's a lucky werewolf thing.

STILES: Prove it. I don't stare at your crotch or anything, but I doubt you're hiding 10.5 inches in your jeans. Photographic evidence please.

DEREK: I'm not 10 ½ in. right NOW. I'm not sending you a picture of my dick.

STILES: Next time you're 10.5, snap a pic next to a ruler and send it to me, or I'll think you're a lying sack of shit.

Derek stares at his phone the better part of an hour, reading and rereading his exchange with Stiles, wondering if it had been real, or something his sex-deprived mind conjured up. Did he actually flirt with Stilinski, and did Stiles actually flirt back, requesting a picture of his erect penis? Crazier shit could not have happened. But then again, it is pretty insane in and of itself that he and Stiles are texting each other on a regular basis as if they're bros.

The next weekend Stiles comes over, he joins the pack for an early dinner and they behave as if nothing flirty happened via SMS. It's nothing fancy, just baked macaroni and cheese that his uncle makes, though Peter claims that the Gruyer and Emmentaler make it gourmet comfort food. Erica thinks it smells like feet and Isaac bemoans that it's going to give him horrible acid reflux, though they both scarf it down anyway. Jackson refuses to eat it, deeming it too high in cholesterol and calories - Never mind that werewolves can't get heart disease and burn too many calories to skip meals without getting cranky. Boyd says it tastes like his grandmother's baked mac and he spends the rest of the meal looking forlorn. Stiles elbows Boyd gently and mutters something quietly, though it's useless to hide dinner conversation from the ears of the wolves. Stiles says he feels kind of sad every time he eats his dad's hand-made Perogies, something Mr. Stilinski learned to make from Stiles' mom's recipe after she passed away.

"Chamomile tea reminds me of Laura… When I make it," says Derek quietly.

Stiles looks at him like he has two heads, lips slightly parted, no sound coming out of it for once.

"My sister. Laura," Derek clarifies. When Stiles continues to look perplexed, he adds impatiently, "You know. The woman whose body you dug up in my yard? Laura Hale?"

Stiles talks but he still has this expression on his face as if Derek had confessed to assassinating JFK. "Yeah yeah, I know. Your sister. I just didn't think you'd-"

"Drink tea?" Derek cuts him off. "What do you think I'd drink?" he asks defensively.

The corner of Stiles' mouth turns up like his brain-to-mouth filter has failed him yet again and he's both appalled and amused at his own answer. "I don't know, moonshine?"

Peter laughs and muses, "Yeah me and Billy-Bob used to make it out back in an old bathtub."

"Okay that's gross," Stiles says, his lips quirking with amusement. Derek wonders when Stiles stopped being terrified of Peter. Derek also wonders when Stiles stopped being afraid of him.

"I'm kidding. We actually used to have a well-stocked wine cellar. Great California vintages down there. Pity it was pillaged after the fire." Peter sighs and sips his grocery store wine, and Derek thinks his uncle is more saddened by the loss of the wine than the loss of their family at this point.

"Looters?" Boyd asks.

"No, Argents," Peter replies, "Likely Kate, pilfering the spoils of war."

Derek visibly winces, letting his fork drop onto the plate with a clattering sound. "I'm going to get started on the floor."

Stiles stays to help with the restoration and it is business as usual. Almost business as usual. Maybe Stiles seems a little more flushed in the cheeks than normal as he hammers planks of fake hardwood flooring, most notably after Derek had taken off his sweat-soaked shirt. Maybe Derek stares a bit too long at the boy on his hands and knees, exerting himself on the bedroom floor. Maybe his senses hone in on Stiles' scent more than the ambient aromas in the air and maybe the smell of Stiles' pheromones seems to linger in the house long after the boy has gone. And maybe, just maybe, Stiles' teenage boy smell and the thought of Stiles on all fours on the newly lain floors, taking a pounding from Derek's ten-and-a-half-inch cock, is haunting Derek enough to warrant photographic evidence later tonight.

~D~

All the sexual endorphins surging through Derek's body, as he wanks himself with the kind of fervor he hasn't known since high school, has robbed him of rationality. He's reckless and stupid-horny. Before he can stop and contemplate the immorality or imprudence of sending a photo of his cock to the underage teenage son of Beacon County's sheriff, Derek has texted it to Stiles.

DEREK: Delete this right after you look at it. NSFW.

It's a dark photo of his broad hand wielding his impressive erection. No time to grab a tape measure. He thinks of a million excuses for his lewd text message in the event that Stiles files a restraining order against him: He was drunk. Peter took his phone and thought he was being funny. The phone had been hacked. He thought he was texting somebody else. And in the time he's crafting all these panicked excuses, Stiles has texted him back.

STILES: Where's the ruler? You could be 4 inches for all I know.

Luckily, or not, Stiles seems unfazed by a twenty-three-year-old werewolf texting him a picture of his hard-on. Either Stiles is jaded from all the online porn he has likely watched, or he isn't letting on how affected he really is. Or all these capital letters are actually meant to express Stiles' shock and awe.

DEREK: Hand is in the pic for reference. Can't get the ruler.

STILES: Are you THAT hard RIGHT NOW?

DEREK: Maybe.

STILES: PROVE IT!

Another cock shot is sent with Derek's wristwatch in the frame for time reference.

STILES: Dude! You're HUGE! I kind of hate you.

STILEs: Actually, I think I'm in love, man. That's one big fucking dick!

DEREK: You better be deleting, or else.

STILES: Or else what? You'll smack me with your 10.5 in. monster?

DEREK: I'm going to check. If my dick is still there, I'm breaking your phone.

STILES: I can delete it from my text log but save the pics to my photo album. Nobody would know it's you.

DEREK: Why save the pics?

STILES: I need proof that such monsters are real and not Photoshopped. Like Sasquatch.

Five minutes later, Stiles sends an unexpected photo of his own impressive hard-on, complete with a ruler. Stiles' cock is narrow and long, neatly circumcised, and screaming pink with teenage sexual urgency. And Derek finds himself texting with one hand for the rest of the conversation.

STILES: BAM! I'm a grower, not a show-er. Bet you didn't expect 6.25 inches from a guy like me.

DEREK: Not bad. Did you just take that now?

STILES: Yes. Figured it was only fair since you showed me yours.

DEREK: I call foul. Don't believe you'd happen to be hard at the same time.

Another cock shot is sent with Stiles' alarm clock blaring red numbers in the background. And is that a pearl of pre-come beading at the tip? Fuck…

STILES: POW! Two can play at this game of swords.

DEREK: Coincidence?

STILES: I think not, Sherlock. You expected otherwise when texting me your cock?

DEREK: Yes. Didn't think you were into that, Dr. Watson.

STILES: I am SOOOO into that Holmes. If you're not, I'll use brain bleach and we can forget this ever happened.

DEREK: I'm into it.

STILES: Well, fuck. Are you touching it?

DEREK: Yes. You?

STILES: Fuck yes.

DEREK: What are you thinking about?

Stiles sends a copy of Derek's cock shot and Derek nearly comes right then and there. He holds out for longer, because Stiles talking dirty, fluent in profanity, is so fucking wrong that it's right and he wants more.

STILES: Tell me you're thinking about me even if you're not.

Derek can imagine Stiles speaking these words, panting and desperate, thrusting through his fist. He sends him a candid picture of Stiles. It's really more of a stalker picture than a candid. Stiles is on his knees, lips parted, cheeks flushed pink, hammer in hand, hunched over the floor. Derek hadn't wanted to admit to himself that he'd taken this picture on the sly today. But there it is. It can't be denied and now Stiles knows it too.

STILES: You sexy perverted creeper. I can't believe you're stalking me. That's so fucking hot. I'm gonna come.

And this makes Derek shoot his load, the image of Stiles frantically jerking himself blazing in his mind. He comes so hard he grunts, despite every effort to keep silent within the cheap sheetrock replacement walls. He tastes the metallic tinge of blood on his tongue from biting his lip, and he desperately hopes that Isaac, in the room next to Derek's, tuned out all the heavy breathing and such.

DEREK: Just came.

STILES: Show me.

Stiles' request makes Derek's spent cock twitch and sends another post-orgasmic wave of heat over his body. He snaps evidence of the aftermath, voluminous pearly threads spilling over his fist, congealing on the fabric of his heather grey boxer briefs. He sends it to Stiles, as his cock spasms with aftershocks. He's savoring the delicious thought of Stiles jerking off to Derek's come shot.

Thirty seconds pass. Then a minute. Then two, then four. Derek cleans himself up as he begins to panic that the last picture he sent had gone too far. And then…

STILES: Never come so hard before. Had to lie down for a sec. ***saw stars***

Derek is vaguely curious about what that picture would look like – Stiles all spent and sated, spunk splattering his abdomen, skin sumptuously rosy. But he refrains from asking for it. He's starting to come down from his sex-high and Reason is seeping in quickly like water through the cracks of a dam. Derek shouldn't push it; shouldn't have a money shot of a sixteen-year-old kid on his phone.

And that's when the dam breaks. Everything rushes in at once, suffocating Derek with the gravity of it all, pressing on his chest. He hasn't had a panic attack since he was Stiles' age, when the smell of somebody lighting a cigarette could set him off. But Derek feels one coming on. Oh shit, oh fuck, this is BAD, Derek thinks to himself as he frantically changes out of his come-stained underwear and yanks on a pair of sweatpants.

DEREK: Delete every picture and every word of this conversation RIGHT NOW or I will take your phone, bash you on the head, and REALLY make you see stars.

STILES: Even this?

STILES: How about this?

DEREK: I MEAN IT!

STILES: Can I transfer the pictures to my laptop?

DEREK: WHICH PART OF –DELETE- DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?

Derek should probably just call Stiles and growl at him rather than try to convey his seriousness in all capital letters. But he can't bring himself to do it, can't bear to hear Stiles' voice, can't do anything to risk making it any less virtual and more real. And holy fuck, did shit just get mighty real. He and Stiles Little Shit Stilinski just had the text message equivalent of phone sex. He's fairly certain he could get busted for sexual harassment at the very least, and at the very worst, be smacked with a statutory rape charge and be on one of those sex offender lists for the rest of his life.

Stiles can't seem to grasp the impact that their little 'thing' could have on Derek's already besmirched police record if somebody, like, oh, maybe the fucking sheriff of Beacon County got a hold of his son's cell phone.

STILES: But I have so much porn on my laptop already, it'll just blend in. Your face isn't even in the pictures. Just your gorgeous cock.

Flattery would not be getting Stiles anywhere tonight, even though Derek felt a little flutter of something in his chest knowing Stiles thought his dick was gorgeous. He had to stay firm on this issue. Fuck! Not firm. Bad choice of words. Unyielding. Derek had to be unyielding on this issue.

DEREK: I could go to JAIL if somebody, like your DAD, found out.

STILES: You afraid of my dad, Big Bad Wolf?

DEREK: PRISON, you dick!

STILES: I'm 16. You'd only get up to a year. If I were younger, up to 4.

DEREK: Only?!

STILES: He's not going to find out. I'm good at keeping secrets.

~D~

STILES: Can you keep a secret?

DEREK: Obviously.

STILES: I jerked off to a pic of Derek Hale's hot cock 2 weeks ago.

DEREK: Do you know who you're texting?

STILES: He sent me 3. In the last, he had spunk all over himself. Hotter than Lydia Martin in a bikini top at the charity car wash last summer. Hotter than Brent Everett in bareback gay porn.

DEREK: Tell me you deleted.

STILES: I kept the pictures on my phone. AND the sexy text messages. Oh yes. There were sexy text messages.

DEREK: YOU LITTLE SHIT!

STILES: He was going to check that I'd deleted everything off my phone, but he never called me back or answered my texts, or invited me over, so…

DEREK: MANIPULATIVE LITTLE SHIT!

STILES: Another secret. I'm hard as fuck right now.

STILES: I'm thinking of him. ALWAYS thinking of him.

DEREK: Cut it out.

STILES: Those pictures aren't enough. I want to see his face. His whole glorious body.

DEREK: Stop it.

STILES: I want to know he's been thinking of me like I've been thinking of him. Been stroking his beautiful dick while thinking of me.

DEREK: Going to shut off my phone.

STILES: I want to send him naked pictures of myself. Holding my hard cock.

STILES: But I won't, because I respect him. He doesn't want to get caught with pictures of jailbait. He thinks I'm too young. Thinks it's dangerous.

STILES: I like it dangerous. Never did until I met Derek Hale and started running with wolves.

STILES: I'm an adrenaline junkie now. Need a fix. Wish he'd at least let me come over, let me be surrounded by dangerous creatures wielding power tools.

STILES: Let me feel like I'm a part of something thriving and bursting with life and oozing with potential bodily harm. His wolf pack.

STILES: And in return, I'd give him dreams of my body. Laid open and pliant for him. Only for him.

STILES: Can you keep my secret Derek?

DEREK: We're installing insulation in the attic all weekend. Could use another pair of hands.

Derek had deleted the text message history between him and Stiles after that first night, and wiped his phone's memory of all incriminating pictures of the boy. He had kept some that only vaguely featured Stiles as the main subject, photos that he took when nobody was paying attention.

Right now he's laying in bed, hovering his finger over DELETE on the touch screen of his iPhone, trying to will himself to erase every confession and plea that Stiles has given him. But he can't. Nobody has ever said things like that to Derek and he wants to cherish them – those words that make him feel genuinely wanted, make him feel like he's not screwing up somebody's life for once. He moves his finger away, aborting the task, and reads the messages over and over again, savoring each word like they are reverent caresses from Stiles' hand. Words like 'always' and 'only' and 'want' have Derek reaching into his pants for his cock.

When he's fully erect and nearing the peak of his arousal, muscles beginning to tense in his legs and abdomen, he feels compelled to call Stiles. He wants to hear those words in Stiles' voice. But he knows it would be crossing into even more dangerous territory. Something about being able to wipe the evidence by tapping a screen makes the whole situation feel less wrong. Actually verbalizing their desires - that's something that can't be taken back.

Derek comes and feels shameful immediately after. He's ashamed because he wants Stiles, a high school kid who's six years younger. He feels like a creepy old man. But that doesn't stop Derek from driving past Stiles' house that night and subsequent nights after to watch the shadows moving behind the windows of Stiles' bedroom until the light goes out.

~D~

It's late May, and it is getting hot in Beacon Hills. Derek and Peter had blown most of the property insurance money on the electrical rewiring, roof, and exterior of the house, going so far as to have bulletproof windows and a state of the art security system installed. The house will be a fortress when all is said and done. When they had found out that they could get a huge energy rebate check if they insulated the attic, they had jumped on it. They'd been desperate for cash to put towards the endless laundry list of things that needed to be replaced or repaired in the house. Which is why, instead of waiting until fall, they are installing insulation in a sweltering attic on the brink of summer.

Derek hadn't thought about the hazards of working in a stuffy attic when he had invited Stiles over to help out. Never mind the potential for heat stroke – placing himself with Stiles in a sauna had been begging for trouble.

It's Awkward, yes, with a capital 'A'. Derek is trying to work along side Stiles and act like they hadn't exchanged dick pictures and jerked off thinking about each other. The tension is palpable, as thick as the air in the cramped attic. Stiles seems to be trying so hard not to say something incriminating that he's avoiding having to talk to or even look at Derek. Really, that's Derek's own fault. As soon as Stiles had walked in the door, Derek had pulled him aside and threatened bodily harm if Stiles even faintly alluded to their dirty, late night messages.

Derek isn't sure if Stiles' silent treatment means he is just being compliant or Stiles is upset with him. It is possibly the first time that Derek has told Stiles to shut up and Stiles has actually done just that. Derek realizes that he doesn't like it. Although, Stiles can't work in complete silence. Oh no. Stiles may not be talking to Derek, but he definitely never shuts up.

"I never thought I'd be getting nailed by you, Peter," says Stiles, "And against a wall too? Kinky."

Something in Derek's stomach lurches.

Peter has just accidentally affixed the cuff of Stiles' button-down shirt to a layer of insulation with a staple gun. "You should probably take your shirt off," suggests Peter, "It's getting in the way."

"You gonna stuff a dollar bill in my pocket first?" asks Stiles. He's being a smartass. Not flirting with Derek's uncle. But Derek feels oddly sickened by it anyway.

Peter chuckles softly. "Are you going to dance for me, cowboy?" Peter is flirting. He's definitely flirting.

"For a twenty, I'll drop it like it's hot," says Stiles, awkwardly contorting and wiggling out of his open shirt while the sleeve is still stapled to the wall. He's wearing a worn-out old tee shirt underneath.

"Ooh, I'm in. I'll put a fiver towards that cause," teases Erica.

Derek scowls at her warningly.

"Dude," huffs Jackson, scrunching his face into an expression of utter disgust, "I'll pay you fifty to keep all your clothes on."

Stiles takes the bottom hem of his tee-shirt and fans it, flashing a bit of his bare torso beneath. "You know you want some of this." He bites his bottom lip and waggles his eyebrows just to get Jackson into knots.

Jackson shakes his head convulsively and pretends to be trying to get the taste of bile out of his mouth.

Meanwhile, Derek's trying to get the taste of Stiles out of his mouth. The wave of Stiles' tee-shirt has made his scent waft out from beneath. Derek catches the scent and it fills his head so utterly that he senses it on his tongue as well. There's no escaping from it in the stagnant air of the attic. Stiles smells of briny sweat, musky hormones, body wash, and baby powdery deodorant. Derek can even detect the lingering scent of come on his underpants from when Stiles had likely jerked off earlier in the day. He's so full of Stiles' essence, he nearly moans. Thank god it comes out as a low, frustrated growl.

"Fine, fine, I'll keep my clothes on," Stiles says in response to Jackson and also presumably to Derek.

But it's too late. Derek feels his cock twitch in his jeans and he has to dig a claw into his palm to make his treacherous dick behave. About a half hour later, just when Derek is completely under control, Stiles actually takes his fucking shirt off, and Derek's senses go into shock. Derek can now put a name to Stiles' scent. He smells like sex. Like sweat and friction and masculinity and semen. And it's driving Derek up the fucking wall. Never mind that Stiles is now bare chested and showing off some serious muscle definition that Derek had no idea was hiding beneath Stiles' daily uniform of baggy shirts; he smells like god damn fornication on buttered toast. He's not buff, but he's unexpectedly toned in his biceps and abs. Derek is both praising and cursing Stiles' lacrosse coach. Not to mention, his skin is miraculously flawless for a sixteen-year-old kid, save for the freckles and birthmarks peppering his smooth skin. Stiles is actually kind of fucking hot... Shit…

Derek is actually the only one still holding out with his shirt on. Even Erica has changed into a midriff-bearing halter-top that has marginally more coverage than a string bikini. It is nearly noon and the attic is quite literally a sauna. They'd quit now if the forecast hadn't predicted even warmer weather in the coming days.

"Tell me why the hottest person here still has their top on?" Stiles says.

Erica snorts with amusement, never looking away from her staple gun and the wall. "I'm not getting my tits out to put up insulation."

Stiles mutters under his breath, which is useless in an attic full of werewolves, "Wasn't talking about Erica…"

Derek can't help but smirk.

~D~

STILES: Can I get cancer from that insulation stuff? Is that the same shit in those ambulance chaser lawyer TV commercials for mesothelioma?

DEREK: No. It's not asbestos. It's fiberglass.

STILES: Of course not. How can something pink and pretty and fluffy cause cancer? If it were bad for you, it would be shit green and look like puke.

DEREK: Beautiful things are often bad for you.

STILES: Like?

DEREK: You.

STILES: You think I'm Beautiful?

STILES: You think I'm bad for you?

DEREK: Yes and yes.

STILES: Heroin is also bad for you. But they say it feels like sex. Going to risk sounding like bad music lyrics, but… I'm your heroin.

DEREK: Fuck. I'm hooked.

STILES: Hook. I'm fucked. Said Peter Pan.

DEREK: You're weird.

STILES: You're a werewolf.

DEREK: Dick.

STILES: Please? Pretty please with creamy whipped topping? And I don't mean whipped cream.

DEREK: What do you want?

STILES: You. Always you.

DEREK: You're full of shit.

STILES: Get it out for me.

DEREK: It's out. Want me to touch it?

STILES: Obviously. And I want proof.

Derek strokes himself to make a more impressive photo, even though he's already got a semi. Just the anticipation of what usually comes with a nighttime text message from Stiles sends all the blood in his veins rushing to his lap. He texts Stiles a photo of his fingers curling around the upper half of his hardening member.

DEREK: Tell me what you want to do to me.

STILES: I want to kiss all the way down your body. Devour you with my wet mouth. Lick the sweat from your skin. Taste you.

STILES: I want to bite you where you're soft and suck you where you're hard.

The second message has Derek clamping the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting to keep from moaning as he fists his cock, imagining Stiles do all the things he wants to do, all the things Derek wishes weren't so fucking illegal.

DEREK: You make me so hard.

STILES: You have no idea what you do to me.

DEREK: Tell me.

STILES: You make me shiver all the way from my scalp to my toes with desire. With fear.

STILES: It's a good kind of fear. It's that rush of adrenaline and blood when I hear you growl. When I'm being gang banged by Danger and Terror and Excitement like a little thrill-whore.

DEREK: You're so poetic.

STILES: Shut up. I'm on a roll, here.

DEREK: Keep going. I like it.

STILES: You inspire me, Derek. To write pornographic stream of consciousness poetry on my phone. To jerk myself off every single fucking day, often twice a day. To live out loud despite the monsters everywhere.

STILES: You make me feel alive.

STILES: I'm sorry. This isn't very sexy.

DEREK: It's fine. It's beautiful.

STILES: Thanks. Incidentally, not bad for you.

STILES: OK now that I've warmed your heart, let's heat up the rest of you.

DEREK: Please.

STILES: There's a spot behind my knee that works like an on-switch. If you were to stroke it gently, kiss it, breathe hard on it, I'd go all boneless. Except for my boner.

STILES: I know it's kind of weird, but sometimes, I think about the head of your cock teasing against that spot. I think of you using your dick on my spot like a key to open me up. To get my ass pliant and receptive for you.

DEREK: Why would I want your ass pliant and receptive, I wonder?

STILES: To fuck me, of course.

DEREK: Tell me how you want it.

STILES: Hard, fast, brutal, relentless, wet, messy. I want you to force sounds out of me that are vulgar. Want you to make me ache. Make me feel you between my thighs for days.

STILES: Please tell me you want to fuck me.

DEREK: I want to fold you in half and fuck you until you break.

STILES: I mean it. Tell me you really want to fuck me, and I'll be there faster than you can get on a condom.

Derek types the words fuck yes, but he miraculously has the sense to delete them before sending. He wants to touch Stiles so badly that his balls literally ache. He can feel the frustration forcing his fangs out of their wet, fleshy sheaths in his mouth. A claw scratches the protective case of his phone and leaves a gash in the aluminum. He lets the device drop onto his bed and he paces his room, huffing and making aggravated growling sounds low and quiet in his throat until he finds an anchor. Until his cock and his wolf calm the Hell down. Once he's under control, Derek types a simple reply, sends it, and promptly shuts off his phone.

DEREK: Can't.

~D~

Derek doesn't turn his phone on again until the following afternoon. It's Saturday. Erica and Boyd are going grocery shopping for the pack and Derek wants to keep a line of communication open between him and his betas just in case of something like an alpha pack ambush attack or the sudden realization that they're out of bread. Derek is assaulted by about a dozen messages popping up on his screen from Stiles that had accumulated from the night before, each with increasing irritation, sexual frustration, and use of capital letters.

Derek is pursing his lips and deleting each text along with the dirty messages that had preceded them, when Stiles himself arrives at the house, uninvited and without prior warning. He's at the door with a crooked grin.

"I went out for a run in the nature preserve. I was kind of close to your house, so I thought I'd drop by and see if you guys needed any help today."

Bullshit. Derek knows Stiles is on the lacrosse team with Isaac, Jackson, and Scott, but he doesn't seem like the sort of kid that jogs outside of practice or PE class. Not to mention, he'd warned Stiles and the betas not to run alone in the woods, lest the alphas descend on a stray member of his pack. This is a clear setup, engineered by Stiles to tempt Derek's downfall.

A vein in Derek's temple throbs and he looks like he's powering through some serious pain. He can't help but let his eyes slowly rake over the boy in front of him. Stiles' tee shirt is clinging to his chest with sweat. His scent is ripe with pheromones, endorphins, and adrenaline. His skin is tinged pink and dewy. And the manipulative little shit is wearing shorts, the back of his knees exposed like a fucking dare.

"Are you going to invite me in or what, dude?" Stiles asks impatiently.

Derek glances up like he's considering it, though it's obvious that he's not, then shakes his head. "Uhm, no." He's about to close the door on Stiles' face but the damn kid flails and sticks his arm in the way like he has a desperate need for amputation. Derek opens the door again, but this time takes Stiles roughly by the arm and drags him to the edge of the front porch. "Where's your jeep."

Stiles makes a whimpering sound of protest and pain. "A couple miles out. Maybe five. Nature preserve parking lot. You're not going to make me walk all the way back there alone, are you? Hello, alpha pack!"

Derek releases Stiles arm, throwing him down the steps. "You should have fucking thought about the alpha pack before you ran your idiot ass all the way over here alone." Stiles opens his mouth, probably to refute his idiocy, but Derek grumbles, "Get in the god damn car," and shoves him toward the Camaro.

He turns to go back inside to get his keys and Peter is leaning in the doorway, looking glib, the keys to the car hooked on his forefinger. "Going for a joy ride?"

"Fuck off," Derek snaps quietly through gritted teeth as he snatches the keys.

There's no way Peter knows. No way he can know. Derek's been so careful. But that astute glimmer in his uncle's eyes is highly suspect. Derek resigns to deal with damage control later. Right now, he just wants to put as much distance between him and Stiles as possible.

It doesn't occur to him that being in a car with Stiles does the opposite – not until he's already tearing down the gravel path too fast.

"That was rude," says Stiles haughtily.

"I thought I made it clear last night that this," he gestures sharply with a finger back and forth between the two of them, "can't happen. It's illegal."

"What? So now I can't help you guys with the house anymore? You know I'm still friends with everybody," says Stiles indignantly.

Derek gives him a look that says are you fucking kidding me without having to utter a word.

"Okay, so maybe friends is reaching a bit. But I'm committed to the restoration of an important Beacon County historical landmark. What is your house, like a century old?"

Derek isn't buying it. They're at the tiny dirt parking lot of the nature preserve in no time. Stiles' conspicuously blue Jeep is the only other car parked there. He reaches across Stiles in the passenger seat to open the door, fighting the urge to turn his head and crush their lips together. He leans back into his seat and fixes his scowl on the dashboard.

Stiles sighs, long and breathily. "Derek, please," he entreats quietly, "I need this. I have nothing else going for me except school, lacrosse, and Assassin's Creed, and all of them are kicking my ass."

"Find something else to do. My house is not your community service project," Derek says stiffly, still looking straight at the trees through the windshield.

Stiles remains in the car for a long minute, and from the corner of his eye, Derek sees him fidgeting with the drawstring of his hooded sweatshirt. He looks sad and vulnerable. "I understand. I'll keep away. But," Stiles pauses to exhale loudly as if it's helping him get the rest of his words out, "I don't want the other stuff to stop. Please? Just answer my texts?"

Derek breathes out of his nose sharply to express his incredulousness. He doesn't give Stiles an answer because he wants to say yes, but he knows it's still not right.

"So this is it, then, huh? I can't see you anymore," Stiles says with a quiet, resigned voice.

"It's for the best," Derek says, not putting any belief behind his words.

"Well, fuck," Stiles huffs, "if this is the last time I see you, then," he starts to incline his head toward Derek, leaning in for a kiss, causing a rush of warmth to flood Derek's body.

Derek panics and takes Stiles' face in one hand, cradling his chin in the dip between his thumb and forefinger. The gesture is executed way more tenderly than Derek had intended and could be misconstrued as encouragement. But he holds firmly, able to stop Stiles from advancing with just his hand, and says. "Don't make this harder for me than it already is." This time, their eyes meet, and Derek wants nothing more than to kiss the fuck out of Stiles.

Stiles' eyes drop, but not in a sad way. He says with an impish grin, "Oh, I can make it so much harder, Derek." Derek realizes that the cheeky little shit is staring at his crotch.

"Out." Derek commands, holding Stiles' face at arm's length.

~D~

Of course, Derek can't stand not having Stiles around. The house seems so bleak without his presence. The betas are so much more annoying and whiny and always getting on Derek's nerves without Stiles there to distract him. Soon, Derek caves in and allows Stiles to start visiting again, provided they are strictly hands-off, mouths off, everything off, except getting off on explicitly sexual text messages. But things are getting out of hand.

Stiles has come over every single weekend to work on the house for the past month. This is on top of the previous two months he'd come over regularly. The pack is becoming suspicious of his constant presence.

"If he's trying to get close to Lydia, I swear, I'm going to kick that little fucker in the-"

"Jackson, I don't think Stiles is all that into me anymore," Lydia scoffs and rolls her eyes as if Stiles' secret bisexuality is not a secret at all.

Derek can't help but flinch.

"Then why? Is he always? Here?" asks Jackson, expressing his immense displeasure with his staccato questions.

"Yeah, he's not even part of the pack," drawls Erica, "It's kind of sad. It's like he's a homeless puppy." She pouts dramatically for effect and whimpers. Isaac snickers and they exchange evil glances.

"Derek does love to take in little strays," agrees Peter, grinning that maddening knowing grin of his.

Derek fixes his mouth into a straight line.

"It's obvious," huffs Lydia impatiently. "He's always here, trying to prove he's useful, doing everything Derek asks, going out of his way to please Derek, hanging on to his every word, laughing at all his dry-humored jokes, practically fawning over him because..."

Derek's hands curl into tight fists, claws digging into his palms in an effort not to Shift and silence Lydia Martin in a very violent way.

After everyone in the room stares at her expectantly with wide eyes, she goes on to say, "Stiles wants to be one of you," as if it were glaringly obvious, "He wants Derek to give him The Bite."

Derek unfurls his fingers and sheathes his claws.

He knows Stiles wants him to do a lot of things. Like lick the sensitive spot behind his knees while stroking his cock. Or fuck him open slowly with Derek's tongue. And ram as much of Derek's ten-and-a-half-inch dick as he can fit into his tight, virgin hole. He knows this because Stiles has been telling him these things via text message several nights a week, sometimes even first thing in the morning while he's still in bed, with the eloquence of a poet, using an arsenal of very dirty words, and with photographic evidence of how desperately he wants Derek to do these things. And Derek is fairly sure that turning Stiles into a werewolf is NOT one of the things Stiles really wants him to do.

But he just goes along with Lydia's deduction. "Yeah, probably," he says in a noncommittal way.

"God, please tell me you're not going to do it, Derek," Isaac pleads. "I really don't think this pack needs a hyperactive smartass werewolf who never shuts up."

"Then you should probably leave," Jackson jibes, which earns him a dirty look with Isaac's expressive eyebrows.

Peter cocks his head to the side like he knows something about Stiles that even Derek doesn't know, and that secretly infuriates Derek. "If presented with the opportunity, I don't believe Stiles would take it. Tempted, yes. Actually following through? No."

"Has he asked?" wonders Boyd.

Derek shakes his head. "This is not up for discussion amongst you. This is not some kind of club and Stiles isn't vying for the position of Treasurer." No, he's vying for a position firmly beneath Derek's naked body. "I'm the alpha. I decide who's brought into the pack."

He storms away, annoyed that his pack are being ungrateful pricks. Stiles had helped put down floors and put up walls to rebuild their house. A house Stiles wasn't even living in. The least they could do was show Stiles some appreciation and respect him by not talking about him behind his back. And the thought of Derek Turning him? It's enough to send Derek's fist through the cheap sheetrock. When did he ever get so possessive and overprotective of Stiles?

He pulls out his phone to call Stiles, to tell him not to bother coming today, but Derek catches a whiff of Eau de Clumsy Teenage Boy on the air and hears the crunch of tires on gravel. He goes out to the path leading up to the house to meet the piece-of-crap Jeep. Stiles stops the car and rolls down the window when he sees Derek approaching with a scowl on his face.

"What happened?" Stiles says worriedly, expression nearing panic, engine still running.

"You should go," Derek says, as if such simple words could keep Stiles away.

"What? Why?" Stiles asks incredulously.

"The pack is getting suspicious. They think you want The Bite. To become part of the pack," Derek tells him.

"That's stupid. I'm not going to stay away just because everybody thinks I'm keen on pointy ears and claws… incidentally, I kind of am keen on pointy ears and claws, but not my own pointy-"

"Stiles." Derek interrupts the train of thought that Stiles is about to chase on a bifurcating track. "They notice you're here a lot. They think it's weird. If you keep coming, they're all going to find out."

"Find out what?" Stiles blurts out, gesturing sharply with his hands, his brow creased. "That we're not seeing each other? That we're not kissing or making out or," he goes on to say frustratedly through gritted teeth, "even touching in any way?" He gives a resigned sigh and hits the back of his head against the seat of the car. "We're not doing anything. We've been not doing anything for fucking months now, Derek."

Derek can see the strain in Stiles' face – the weariness that weeks of sex without touching each other and unresolved sexual tension have carved into his brow. And it hurts like a punch in the balls to see Stiles in so much pain. Derek should never have let it get this far, never have let Stiles become so invested in something that was going nowhere.

"We can't, Stiles," Derek says, resigned and solemn.

Stiles really does look almost like a lost puppy right now with his hugely expressive eyes and his pouty lips. He looks like he's about to cry angry tears. "Fuck the law," whimpers Stiles. And the whimper evolves into a petulant rant. "Fuck the Age of Consent. Fuck the Sheriff of Beacon County. Fuck what the pack thinks. Fuck what society thinks. Fuck them! Fuck them all! God damn it Derek!"

Stiles reaches through the window, grabs Derek behind the neck, and kisses him hard on the mouth with so much pent up longing that Derek can taste it. And, fuck, Stiles tastes so good. Better than he'd imagined based on the fantasies he'd conjured using Stiles' scent. The flavor of mint toothpaste over the lingering remnants of orange soda dance on Derek's tongue as it slides along Stiles'. His lips taste like menthol Blistex and high-fructose corn syrup. Underneath it all is Stiles' inherently human essence – the flavor of mortality, lust, and longing. Derek doesn't want Stiles to stop kissing him, even though he should. Though the boy's kiss is endearingly amateur and sloppily executed, it's got so much of Stiles' vibrancy and electricity behind it that the collar of Stiles' shirt is bunched into Derek's clenched fist, so desperate is he not to let go. He wants to yank Stiles out of the car through the window, slam him down on the hood of the Jeep, and teach him how to kiss until their lips are bruised and red.

But he doesn't.

Because even with all his superhuman strength and heightened superhuman senses, Derek isn't as brave as Stiles.

"You should go," Derek says, as he releases Stiles' collar and tries, not very hard, to pull away from Stiles' grasp.

The dejected look on Stiles' face lets Derek know that the kid understands he's being cut off again – it must be written all over Derek's own countenance. But, not for nothing, he's a persistent kid. He's still holding on to Derek, softly tangling his fingers into his hair, and, damn, if that doesn't feel like heaven. "Can I call you? Will you answer my text messages?"

"Go, Stiles," Derek mutters quietly. He doesn't whisper. That would be too intimate. But it's close enough.

Stiles kisses Derek on the forehead above his knit brows. And Derek fucking melts.

As Stiles drives away, Derek knows, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and an ache in his chest, that Stiles can only take rejection so many times before he stays away for good.

When Derek goes back into the house, that's when Peter pulls him aside and asks, "What's going on between you and young Mr. Stilinski?"

~D~

"Why are you acting all angst-ridden like this is the first teenage boy you've fucked?" Peter reprimands Derek, making him feel even more like a pervert, like he has a thing for nubile virgins. Maybe he does, but Derek doesn't want to think about that.

Derek's eyes get all shifty. "I'm not angst-ridden and that was different. James was seventeen and I was twenty. The age of consent is seventeen in New York. Here, it's eighteen."

"He was cute. God knows why you gave him up," Peter says offhandedly.

Derek scoffs, incredulous at Peter's short-term memory, "He was fucking my roommate behind my back!"

"Oh, right," Peter remarks flippantly, "forgot that part of the story. Wasn't there another? I vaguely remember you telling me about a Daniel when you came out to me last month."

Derek looks at Peter sideways, wondering if he really is that forgetful in his second life, or just trying to make Derek feel like a complete pedophile. "Danny. And I didn't say I fucked him, I said I saw him at Stiles' house and I was attracted to him."

"Well, anyway, why are you letting this Stiles get under your skin enough to give you man pains?" Peter says the name like Stiles is an affliction, not a person. Perhaps Stiles really is an affliction. "If you're so hard up, no pun intended, on dates, let's take you to The Jungle and you can have your pick of any number of willing, eager, legal twinks."

Hell, when did Peter Hale die and come back as Derek's gay fairy godmother? Oh, right – when Peter Hale died and came back as Derek's gay fairy godmother.

The only gay scene for about a hundred miles around is The Jungle. Derek's been to clubs and circuit parties in New York City that make Gay Night at this bar look like bingo night at the community center. Peter decides as unofficial pack mom to take the betas out to experience how Derek partied in his heyday. Of course, it's a guise for Derek to find something pretty to distract him from Stiles with the bonus of coming out to his betas without actually requiring that awkward conversation about his bisexuality. Everyone comes, except Jackson (who is supposed to be dead). Even Lydia comes with Danny as her gay nightlife ambassador. Isaac invites Scott, figuring it would be nice to have "the old gang back together". Boyd points out last minute that nobody's invited Stiles, and takes it upon himself to tell him to meet the pack at the club.

And Derek has a near panic attack while Peter watches with sick glee at the Pandora's Box that Boyd has opened when Stiles enthusiastically replies in a text message.

I am SO there!

Derek stalls, feigning a wardrobe malfunction, hoping that while Erica is sewing two missing buttons on his black shirt, Stiles will get tired of waiting outside the club and go home. He breathes a huge sigh of relief when they arrive at The Jungle fifteen minutes late and Stiles isn't on the queue behind the velvet rope. But Lydia and Danny are. Derek and his companions join them near the front of the line. Upon entering, Derek resigns to prop up the bar. He's so out of practice doing the cruising thing because he hasn't done it since he left New York. He orders a shot of whiskey, though he knows it will take twice as much liquor to loosen him up as it would a human, and he doesn't have that kind of money to blow on over-priced drinks. He watches as his betas play to the thumping beat in the smoke and flashing lights, amongst sweaty, undulating bodies - Bodies that he can't be bothered to check out.

Derek watches as Peter puts the sugar-daddy moves on a mesmerized guy with two-tone hair and too tight jeans that appears about ten years younger than his uncle. He has to admit, Peter is looking kind of hot these days, but he's definitely not looking looking. He watches as Lydia and Danny knock back pink cocktail after pink cocktail. He watches as swarms of suitors descend upon an amused, but unmoved, Boyd. He watches as Erica and Isaac sway together as a single unit, eying each other hungrily, groping each other as if they're the only ones in the room.

Derek doesn't realize, until he shows up late, that Scott hadn't met them outside. He has to squint in the glare of the colored lights to make sure it is indeed Scott. He sniffs the air, but there are too many sweaty bodies to hone in on one person's scent. But he can tell that something's off. Scott is acting strange. Derek is wearing earplugs to be able to stand the loud music without his eardrums exploding and they're muffling the sound of heartbeats, so Derek can't tell if Scott's distressed or drunk or what. Scott's dancing awkwardly, but his eyes are flitting around like he's nervous, as if he's worried about getting caught doing something wrong. Scott catches Derek's stare, but instead of acknowledging his presence with a wave or a nod, he leans in to say something to somebody nearby. The crowd on the dance floor is so dense that Derek can't see to whom Scott is talking. Maybe Allison.

But then the crowd shifts enough for Derek to see that Scott is talking to Stiles. Fuck. And he's not just talking to Stiles, he's dancing with him. Dancing in a way that Derek had no idea Scott had been inclined to dance with his best bud. He's way too close, moving way too sinuously, putting his fucking hands on Stiles' waist. Derek starts to feel sick as he watches Stiles – his lips are parted as he sways close to Scott, his eyes shut like he's getting lost in the music and in Scott's closeness. Stiles drapes his arms on Scott's shoulders and plays with the back of his hair and Derek can feel the ghosts of those fingers in his own hair, and fuck, he wants to rip Scott's scalp clean off his skull. Scott looks up and the asshole smirks at Derek, one of his filthy hands is sliding from Stiles' waist to rest on the back of his form-fitting jeans, the other is creeping up Stiles' back beneath his t-shirt, dragging it up so that he can see the elastic of his underwear peeking above the waist of his pants. Scott is whispering something and Stiles tilts his head back in ecstasy, winding his hips slowly.

Derek fucking loses it. He crushes the shot glass in his hand, driving shards into his palm and the pads of his fingers, making it hurt enough to keep himself from Shifting, but he feels the growl of his wolf rumbling in his chest and knows his eyes must be glowing red. He dislodges himself from the bar and stalks toward Stiles and Scott. Scott immediately backs off with wide eyes and holds up his hands in surrender.

"He made me do it!" Scott points to Stiles. "Don't hurt me!"

Derek gets up in Scott's face, fangs unsheathing briefly, voice deep and inhuman, roaring with the commanding timbre of an alpha wolf, "MINE!"

He pushes Scott away with his claws in the front of his shirt. Scott threatens, his own wolf beginning to come out, not backing down from his once-alpha, "If you hurt Stiles again, I'll kick your ass, Derek Hale." Stiles grabs Scott from behind to reign him in.

Derek is taken aback and confused enough that his wolf recedes, but he's still fuming. "I never touched Stiles!" He turns to Stiles with an expression of betrayal. "You lying little shit!"

Peter swoops in, grabbing Derek by the back of his collar. "Woah there, cowboy. Let's take this party outside, lest we attract more attention to our fabulous selves."

Derek huffs and purses his lips as he storms out of the club, Scott, Peter, and Stiles following in his wake.

Once outside and far enough away from the club on the street, Derek rounds on Stiles and this time Peter shoulders his way in front of Stiles protectively. As much as Derek knows Stiles dislikes Peter, the boy gladly accepts him as a shield.

"What did you tell him, huh? Did you tell Scott I touched you?" Derek says it, imparting that the touching was of the bad sort. "Did you tell him I hurt you?"

Scott interjects. "No, you idiot. You broke his heart."

And Derek's world caves in on itself. He feels his own heart wither and shrink, feels an ache in his chest as it fills with guilt and regret. He backs away slowly, intent on retreating to his car. He catches a glimpse of Stiles gazing down, either embarrassed or disappointed, or both, before turning around to cross the street.

Scott shouts after him. "I only danced with Stiles to make you jealous. To hurt you the way you've been hurting him." As Derek reaches the other side of the street, Scott adds, "I don't even like guys that way."

His earplugs have long fallen out and he hears Stiles remark to Scott, ever the smartass, "Come on. You gotta admit it was kind of good. The little hands-y thing you did there? A bit too convincing."

Derek tunes out the rest of their banter.

Peter catches up with him. "So... Just fucking, hm?"

~D~

Derek is laying in bed, staring at the ceiling at three in the morning, trying to tune out the sounds of the aftermath of tonight's club outing. Of course, he can't, and he's angry at himself for not investing in soundproof replacement walls. Isaac and Erica are in the room next to Derek's either fucking or trying to tear each other apart. Most likely both. Boyd and Jackson have chosen this very inopportune moment to play Mortal Kombat on the Xbox in the living room. Peter is running the blender to make a hangover cure for Lydia that will probably just induce vomiting if the grinding whir of the blades doesn't drive somebody with too-sensitive hearing to kill their uncle before he finishes.

It's so fucking loud in Derek's head that it rivals the club. He barely registers the sound of his phone pinging, notifying him of a new incoming text message. It's from Stiles.

Yours.

That's all it says. Derek can't bring himself to reply.

Usually when Derek Shifts, there is no disconnect between his human self and his wolf. They are one. But lashing out at Stiles and Scott tonight in a fit of jealous rage, declaring barbarically, MINE, seems like somebody else had done it. For the first time in his adult life, his human side seemed to have had an out-of-body experience while his wolf had gone feral. Derek thinks his wolf was obviously incredibly mistaken. Stiles wasn't his in any way, shape, or form.

Or so Derek thought, until Scott had told him he'd broken Stiles' heart and Stiles had sent the message.

Derek's finger caresses the touch screen over the word. Yours. It's the word of a misguided, lovesick idiot teenager. The more he thinks about Stiles, the closer he comes to realizing that he wants that misguided, idiot teenager. And there really hadn't been a disconnect between his wolf and his human side when he declared that Stiles was his. It had been the most harmonious the two sides of Derek had been in a long time.

It turns out, Derek's wolf knew he was in love with Stiles even before Derek knew he was in love with Stiles.

Derek vaguely wonders if he should have warned Stiles first as he's climbing through the boy's bedroom window. Stiles shifts in his bed, his gangly limbs tangled in the sheets, but he doesn't wake up. He smells like too much alcohol and the acrid tinge of Stiles' scent tells Derek that he had taken a preemptive Aspirin before bed. Derek crouches at the bedside, near Stiles' head, which is turned away from him. Like this, all vulnerable and soft in sleep, Stiles looks even younger. Derek, for once, doesn't even think of the boy in terms of a magical number that keeps him from pursuing what he wants. He just thinks Stiles is beautiful.

Derek leans across the bed and whispers behind Stiles' ear, "Mine… All mine," and it isn't possessive or creepy at all. It's tender. It's intimate.

He kisses the back of Stiles' neck softly and his senses search for that familiar boy-scent hiding beneath cheap beer. Stiles stirs again and mumbles in his sleep against the drool-soaked pillow, "Can't believe you touched my ass, Scott. That's just… ew. Just ew." Stiles waves his hand by his ear as if swatting away a buzzing fly and Derek backs up, biting his lip to stifle an amused snort.

~D~

"Hey. Did you get my message?"

Derek is still in bed the next day when Stiles calls him; actually gets on the phone and calls him. No more hiding behind text messages. Derek is light-hearted and stupid-happy like he hasn't been in ages. He's smiling genuinely, not smirking maliciously, as he stretches his arm above his head. "Yeah. I did."

Stiles mutters tightly, "Uhm… Fuck… Just… ignore it."

Derek's smile falters. "What do you mean ignore it?"

Stiles replies weakly, "Forget I said it."

Derek remembers instantly why he prefers text messaging. He finds himself completely speechless and gutted. He takes a long cleansing breath through his nose and asks, sounding like his usual sour self, "Why?"

"Because I didn't mean it. I don't mean it," Stiles begins to put more conviction behind his words, "I'm not going to be your wank toy or whatever. You can't just keep acting like there's nothing going on between us and then expect me to spill my heart and my dirty thoughts to you so you can jerk off to it. Not anymore. No. Just… No."

Derek makes a short breathy sound. A scoff. Like he's blowing it off. But really, he feels like he's being eviscerated.

Stiles goes on angrily, now that the confessional floodgates are open. "I meant every single word I wrote to you, Derek. Maybe it was all just kinky role play to you, but it was real to me. You can't have it both ways. You can't fuck me in your head, let me rebuild your house, and then blow me off every time I try to get close to you. I can't play this game anymore. It's all or nothing. And I'm pretty sure you won't change your strict adherence to Section 'a' of California Penal Code Two Six One enough to give me all. Which is a fucking joke. You turned a bunch of minors into werewolves and plotted to kill one or two. You never once cared about the risk of jail time then."

Derek wants to tell him he treasured everything Stiles wrote to him, wants to say that he also meant everything he wrote, that it wasn't role-play. He wants to tell him that he has a very real reason to adhere to California Penal Code 261. But he can't find his voice or the words to say. All he manages is a pleading, "Stiles," which comes out too much like a reprimand.

"I gave you a chance, Derek. Yeah, it was probably the cruelest thing I've ever done and it killed me to do it to you, but it was my idea to dance with Scott last night. To make you see what you were missing, what you could have. And when you nearly wolfed out and claimed me as yours? Fuck, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. But then you pussied out. You just fucking left me outside the club. Didn't demand an explanation or apology from me, didn't try to enforce your claim on me and take me from Scott. You just walked away with your wolfy tail between your legs."

"Stop," says Derek. There are only so many punches he can take and he's ready to hit the floor of the ring. "Just…"

"Oh I'm not even fucking done, Hale." At this point, Stiles' voice is rough, and sniffling noises hint that he's crying. "I'm such a god damn glutton for punishment that I texted you last night practically offering myself up to you on a wolf-safe non-silver platter. And you don't even have the decency to reply." He pauses to breathe and tacks on sarcastically, shortly, intending to wound, "What, should I have attached a picture of my dick? Would that have earned a response? Would it have been worth it if it helped you get off? Clearly, that's all I'm good for."

"Why?" Derek asks sharply. It's more of a provocation than a question.

"Why what?" asks Stiles.

"Why did you keep coming back? I tried to end this twice already."

Stiles makes a short sound of surprise, or maybe it's incredulity. "Why? Why?!" Then Stiles' voice cracks as he laments, "Because I'm in love with you, asshole!"

There's a long tense silence, though it's punctuated periodically by the sound of Stiles sniffling and his breath hitching on quiet sobs. Finally, Derek mutters, sounding defeated, "Martin Cocker."

"What?" Stiles asks, voice still wavering, like he thinks Derek's gone off the deep end.

"Martin Cocker. I'm sure your dad has a criminal report on him at the station. If you can't manage to read it, I'm sure you can Google his name and find the news articles. That unnamed ward of the state? That was me."

~D~

Derek was sixteen when he lost his virginity to Kate Argent, who was eighteen at the time. He was seventeen when he first had sex with a man.

After his house burned down with nearly every family member along with it, Derek and Laura were taken into foster care by a family two towns over in Beacon County. Derek obviously needed a lot of psychological help. Because he was under eighteen, Derek was a ward of the State of California. His state-appointed psychotherapist was Dr. Martin Cocker.

Martin, as Derek had called him, was twenty-six, just out of graduate school, and working for Child Services as a family therapist before he could build up his resume and start his own practice. Derek could tell that Martin wasn't all that into his job and they didn't do much deep psychoanalysis. They mostly chatted about baseball and cars for their required forty minutes per week, and Martin just signed off on Derek's charts without trying to get down to the root of his problems. Occasionally, Derek would open up, perhaps out of desperation to get it out of his head. Martin would listen intently and nod. He wouldn't take notes, though he'd ask Derek to elaborate and would offer advice. But his advice seemed more like a friend's and less like a doctor's. In retrospect, Derek thinks that this had been Martin's technique – act all buddy-buddy like his job doesn't matter, then get the patient to trust and bear his soul.

Derek was lonely. At a new school, no friends, and hating everyone anyway. He had hit it off well with Martin, so he invited him to a baseball game. That's when being buds, shooting the shit at the expense of The State, turned into being actual friends. Quickly, their friendship turned into something quite more. Derek found that he was attracted to Martin, and he was certain the feeling was mutual.

They'd go through the motions of Derek's required therapy sessions, then go off to Martin's apartment to fuck. It never even registered in Derek's mind that what they were doing was illegal and that Martin could get into a shitload of trouble – not just because he was a patient, but because his patient was a minor. Their relationship got pretty serious. Martin was in love with Derek and promised they could live together once Derek turned eighteen. But they were sloppy. They didn't hide their secret relationship well enough. And they got caught.

Martin lost his job and his license to practice. Derek, as a ward of California, had no say in it when Martin was charged with Statutory Rape. Derek pleaded with anyone who would listen to drop the charges, insisting that he consented completely. He even wrote a letter appealing to the state board to give Martin his license back if he'd practice outside Beacon County. But seventeen-year-old orphans don't have a voice in these matters. Martin had to serve a year in prison. Of course, it was a huge scandal, but Derek's identity was protected as a minor. Derek couldn't stand the guilt and left for New York.

Last Derek heard, Martin was counseling LGBT youth for a non-profit organization in Wisconsin and engaged to his boyfriend of four years. Happy Ending. But Derek still feels like shit that Martin can never practice in California and is on the National Register of Sex Offenders all because Derek was a horny teenager that just wanted to get laid.

~D~

"Let me get this straight," begins Stiles, convulsing slightly, looking like he's trying not to laugh, "You were jailbait at seventeen. You screwed your shrink. And your shrink's name was," Stiles can't hold it in any longer and snorts, "Doctor Cocker?"

Derek is scowling, his brows knitting together and his lips curving down at the sides. "Martin. His name is Martin. He went to jail because of me. I'm glad you find this so fucking hilarious."

"Dude. You've got to admit. If this wasn't your actual life, it would sound like the summary attached to a gay porn movie. Hell, I'd jerk off to that movie in a hot minute." Derek continues to scowl, but fixes his scowl more intently upon Stiles. Stiles raises his hands and says, "I'm sorry. Shit. I'm sorry I laughed."

"Now do you understand why I'm reluctant to do anything with you?" asks Derek, in a tone that's a shade more serious than I told you so.

"Yeah, I get it. You've been on the other side. You know the consequences are real. And maybe above everything, you're feeling guilty about getting Doctor Cocker in trouble. I totally sympathize. Empathize, even. Remember I got my dad fired once? I'm sure my guilt is nowhere near as heavy as yours, but still… I get it."

Derek nods curtly. "So will you stay away?"

Stiles shakes his head slowly. "Not a chance, Hale."

Derek is furious that Stiles isn't taking this seriously. "I could get a restraining order, you know. I could say you're trying to entrap me."

"Oh, that's fucking ironic. You're the dude stalking me, and you're going to get a restraining order against me."

"Stiles," Derek huffs impatiently.

"You're not getting rid of me. You know why? Because I think you really like me. You wouldn't let me come over so much and not touch me if you didn't actually like me."

"Yeah," Derek says flatly, agreeing with Stiles without actually having to confess that he's in love.

Stiles goes on, talking animatedly, "And you're not going to go to jail for it because, newsflash, I'm not a ward of the state. If my dad wants to press charges against you for statutory rape, he's going to lose his one and only son. Now, I know I'm not winning any awards for being the best kid, but I'm pretty sure my dad would rather welcome a sour wolf as a son-in-law than lose one son forever, because I'd cut him out of my life."

"Woah," Derek puts up a hand in protest, "I never said anything about marriage."

"I'm just using that for dramatic effect. Incidentally, did you know that the law allows for consensual sex with a minor if it's within a legal marriage?" Stiles points out.

"Prop 8. Ever heard of it?" Derek counters.

"I'm just saying. Hell, even if gay marriage was legal in California, I'd never get married so young. Even if it meant I could bang the hottest alpha werewolf in the entire state and quite possibly the whole West Coast."

Derek smirks. "You're full of shit." His cheeks get warm behind the stubble peppering his cheeks.

"This whole pretending-you-don't-know-how-hot-you-are thing is getting old." Stiles lowers his voice so that it is almost sultry. He starts to close the distance between their faces. "Nobody's buying it. Guys that wear shirts like this…" Stiles hooks his finger under the narrow sleeve on Derek's tank top and tugs, though uselessly, in an attempt to get them closer. "…know how hot they are."

Their lips are mere inches apart. Derek lets his eyes close as Stiles tilts his head to the side. Derek can feel Stiles' warm breath on him and can already taste the menthol balm on Stiles' lips before they even touch. "What do you want me to say?" Derek asks quietly.

"Nothing," replies Stiles, nearly whispering, "But if you don't kiss me, I'm going to scream 'wolf attack' and have every Hunter within fifty miles after your ass."

"Manipulative little shit," Derek says softly. He doesn't mean it. He presses his mouth to Stiles' and they kiss so tenderly and slowly, it's barely a brush of lips. Stiles tangles his fingers in the back of Derek's hair and moans quietly into Derek's mouth. It's different from their first kiss. It's sweet and unhurried. Derek takes the time to map every curve of Stiles' lips with his mouth and his tongue. He cups Stiles' face and feels his cheeks blushing warmly in his hands. Stiles' warmth radiates right through Derek, all the way down to his chest where it meets the heat blossoming from his heart.

Stiles pulls away gently. "Anybody home?" he asks, inclining his chin towards the house.

"Everybody," replies Derek with a grumble.

"Get in the Jeep," Stiles commands quietly, his perfect lips quirking into a delicious, impish grin.

~D~

In Stiles' bedroom, their kisses are anything but tender and delicate.

Derek crawls towards Stiles from the foot of the bed and nestles between his parted legs. He props himself up with his hands on either side of Stiles' head. He's gazing down at the boy intently, taking the time to appraise him carefully. It's finally okay to stare, to look at Stiles without people around that might think it's creepy. The poor kid looks so nervous, but at the same time, eager. A faint blush is quickly blooming in his cheeks. With their bodies in such intimate proximity, closer than they've ever been before, Derek can feel the rhythm of Stiles' pulse thrumming against his skin like music.

"You realize that anything you do to me is going to make me come in like point-two seconds, right?" Stiles points out.

"Have you ever been in bed with a girl, let alone another guy?" Derek asks.

"No. So what?" Stiles says defensively.

"You're a virgin?" Derek is trying not to sound judgmental, but failing, based on Stiles' response.

"Shut up. We can't all be Adonises like you, and seduce hot older men to take our virginity."

Derek teases, "Do I not count as a hot older man that wants to take your virginity?" He gently rolls his body down against Stiles. Every move of every muscle connects with Stiles from the chest down and creates a wave of electric friction. Derek can feel all of Stiles' hard parts and soft parts, from his pelvic bones to the fleshy bit below the hips.

Stiles' eyes flutter closed as he takes a shuddering breath, his hand clenching around the back of Derek's shirt. "You can't say stuff like that and not mean it."

Derek's hips press more insistently against Stiles. Derek can feel Stiles' erection awakening in his jeans and is certain Stiles can feel his. "What makes you think I don't mean it?"

Stiles makes a strangled moaning sound as his hips buck up to meet Derek's. "Hnng-god. I'm going to cream my pants before we even get to second base, whatever that is for dudes. Just warning you."

"Best thing about being sixteen? Fast recovery time," Derek points out, moving sinuously against Stiles, creating enough friction to get them both completely hard. Not that Derek needs the friction. Being so close to Stiles, wrapped up in his scent and in his warmth, is enough make him strain against the zipper of his jeans. "I'm going to make you come," Derek thrusts down, "again," lets the outline of his cock press against Stiles through their jeans, "and again," captures Stiles' lips for a swift, wet, kiss, "and again."

Stiles' face is flushed pink and dewy with perspiration. Derek wonders if this is what Stiles looks like when he masturbates, or if it's purely Derek's effect. Derek would like to think it's all him. Stiles is breathing hard through parted, reddened, kiss-bruised lips and rutting up to meet each of Derek's thrusts. "I'm glad you're taking fast recovery time into account because we're not even naked yet and I'm about to embarrass myself by ending round one."

"Would you just shut up and enjoy it?" Derek reprimands before playfully nipping Stiles on the side of the neck.

Stiles responds to Derek's teeth with a small surprised sound, "Oh!" Derek lets his tongue brush against Stiles' skin before scraping it with his teeth again. Stiles sounds alarmed, but pleased, his voice cracking. "That! That is going to end me."

"Jesus. You never shut up," muses Derek, "Are you going to give us the play-by-play the entire time?"

"Just the highlights," Stiles says breathlessly.

Derek's jeans are now painfully tight. For the sake of relief more than anything else, he backs off of Stiles to unzip his fly, sitting back on his calves.

"Oh my god." Stiles is propped up on the pillows, looking over at Derek with heavy eyelids, chest heaving. "You're going to get it out, aren't you?" It's more of a statement than a question. "I'm going to see your ten-and-a-half-inch cock in the flesh. The one I've been jacking off to for months. Fuck." He throws his head back and drapes an arm across his eyes dramatically. "Excuse me while I have a little fanboy moment."

Derek grins amusedly and shakes his head. "I was just getting comfortable, but if you want me to get it out, I can. Or is that too much for you right now?"

Stiles bites his fist as he's gazing up at the ceiling. "Uhm… It might be. I don't think I'm ready for The Full Monty, let alone sex on the first date-prequel. I do expect an actual date sometime soon, you know."

Derek smiles comfortingly. "Yeah, that's fine. We can take it slow."

Stiles sits up abruptly. "Oh no, no, no. I said nothing about slow. My dad's coming home in two hours. If you really want to give me multiple orgasms, you've got to speed things up here. Off with this." Stiles reaches for Derek's shirt and fumbles to pull it up.

Derek's limbs just get tangled in the fabric, so he takes over from Stiles. He strips down to his boxer briefs while Stiles struggles with his own clothes in his haste to get naked. Derek inwardly hopes that Stiles won't be this spastic when they get down to business. Stiles is yanking on the cuffs of his jeans in an effort to get them off, despite his sneakers in the way. Derek, reaches down, takes Stiles' wrists, and pins them on the bed, effectively getting the boy to lay down and stop struggling without having to say anything. He slips Stiles' shoes and socks off first. Then he pulls the top of Stiles' jeans down, which Stiles had already pushed down to his thighs. He pulls the fabric over Stiles' knees then moves his hands to the backs of them and slowly caresses. Stiles tilts his head back and moans a curse. Derek smirks and decides he'll play with the backs of Stiles' knees later to get him hard again.

Down to his underwear, Stiles is not conventionally gorgeous like an Abercrombie and Fitch model, but Derek loves everything about the boy anyway. Derek is on his knees, sitting on his haunches in the space between Stiles' parted legs. Stiles' legs are bent at the knees. Derek slowly runs his splayed hands along the top of Stiles' thighs, gazing down at him reverently. He's compelled to say something, but he's afraid that Stiles won't believe that he's sincere.

He says it anyway with a soft smile. "You're beautiful."

He expects Stiles to say something self-depreciating in response, or at least something snarky. But Stiles' face lights up with a grin. "You mean it." Stiles isn't questioning him, he's happily pointing out that Derek is being genuine. He rests his hands over Derek's, guiding them to his hips.

"Yes. You're beautiful," Derek repeats breathily as he lowers himself down on Stiles and kisses him firmly. "And bad for me," Derek mumbles jokingly.

The kiss quickly escalates, silencing Stiles at last, save for the blissful little whimpering sounds he makes against Derek's mouth. Those sounds inspire Dererk to devour Stiles with his kiss. They're rutting against each other desperately, practically fucking through their underwear. Derek's hands are so tight around Stiles' hips that he wonders if the boy will bruise. Stiles' skin is so soft, with just a dusting of downy hair in all the right places. Derek feels as though he's sinking into butter, so pliant and supple is Stiles' body beneath him.

For all his words, Stiles still hasn't come yet, though Derek can see that the tent in Stiles' briefs is darkened with pre-come. The scent of it, along with Stiles' sweat and inherent boy smell is driving each thrust of Derek's hips.

Stiles' arms envelop Derek in a desperate embrace. His dull fingernails are digging into Derek's back, holding on greedily as if Derek might back away at any given moment. And if that isn't enough to keep Derek there, Stiles' mouth meets the tender skin at the junction between Derek's neck and shoulder. Stiles kisses and licks it experimentally before one firm thrust of Derek's hips inspires Stiles to bite down hard with blunt, human teeth.

Derek growls. It's a quiet, deep sound from low in his throat that pulls a wanton whimper from Stiles. The feel of teeth and nails claiming his flesh threaten to bring out Derek's own claws and fangs. He can sense his inner wolf pulsing and eager to break through, to devour Stiles in a way that wouldn't be pretty, let alone acceptable. But Derek knows how to control himself, how to keep that balance between hot, rough sex and completely destroying Stiles. And that entails finding an anchor, something to keep him human. A voice.

"Talk to me," Derek murmurs as his hips continue to move rhythmically.

Stiles' response is ragged and weak, "Can't. You're wrecking me."

Derek reaches in the almost non-existent space between them to cup Stiles' erection through his underwear. Now Derek is breathing hard from the strain of keeping the wolf at bay. "Tell me what you want, or I'm going to stop touching you," he threatens.

"Fuck, Derek. I want to feel you," Stiles breathes out against Derek's shoulder.

"How?"

"Shit, I don't know, just fucking touch me," Stiles whines.

"I'm warning you. Not threatening you. Talk to me, or I'm going to rip you apart with my claws," says Derek, managing to keep his voice calm but firm.

Stiles had been arching against Derek this whole time. He suddenly flattens himself against the pillows and stares up at Derek with wide eyes, gasping softly, "Are you gonna Shift on me? Oh my god. I'm kind of disturbed by how, uhm, turned on that makes me. I'm fairly certain that counts as bestiality. Not that you're an animal, well, except that you sort of are, but… Oh Jesus. I don't think I'm ready for something that kinky."

As Stiles is babbling frantically, the sound of his voice has effectively calmed Derek's wolf, and he breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay, you can shut up now."

Stiles playfully pets Derek on the head. "Down, boy."

Derek threatens without any malice in his voice, "Make another stupid dog joke again, and the wolf is coming out to eat you."

Stiles purrs, "Ooh, promise?" and raises a brow.

Derek smirks and shakes his head with amusement. "God, you're sick."

Stiles drawls sensually, though playfully so, "You love it."

"Come here, you kinky bastard," Derek mutters, reaching for Stiles.

Derek yanks Stiles' underpants down to his thighs to free his cock, then lays on his side, wedged beside Stiles. Stiles' dick is elegantly long and narrow, engorged and heavy, and even more gorgeous than the pictures. Derek strokes it firmly and slowly, applying pressure from the base to just bellow the head, swiping his thumb over the slit to smear a pearly bead of pre-come. Stiles drapes his arm over his eyes again and swears fluently with a strangled voice.

Derek releases Stiles' cock momentarily to wrench his arm from his face. "Look at me. I want you to look at me when you come."

Stiles adjusts awkwardly on the crowded bed so that his upper half is angled slightly towards Derek. Derek takes up Stiles' erection again and strokes in earnest, finding an unhurried pace that makes Stiles neither panic nor relax. The feel of a cock in his hand that isn't his own is so empowering somehow. Derek commands it expertly, making Stiles breath hitch every time his wrist twists, his thumb edging around the bottom of Stiles' cockhead. With each sharp intake of breath, Derek can sense that Stiles is getting closer. He can already feel it in the hot rush of blood through Stiles' veins and smell it in the scent of semen nearing the surface even before Stiles whispers a warning.

"Look at me," Derek commands quietly as he speeds his ministrations.

Stiles' eyes fix on Derek's for only a moment before they roll to the back of his head and his eyelids flutter closed. He breathes out roughly, "Derek," and Derek could probably come from the sound of his name on Stiles' tongue.

The expression of bliss on Stiles' face is quite possibly the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen Stiles do. Derek doesn't even look down at his cock as Stiles comes. He feels the hot spunk spill over his fist, feels Stiles' turgid flesh spasm hard. The sound that escapes Stiles' gaping mouth is breathy and sharp. It isn't a moan. No, that sound is reserved for the end, when Stiles rolls back and stares up at the ceiling, glassy eyed and content.

"Ungh… I… Can't even…" Even when he's spent, Stiles still tries uselessly to talk. Derek is amused that he's managed, yet again, to shut him up.

They lay together as Stiles basks in his post-orgasmic glow. Semen is cooling on Derek's hand, but he rests it on Stiles' chest anyway, since there's a fair amount of spunk there already. Their heads are close on the pillows. Derek listens to Stiles' heartbeat slow and come to rest, and feels his chest rise and fall at a steadily decreasing rate.

"Has anybody ever done that to you before?" Derek asks softly. He thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to hear it.

"Uhm… yes?" Stiles says tentatively.

"You know I can tell you're lying, right?" Derek points out.

"Yeah. Virgin in every way," Stiles sighs.

Derek smirks. "Not every way. Not anymore."

~D~

Lydia presses the button on the new answering machine with a manicured finger and leans close to the built-in microphone.

"You've reached the home of Derek, Peter, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica. Please leave a-"

Jackson cuts in with a tight smile, "Forgetting somebody?"

"Sorry baby," Lydia patronizingly pats her boyfriend on the cheek and doesn't sound apologetic at all, "I didn't think you'd want to be on the answering machine message since, uhm, you're supposed to be dead."

"Nobody's calling here anyway. It's purely ceremonial," says Peter. "It marks the house as all of ours," Peter gestures at everyone crowding around the kitchen island, "As the home of the pack."

"Fine. Then I want to be in it too," Lydia insists brusquely, "I picked out all the paint colors around the house, and the bathroom fixtures, and the window treatments, and it's my voice on the recording." She doesn't wait for the okay from Derek or Peter. She just presses the little blue button again and speaks in the same chipper voice. "You've reached the home of Derek, Peter, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Jackson, and sometimes Lydia. Please leave a-"

"Wait." This time Derek interrupts her.

Lydia rolls her eyes and heaves an exasperated sigh. "Do you want me to record this stupid message or not?"

"You forgot one more person," Derek points out.

"Who, Scott? Does he really count? I thought he doesn't want to be part of a pack," says Lydia.

Stiles scratches the back of his neck and glances away.

"Think about it," says Derek, not even looking at the person in question, "Who helped lay down the new floors? Who helped install insulation? Who painted? Who cleaned? Who put up your ugly curtains?"

As if she hasn't heard anything else, Lydia replies, "My curtains aren't ugly. They're Pottery Barn."

Derek huffs impatiently, "Forget it. I'll do it myself," and he nudges Lydia out of the way. In a less than friendly, unanimated voice, Derek records the answering machine greeting for their newly installed land-line telephone:

"You've reached the home of Derek, Peter, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Jackson, Lydia, and Stiles. Please leave a message."

Stiles grins.