Head Canon vs. Hip Cannon

Chapter 1

'He felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside. His glorious wolf's cock swelled deep inside of him, filling his very core.' Stiles almost gagged at that.

'"Knot me," Edward moaned desperately, his body arched in untold pleasure, "I want everything of you!" And more he got.' Stiles almost gagged at that, too, cursing every teenage girl out there rooting for Team Jacward (name pending).

'Jacob accelerated his deep, long thrusts, plunging into Edward's willing hole, so conveniently slick with how much Edward wanted him. "You are so nice and wet for me, Ed," he groaned with a loud moan. "I think you can take my knot now."' Really? Really? All those Creative Writing classes and Stiles found himself typing away at his laptop, reading the sentences he wrote to himself, all the while being thankful for the anonymity the internet granted him. He could only hope his teachers never found out who hid behind his pen name. Probably not, even Stiles himself sometimes had troubles remembering to sign in with "Ffisher's Hire".

Back to the task at hand, though. Stiles gagged in advance. 'Edward could feel Jacob's knot growing inside of him, that tantalizingly swelling feeling when his lover spread him open even more, until his knot had reached the size of a-'. Of a what indeed. What would be a ridiculously large and yet somewhat semi-realistic size for a knot? Or rather for something being fucked into and out of an immortal vampire's sparkling ass?

Stiles shut the lid of his laptop with a groan, hiding his face in his hands. Why, oh why did they want him to write for Twilight?! Of all the possible fandoms out there, that 'Kazam-kitten' person had to commission him for a Twilight fanfic. Just remembering the hours of research, consisting of watching all the movies – he wouldn't touch those books with a stick – made him cringe.

Well, he shouldn't complain too much. For 1) He got money out of this misery. And 2) There had been at least some chemistry between Pattinson and Lautner. Stiles could've ended having to write something with Stewart's stony face in the focus. He shuddered.

A knock to the door relieved him from his agonizing author's pain, granting him the break he so desperately needed. Not least to finally get his homework done.

"Stiles, you still up?" His father's face was sandwiched between the door and the door frame when he chanced a look in, looking ridiculous.

"Yep, dad. Gonna go to bed now, though." Quick with the promise, slow with the fulfilling, but compromises had to be made, so his father could sleep at night, even when his son couldn't.

"'Kay, kiddo. Was just wondering. Sleep tight. Love you!"

"Love you too, dad." When Stiles heard his door snapping shut again, he opened his laptop once more, saving the "progress" he'd made (if one could call it that) before opening up another document with his essay due on Thursday. Two thousand words left to write, a whole night to write them and enough energy drinks to last through tonight and half a day tomorrow – his Adderall would have to take care of the second half.

Where to find two thousand words on Swiss' canton Zurich was beyond him, though.

;:;:;:;

He ended up digressing at one point somewhere, writing almost three thousand words on Dadaism in the early 20th century, but Stiles couldn't find it in him to delete what he had written, so it had to do. And Dada had started in Zurich, so he might actually get away with it.

"Hey bro," his best friend Scott greeted him as soon as Stiles reached the university's parking lot in his (t)rusty Jeep. "Whassup?"

"Hey Scotty!" Considering the amount of caffeine coursing through his veins at this point it was a small miracle Stiles managed to get out of his car and greet Scott with a minimal amount of flailing and, even more important, jittering around.

"Rough night?" Scott asked immediately, noticing all the signs and recognizing them. Sometimes having a not quite family (but blood related nonetheless – there had been a nasty accident with scraped knees, split lips and bloody eyebrows at elementary school…) Best Bro wasn't all that ideal.

"Let's say it was long. Had that essay to write."

"You've been writing nonstop for the past week!"

"That obviously wasn't my essay." And just like that Stiles knew what was to come. Scott made a lot of people think he was as dense as they came – cute, adorable even, but dense – but he was exceptionally perceptive, almost frighteningly so. And responsible to a fault.

"You really should concentrate on your education, Stiles! This isn't high school anymore!" Was it time for the- "The profs expect more than some half-as… half-bummed essay about some random topic that's totally unrelated to what you were supposed to write about!"

It was time for the… "Hey, Allison! Fancy meeting you here!" The Allison card worked every single time, proven once again by Scott swiveling around in search of his on and off girlfriend. "And, Scott? Don't try to swear. Like, ever."

Scott subjected him to the 'Look of the Kicked Puppy' (name pending) at that but remained quiet for the time being. When their paths split again at the entrance to where they taught veterinary medicine, their little argument had been forgotten and Scott sent Stiles on his way with a Heartfelt Hug (registered trademark of the Stilinski/McCall Feel Good Inc.) to last the day. Until lunch. That's when Stiles would need his next fix of Scott at the latest.

;:;:;:;

Stiles made it through his day with a minimal amount of flailing, despite his heart stuttering every now and again, thanks to caffeine and Adderall. Never a promising mixture, but interesting more often than not, sometimes even amusing. For Scott. Not so much for Stiles, who really could do without trying to pronounce three words at once because there were so many thoughts zooming around in his brain.

That's why he liked writing so much. When the words stayed in place on a white sheet of digital paper, the only thing zooming the cursor, Stiles felt like he was in charge of what came out of his head. Didn't mean it was sensible all the time, but here at least he had the chance to edit.

Apropos editing… "Oh my God!"

"What is it?! Is it Allison? Is she with that Isaac guy again?" Scott's relationship with Allison was capricious at best, confusing the rest of the time. Right now they were probably off, judging by Scott's insecurity.

"No, Scott, I haven't seen her with him. Just remembered the editing that's waiting for me at home…"

"Another essay to write already? Or is it one of your smu-… erot-… of your stories?"

"Yes, it's one of my smut fics, thank you very much. And, remember what I told you about swearing this morning? That applies to generic curse words as well. You really, really shouldn't try to use them." Scott wasn't made for swearing – everyone knew that, Scott just really, really wanted to use the words all the other boys used, wanted to play with the bad guys. Only, he couldn't. Adorable, that guy, he really was.

"Anyway, I need to get home. Dad will be there soon and I promised to cook tonight."

"Only because you know he'd bring in takeout if you wouldn't. And that's the only priority you got straight, buddy. Now keep working on the others, like school work!" Scott wisely declared. And he was right, but Stiles didn't need to let him know that.

"I happen to like cooking just fine, okay? And I've been craving for Brussels sprouts for weeks now, might as well live up to my European roots and cook some brukselka." He probably perverted the Polish pronunciation, but his European roots only existed on paper, both his parents had been born in the States, so sue him.

"That sounds… disgusting. Anyway, tell your dad hi from me, 'kay?"

After another awesome Heartfelt Hug® Stiles managed to get into the Jeep and out of the parking lot. Just when he turned on the street, a sleek, black car cut his right of way, tires screeching in the turn and leaving skid marks on the asphalt.

The car looked great, the maneuver looked awesome, and Stiles looked on in amazement, waiting for whatever person would climb out of the sports car. When a honk behind him reminded him of his state of being a traffic block right now he continued on his way home.

Who in Beacon Hills owned that kind of car anyway? Well, there was Jackson and his Pretentious Princess Porsche (PPP in short), but even that douche bag in the high class car couldn't compare to the Black Badass Beast (Triple B, to minimize the danger of confusion) he'd seen today.

Stiles hadn't seen the license plate, so looking that up was out of the question – not necessarily because it was just on the wrong side of the law (as the Sheriff's son he tended to see them more as guidelines, anyway), but because it was almost impossible to look up a car's owner without knowing the license plate.

All the more time to get that thing for Kazam-kitten over with. Werewolves knotting fairies in disguise – what had his writing come to?

;:;:;:;

Four days (including the weekend) passed until Stiles was reminded of the New Car in Town. Reminded in the form of said car pulling into the university's parking lot at break neck speed once again, this time before classes started.

A blonde bombshell got out at the passenger's side; leather jacket, sunglasses, loooooong legs, big boobs and self-confidence written on her forehead in bold letters. In short: So out of Stiles' league the way she reminded him of a girl in high school who'd had a crush on him back then wasn't even funny.

When he could rip his eyes away from her curvaceous form TripleB had vanished already, leaving the parking spot empty of black sports cars. And respective license plates.

Stiles really needed to get his priorities straight. And with that realization came the sudden urge to hit his head against the steering wheel – Scott had been right all the time! Who'd a thunk?!

"You coming out or what?"

"Oh my god, Scott! Don't do that!"

"Don't do what?"

"Sneak up on me like that, just to give me a heart attack. I'm only nineteen, let me at least live through twenty-one, I want to drink alcohol (legally) before I die!" Eventually Stiles' heart had found back to its usual rhythm along his rant – a little faster than most, and pleasantly alive, not thanks to Scott – and he remembered another important part of his answer, yet to be added. "And even though I'm coming out of my car, I'm not coming out per se."

"Take your time, bro! I'm not watching the cock… CLOCK!"

"Thank you, Scott that was beautiful. Now let's get this day over with, okay? And while you're not watching the clock, you don't happen to have watched that black muscle car, right?"

"No, why would I?" Scott said it like neither a nice car nor a Blonde Bombshell were worthy of his attention. As long as Allison wasn't the driver of said car, or said bombshell, it probably wasn't…

"Yeah, why would you. Aaaanyway, let's head inside, get things done, take the next step to being responsible adults and all that."

"Stiles, you will never be an adult; you know that, right?" And just like that Scott had managed to get Stiles back into the realm of reality most (sane) people shared. It was about time, too, because the mass of students heading for the university building had diminished noticeably. "We shouldn't miss our classes anyway. Hurry up!"

And that's how Stiles had to spend the first half of his classes without the warm, lingering comfort of a Heartfelt Hug®, a fact that made his mood darken and his usually sunny, if slightly annoying, personality somewhat subdued. Even Lauren, one of his lecture buddies (he exchanged notes with her and used the more boring classes to exchange gossip, as well) knew better than to bother him; she couldn't help but ask him what's crawled up his ass and died at the end of the third class, though.

When he didn't get to see Scott for lunch and couldn't get a hold of his phone, either, Stiles' mood was at a new low. He snapped at people passing him in the corridors, didn't even pretend to pay attention to his professors and when they were assigned a group project everyone in his group avoided talking to him. That's when he finally got out of his funk and sent a reassuring smile at the others. "Sorry guys, I'm okay now. So, what are we going to do?"

"We were just, uhm. Kinda thinking about, ehm. Who's got to do the research and stuff?" a nondescript guy across from Stiles stuttered, his eyes never meeting Stiles'. Instead they were focused on someone to Stiles' right he hadn't bothered looking at yet, so he did that now.

And maaaan should he have looked there sooner! It was Blonde Bombshell, and she looked even more overwhelming from up close than she had done earlier.

"Oh, hey! I'm-"

"You're Stiles. I know." The way she said it made it sound like an invitation to her bedroom, his name a sinful purr on her lips. And how she could purrrrr a word without any 'r's in it was totally beyond him.

"Well, yeah. And you are?"

"Ts… Of course you wouldn't recognize me. I'm not the weird epileptic girl from high school anymore. Erica. Reyes." Her voice was just as confident as her whole demeanor, the sharp edges of her personality contrasting with the soft curves of her body, her golden mane pouring over her black leather jacket – and Stiles couldn't see the Erica he'd known back in high school in the woman on the table. She was frightening.

"Wow, you sure… grew up."

"That's one way to put it, Stiles. You're not bad yourself, though. Wanna see if we can make more things grow?" How was it as soon as Stiles had realized boob persons just didn't do it for him (and it only had taken ten years of crushing helplessly on Lydia Martin to come to that conclusion) they threw themselves at him? And Erica did have boobs that could be fatal when thrown.

"Maybe we'll concentrate on the assignment before…"

"Stiles and I will do the research work, you make sure to get the presentation done until next week so we can fill it with stuff. Now off you go!" Erica's tone was dismissive, but before Stiles could flee the scene, she grabbed his wrist (how had she rounded the table in that amount of time?!) and tugged him after her. "Research work, little Stiles, come on!"

She didn't need to make sure he was following; with her demeanor, she could be assured every testicled person on campus would attend to her needs, and some of the non-testicled persons as well.

;:;:;:;

Erica led him back outside, turning towards the parking lot. The tiring day was over (still hug-less, though), and still Scott wasn't anywhere in sight to make up for the lack in hugs by delivering more hugs, so Stiles found himself turning to Erica instead. Not that he wanted to hug her, per-se, but she promised to be warm and soft, so maybe he could convince her in the most platonic way…

"What are you doing?"

"Ehrm, trying to hug you?"

"You're scared of me, Stiles! Why would you willingly touch me?"

"I'm not scared! Nervous, maybe, a little unsettled, possibly, but not scared!" She didn't need to know that he indeed was scared. And hadn't she hit on him just moments ago? All he wanted was a- "HUG!"

Scott turned around, finding Stiles in the blink of an eye and jogged over to them with a sheepish grin. And was that his apologies face?

"Sorry, Stiles, I- uhm…" Yep, it was. "I met Allison in the hall and we kind of-"

"It's okay, bro, go with her, make up, make out, don't tell me about it and we're cool." Stiles was happy for Scott, he really was (as long as the Capricious Couple got along, that is), and he wanted them to be together; just… Like, right now? While Stiles was stuck with Erica, the Blonde Bombshell of Boobs, he could've used the reinforcement. Or at least Scott's distractingly adorable puppy eyes – cute seemed to be Erica's type after all. Not that Stiles was particularly cute, but he sure wasn't hunk material, either.

"'Kay. Thanks, bro! Come on, get your hug before I have to go!" Finally, FINALLY Stiles at least got his hug, then he peeled himself off Scott's broad chest and shoved him away. "See ya tomorrow, Stiles!"

"Now that the hugging thing is out of the way I'm all yours," Stiles declared, turning back to Erica. The girl looked very amused by what she'd witnessed, but didn't comment on that.

She did comment on Stiles' declaration, though. "All mine, hu? I can work with that…" She was all up in his business again, almost rubbing up against him and it made Stiles very uncomfortable.

"Maybe not all yours, after all…" he tried to reason, but Erica didn't seem to care much about what he said. Instead she pressed her face close to his throat, nuzzling his neck and feeling him up in general. It was all very weird.

"Stop that!" Oh, finally! The voice of reason saved Stiles from his untimely demise by awkward! And what a voice reason had – authoritarian, obviously used to being obeyed to, yet with a soothing quality to it; every bodily reaction Erica's ministrations failed to arise, this voice did.

"Oh come on, I'm sure he likes it!" Erica positively whined, but stepped back nonetheless, giving Stiles much needed space to breathe. And the possibility to look at his savior in his shining… black leather jacket armor.

"You know he didn't."

"He would've, at some point! Look how cute he is!"

"Only because he's good looking doesn't mean you can assault him like that! I'm not discussing this and you're getting in the car. Now."

Stiles didn't care for what was said. He was busy taking in the newcomer's appearance; he looked fit (make that buff) in his black leather jacket and black jeans (oh, they did things to his thighs!), the dark grey Henley he wore under the jacket hiding little of his rippling muscles, and his looks became downright obscene where his shirt ended in a v-neck and showed off hints of the guy's clavicle. His throat was all muscles and cords, leading to a stubbled jaw, chiseled by the gods and, well, Stiles was a goner. A goner with a boner, as soon as he reached the man's eyes; eyes that were an indescribable mix of blue and pale green, and despite their light color they were piercing and intense. Stiles wanted them to wander down his naked, flushed body.

"Stiles, you with me?"

"Wh- what?" Stiles wasn't with anyone! He was free like the wind, unattached and very okay with changing that in favor of being attached to that wall of leather and muscles, thanks for asking.

Instead of answering Erica gave him a suspicious look, one eyebrow lifted higher and higher while her nose kinda wrinkled. "Not with me then," she mumbled under her breath, then spoke up again. "The research thing? Wanna get it started today? Derek here can give you a lift to where we live."

Derek here being the broody wet dream on legs, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket and his feet planted on the ground a shoulder's width apart. And was it normal for that pose to underline the almost bulging quality of thigh muscles like that? Apropos bulge…

"Stiles!"

"Oh, eh, sorry! No, uhm, I can take my Jeep, if that's okay? Follow you home or something?"

Broody Boy (aka Derek) nodded gruffly (don't ask how he managed that, he just did) and turned towards TripleB, motioning Erica to get in at the passenger's side. "Try not to get lost behind me."

Stiles jumped into his (t)rusty Jeep and started the engine, slowly creeping out of a slot that was originally designed for a bike or something, and when he had managed the feat (not without a proud grin on his face) TripleB was nowhere to be seen. "Dammit!"

Screeching tires and an annoyed sounding HONK helped him find Derek and Erica, and therefore TripleB so he could follow them out of the parking lot and towards the preserve out of town.

;:;:;:;

Many a days had Stiles spent out here when he'd been younger and full of adventurous energy. And many a times had Scott spent bent over and wheezing for breath when his asthma had acted up – ah, good times were had.

Now he could see his Jeep bent over somewhere and wheezing, though – the street (read: dirt path) they took through the woods did things to the car's shock absorbers Stiles rather wouldn't think about. It was a small miracle Derek's sleek sports car could take the rough ride, when even Stiles' off-roader had troubles to deal with it.

Eventually they reached a driveway that was in way better shape and the shaking came to a halt. Thankfully; Stiles' teeth couldn't take more of the rattling without becoming loose.

At the end of that driveway loomed a manor, big and imposing, yet strangely homey and welcoming, with a small porch out front and opened windows showing there were people inside. 'The Hale House', Stiles' mind helpfully piped in, stating the obvious. Of course they'd be headed towards the Hale House, of all the houses in Beacon Hills. And of course Derek was a Hale.

"Sooo, you two live together?" Stiles inquired as he got out of his car, trying to hide behind his Jeep or else he'd be seen by someone from inside the house. Yes, it had been years and yes, Stiles wasn't the lanky kid from back then anymore, but the condemning look on Laura Hale's face from when she had to drag him out of a well was still fresh in his mind. As were her hissed words: "Don't make me get you out of a well ever again, Timmy!"

Derek Hale's sister was a scary, scary woman. And of course she was standing at the porch, watching Stiles trailing behind her brother and her brother's (not very faithful) girlfriend.

"Derek, who is it you're bringing with you?" she asked, but she wasn't fooling anyone. The look she threw towards Stiles spoke volumes of what she thought of him.

"This is Stiles; he's in Erica's project group, research or something."

"Oh, I see. Nice to see you again, Stiles. Learned how to swim by now?" He had, thank you very much. Not so much in a murky, tight well shaft, though.

"I think I can manage," he answered and ignored the confused looks he got from Derek and Erica. "So no lifesaving today, I hope."

That earned him a grin and , dare he think it?, Laura's toleration, shown in the way she stepped back from the door and hence granting him entrance into her home. "Be my guest."

Inside Stiles had to take a moment to take the architecture in. The entrance hall was gorgeous, filled with potted plants and statures, painted pictures showing deep woods and lurking shadows along the walls, and wide stairs led up to the second floor. Several doors led from the hall deeper into the house, the same on the second floor, and Stiles could only imagine which doors led where.

"Want a tour?" Erica sidled up next to him, once again all in his business. "We can start in my room and work our way down…" She didn't make it sound like a tour of the house.

"I think I'm fine… If you could tell me where the restroom is, though?" Everything to get out of her immediate presence.

"Up the stairs, first door to your right," Derek was quick to supply; maybe he was done with his girlfriend's blatant flirting with another guy.

"Thanks!" But before Stiles could flee up the stairs, a tall woman stepped into the entrance hall through one of the doors. She had the same dark hair her children had, as well as the high cheek bones that gave all the Hales an aura of authority and elegance.

"Oh, we have guests," she said in a pleasant voice. "Aren't you the Sheriff's son? Stilinski, is it?"

"Eh, yeah, hello Mrs. Hale! The Sheriff's my dad, I'm Stiles." What else was there to say, really? Everybody knew the Sheriff, and everybody had at least heard of the Sheriff's son with a disposition for chaos and the legally questionable.

"Welcome to my home, Stiles. You're in Erica's project group, I take it? It's a pleasure having you here." And that was about it; she turned around, waving to her son, and disappeared into the room she just came from.

"My pleasure…" Stiles' wish to vanish was forgotten, overridden by the surprise of Mrs. Hale appearing amongst them. So he ended up trotting after Erica, who in turn followed Derek into the sitting room. An enormous room, dominated by a massive dining table and twelve (TWELVE!) chairs around it. Who needed that much space for dinner?

"You'll work here; I'll get you the password to our internet, you can use all the books in our library, you won't need anything else." Derek's voice was calm, low and ordering. And hot. Stiles was doomed. He groaned deeply when he sat down on one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs at one end of the table, then buried his face in his folded arms. Figured he'd crush on the ridiculously handsome Hale offspring, just when his equally hot girlfriend sat right next to him and was hitting on Stiles.

"Aw, come on, Stiles, we'll be great!" Erica's words weren't exactly encouraging, not in Stiles' situation, but he took it like a champ.

"Let's get this over with." If his voice sounded slightly whining, it was nobody's business but his.

;:;:;:;

It was the small victories, really. It was astonishing what workload Stiles' brain could master when he really focused on one single thing; and focused he was, on the research that is, so that he could ignore the way Erica tried to play footsie with him, or how Derek stayed with them in the sitting room the whole time, sitting on the other end of the table and reading a newspaper. The pages rustled every time he turned one over and the sound grated at Stiles' concentration, making him want to look up.

Was Derek one of the people whose lips moved with what they read? Was he engrossed in the articles or was he just pretending to read, so that Stiles wouldn't come onto his girlfriend?

Anyway, Stiles focused, Stiles worked, Stiles researched the hell out of Google. Erica, multi tasking Bombshell that she was, was a real asset to their team, so that she sifted through the Hales' impressive collection of interesting books, all the while pressing her foot against Stiles' shin, then knee, later thigh. Stiles began to sweat, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Derek had to notice what was happening under the table, and yet he didn't move to do something about it.

Only after Erica's pushy foot slid over the inside of Stiles' right thigh and he couldn't hold back a pathetic whimper Derek stepped in. "Enough!"

"Who are you to order me around, Derek, hu?! You're not my Al-"

"I can go and get Talia if you wish!" That made Erica shut up instantly and her face paled. Her foot was gone that instant and Stiles felt like he could breathe again. It wasn't so much that he was opposed to physical contact – he was nearly twenty years old, in the prime of his (theoretical) sex life, so he was as horny as the guy next to him (who, in this case, happened to be Derek, so he might be slightly more horny than him); it was the situation that got to him. And the fact that Erica was decidedly hot, yet she was a, well, a she.

Derek on the other hand…

"I'm sorry, Stiles," Erica said later and even though that didn't necessarily mean it wouldn't happen again, at least her apology sounded sincere, so Stiles just shrugged and finished packing his stuff.

"Won't hold it against you. I mean, have you seen me? Who wouldn't want something of that, right?" His grin was confident and wide, yet his eyes remained on Derek. Well, he probably wouldn't. Didn't mean Derek wasn't prime material for the spank bank.

"I think we're done here. 't was great working with you, Erica. See you tomorrow?"

"Cool, meet ya at school then." And just like that Stiles' adventure at the Hale House was over; no injuries, no embarrassment – Stiles counted both as a win when he sat in his Jeep and made his way home. And in the end, Erica wasn't all that bad to be around, as long as she kept her pedicured feet and her manicured hands (more like paws with claws) to herself.

When he reached home his father's cruisers stood in the drive way, driver's door propped open, his dad standing next to it. "Where have you been, Stiles?"

"Hey dad! Was over at the Hale's, project work with Erica Reyes. Oh, Mrs. Hale sends her regards."

"I'd appreciate you telling me where you spent your afternoons, son. Even Scott didn't know where you were!" The displeasure was strong in this one, Stiles thought.

"Yeah, well, I don't know where Scott was, either, so we're even?" Never hurt to try.

"Just let me know where you are next time, okay?" The Sheriff sighed defeated, like he had to put up with a lot over the years. And maybe he had, but Stiles tried to be a good son. He really did, fixing dinner for his father, making sure he ate healthy, and even his ventures into not-quite-legally land had become far less. That had to count for something, right?

"I will, dad. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Stiles. Just… I'm worried about you, okay?"

"Yeah, I know. Stay safe! I love you!" The words were a ritual by now, the Sheriff wouldn't start a shift without hearing those words from Stiles every time he left the house for work. But they never lost any of their meaning, of how much Stiles wished his father was safe and loved.

"Love you too, kiddo." Finally the Sheriff got into his car and maneuvered it out on the street, honking as a goodbye. Stiles felt overcome with worry for a second, but fought it back again. He was old enough to repress his dark thoughts. Dad would be fine. He better be.

Inside his house it was eerily quiet without someone else around, but it was nothing Stiles didn't know from a lot of nights spent alone at home. Thanks to the afternoon spent working for uni he was free to start up his game console; a short text to Scott assured him he'd have a partner for a few hours killing noobs in Call of Duty before Stiles would have to work some more on that cursed fanfic he needed to write.

Despite having found some really, really appetizing inspiration (Derek would make a great werewolf, really would), Stiles refused to use the Hottie Hale as a reference for Jacob in the story. Dude deserved something better. Dude deserved Stiles, but that was neither here nor there.

;:;:;:;

What indeed WAS here was Scott, at least digitally, so the next hours were spent amongst grenades and artillery barrage.

"Dude, get your head in the game!" Scott yelled over the headset, making Stiles flinch with the volume.

"Don't you go all Wildcats on me, Scott! I saved your ass, like, a million times!"

"Yeah, and two million times you got me shot with your crappy wingmanship! Whatever you're thinking about, it's not those assholes ripping us a new one."

That was embarrassingly true, but Stiles was pretty sure Scott could live without the images Stiles' mind came up with over the course of their game. Not that the carnage on screen was particularly arousing, Stiles just couldn't get rid of images of Derek.

And wasn't that an alarming thought. He'd met the guy only a few hours prior, hadn't even really talked to him, but Stiles had nothing if not an overactive mind. Said mind was busy peeling Derek out of his sinfully tight jeans and those skin hugging henleys he wore.

"Sorry, bro, kinda feel out of it…" he mumbled in apology, missing yet another shot so that Scott once again was hit in the head.

"You know what? You work through whatever keeps you from being your awesome self – without telling me how you do just that – and we try again later or something. I'm sure you have to write some vampire smut anyway."

Scott, once again the voice of reason. Stiles needed new friends, the actual development was disconcerting. "Guess you're right, Scotty. And I promise I won't tell you about how I'm going to jerk off to the image of-"

A squeal that was abruptly interrupted by total silence told Stiles the line went dead. Pussy, couldn't even take that much while Stiles had written several heterosexual fanfics about what Scott and Allison had gotten up to in bed. And other places.

Ew, way to kill the mood.

The idea of getting up to that with Derek on the other hand… Welcome back, mood, nice to see you!

In the blink of an eye Stiles had shut down his PS3 and headed to the bathroom in somewhat of a stumbling gait.

When he reached the bathroom he couldn't get rid of his pants fast enough, the tightness in his crotch too much to bear at this point. What was it with boxer shorts and making your dick flop around when flaccid, but trying to strangle it when you're half hard or worse?

The jeans fell to the ground in a muffled thud, soon to be accompanied by Stiles' bunched boxer shorts – and just in time! A relieved sigh escaped Stiles' lips and he turned around, facing the shower. Unfortunately, that move made him meet his reflection in the full body mirror.

A lanky 19 year old met his gaze, all awkward angles, long limbs and scattered moles. Stiles shrugged out of his hoodie, plaid shirt and his T-shirt, mirror!Stiles mirroring his movements (oh the irony!), and there he was, in his naked glory: Stiles Stilinski, nerd extraordinaire and part time hipster (only he really wasn't). Taking inventory of his own body was never exactly enjoyable, but in the light of recent events (read: meeting Derek) it made Stiles laugh out loud, a pathetic sound echoing from the tiled walls.

Then the echo changed, a new voice stating a fact. "He's good looking", Derek's voice murmured into the empty room, wrapping around Stiles' naked body like a cocoon and warming him from inside out.

"He called me good looking," Stiles whispered, only now taking that little fact in. "Good looking!" And suddenly his limbs didn't look all that lanky anymore, showed where he had filled out after long years of lacrosse practice, and even his belly seemed to show hints of abs. Stiles was good looking and Derek had said so! Ha, world, in your face!

Eventually Stiles finished his turn towards the shower cube (and if there had been flexing of muscles and stupid helicopter flapping with his dick in front of the mirror beforehand, nobody needed to know) and stepped into the small stall. The first gush of water was ice cold and almost managed to make Stiles reconsider his plans, but as soon as the temperature reached a bearable level (and Stiles remembered just what exactly climbing out of a lowered car did to Derek's thighs in these painted on jeans), all thoughts of not partaking in some Stiles alone time disembarked.

Stiles was fully on board on the MS Sterek, a ship he could totally get behind. Or in front of, really. Anywhere near Derek was okay with him.

He had a pretty good idea how he would start their journey, too. At first, he would step up to Derek, letting his own arms gliding along Derek's into the sleeves of his leather jacket, until they were pressed chest to chest and Stiles could intertwine their fingers. Then he would wait for Derek to close the distance between their lips, press their mouths together in a first, shy kiss, like testing the waters. Stiles would probably moan into the kiss, he was a sucker for romance and kisses, was almost always vocal when his mouth was involved. When Derek would hear that sound, he'd deepen the kiss, would coax Stiles' lips open and delve into his mouth.

The kiss would turn bruising in its intensity, teeth clashing and tongues exploring, all the while Stiles would be moaning into Derek's mouth, maybe he would rub against the other man as well; but they wouldn't move too much, wouldn't be able to with them both being stuck in the same leather jacket.

At one point Derek would withdraw from the kiss, maybe trying to say something, but Stiles wouldn't let him, would follow Derek's mouth to have that feeling of rough stubble chafing against his sensitive lips again.

Stiles could see it right in front of him, his imagination feeding him all the things he needed.

Derek pressed against Stiles again, short and decisive, then withdrew. "Stiles, my jacket."

"Oh, yeah, sorry…" Stiles let go of Derek's fingers, but he did so reluctantly. When his own limbs left the sleeves, he used his regained mobility to slide the jacket down the other man's arms, feeling the impressive musculature bulging under his touch. The leather jacket fell onto the floor with a muffled sound, none of them caring about it when their lips met again.

"Derek." Nothing more than that, Stiles just needed to say the name, taste the sound while the man's taste still lingered on his tongue. It made his lips tingle.

"Stiles," Derek answered with gusto, dark promises and dirty secrets all wrapped up in that single name. Almost as dirty as the thigh that pressed against Stiles' legs, slotting in between his own thighs and rubbing against where Stiles' body was eagerly communicating his want. "I can't wait to see you."

Never before had Stiles heard those words said to him. "I want you to see," he stuttered and blushed. Derek had said he was good looking, so why shouldn't he look?

"Okay. Show me." It was Stiles who said the words out loud, but the echoes in the bathroom and his own imagination made them sound like Derek's voice. Commanding. Direct. Again Derek was standing right in front of him.

And so Stiles showed him. He stepped back from Derek, bringing a few feet of distance between them – it helped him breathe and made for a better view. Slowly he shimmied out of his own jeans, the fabric sliding along his legs until they hit the ground and Stiles stepped out of them.

"The shirt next."

He had always thought stripping a shirt had to look as sexy as possible, so he tried a move he had seen in oh so many pornos. Crossing his arms in front of his body Stiles gripped the hem of his T-shirt and tugged it over his head, lifting it and revealing his upper body to Derek's hungry gaze.

"Now the boxers."

Stiles shuddered, but didn't falter in his movements. Nimble fingers rolled the waistband down, showing off a strip of light, tender skin; Derek's eyes zeroed in on that, hungry and impatient. When the shorts pooled around Stiles' ankles, Derek groaned and licked his lips.

"Touch yourself. For me."

He did so without a second thought. His long fingers closed around his own length, a desperate hiss leaving his lips at the tightness around him. Stiles couldn't help but thrust into the circle of his hand, reveling in the slick heat and pressure. The slick and slide was easy, his hand flying over his dick in a desperate mission. "Derek." Again, only the word, two syllables, countless wishes and needs.

"I'm watching you, Stiles."

And watching he did; Derek's eyes never left Stiles' groin, didn't miss a single stroking motion his hand did on his cock. Stiles' dick seemed to grow even more under such close scrutiny, his head an almost angry purple with flowing blood this close to the surface.

It didn't take much more for Stiles; Derek's eyes, his intense gaze, the way he focused on Stiles and Stiles alone.

"Come for me. Now, Stiles."

There was no resisting that voice; Stiles came in thick ropes, white semen spraying over his fingers and painting the shower wall in a creamy white.

Stiles opened his eyes and was back in his shower, warm water streaming down his body and washing away all evidence of his recent orgasm; an orgasm of an unknown intensity, at least for a solo ride under the shower without further equipment.

Stiles was spent, sated and squeaky clean when he left the shower again, a goofy grin reflecting in the fogged mirror. "I'm good looking. He said so."

;:;:;:;

Stiles didn't write a single word for the commission, he wasn't in the mood. What might seem a little strange, since he just had jerked off, his libido in top shape, obviously, but tonight was for Sterek, not Jacward.

Not for the first time "Jacward" sounded like "awkward" in his head, and that would not besmirching his Sterek thoughts!

"You're good looking too, Derek," Stiles confided in the darkness before he sank back in his pillows. "Very much so."

AN: TBC?

This is my first Teen Wolf fanfic and I'm really nervous about it. There are a lot of great authors writing for this fandom and here I am, a mere peasant, trying to add something to the fandom - I hope you like it!
I know there are a lot of loose threads in this story, but there's a reason for that. I plan on continuing this fic, add more chapters to it and make it earn both the title AND the rating. ;) Tags will be added when the need arises.
The thing is: Should I even bother continuing it? Is it good enough to write more for Derek and Stiles? And if it isn't, what needs to be changed so it becomes an asset rather than a bother?

It'd be great if you'd let me know either way! :)

And now, thanks for reading!