Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles liked to think of himself as an essential part of the Beacon Hills Monster Teen Support Group (read: werewolf pack). And he was, honestly, the brains, the comic relief, and the guy who could Google anything faster than Lydia could finish rolling her eyes. But even the Most Valuable Human needed… breaks.

Because believe it or not, Stiles had a private life. Private plans. Personal, very important business. Namely: finally, finally taking care of the throbbing, frustrating, soul-crushing problem known as his blue balls.

And sure, he wasn’t exactly lucky in love beit with the ladies or the guys. But there was always his right hand, loyal, dependable, never late to a date. Stiles had been mentally penciling in quality time for weeks.

But did the universe respect that? No. Of course not. The universe sent him more bodies.

And while usually these situations were results of self-insert behavior, this one was not. Sure, it is partially his fault. Okay, mostly his fault. Okay, it's a self-insert situation alright.

Stiles had stopped by the Sheriff’s office that afternoon to drop off some files when he overheard Parrish talking. Words like “abnormal number of corpses” and “missing organs” were not exactly subtle. Stiles lingered by the door, doing his best impression of a potted plant.

From what he caught, the bodies were missing livers and hearts. Which, great. Super great. Supernatural grab bag level of great, since half the monsters in the Bestiary thought hearts and livers were basically protein shakes. Parrish mentioned a disturbing pattern, which all but screamed “case of the week.” Then Parrish noticed Stiles hovering, and the conversation went dead faster than Scott’s love life during a full moon.

Naturally, Stiles brought the intel to Scott. Naturally, Scott decided they needed to investigate immediately. Naturally, that’s how Stiles found himself walking into Derek Hale’s loft.

Unannounced.
Uninvited.
And already regretting it.

Isaac opened the door and invited them in. Derek's loft was full of teenagers. Boyd, Erica, Lydia and Jackson were already gathered like the junior FBI task force of supernatural Beacon Hills, while the homeowner's nowhere to he seen.

Scott, the compassionate werewolf he is, started explaining why they should start investigating.

“What’s this?” Derek’s voice cut from behind, low and already irritated.

Everyone froze. Then Erica, lounging on the arm of the couch, smirked. “Stiles brought a case.”

Stiles stopped dead, clutching his backpack like a shield.

Derek’s eyes slid to Stiles, flat and unimpressed. The look said this better not be stupid.

Stiles cleared his throat. “Okay, so, bodies. Missing hearts and livers. Sheriff’s office chatter. Definitely supernatural vibes.”

Derek’s jaw flexed. He didn’t roll his eyes — which for Derek Hale was basically enthusiastic encouragement. He even nodded.

“Could be anything,” Derek said. “Feral werewolf. Harpy. Wendigo, organ traffickers. Any other clues?”

“Well, no.” Stiles rocked on his heels. “My dad noticed me lurking and shut down the conversation. But come on — missing hearts and livers? That’s classic monster behavior. We’re not exactly talking organ traffickers here.”

Scott leaned forward. “Shouldn’t we start looking for patterns? Maybe check police records? Break into the sheriff’s office?”

Stiles nearly choked. “Excuse me? We are not breaking into my dad’s office. Do you have any idea how much trouble I’d be in? Like, grounded-for-life trouble. You’d be finding my mummified body in the holding cell twenty years from now.”

There was a long silence. Everyone looked at Derek. Derek looked at Stiles like he was two seconds away from throwing him out a window.

Finally, Derek exhaled. “Fine. Meeting’s over. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

And just like that, Stiles’ plans for quality alone time for the next day were — once again — postponed.

Well, at least today he had alone time. For once, Stiles actually had the house to himself. It's 9 p.m., no supernatural alarms blaring, no best friend dragging him into wolf business, no banshee visions or kanima claws scratching at his window. Just him, his locked bedroom door, and his phone.

He flopped back on his bed with a sigh of relief, thumb already pulling up his go-to site. The neon logo lit up his screen like the gates of heaven. Blessed be the internet: eternal bringer of temporary bliss, holy land of distraction, one-click cure for chronic frustration.

Stiles started scrolling. And scrolling. And scrolling. Nothing caught him. Not the brunette with the pool boy, not the step-sibling disaster specials, not even the pizza delivery clichés. His thumb was about to give up when he stopped dead on a thumbnail:

A bubbly blonde with a chest that could win awards and a big grin, paired with a tall, hairy, muscled guy with broad shoulders, messy black hair, and a cock that made Stiles choke on his own spit.

“Oh. Ohhh,” Stiles whispered, clicking faster than a man possessed. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”

He shoved his sweats down, wrapped his hand tight, and hit play.

“God bless the internet,” he muttered, settling in.

The guy on-screen dropped to his knees, shoving the blonde’s thighs apart before burying his face between them. She squealed, arching off the bed, and he smacked her ass with a sharp crack that made the mic pop.

Stiles groaned, his fist tightening around his cock. “Oh yeah, eat that pussy, spank that ass, fuck that’s hot.” His hand pumped lazily, building up a rhythm to match the soundtrack in his earbuds.

The blonde dropped to her knees in front of the camera, wrapping her lips around the guy’s thick cock in a perfect POV shot. The angle made it look like she was staring straight at Stiles, eyes watering as she took him deeper, gagging prettily.

Stiles leaned closer, grinning wide. “Mmhmm, bet you love choking on that thick fat cock, huh? Damn, girl, you’re a champ. Gold medal for you.”

The guy gripped her waist and drove in hard, the sound of skin-on-skin filling Stiles’ earbuds. The guy squeezed those big boobs like a stress ball and earned a high pitched moan. Stiles bit back a laugh, panting. “Yes, my guy, play with those fake boobs like they’re stress balls. She paid good money for those. Show some respect.”

The cameraman zoomed in, catching the perfect angle, and Stiles actually clapped a little with his free hand. “Oh yeah, that’s… yep, that’s good camera work. Somebody deserves an Oscar for this. Or at least a Teen Choice Award.”

He adjusted his grip, stroking tighter, his toes curling against the sheets.

On screen, the guy growled something filthy and drove harder. Stiles moaned, voice pitching up. “Fuck, this guy really knows how to fuck.”

He groaned low in his throat, body relaxing, shoulders sinking into the mattress. He should’ve been fully in it, eyes glued to the bouncing blonde and her enthusiastic squeals… except his brain did that traitorous thing.

Because the guy on screen, all hairy and broad and rough? Stiles’ imagination slapped a permanent scowl onto that face, added just the right amount of stubble, sharpened the jawline, made the eyes hazel with a tinge of darkness to them until they glared like molten jade.

Derek. Damn it.

Stiles groaned again, stroking faster, biting his lip. Not that he’d ever admit it. Not to Scott, not to anyone, not even to the NSA if they showed up at his house tomorrow demanding answers.

“Fuck, Derek. Pound that pussy!”

Just as the heat in his stomach coiled tighter, just as he was about to reach that blissful edge, the phone speaker betrayed him. The breathy moans warped into a shrill ringtone, and his screen lit up with a single, furious word.

DAD.

“Fuck!” Stiles yelped, nearly flinging the phone across the room. He scrambled, wiping his hand on his shirt before fumbling to answer. “Hi, Dad! What’s up?”

“Stiles!” The Sheriff’s voice thundered through the speaker, pissed-off in that special parental way that made Stiles’ stomach plummet. “Did you and Scott break into my office again? The alarm just went off!”

Stiles blinked, still catching his breath, pants tangled around his knees. “You guys set an alarm now?”

“Stiles!”

“Okay, okay! It wasn’t me!” he said quickly, rolling onto his side and staring guiltily at his half-hard dick. “I’m literally in my room right now, trying to have a… happy time, and you’re interrupting, which is frankly a violation of human rights.”

There was a beat of silence. Then a groan. “Dammit. I’m going back to the office.” Click.

Stiles flopped back against his pillow, groaning loudly. If it wasn’t him, then it had to be—

He punched at his phone and called Scott.

The line picked up mid-breathless panting. “Stiles—hey.”

“Oh my God. Tell me you did not just break into my dad’s office again.”

“I did. I mean, Derek said there’s nothing we can do without more clues, and people are in danger, so…”

Stiles dragged a hand down his face. “Scott. Ughhh.” He sat up, his cock still standing awkwardly at attention, bobbing against his stomach. “Okay, fine, fine. Did you at least read the report?”

“Yes!” A pause. “Well… no. But I have the report with me.”

“You what?!” Stiles nearly shrieked, scrambling off the bed, his boxers around his thighs. “Did you just steal a sheriff’s department report? From my dad’s office? SCOTT!”

“I panicked!” Scott hissed, his voice echoing faintly. “What was I supposed to do? Should I bring it to your house?”

Stiles froze, staring down at himself, pants halfway off, erection deflating fast. “Absolutely not! Are you fucking insane? My dad’s already suspicious!”

“Then what do I do?” Scott asked, probably with those massive puppy eyes of his.

Stiles groaned, dragging his palm over his face. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m hiding in the preserve.”

“Of course you are. Okay, listen. Head toward the Hale house, stash the file somewhere out front, and then go home like nothing happened. We’ll pick it up tomorrow after school.”

“Got it.”

The line clicked off.

The porn video autoplayed again on his phone, sound filling his bedroom, showing PornHub Derek was riding straight through his orgasm, pounding into the poor blonde like Stiles’ libido hadn’t just been murdered by parental interference.

Stiles stared at his now-limp dick, the mood utterly annihilated, and groaned into his pillow. “Fuck my life.”

Thursday, after school, Stiles and Scott drove straight to the burned-out skeleton of the Hale House, grabbed the contraband case files from their hiding spot, and then—because subtlety had never once been in their vocabulary—headed right to Derek’s loft.

Unannounced. Uninvited. Naturally.

Derek opened the door with his usual scowl. “Now what?”

“Well, a damn hello would be great, sourwolf,” Stiles said, breezing past him like he owned the place, like he hadn’t just last night watched PornHub Derek rail a blonde on his phone screen. (Not that he was ever going to say that out loud. Ever.)

Scott gave Derek his best innocent smile. Derek sighed like he was already regretting every life choice that had led to knowing them and grudgingly let him in.

But before he could close the door, voices echoed up the stairs. A trio appeared: Jackson, Isaac, and Erica, all filing in like it was open house day at Derek’s personal bat cave.

“He left the door open,” Jackson announced, smug as ever.

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Who else did you invite?”

“Uh… everyone, basically,” Stiles said, flopping onto the arm of Derek’s couch like a cat making itself at home.

That earned him a glare sharp enough to peel paint.

“Well, except Allison, of course,” Stiles added quickly. Which only made it worse.

Scott’s head whipped around, his glare even darker than Derek’s. Because yeah, making Argent jokes in front of the guy whose family had been roasted alive? Bringing up a dead ex-girlfriend in front of Scott and Isaac? Not Stiles’ finest move. Even he knew it the second the words left his mouth.

“Too soon?” Stiles muttered, shrinking a little.

Derek didn’t answer. Which was worse.

They got to work. The case files spilled across Derek’s table, the papers grim with photographs of bodies and coroner reports.

Victims: all male. Ages twenties to forties. Hearts and livers ripped from their torsos, gruesome wounds still visible in the crime scene photos.

Scott winced. Erica tilted her head like she was curious. Isaac looked green. Jackson muttered something about amateurs.

Derek, of course, zeroed in on what the cops had missed.

“These aren’t just organ removals,” he said, tapping one photograph hard enough the paper bent. “The intestines are gone too. It’s obvious if you bother to actually look.”

Then he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for every wolf and human ear in the room to catch: “And once again, the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department proves it’s not doing its job.”

The words hit Stiles like a slap. His spine went rigid, breath catching hot in his throat.

“They're doing the best they can,” Stiles said sharply,.

Derek barely looked up. “Clearly not well enough.”

That was it. Stiles shoved his chair back so hard it screeched against the concrete floor. Everyone flinched at the noise.

“You know what? Screw you, Derek. You don’t get to sit here and dump on my dad when he’s the only one keeping this town even halfway safe. You don’t like how he works? Fine. But don’t—don’t act like he’s some idiot who doesn’t do his job.”

“Stiles—” Derek started, an edge of panic threading into his usually even tone.

“Nope. Don’t you dare. I heard it. Loud and clear.”

“I didn’t mean—” Derek actually stopped, jaw working like the words physically hurt. “I just meant the department in general. Not—”

“Oh, so what, my dad’s the general? The captain of incompetence?” Stiles shot back, arms flying out in wide, sarcastic air quotes.

Derek bristled. “That’s not what I said.”

“Sure sounded like it,” Stiles snapped. His cheeks were bright red now, but it wasn’t embarrassment. It was fury.

Across the table, Erica leaned her chin in her palm, eyes glittering. “This is better than cable.”

Isaac snorted under his breath. “Ten bucks says Stiles storms out in the next thirty seconds.”

“Twenty says Derek follows him,” Jackson countered without looking up, already scrolling on his phone.

Scott was caught in the middle, looking between them like a puppy about to cry. “Guys, maybe—”

“Stay out of it, Scott,” Stiles and Derek barked in unison.

That only made the loft quieter.

Derek scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard through his nose. “I wasn’t attacking your dad, Stiles. I spoke without thinking.”

“Oh, wow,” Stiles deadpanned, eyebrows shooting up. “Stop the presses, ladies and gentlemen: Derek Hale spoke without thinking. Truly a shocking twist. What’s next, Derek? Gonna scowl at someone until they drop dead?”

Derek glared. “You’re impossible.”

“Aw, thanks, big guy, I try.”

Erica bit her lip to keep from laughing. Isaac was full-on grinning. Scott groaned into his hands.

The tension simmered, sparking between them, neither willing to back down.

Finally, Stiles shoved the files toward Scott, jaw tight. “You guys figure it out. I’m out of this case.”

“Stiles—” Derek tried again, softer this time, but it was too late.

The teen stormed out, door slamming loud enough to rattle the loft’s steel beams.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Jackson whistled low. “Yikes. And you guys said I'm the jerk.”

“Shut up, Jackson,” Derek growled.

Stiles slammed into his room, still vibrating with anger. It was bad enough that Derek Hale, resident king of unnecessary glares, had to go and insult his dad. But somehow, it was worse because it was Derek. Which… yeah, confusing, don’t think too hard about that one.

And now that he finally had free time to take care of his terminal case of blue balls? He was too pissed to even get hard. Which, insult to injury. The injustice burned.

So, he did what any modern, sexually frustrated, rage-powered teenager would do.

He opened Grindr.

It had been a while since he logged in. Not since the last round of awkward chats with guys who only wanted one thing—penetrative sex—and were somehow mad when Stiles counter-offered with “enthusiastic handjobs, blowjob connoisseurship, and world-class snark.” The result: a dry spell as barren as the Hale house lawn.

He started scrolling. And scrolling. And scrolling.

Profiles blurred together. Bathroom mirror selfies. Gym bros flexing. Faceless torsos with suspicious carpet backgrounds.

Finally, he messaged a couple of the more appealing accounts. His phone buzzed almost immediately with a reply.

domtop69: hey. nice pic. but, xtravrgnoliveoil? what kinda display name is that?

Stiles typed in a reply. "Don’t ask. It made sense at two a.m. once, and now I am committed."

domtop69: it's clever. u down 4 fun?

Stiles clicked through the gallery, and, hello?! This guy had the kind of body sculpted by divine intervention. Broad chest, abs like someone had Photoshopped a chocolate bar onto him, strong arms that looked like they belonged on a varsity field.

And he was eighteen. Not forty-something, not balding with a creepy mustache, not married with “discreet” in his bio. Actual teenager odds? Miraculous.

Must be a jock, Stiles thought, gnawing his lip. Maybe Beacon Hills High? Or one of those rich-kid private schools where they give you designer condoms in the bathrooms?

The chat picked up fast.

Stiles admitted he was a virgin, because honesty was sexy, right? Or at least it saved him from panic later. To his surprise, domtop69 didn’t push. In fact, he sent back something that made Stiles blink.

domtop69: If it happens, it happens. Don’t force it. Just let it be natural.

It was… weirdly comforting. Like the guy had a brain and a dick. Rare combo.

Then came the heads-up.

domtop69: btw if u ever want to bottom, u might have to prep. im big.

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. “How big?” he typed, chewing his thumb. “I’m a visual learner.”

Seconds later: ping.

One photo. Then another.

And—holy god. That was not a dick, that was a big dick.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles hissed at his phone. “That thing has its own gravitational pull.”

He typed with shaking fingers: How big is that?

domtop69: 8 inches.

Stiles whistled low, flopping back on his bed. “Eight. Inches. I mean… congratulations to your tailor? Also, holy shit.”

And the worst/best part? He wasn’t just intrigued. He was tempted. Maybe—maybe losing his virginity to someone with an actual plan, someone hot, someone who wasn’t going to run off and insult his family halfway through—maybe that wouldn’t be the worst idea.

So he typed it out before he could stop himself: might be open to fucking.

That earned a fast reply.

domtop69: good boy. friday night then?

Stiles’ pulse skipped. Appointment set. Friday. A sex appointment. A dick-date. A blow-and-go turned full-on cherry-popping extravaganza.

And then, the kicker.

domtop69: don’t cum til then. save it 4 me.

Stiles stared at the screen. “Don’t… come?” He groaned into his pillow. “That’s like telling Scott not to chase shiny objects.”

But the promise lingered. The thrill of it. The reckless, stupid, exciting idea that he was actually doing this.

Friday night.

Virginity: maybe doomed.

Beacon Hills High’s cafeteria was its usual Friday chaos: linoleum floors sticky with soda, trays clattering, lacrosse guys yelling across tables. Stiles picked at his fries like they’d personally wronged him, still nursing yesterday’s Derek-induced fury. Scott slid into the seat across from him with a tray of questionable pizza and the look of someone carrying bad news.

“Derek said he’s sorry,” Scott started.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Did he now?”

Scott hesitated. “No. He didn’t.”

“Figured,” Stiles muttered. He stabbed a fry into his ketchup like it was Derek’s smug face. “So what did he say?”

Scott winced, bracing himself. “That he’s glad the skinny, weak Stiles finally got out of harm’s way so he could focus on the actual bad guy.”

Stiles slammed his fry down so hard ketchup spattered the table. “Oh, hell no! Excuse me—skinny and weak? In case you forgot, I’m the one who actually figures out what’s what in every single case. Without me, you guys would’ve been eaten six times over!”

Scott lifted his hands like, hey, don’t shoot the messenger. “I’m just saying… maybe you should tell Derek that. Because thanks to your dramatic exit, Derek’s forcing me to patrol the entire Beacon Hills border tonight sniffing for suspicious scents. On a Friday night, Stiles. Friday. Night.” He dropped his forehead onto the table with a groan.

“Tragic,” Stiles deadpanned. “But no. You can go enjoy your K9 activities. I actually have something important to do.”

Scott peeked up, suspicious. “Like what?”

“Like,” Stiles said, leaning in with all the solemnity of someone delivering a state secret, “getting my cherry popped.”

Scott’s head snapped up so fast his chair screeched. “Wait. What? Seriously, dude? You’ve got a date?”

“Not calling it a date exactly,” Stiles hedged, but his grin betrayed him. “But yeah. Wish me luck.”

Scott blinked. Then, to Stiles’ absolute horror, he actually smiled. “Congratulations?”

Stiles threw his hands up. “What’s with the question mark? That was not a congratulatory tone! That was a confused puppy tone. What, is it so shocking that somebody might want to climb Mount Stilinski?”

Scott cocked a brow. “So… you found someone new?”

Stiles froze mid-rant. “New? What do you mean new? There is no ‘old,’ Scott. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been tragically single since birth. Between your supernatural shenanigans and Beacon Hills’ death rate, when exactly was I supposed to fit in a love life? Pretty sure ‘dating’ isn’t on the menu when you’re dodging kanimas.”

Scott chewed his lip, hesitant. “I mean… I always thought you kinda had a thing for, like… Derek?”

The fry Stiles was holding slipped right out of his hand and landed in the ketchup with a sad plop. He stared at Scott, wide-eyed. “Huh? What? Did someone—did you—who told you that?!”

“No one!” Scott rushed. “It’s just… you always smell different around him.”

Stiles blinked. “Smell different? What does that even mean?”

“Like… sweeter. Sometimes like flowers? And, uh…” Scott trailed off, suddenly fascinated by his pizza.

Stiles leaned forward, jaw dropped. “And what? Don’t you dare Scott me, Scott. Tell me!”

Scott mumbled, barely audible. “Sometimes… like… a little musky?”

“Musky,” Stiles repeated flatly. “Define musky.”

Scott’s ears went red. “Like, um. Semen. You know. Jerk-off musk. Like that horny avocado scent.”

The color drained from Stiles’ face like someone pulled the plug.

“You mean to tell me,” he whispered hoarsely, “you can smell when somebody’s having dirty thoughts?”

“Oh, totally,” Scott said, nodding, like this was perfectly normal lunch conversation. “And in your case? Yeah, it’s pretty obvious. I’d say like… seventy percent of the time it’s the dirty thoughts. It's even worse during pack meeting.”

Stiles slammed his palms over his face. “Oh my God. Oh my actual God. You mean Derek knows?!”

Scott tilted his head. “Dude, I’m pretty sure everybody knows.”

Stiles peeked out between his fingers. “What do you mean,everybody?”

Scott shrugged helplessly. “We’re all werewolves.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned, collapsing forward onto the table. “Everyone knows. And Derek knows. Derek fucking knows. Scott, why didn’t you tell me this?!”

Scott winced. “It’s, like… private? I figured if you wanted people to know, you’d say something. It felt rude to bring it up.”

“Rude?!” Stiles sat bolt upright, gesturing wildly. “Rude is telling me now after I’ve been walking around like Derek’s pheromone piñata for years!”

Scott frowned. “Okay, but why are you acting like this is the end of the world? It’s not the worst thing that could happen.”

Stiles gawked. “Not the—Scott, how is Derek knowing I have a hopeless, tragically horny crush on his werewolf ass not the worst thing that could happen?”

Scott chewed thoughtfully, then said, “Well… Jackson knowing would probably be worse.”

Stiles froze. His jaw unhinged. “Jackson… knows?”

Scott winced again. “When I said Derek’s whole pack knows, that includes Jackson.”

Stiles threw his head back and groaned so loudly half the cafeteria looked over. “That’s why he’s been smirking at me like the Cheshire Cat on steroids! Oh god. That’s why he said—and that’s probably why Derek’s been so mad every time I breathe near him! He knows and he hates it! I’m a walking embarrassment!”

Scott tried, weakly, “I wouldn’t say he hates it, since—”

“Damn it!” Stiles snapped, pointing a fry at him. “You wolves probably laugh about me all the time behind my back!”

“What? No!” Scott protested. “Nobody’s ever said anything.”

“Yeah, but you all know!” Stiles clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “I can never show my face again. Forget it, I’m nuking my social life. In fact—” He shoved his chair back and stood, righteous fury burning. “I’m going to make sure I’ve got Raxx’s scent all over me at the next pack meeting so you guys know I’m over this stupid crush.”

Scott blinked. “Wait. Raxx? Her— His name is Raxx?”

“Well, yeah.” Stiles puffed his chest out, smug. “And he’s got an eight-incher ready to pop this xtra virgin olive oil tonight.”

Scott made a face like he’d just been force-fed sour milk. “Dude. Gross.”

Stiles slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Gotta go. Some of us have very important deflowering appointments to prepare for.”

And with that, he strutted out of the cafeteria, leaving Scott staring after him in a mix of horror, confusion, and mild admiration.

The drive felt longer than it should’ve. Forty-five minutes of Stiles alternating between blasting bad pop songs to hype himself up and nearly talking himself out of the whole thing. His nerves were a mess, his stomach in knots. But when his phone buzzed with the dropped pin and a final text from domtop69—Raxx—he forced himself to follow it through.

He pulled into an abandoned parking lot where weeds pushed up through cracked asphalt. The GPS insisted he still had to walk. It seemed like he's nearing the forest border? Of course. Nothing says “safe hookup” like hiking into the woods at night toward a rundown shack with blaring bass lines.

Stiles shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and muttered under his breath as he trudged forward. “This better be the kind of dick that changes a man’s life, because right now I’m starring in the cold open of a slasher movie.”

The closer he got, the louder the music became—hip hop thumping under the dim glow of a single working bulb. The house itself looked like it had been condemned twice already. Boards hung loose from the siding, and one window was patched with cardboard. Still, there were lights on inside.

His pulse spiked with nerves and a twisted kind of excitement. All the TikToks swore the more questionable the hookup location, the better the dicking. Most memorable fuck of your life, they said. Stiles swallowed. “Guess we’ll test that theory.”

He climbed the warped steps and knocked three times.

The music cut. Footsteps shuffled inside. A lock clicked, and the door creaked open.

And—wow. Okay.

Stiles had assumed “brown” in the profile meant Latino. Maybe some Beacon Hills lacrosse jock with a tan, maybe one of the guys from the private school near town. But no—Raxx was Indian. Which was… not what Stiles had pictured, but holy hell, it was a very, very welcome surprise.

Like, if this was a bait-and-switch situation, Stiles wasn’t even mad. This was the kind of surprise that deserved a thank-you card.

Because Raxx was tall. Really tall. Maybe not quite Derek Hale–tall, but close enough that Stiles had to crane his neck back to meet his eyes. And handsome. Like, offensively handsome, the kind of handsome that made Stiles’s brain lag for a second before it rebooted.

Messy black hair fell just a little too perfectly across his forehead, the kind of “rolled out of bed like this” look that Stiles knew took actual effort. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, and his skin—warm brown, golden even under the crappy porch light—seemed to glow in the dark like he had his own built-in Instagram filter. His shoulders were broad, filling out the thin t-shirt he wore, and when he leaned lazily against the doorframe, Stiles’s throat went dry.

And then he realized he was still standing there like an idiot, gawking at his hookup like some thirsty cartoon wolf, and he needed to say something before he embarrassed himself further.

“Uh… domtop69?” Stiles croaked, voice cracking at the worst possible syllable.

The guy smirked. “That’s me. But I told you already—my name’s Raxx.”

“You did, yeah.” Stiles fumbled, already grinning like an idiot. “I can wait until you’re done with—”

A crunch of gravel cut him off. Heavy footsteps behind him, fast, stopping hard.

Stiles turned, and his stomach plummeted.

“Derek?”

Derek Hale stood at the edge of the porch light, chest heaving like he’d sprinted the whole way. His eyes weren’t on Stiles. They were locked on Raxx. And Derek was glaring. The kind of glare that promised broken bones.

“Uh,” Stiles started, throat suddenly dry.

Another set of footsteps stumbled out of the trees, breathless. Scott, panting, red-faced, catching up.

“Dude,” Scott gasped, “why’d you just take off like that? I thought—Stiles?” His eyes widened. “I thought you said you were about to get lucky?”

“Working on it!” Stiles squeaked.

Derek growled low in his chest, eyes flashing. “The fuck are you doing here, Stiles?” His voice was sharp enough to cut steel.

Stiles winced. “Wha—uh, existing? Breathing oxygen? Is there a problem with that?”

Raxx, watching with raised brows, cut in smoothly. “Is this your boyfriend? Because I told you, I’m not into messy situations.”

“What? No!” Stiles waved his arms. “I literally just met them here. I don’t know them. At all. They’re… Jehovah’s Witnesses. Door-to-door mormons. Whatever. Ignore them.” He shot Scott a desperate look and motioned for him to drag Derek away.

Scott, traitorous, shook his head and sliced a hand across his throat in the universal sign for abort mission.

“You’re coming with us,” Derek snapped, taking a step forward. His body vibrated with barely leashed anger.

Stiles planted himself stubbornly. “Uh, how about no? Seriously, I don’t know what your damage is, but you’re interrupting something important here. Go brood somewhere else!”

“I’m serious, Stiles.” Derek’s tone dropped, all Alpha command.

“Yeah, so am I!” Stiles shot back. “Some of us are trying to get laid here!”

Raxx sighed, shaking his head. “Okay. Not getting involved in a lovers’ quarrel. You guys figure your drama out.” He glanced Derek up and down, unimpressed. “And seriously, man, I didn't know he’s with you."

“He’s not with me,” Stiles groaned frustratedly before Derek could open his mouth.

“I promise you, there’s no with happening.” Stiles added quickly, gesturing between them.

But Raxx clearly wasn’t buying the distinction. With a shake of his head, he retreated back inside and slammed the door.

The music started up again a second later, leaving Stiles on the porch, gaping at the door, Derek glaring daggers, and Scott looking like he wanted to melt into the ground.

Stiles exploded.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” His voice cracked on the last word, but it didn’t make it any less sharp as he shoved Derek square in the chest. “You follow me all the way out here, ruin my night, and then—then you’ve got the audacity to act like I’m the one who needs to explain himself? Newsflash, Derek, I don’t owe you a goddamn thing!”

Derek staggered back half a step from the shove—not much, because of course Derek was built like a damn brick wall—but the sheer heat in Stiles’s eyes made him blink. He opened his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to apologize, but Stiles was already on a roll.

“I don’t know what kind of creepy control-freak werewolf playbook you’re running on, but it does not apply to me. I’m not your beta, I’m not your little sidekick, I’m not your—whatever this is!” He gestured wildly between them, nearly smacking Derek in the arm. “You don’t get to just show up and drag me out of my own business like I’m a freaking toddler who can’t handle himself!”

“Stiles—” Derek tried, low and rough, but Stiles plowed over him.

“No! Don’t you dare ‘Stiles’ me in that tone, like I’m the one being unreasonable! You broke into my hookup, Derek! Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? No, of course you don’t, because you wouldn’t know social boundaries if they bit you on the ass—”

Scott flinched. “Uh, maybe—”

“Not now, Scott!” Stiles snapped, shooting him a glare before spinning back to Derek. “And you! You don’t get to just stomp in like some kind of six-foot-five cockblock with a hero complex and—”

“Six-two,” Derek muttered, automatically.

Stiles gawked at him, then jabbed a finger into his chest again. “Oh my god, did you just fact-check me? Are you serious right now? I’m in the middle of a righteous anger monologue and you’re correcting your height?!”

Derek’s mouth twitched like he wanted to defend himself, then clamped shut. His jaw worked, muscles ticking, but he didn’t say anything.

Stiles let out a frustrated noise that was somewhere between a groan and a scream, then spun on his heel and stormed off, sneakers crunching hard against the gravel as he headed back toward the Jeep. His ears were burning, his pulse thundering, and all he could think was it hurt worse when it’s Derek cockblocking his hookup?

By the time he yanked open the driver’s side door and flopped into the seat, he was seething so hard he didn’t even notice the passenger side open until Derek was sliding in, folding himself into the seat like he owned it.

Stiles froze, one hand on the ignition. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

And then the back door creaked, and Scott climbed in, still panting from catching up with them. “Hey, dude. Could really use a ride back home.”

Stiles slammed his palms against the steering wheel and growled, “Oh my god, I hate both of you.”

The ride back into town was a black hole of awkward silence. The Jeep rumbled, headlights cutting through the dark stretch of road, but no one said a word. Stiles’s grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, his glare fixed so hard on the asphalt that Scott kept sneaking worried glances at Derek like, uh, maybe say something? Derek, wisely—or maybe cowardly—kept his gaze locked out the passenger window, jaw set.

And maybe, just maybe, they stayed quiet because they could smell it: the hot churn of Stiles’s anger, frustration, embarrassment practically radiating off him in waves. It clung to the Jeep’s air like gasoline fumes, and everyone knew one wrong spark would set him off.

Stiles would, without hesitation, crash the Jeep into the nearest solid surface just to make a point—and given the way his hands flexed on the wheel, it would definitely be Derek’s side first.

When they finally pulled into the parking spot near Derek’s loft, Stiles threw the gearshift into park a little too aggressively and stared straight ahead. “End of the line. Get out.”

Derek didn’t move.

“Uh,” Stiles said pointedly, still staring through the windshield. “That’s your cue, Sourwolf. Door handle’s right there. Use those claws or whatever if it’s too complicated.”

“Just drive to your house, Stiles,” Derek said evenly, though his voice was tight. “We have something important to talk about.”

Stiles barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, do we? Because I distinctly remember saying I’m not involved in whatever the hell you guys are plotting.”

“This involves you,” Derek said flatly.

“Of course it does,” Stiles muttered, throwing up his hands. “Because God forbid anything in my life doesn’t somehow circle back to your broody werewolf drama. Fine! Let’s just get it over with.” He twisted in his seat to glare at Derek. “Talk. Here. Now.”

But Derek only shook his head, expression carved from stone. “Not here. Inside.”

Stiles groaned, dropped his forehead against the steering wheel, and let out the world’s most theatrical exhale. “You’re killing me, Derek. Killing me.”

Still, after a long beat, he straightened up, muttered under his breath about how this was going to end with him on some kind of FBI watchlist, and put the Jeep back into gear. Because apparently, when it came to Derek Hale, he was incapable of saying no.

The loft door had barely swung shut behind them before Derek rounded on Stiles, voice low and sharp.

“What the hell were you doing out there in the middle of the night? In some abandoned ruin, in the middle of nowhere?”

Stiles threw up his hands. “Correction: it wasn’t the middle of nowhere, it was just… you know, aggressively suburban decay. And also, it wasn’t the middle of the night—it was seven o’clock. Seven. The sun had literally just set. Prime time for—”

“Don’t,” Derek cut him off, voice even darker. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Scott hovered near the wall, clearly wishing he could disappear. “I’m with Derek on this one, Stiles. That didn’t look safe at all.”

Stiles spun toward him, eyes wide. “Well, Scotty, if you're concerned about safety, I brought condoms.”

Scott’s mouth opened, closed, then he visibly panicked, cutting a glance at Derek like the very mention of sex might summon claws. “Not—that’s not what I meant!” He winced hard. “I mean, like… you could’ve been in serious danger. From, you know, actual danger.”

Derek’s voice dropped lower, heavier, the kind of tone that made the hairs on Stiles’s arms rise. “There are bodies turning up, Stiles. Torn apart. Organs missing. You think hooking up in some rundown trap house doesn’t put you in danger of ending up as one of them?”

Stiles blinked, then laughed—high, sharp, and incredulous. “Oh my god, you’ve got to be kidding me. You’re connecting that—the monster-of-the-week, bodies-missing-intestines case—with me getting my cherry popped?”

Scott shifted uncomfortably. “He’s not wrong to worry—”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Stiles snapped, spinning on him. “There is no way my sex life is directly correlated to supernatural serial killers. You guys do not get to play the ‘concerned dad’ card on me right now.”

Derek stepped closer, frustration tightening every line of him. “This isn’t about your sex life, Stiles. It’s about you being reckless. You can’t just walk into situations like that alone. Not with what’s been happening.”

Stiles’s mouth fell open, incredulous. “Oh wow. Wow. You know, I was fully prepared for the lecture about condoms, stranger danger, maybe even the birds and the bees—but apparently the one I needed to brace for was ‘don’t get murdered while trying to get laid.’ Fantastic. Thanks, Dad. Really filling that gaping hole in my life.”

Scott scrubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not—no one’s saying you can’t—”

“Nope!” Stiles snapped, cutting him off, voice rising. “Don’t even. If you guys are just gonna sit here and tag-team me with lectures about how I’m apparently incapable of existing without a werewolf babysitter, then I’m out. I’ve got better things to do than get scolded like a twelve-year-old.”

Stiles didn’t even bother with subtlety—he slammed the loft door behind him so hard the metal frame rattled, his sneakers pounding down the stairs two at a time. By the time he reached the Jeep, his ears were burning, his chest heaving with leftover fury.

He dropped into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles blanched, then fumbled for his phone. Screw Derek. Screw Scott too, for siding with Derek. And screw his own life, because of course this is how it goes: the one time he lines up a potential cherry-popping, latex-protected, consensual good time, it gets cockblocked by Captain Broody and his sidekick.

He unlocked his phone with shaky fingers and opened Grindr, the yellow logo glaring at him like it knew exactly how pathetic he was. His thumb hovered for a second before tapping Raxx’s chat.

hey. sorry about earlier. it really wasn’t my boyfriend. swear.

He paused, gnawed at his lip, then typed again, desperate to salvage something from the wreckage.

can i make it up to you? still up for some fun?

He hit send before he could overthink it, then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat like it had burned him. His pulse was hammering, his whole body vibrating with frustration that wasn’t just sexual anymore—it was Derek’s fault, all of it, the way that stupid alpha always managed to wedge himself into every corner of Stiles’s life.

Stiles leaned back against the seat, dragged in a deep breath, and exhaled shakily. Calm down. Calm the hell down. This wasn’t over. He wasn’t going to let Derek Hale dictate his virginity timeline.

He jammed the key into the ignition, the Jeep roaring to life with its usual grumble, and muttered, “Screw you, sourwolf. You don’t get to win this one.”

Then, with a determined jerk of the wheel, he pulled out of the lot and drove into the night, phone screen lighting up on the seat beside him with a new notification.

Chapter Text

The door slammed behind Stiles hard enough to make the loft’s glass panels tremble. The echo lingered, sharp in the cavernous space, before dissolving into the faint hum of the city beyond the windows.

Scott shifted awkwardly, then let out a breath. Derek was still standing where Stiles had left him, arms rigid, eyes locked on the empty doorway as if glaring at it might drag Stiles back.

“You know,” Scott began carefully, “we could’ve tried a gentler approach.”

Derek’s answer was a low, dismissive sound, something between a snort and a growl. “Gentle doesn’t work on Stiles. He’s already decided what he’s going to do.” He dragged a hand down his face, irritation sharpening the gesture. “And that’s the problem. Something’s wrong with that guy he’s meeting. I don’t know what yet, but it’s there. I can feel it.”

Scott tilted his head, studying him. His tone was light, but his eyes were sharper than usual. “Or maybe it just feels that way to you.”

Derek turned then, suspicion flaring in his expression. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scott leaned back against the concrete pillar, arms folded loosely across his chest. “It means you’re jealous, Derek. And honestly? It’s kind of obvious.”

For a beat, Derek didn’t move. His face stayed carefully blank, but his jaw worked as though he were holding something back.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said at last, each syllable clipped.

“Is it?” Scott asked, tilting his head. “Because from where I was standing, you weren’t just worried about a possible body count. You looked like someone was stealing your lunch.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed, but Scott kept going, ticking the evidence off on his fingers.

“First, you caught his scent out there and bolted so fast you left me half a mile behind, and I was sprinting. Don’t even try to tell me that was just instinct. Then—what a coincidence—you happened to show up at the exact second Stiles was about to get lucky, and suddenly his hookup got scared off. You basically cockblocked him without saying a word. And then—” Scott let his grin creep in, “remember when Stiles mentioned something about a condom? You almost shifted right there in front of us. I swear I thought your claws were about to come out.”

The glare Derek sent him could have cut steel. His shoulders tensed, the lines of his body tight, bristling with restrained energy. But Scott, apparently, had gotten used to being on the receiving end of that particular brand of silent fury. He didn’t so much as blink.

“Careful,” Derek growled, low and dangerous.

Scott’s lips twitched like he was fighting a grin. “What? I’m just saying—you can deny it all you want, but I can smell it. That wasn’t just worry back there, Derek. That was territorial.”

“This isn’t about me,” Derek ground out.

“Of course it isn’t,” Scott said easily. “Not about you at all. Definitely not about Stiles ditching us mid-case to meet someone, and you nearly popping a vein over it.”

Derek turned away, pacing once, restless energy sparking in every movement. “He’s putting himself in danger,” he said. “That’s all I care about.”

Scott raised his brows, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You care a little more than that, Derek. Don’t bother denying it.”

For a moment, Derek looked like he might argue. But the words never came. Instead, silence stretched heavy between them, filled only by the distant rumble of traffic outside.

Finally, he spoke, voice low, grudging. “He’s reckless enough on his own. He doesn’t need someone else pulling him deeper into trouble. I don’t… like it.”

Scott didn’t say anything at first. He let Derek’s words hang in the air, waiting until the tension eased just a fraction. Then he said, almost gently, “Yeah. That sounds a lot like jealousy to me.”

Derek’s eyes cut to him again, sharp as ever. But the heat had dulled. The glare was more habit than conviction now.

Scott let the silence linger, then pushed off the pillar with a sigh. “Alright,” he said, brushing his palms against his jeans. “I’m heading over to Stiles’s place. Somebody’s got to talk him down before he does something even dumber.”

He glanced at Derek. “What about you?”

For a moment, Derek didn’t answer. His jaw flexed, the muscle jumping, and then he crossed the loft in a few quick strides. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of a chair, shrugged it on with the kind of efficiency that said his mind was already made up, and snatched his keys off the table.

“I’m going back to that house,” Derek said flatly. “The ruins, the guy he was meeting. Something’s off. I want to know what it is.”

Scott frowned, the lines between his brows deepening. “You sure that’s about the case? Because right now, it sounds a lot like you’re just looking for an excuse.”

Derek’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Doesn’t matter what you call it. If there’s even a chance he’s tied to the bodies we’ve been finding, I’m not leaving it alone.”

Scott hesitated, reading him, then gave a small shake of his head. “Fine. But you’re biased, Derek. You know you are. So just—” he lifted a hand, like he could physically hold Derek back with the gesture alone, “observe. Okay? No storming in, no ripping out throats, no scaring the crap out of some random guy just because you don’t like his face. Innocent until proven guilty still applies, even in Beacon Hills.”

The weight of the warning hung between them. Derek’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression carved from stone. He didn’t promise anything—he never did—but after a long beat, he gave the smallest of nods.

Then he was gone, boots echoing on the stairs, leaving Scott alone in the loft with the fading scent of tension and something else he couldn’t quite pin down.

The Camaro’s engine purred low and steady, a contrast to the chaos rattling inside Derek’s chest. He gripped the wheel too tight, knuckles pale in the glow of passing streetlights. The road blurred past in streaks of shadow, but all he could think about was Stiles.

Who was he kidding? He was jealous. Jealous and seething, chewing himself hollow with the thought of Stiles giving anyone else his body. Every time Derek replayed the suspect’s face in his mind, the fantasy ended the same way—his hands twisting hard enough to snap the guy’s neck like a twig.

“Get a grip,” Derek muttered under his breath, shifting gears. “Control yourself.”

He needed a distraction before he did something reckless. Before instinct got the better of him. He thumbed his phone off the console and hit a number he knew too well. If anyone could ground him—or at least irritate him enough to shift his focus—it was Peter.

The line clicked, then the familiar velvet drawl cut through. “Nephew. To what do I owe the pleasure of an international call at… oh, look at that, sunrise in Paris?”

Derek exhaled through his nose. “You awake.”

“Barely. But go on. Tell me you’re calling because you missed me.”

“I’m calling about the case.”

Peter hummed like he didn’t believe him for a second. “Of course you are. So? Enlighten me. What grisly little puzzle are you brooding over this time?”

Derek stared out at the dark road, forcing the details into words. “Bodies showing up with missing organs. Hearts. Livers. Intestines. Not clean work—messy, like they’re being eaten. I’ve got a suspect. I’m heading to check him out now.”

“Well,” Peter said lazily, “that narrows it down to half the creatures in the bestiary.”

“Not helpful.”

“I’m not trying to be. You called me, remember? So, anything actually notable?”

Derek hesitated, then rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “The scent. It’s strange. The guy’s place—there was this incense smell, heavy, cloying. And something else underneath it, a spice I can’t quite pin down. Familiar, but… I can’t place it.”

“Spice,” Peter repeated, mulling it over. “Is it food-related? Don’t tell me your mystery man’s hiding bodies in a curry pot.”

Derek’s brow furrowed. “No. But—” He blinked, memory snapping into place. “Laura. She took me to this Indian restaurant in New York once. I smelled it there. Not food, though… something sharper.”

“Ah,” Peter drawled. “So your suspect probably just ordered some Chicken Tikka Masala for dinner.”

“Yeah. Probably explains it. But the scent’s so strong, it’s not just dinner. It’s like it’s on him. Then again, he's Indian. Maybe I am reaching.”

For the first time, Peter didn’t sound amused. He sighed, the sound sharp even across oceans. “You should’ve led with that, Derek.”

“Why?”

“Because hearts, livers, intestines, an Indian origin, incense, and the scent of fenugreek all scream one being to me.”

Derek tightened his grip on the wheel. “What being?”

“If that suspect indeed was the serial killer, then you are dealing with a Rakshasa.” Peter let the word roll out, slow and deliberate. “You may very well be chasing a man-eater.”

Derek’s jaw locked, his pulse thudding heavy in his throat. “So how do I kill it?”

“Kill it?” Peter echoed, voice warming with mock offense. “Derek, I admire your consistency, but unfortunately, I don’t know. Yet. Rakshasa aren’t exactly common knowledge outside of, well, India. You’d be better off not charging in until I find something more concrete.”

Derek flicked on his blinker, turning down the dark road that led to the ruins. His voice was low, steady, but the tension bled through. “Too late for that.”

Peter chuckled under his breath, a predator amused at another predator’s impatience. “Of course it is. Try not to get yourself killed before breakfast. I’d hate to fly all the way back just to bury you.”

Derek hung up before Peter could hear the growl working its way out of his chest. The Camaro roared into the night, his GPS told him he's nearby.

Then an incoming call from Scott took over the screen. He pressed the green caller button on the central console.

Scott’s voice exploded through the line, ragged with breath. “Dude—why aren’t you picking up? I’ve been calling you nonstop!”

Derek tightened his grip on the wheel. “I just got off a call with Peter. About the case.”

There was the sound of shuffling, like Scott was pacing. He forced a breath in, steadied himself, then blurted: “Stiles isn’t home.”

The words hit like a punch. Derek’s foot slammed harder onto the gas, the Camaro’s engine roaring in response. “Where are you?”

“His house. The Sheriff thought he was with me, but—”

“Go to the ruins.” Derek’s voice cut sharp, leaving no room for argument. “Call everyone. If Stiles went back there, he’s in danger. We might be dealing with a Rakshasa. I’m close. I'll check the perimeter first.”

Scott started to protest, but the line went dead—Derek had already hung up, already reaching for Peter’s number again.

It rang twice before getting picked up.

“Halo?”

Derek froze. That voice—familiar, measured. Not Peter.

“…Chris?”

There was a pause, then the rustle of sheets, a quiet scrape like someone sitting upright. “Derek. Peter’s in the shower.” Said so flatly, like that was all Derek needed to know.

Derek’s jaw clenched as the implication sank in. Peter and Chris. Paris. Sheets. Fantastic. He shoved the thought aside—he didn’t have the bandwidth for that mess right now.

Chris continued, his tone crisp. “Were you calling about a case? I heard something about a rakshasa.”

“Yes,” Derek said tightly. “Do you know how to kill it?”

There was a short exhale, the kind Chris made when he was about to explain something complicated and annoying. “Traditionally? A rakshasa is bound and destroyed by a mantra. Recited in the original script. Which, unless you’ve suddenly become fluent in Sanskrit, isn’t going to help you.”

“Not helpful,” Derek muttered.

Chris went on, unruffled. “It’s not just a creature, Derek. It’s a type of demon. Which means, if it comes down to an emergency, you might attempt an exorcism.”

Derek’s brows knit. “You want me to chant Latin at an Indian monster?”

“If it keeps you and your people alive, then yes.”

Derek’s eyes flicked to the looming silhouette of the ruins rising against the night. His gut twisted. He hung up without another word, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

God, he hoped Stiles wasn’t here.

Stiles was in heaven. No, scratch that—he was in whatever came after heaven. The place they reserved for people who’d been lonely so long they’d practically earned bonus points.

When Stiles knocked on Raxx’s door the second time that night, he hadn’t expected the man’s first concern to be something so simple. Raxx wanted a confirmation that Stiles was, in fact, single. Not taken, not tangled up in anyone else’s life, nobody coming here again like earlier that night.

Stiles had found himself unexpectedly touched by that. It wasn’t the kind of question you usually imagined from a Grindr hookup. He didn’t want to come between anyone’s relationship, didn’t want to cause trouble where there didn’t need to be any. Sweet, even considerate in a way that made his chest ache, just a little. It made everything feel less transactional, more like he was being treated as a person, not just a body. And God, he was so stupidly touch-starved that the smallest hint of care, the smallest shred of respect, felt dangerously close to romantic.

The house itself… well. It was exactly what Stiles expected from someone living out here, tucked into the maze of ruined complexes at the edge of town. The exterior was a husk of concrete and shadow, broken glass glittering faintly under the moonlight. But once he stepped inside, Stiles blinked in surprise. It wasn’t homey—not exactly—but it was neat. Cleaner than it had any right to be. Sparse furniture, swept floors, a bed that looked deliberately made, like someone cared about appearances. It was still unsettling in that “ruins-turned-livable” way, but not enough to kill the mood. The air was still, heavy with some faint incense-and-spice note that clung to the back of his throat. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just… thick. Stiles told himself it didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to critique interior design.

He was here to get laid. And, oh, things were going very, very well.

Raxx was nothing like Stiles had braced himself for. No fumbling hands, no rushed impatience. He kissed slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world and wanted to spend every second of it on Stiles. His mouth was warm, his hands steady, guiding without forcing. Every touch carried a strange kind of reverence, like Stiles wasn’t just some random guy off an app, but someone worth lingering over.

It was dangerous—how easily Stiles’s brain leapt to the wrong conclusions. How every soft drag of lips across his jaw whispered things he knew weren’t real. This wasn’t a relationship. It wasn’t romance. It was a hookup, full stop. And yet—god help him—it felt like more. Stiles tried to remind himself not to go full delulu, not to read poetry into hands that were simply unbuttoning his shirt. But when you hadn’t been touched like this in—well, ever—it was impossible not to feel it in your bones.

Layer by layer, Raxx stripped him down, careful and unhurried. His own clothes followed, discarded without ceremony, until skin pressed against skin, heat sparking where their bodies met. Stiles’s breath hitched, eyes darting over muscle, over the sharp cut of Raxx’s shoulders. And then lower.

Holy shit. Yeah. Definitely not complaining.

“God, you’re—” Stiles started, and broke off with a breathless laugh, because words were failing him in the worst way.

Raxx only smiled faintly, lips brushing down his chest. Kisses trailed lower, patient and unrelenting, until the wet heat of his mouth closed around a nipple. Stiles gasped, the sound embarrassingly needy, back arching before he could stop himself. A flick of tongue, a sharp suck just above his heart, and his pulse stuttered.

“Can’t wait to taste you,” Raxx murmured against his chest.

The words should’ve been filthy. They should’ve been a promise about sex. But the way he said it—too steady, too sharp-edged—like he meant it in a way that went beyond sex.

It made something cold creep up under Stiles’s ribs. Stiles shivered, half from arousal, half from something he couldn’t quite name.

Then Raxx’s hips shifted, pressing hard against him, cocks sliding together, friction sparking down his spine. Stiles moaned into his shoulder, overwhelmed, dizzy with how good it felt.

The world narrowed to touch and heat and rhythm—so consuming it was easy not to notice the things that didn’t fit. How Raxx’s breathing barely changed, controlled even in the midst of it. How his eyes lingered too long on the beat of Stiles’s pulse, as though tracking something deeper than desire. How that incense-and-spice scent seemed stronger now, cloying, winding its way into Stiles’s head until he couldn’t tell if it was turning him on or making him lightheaded.

He told himself none of that mattered. He was here, wanted, touched, maybe even worshipped for once.

And god help him, Stiles let himself sink into it.

The heat of Raxx’s hand was just reaching lower, fingers curling with intent, when the world shattered.

A deafening crack split the air, window glass bursting inward in a spray of glittering shards. Wind tore through the room like a hurricane, carrying a sound that froze Stiles’s blood—an inhuman roar, guttural and furious.

Before he could even scramble back, the warmth beside him vanished. Stiles’s head whipped around just in time to catch the blur of motion—red eyes, claws flashing, a snarl that belonged to nightmares.

Derek.

Raxx was wrenched off him, lifted bodily into the air, Derek’s claws locked tight around his throat. The sound that came out of Raxx wasn’t human. A wet, strangled choke, legs kicking, fingers clawing at the iron grip crushing his windpipe.

“Derek?!” Stiles’s voice cracked, panic tumbling out of him as he scrambled upright. “Derek, stop! Oh my god—you’re gonna kill him!”

But Derek didn’t stop. He didn’t even look at him. His jaw was clenched, teeth bared, a low growl tearing through his chest. He looked rabid, dangerous, a storm wrapped in skin.

“Cover yourself and get out of here!” Derek’s voice was a roar, vibrating with Alpha command, eyes blazing. “Now, Stiles!”

Stiles flinched, heat flushing his face as the reality hit him: his clothes—gone. Scattered. Ripped, maybe. But that didn’t matter, not when Derek looked like he was about to murder someone right in front of him.

“Fuck, Derek—stop!” Stiles lunged, trying to pry his hand away from Raxx’s throat. His fingers slipped uselessly against Derek’s arm, muscles like iron, tendons corded with rage.

Raxx’s veins bulged dark, eyes bloodshot, his lips curling back in something between a grimace and a snarl. He dangled helplessly in Derek’s grip, feet scraping against the floor.

“Get. Away.” Derek’s voice was guttural, snarled through clenched teeth, spit flecking. “Get away, Stiles!”

The room shook with the force of his rage—then came a sound that froze them both.

A crack.

Not the sound of a neck breaking.

Another crack, louder this time, rattling through bone and air. Then another. And another.

Derek’s grip faltered for the first time as they both watched in horror.

Raxx’s body was… changing. Warping. Each bone snapped into a new shape with grotesque precision, flesh stretching, muscles swelling until his skin split and reknit in waves. His torso expanded, ribs curving outward, jaw unhinging wider than it should, eyes burning brighter than blood. He grew and grew, his frame doubling, then tripling, until he loomed massive, monstrous—four times Derek’s already enormous wolf form.

And then the thing that had been Raxx raised one massive arm, fist the size of a wrecking ball, and swung it straight at them.

“Shit!” Stiles barely had time to gasp before Derek shoved him down, shifting in a single, savage ripple of muscle and bone. Fur erupted, claws lengthened, his body exploding outward into his full Alpha form, eyes blazing crimson.

The fist crashed through the wall where they’d been a heartbeat ago, concrete exploding in a spray of dust and debris.

Derek didn’t hesitate. He hauled Stiles up like he weighed nothing, clutching him tight against his chest, and launched them both through the splintering wreck of the house.

The building collapsed behind them as Derek’s stride ate up the ground, his growl reverberating like thunder. Stiles clung to him, still naked, still shaking, adrenaline roaring in his ears.

Whatever Raxx was, it wasn’t human. And it sure as hell wasn’t finished.

Derek’s claws dug into Stiles’s shoulders as he hauled him several yards away from the smoking ruin, setting him down hard behind the cover of a crumbling wall. His eyes still burned red, his Alpha voice leaving no room for argument.

“Stay here. Don’t move until Scott gets to you.”

Stiles opened his mouth, already prepared with three different sarcastic retorts, but Derek was already shrugging out of his leather jacket. He threw it at Stiles, the heavy thing smacking into his bare chest.

“Cover yourself,” Derek snapped, before turning and sprinting back toward the beast.

Stiles clutched the jacket around him like some pitiful toga, heart pounding as Derek’s massive wolf form disappeared into the dust. His brain was screaming at him to run. His heart was screaming something else entirely.

What the hell even was that thing?

The ground trembled with every movement of the creature, its hulking silhouette illuminated by the broken moonlight as Derek darted in and out of its reach, claws flashing, teeth bared. It swung a fist the size of a wrecking ball, and Derek barely avoided being flattened, rolling through the rubble with a snarl. He lunged for the beast’s throat, claws glowing faintly with Alpha power, but the blow bounced uselessly off skin like stone.

Stiles’s stomach lurched. Derek wasn’t winning.

The sound of footsteps broke through the chaos, and Stiles turned just in time to see Scott appear—panting, eyes glowing red—and Jackson right behind him.

And of course, because the universe hated him, the first thing their eyes landed on wasn’t the demon the size of a dump truck. It was him.

Stiles Stilinski. Naked as the day he was born. Wearing Derek’s leather jacket like a badly tied bathrobe.

Jackson stopped dead. Blinked once. Then smirked. “Well. This explains a lot.”

“Not a word!” Stiles shrieked, clutching the jacket tighter. “Not a single word, you smug bastard! Help Derek before he gets himself pulverized!”

Scott winced, dragging his gaze up with visible effort. “He’s right. Derek!”

But Derek was already barking orders mid-dodge, rolling away from another bone-shaking punch. “Scott! Get him out of here!” He jerked his head toward Stiles without looking. “Jackson, with me!”

“What?!” Jackson recoiled, already backing a step. “Why the hell am I stuck fighting Godzilla with you? Where’s everyone else? Where the hell is Erica, or Boyd, or literally anyone else?”

“Focus!” Derek snapped, ducking under a swipe that shattered what remained of the wall behind him. “You’ve got Kanima poison. Use it.”

Jackson hissed, his glowing blue eyes flashed a hint of reptilian green, claws curling sharp. “This is not what I signed up for!”

“None of us did,” Derek growled, lunging in again.

Scott gripped Stiles by the arm, trying to haul him away. “Come on. It’s too dangerous.”

“Are you insane?!” Stiles dug in his heels, jacket flapping. “You expect me to just sit this one out while Derek is literally fighting a giant on steroids?”

Scott’s eyes burned red as his Alpha voice rumbled low. “You’re better off finding out how to kill it. That’s what you’re good at, Stiles. Research.”

Stiles froze. “Research? Research what? I don’t even know what the hell that thing is!”

Scott hesitated. “Derek said… Rakshasa.”

Stiles’s jaw dropped. “Rakshasa? Rakshs... RAXX. Oh my god. The guy’s name was literally a bad supervillain alias! He was telling me! This is so humiliating. I’m going to die naked in a jacket because I couldn’t connect the dots!”

He fumbled at his pockets, only to remember—his phone. His clothes. Still inside the ruins. Buried under rubble. “Oh, great. Perfect. No phone, no Google, no chance of me doing the only thing I’m good at. This is officially the worst night of my life.”

“Not helping!” Scott barked, shoving him back toward the tree line.

Back in the clearing, Derek and Jackson were barely holding their ground. Derek leapt onto the beast’s arm, claws tearing deep but barely slowing it. Jackson darted in low, swiping his kanima claws across the Rakshasa’s calf. The monster howled, stumbling, but didn’t fall.

“This is insane!” Jackson snapped between breaths, dodging another swing that shattered a nearby car into scrap metal. “Why is Scott just standing over there while I’m getting used as monster bait?”

“Stop complaining and hit it again!” Derek roared.

“You’re not my Alpha!”

“You fucking begged me to turn you into a werewolf, you fucker! Now shut up and hit him again before I kill you for the second time!”

Jackson hissed but leapt forward anyway, claws flashing green. His strike landed deeper this time, the poison sliding under the creature’s skin. The Rakshasa staggered, a shudder running through its enormous frame.

And then—out of the shadows—Boyd slammed into its side, a blur of raw strength. The Rakshasa hit the ground hard, snarling, thrashing.

“About damn time!” Jackson yelled, panting.

Erica appeared next, springing up onto its shoulders with a feral grin. She raked her claws across its burning eyes, and the creature howled, blinded.

Derek didn’t hesitate. He leapt for its chest, claws sinking deep into its torso, ripping downward with Alpha force. The Rakshasa convulsed, poison spreading faster now through its bloodstream, its movements slowing, sluggish.

Jackson darted in for the final strike, slamming his poisoned claws into its thigh. The Rakshasa let out one last ear-splitting roar before collapsing backward, the ground trembling like an earthquake as it fell.

For a heartbeat, silence. Just the sound of Stiles’s ragged breathing and the team’s panting.

Then the creature twitched. Shrank. Flesh caved inward, bone cracking down to human proportions. Limbs folded in, the monstrous bulk collapsing until all that remained was the body of a man.

Raxx.

Stiles stared, the jacket slipping loose around his shoulders, horror and humiliation tangling in his throat.

The fight was over, but the ruins looked like they’d gone a couple rounds with a wrecking ball. Smoke curled from the collapsed roof, and the air still stank of incense and blood. Derek emerged from the debris with two things in hand: what used to be Stiles’s clothes, and the sad remains of his phone.

The jeans were ripped nearly in half, uneven strips of denim clinging like makeshift shorts. The shirt was beyond saving. Derek shoved them into Stiles’s chest anyway.

“Put those on.”

“Yeah, because denim cutoffs are exactly what this moment needed,” Stiles muttered, wriggling into the shredded fabric. “Great. Now I look like a thrift store’s clearance bin had a baby with a crime scene.”

Derek’s face didn’t change, but his eyes flicked briefly over Stiles before he shoved the mangled phone at him. The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks, the casing bent.

“Found your phone,” Derek said flatly. “It was under a rock.”

“Awesome. Maybe I’ll use it as modern art,” Stiles said, deadpan. “Title it ‘My Last Connection to Civilization.’”

He was still sulking into the ruined screen when Jackson surprised him. Instead of his usual smugness, Jackson crouched down, tone oddly professional.

“You okay? You need medical assistance?”

Stiles blinked. “Uh. What?”

“You took a hit, you’re still shaking. Just checking for trauma response.” Jackson’s voice was clipped, efficient—like he’d memorized it out of a first-aid manual.

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again. “…Thanks?” He genuinely didn’t know what to do with that.

Jackson shrugged out of his own leather jacket and draped it over Stiles’s shoulders. “It’s getting colder.” His expression, for once, wasn’t mocking. More… apologetic.

Stiles just stared after him, dazed. “Okay, what alternate dimension did I get dropped into, and how do I stay here?”

But then all attention swung back to the monster on the ground. Or, not monster now—Raxx. He lay unconscious, still human-shaped, but his chest rose and fell.

Stiles pointed, alarm sharp in his voice. “Wait, wait, wait. Why is he breathing? Why didn’t you guys finish him off? You’re not seriously turning him over to the Sheriff’s Department, are you? Because, uh, no. My dad can never find out about this. This—” he gestured wildly “—is career-ending!”

Erica smirked, crossing her arms. “About what? That you always go for guys with big dicks? Because, Stilinski, you’re nothing if not consistent.”

Heat slammed into Stiles’s face, ears burning. “Oh my God.”

The laughter from Erica and Boyd was cut short by a low grunt from Derek. His betas sobered immediately.

“We can’t kill it,” Derek said. His tone carried the weight of grim fact, not preference. “Chris said Rakshasas can only be dealt with by reading mantras. Hindu scripture. Sanskrit.” His lip curled slightly. “And the only Indian I knew was Kali. She’s dead.”

As if on cue, the Rakshasa twitched. Derek’s head snapped toward it. “Jackson—again.”

Jackson hissed but pressed his claws into Raxx’s arm, venom glowing faintly before sinking into the man’s bloodstream. The Rakshasa stilled again, slack and unmoving.

Boyd whistled low. “Gotta admit, Jackson. That poison of yours turned out pretty handy.”

Jackson smirked despite himself. “Finally, some appreciation.”

Scott, however, still looked tense. “Okay, but… where do we actually find someone who can read Sanskrit?”

Boyd shrugged. “I’ve got a buddy in Little India. Don’t know if he can read it, though. He’s pretty much a coconut.”

Stiles snorted despite himself. “White on the inside?”

Boyd’s mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

Derek shook his head. “Chris said Rakshasas are demons. If we can’t find the mantras, there might be another way.” His mouth twisted like the words tasted bitter. “Exorcism.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

And then Jackson snorted. “You want us to chant Latin at an Indian monster? Dude probably doesn’t even understand it.”

Derek groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Believe it or not, that’s exactly what I told him. But between that and Boyd’s friend, our odds are better with an exorcism.”

Stiles’s hand shot out toward Scott. “Phone.”

Scott blinked. “What? Why?”

“So I can pull up the text, obviously. You think exorcisms come pre-loaded into my brain?”

Erica arched a brow. “Do you even know how to read Latin?”

Stiles drew himself up, trying for dignity despite being wrapped in two jackets and shredded shorts. “As a matter of fact, yes. My mom was Polish. Devout Roman Catholic. Before she passed, I went to mass every Sunday.”

“Aww,” Jackson cooed, laying it on thick. “That’s so sweet. How’d that sweet church boy end up hooking up with a monster with a huge dick in the middle of nowhere?”

The group cracked up. Even Scott bit back a grin.

Stiles elbowed him hard. “Not you too, Scott!”

Derek cleared his throat sharply. The laughter died instantly. He handed over his own phone without a word.

Stiles typed furiously, pulled up a Latin prayer, and began to read. The cadence was clumsy, his accent all over the place, but the effect was immediate.

Raxx twitched. His body jerked, skin rippling, veins standing out dark. His breathing turned ragged, guttural snarls rising in his throat.

“Jackson. More,” Derek barked.

Jackson knelt, driving claws in again, pumping more poison.

The exorcism spilled from Stiles’s lips, louder now, steadier. The Rakshasa writhed, limbs distorting, smoke seeping from his pores. The incense stink grew acrid, filling the air with a choking heaviness.

And then—suddenly—his whole body dissolved, unraveling into a plume of smoke. It twisted upward, shrieked once in a sound not of this world, and vanished.

The silence that followed was staggering. Stiles lowered the phone, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his hairline.

He looked at the scorched ground where Raxx had been. “Seriously? You guys couldn’t have waited until I got laid before attacking him? Like, five more minutes?”

He turned, expecting at least Scott to laugh.

Instead, the entire pack was staring at him like he’d grown two heads.

Stiles’s stomach dropped. “…I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

Scott insisted on riding shotgun on the way back, and Stiles didn’t even argue. After the night he’d had, having Scott hovering felt more like necessity than nuisance. Derek had offered to drive him home, but that would’ve meant abandoning Roscoe at the ruins, and if his dad stumbled across his Jeep in the middle of a crime scene? Stiles didn’t even want to imagine that conversation.

Plus, considering the way Derek had kept wrinkling his nose whenever Stiles got too close, yeah. Probably not the best idea to be trapped in a Camaro with him. If Stiles smelled that disgusting, he’d rather not know.

The drive was quiet for a while, headlights cutting long beams through the dark. Then Scott shifted in his seat.

“Derek told me to make sure you bathe three times over. With pine soap.”

Stiles whipped his head around. “Excuse me? I did not smell that bad. I mean… did I? Because Derek’s been scrunching up his face like he’s downwind of a landfill.”

Scott grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not you, exactly. It’s the Rakshasa. You’re covered in its scent. And, um… it’s kind of gross. Because I know exactly how that happened.”

Stiles groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Oh my God. And Derek knows, too. Of course he knows. He literally went full Alpha Rampage of Doom right before I got to the good part!”

Scott made a noise of protest, somewhere between a gag and a growl. “Ugh! I don’t need the mental images, Stiles. Look, you’re not going anywhere until that smell’s gone. Pine soap. Lots of it.”

By the time they pulled into Stiles’s driveway, exhaustion weighed down every limb. The last thing he wanted was to explain his shredded clothes or the two leather jackets he was swimming in to his dad. So Scott just hauled him up by the elbow, and the two of them climbed through the second-floor window like it was nothing. Werewolf strength made it stupidly easy, which honestly explained a lot about Derek’s sneaky habit of showing up uninvited.

Stiles stumbled straight into the bathroom, but Scott’s voice followed close behind. “Don’t you dare jerk off in there, Stiles! I’ll smell it!”

“Are you kidding me right now?!” Stiles shouted back, indignant. “I just survived a monster hookup from hell, and you think that’s top of my list?”

Scott didn’t answer, but Stiles heard him laughing under his breath.

By the time he was done, he’d scrubbed himself raw. Three full rounds of pine soap later, his skin smelled like an entire Christmas tree farm had exploded in his bathroom. He pulled on his Batman pajamas with a sigh of relief, only to find Scott had been busy while he was in there.

His shredded jeans, the remains of his shirt, and both leather jackets had been bundled into a trash bag, which Scott had wrapped layer after layer in plastic until it looked like something out of a true-crime show.

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles said, dropping onto his bed.

Scott shook the bundle once, sniffed it, and nodded in satisfaction. “That should hold the scent until we can get rid of it.”

Stiles pulled the blanket up to his chin. “I’m so tired. Let’s just sleep until noon tomorrow and pretend tonight never happened.”

Scott’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then winced. “Can’t. Derek says eight a.m. sharp at the loft. We need to wrap this up before the Sheriff’s Department stumbles onto it.”

Stiles groaned into his pillow, voice muffled and miserable. “Ugggghhh. This town is going to kill me before my sex life ever has a chance to start.”

Isaac opened the loft door for them and let them in without ceremony. From the entryway Stiles could hear Derek’s voice carried faint and clipped from the couch, low and direct into his phone.

“I know. I’ll find someone who can by then. And tell Chris I said thanks.” He clicked the call closed with a soft, final sound.

Stiles flopped down on the long couch, waiting for the briefing to commence. Derek hung up and sat opposite, sleeves rolled, eyes already back on the room in that unbearably efficient way he had when he was deciding someone’s fate.

Jackson commented before anyone else could. “You Hales are the weirdest clan. It’s like you’re bound to the Argents by some sick, tragic drama subscription plan.” He said it with a grin, but there was a tightness under it that made the remark ironic rather than funny.

“How’d that happen anyway?” Erica asked, voice bright with the promise of gossip. She perched on the arm of a chair, legs crossed like she was at a party and not a crime scene cleanup briefing.

Derek’s face hardened. “Not my story to tell,” he said. He didn’t need to elaborate; he only had to look at the remnants of the Hale history and everyone understood the bad blood. “But they were involved. Even before Kate and the fire.”

“So you're telling me. Before they make baby Allison and baby Malia—never mind,” Erica shrugged with a wave. “Old people romance is usually boringm but this one's juicy. What happened then?” She tossed that last line like a challenge, but Derek’s jaw tightened.

“Let’s just say Gerard Argent, the shittiest human beings to walk the Earth, happened.” The words were flat, final. That was the end of that conversation.

Derek pivoted, spine straightening into leader posture, and produced a red folder from a drawer. He dropped it onto the coffee table with a dull slap and let everyone look.

“We need to return this to the sheriff’s department. Make it look like it was misplaced.” He looked directly at Scott and Stiles when he said it.

Scott’s face went a shade redder. “What—” he started.

“And Scott,” Derek continued in that slow voice that carried more threat than normal volume, “next time you want to do something stupid at the sheriff’s office, consult Stiles. At least he wouldn’t actually steal an entire case file.” It was a dry jab, but Stiles felt Scott’s embarrassment like heat against his ribs and couldn’t help the small, satisfied curl of his mouth.

“Don’t worry about the case file,” Stiles said quickly, earnest as ever. “Consider it done.”

Derek’s eyes cut to him; he already had fifty moves ahead, as usual. “I’ve taken care of the ruin where that guy lived. I made it look like a building collapse. Since the Rakshasa’s body vanished, we don’t need to burn it, but we do need to clean the area and erase the scent.” His tone turned flat as a command. “Stiles, call Lydia. Get mountain ash over there.”

Stiles’ brain jammed for a second. “Okay, but…why mountain ash? Why… what?”

“Demons leave residue even after exorcism,” Derek said. It was factual, absolute. “I’m not taking chances. The area might be redeveloped later. We can’t have the next owner getting haunted.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “This is like, what, The Conjuring? Should we call the Warren while we’re at it?”

Boyd pushed a hand through his head, the ever-practical one. “Don’t do Derek like that, man. He’s too old to go to the cinema, let alone exorcise ghosts.” His attempt at lightness worked.

Isaac snorted. Even he couldn’t help the little laugh. Derek’s look shut the comment down flat.

“That’s right,” Derek replied once, and the ghost of a friendly smirk brushed his mouth before he snapped back to business. “Which is why you and Isaac are spreading mountain ash around Beacon Hills. Now.”

Boyd groaned. “Come on, man. Last time I did that my hands were itchy for days.”

“And why the hell am I getting punished as well?” Isaac complained, already bristling about being dragged into chores.

“Because I said so,” Derek responded simply. There was no room to debate the tone or the order of operations with him; it was a command, not a suggestion.

“Jackson,” Derek continued, voice moving through the room like a chill, “drive and pick up Lydia. Bring her here. We need her here to spread ash and to help with the ritual if we have to attempt anything. Scramble.”

Jackson’s face fell into his usual expression of offended amusement, but he nodded. “On it. Consider Lydia commandeered.”

Stiles’s mind was spinning in small, frantic circles: mountain ash, exorcisms, texts sent to Derek about Sanskrit mantras, and the ever-looming specter of his father finding out. “So I call Lydia, and—” he faltered, “and what about cleanup? Who’s actually going to—”

Derek’s gaze lingered on them all for a long second, like he was measuring readiness. “Move. We don’t have all day and the Sheriff’s Department asks questions. We do this clean, we do this quiet. Stiles—no press. No social media. No telling anyone except the pack.”

Stiles shoved his hands deep into the jeans. “In case you're wondering, to post on social media, I'd need an actual working phone. Not the one you found crushed under a boulder.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. "Let's just go."

The cleanup after the fight had been messier than anyone liked, but it hadn’t taken as long as Stiles had feared. Jackson had briefed Lydia on the Rakshasa, carefully edited, omitting the parts about Stiles’ ill-advised Grindr date and the fact that he’d been found naked. Lydia had nodded, sighed, and promised to come with sage, a clinical calm that made Stiles want to hug her and also hide under the nearest table.

By the time the sun dropped low and the sky began to bruise purple, Scott’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at the message, then looked up with sheepish eyes.

“Derek says we forgot the case file at the loft,” he announced.

Stiles nearly choked on his breath. “Of course we did. Of course we would forget the one thing that makes this whole thing a legal nightmare.” He hopped into the Jeep and started it before Scott finished the sentence.

At the loft, the place smelled faintly of burnt incense and lemon oil. The rest of the pack had been dismissed: Derek had sent them home to shower, sleep, and avoid awkward questions at school. The loft felt too quiet without all of them milling about, the way it always did when Derek’s orders had the final say.

“Where’s everyone?” Scott asked as they ducked inside.

Derek didn’t look up from where he was standing by the coffee table. “Tonight's the full moon. I sent them home early,” he said. His voice was flat with business.

Stiles blinked, and then moved toward the center of the room. “Where’s the file?” His voice bounced off the high ceilings.

Derek moved with that efficient, economical grace he always had. He handed Stiles the red folder without ceremony, then walked to the coffee table and picked up a folded paper bag. He hesitated a fraction, then handed it to Stiles as well.

“What’s this?” Stiles asked, already knowing and not wanting to, because Derek giving him anything felt like an honor and a humiliation all at once.

Derek’s lips thinned. “Your phone was destroyed. I got you a new one.”

Stiles peeled back the paper and laughed before he could stop himself making a small, incredulous sound. The phone inside was a flip phone, glossy black with a cheerful little sticker on the corner. “No way. This is the flip I’ve been whining about forever. You actually—how did you—”

“You talk about it half of the time you’re in this loft.” Derek’s voice had the faintest edge of irritation, but it was gone before Stiles could savor it. “Werewolf hearing picks up a lot.”

Stiles blinked, clutching the flip phone like it was a relic and a promise. “Thanks,” he said, and for a moment the world narrowed. Derek’s eyes flicked to his, something quiet tucked tightly in the line of his mouth, and Stiles could have sworn the loft held its breath.

Scott cleared his throat like a bad sitcom laugh track and ruined it. “Guys, I’m really sorry, but I promised my mom I’d help with grocery shopping. I guess it's better to get it done ASAP since it's full moon, right?” He shot Stiles a guilty grin and then, as if the idea of staying around the awkwardness was unbearable, bolted. “Got… carrots to buy. See y’all soon!” He was gone before anyone could reply.

The sudden absence made the room tilt awkward. Stiles let the paper bag hang and shifted from foot to foot. “Anyway,” he said, trying for breezy, “it’s getting late. I should go burn a pair of shredded clothes and two leather jackets before my dad find it in the trunk.”

“Where do you want to burn them?” Derek asked.

Stiles’ face lit up with practical relief. “Old Hale House. It’s secluded and there’s that giant iron barrel out back. Perfect.” He was already picturing the theatrics: a roaring barrel, a pyre of denim and leather, symbolic cleansing. Very cinematic.

Derek’s hand moved almost before he’d processed the plan. “You’ll need salt and gasoline.” He jogged to the pile of gear by the door. “I have both in my trunk.”

Stiles blinked. “You do? You—” He tried to say something clever, something cutting, but it came out as a grateful, squeaky, “Cool.”

Derek’s mouth quirked, an almost-smile that would have been invisible on anyone else. “I’ll help.”

Stiles felt his chest do that ridiculous fluttering that had plagued him for days. “Okay. Great. Thanks. That’s—” He awkwardly flipped over the paper in the case folder as if to reassure himself that it was real, then added, “Also, bring matches? Not that I don’t trust you to forage gasoline, but—safety?”

Derek’s jaw worked but he gave a small nod. “Matches,” he confirmed.

Stiles hesitated an extra beat, half a dozen things fighting to be said—shit-stupid apologies to Scott, an apology to Derek for nearly getting murdered, a small, babbling “and also thanks” that always came out as something embarrassing. He settled for a half smile that was probably too nervous to be convincing and pushed through the door into the night with Derek at his side.

Outside, the air pinched cool. The Camaro loomed black and patient; Derek swung open the trunk and, true to his word, produced a small jerrycan, a sack with a tight bundle of salt, and a box of matches. He set them carefully on the Jeep’s trunk as if handling something fragile.

“You’ll drive?” Derek asked. The question was neutral, but the implication prickled. Derek offering to be the passenger was something of a truce.

Stiles grinned, flipping the phone open in reflex and then snapping it shut when he realized how ridiculous that looked. “I’ll drive. And I’ll try not to crash into a haunted future neighbor, I promise.”

They climbed into the Jeep in a quiet that felt like truce and preparation. Stiles started the engine, the familiar rumble a small comfort. Derek sat rigid, eyes on the road as they pulled out. For one ridiculous second, Stiles thought he could count all the little ways Derek was looking after him: cockblocking his grindr date, preventing him from getting killed, the jacket, the spare phone, gas and salt packed in the trunk. It added up to something like care.

As the Jeep rolled toward the old Hale House, Stiles felt warm and slightly fuzzy. He watched as the dark edge of Beacon Hills slide by from the rearview mirror, thinking that maybe, just maybe, chaos had a soft side.

The path through the preserve was quiet in a way Stiles wasn’t used to. Usually there was always some kind of sound—branches snapping, owls hooting, a wolf howling somewhere in the distance. Tonight, though, the forest was hushed under the weight of the full moon. Silver light filtered through the canopy, painting everything in sharp relief. The air was colder than usual, but the leather jacket Derek had insisted he wear held the chill at bay.

Derek walked a step ahead, sure-footed as always, a dark silhouette cutting through the pale glow. Stiles followed, carrying the bundle of shredded clothes and ruined jackets in his arms while Derek carried the can of gasoline and the bag of salt. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. Not this time. For once, it felt… steady. Almost peaceful.

The stillness broke with Derek’s low voice.

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles blinked. “Huh?”

Derek’s stride slowed, his shoulders shifting, like he’d almost talked himself out of saying it. “Back at the loft. When I said something about the sheriff’s department.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t mean your father,” Derek said, his tone clipped but careful. “Your dad’s good at his job. He’s… one of the best. I know that. Always have. His deputies, though—” His jaw clenched briefly. “They miss things. They’ve been missing things for years. Since before the fire.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes flicking to Stiles, earnest in the half-light. “I shouldn’t have worded it that way. I wasn’t trying to insult him. I’m sorry if it sounded like I was.”

Guilt pricked sharp in Stiles’ chest. He ducked his head, kicking a stray pinecone out of the path. Of course Derek hadn’t meant his dad. Of course he’d been too proud, too defensive, to admit it at the time.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Stiles muttered. “You’re… you’re right. They did miss things.”

Neither of them said more until Derek finally stopped, the hulking silhouette of the old Hale House looming ahead. What was left of it anyway—charred beams, cracked stone, a skeleton of what had been.

Derek set the gasoline down by a rusted iron barrel half-swallowed by weeds. “We’re here.”

Stiles crouched, dumping the bundle of shredded denim, leather, and fabric inside the barrel. Derek poured the gasoline over it, the sharp scent cutting through the night air. A flick of a match, and fire roared to life, orange and gold licking upward, shadows jumping against their faces.

Stiles watched the fabric curl and blacken, sparks snapping into the night. His chest tightened with words he hadn’t planned to say, but once the silence stretched too long, he couldn’t stop himself.

“Actually,” he started, voice low, “I should be the one apologizing.”

Derek’s head turned slightly, firelight glinting in his eyes.

“For being reckless. For not listening to you.” Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, eyes locked on the flames. “If you hadn’t shown up, twice, I’d probably be down a heart, a liver, and half my intestines by now. Which is… gross, but also—” He swallowed. “Thanks. For stopping me before it got that far.”

The flames popped, and Stiles leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “I guess I’ve been frustrated for months, and I took it out on you. Which—embarrassing, right? But you wouldn’t know since you’re… well, you.” He gestured vaguely at Derek’s whole everything. “Broody, jacked, eyebrow king of the preserve. I’m sure you’ve got… options. Meanwhile, I can’t even score a hookup without almost being turned into monster chow.”

Derek didn’t say anything. Too quiet, even for him.

Stiles risked a glance up—and caught Derek watching him, frown carved deep between his brows.

Heat rushed to his face. “God, sorry. I’m just embarrassing myself further. First, around the pack—I mean, I just found out yesterday from Scott that apparently I smell like a walking billboard for teenage horniness. So that’s great. You guys probably laugh about it when I’m not around.”

Derek’s frown only deepened.

“And then you—you always look uncomfortable whenever I’m nearby, so I thought, hey, maybe I should just… find release elsewhere, right? Get the horny scent out of the way,” Stiles waved a hand helplessly at the fire. “And look how that ended. Grindr monsters and shredded pants. I should just tattoo ‘disaster’ across my forehead.”

Silence stretched. Stiles shoved his hands into the pockets of Derek’s borrowed leather jacket, trying to disappear inside it.

When Derek finally spoke, his voice was low, rough around the edges. “You’re wrong.”

Stiles blinked and turned towards Derek, who's glaring at the fire. “About what? The tattoo? Because honestly—”

“About nobody wanting you.”

The words hit harder than Stiles expected, stealing the sarcasm right out of his throat. Derek’s tone wasn’t sharp. It was steady, measured, like he’d been holding it back for too long.

“You think people don’t notice you,” Derek went on, gaze fixed on the fire. “But they do. You’re tall, stronger than you give yourself credit for, and smarter than most of the people I’ve ever worked with.” His eyes flicked to Stiles, lingering. “You’ve got these eyes that never shut up, even when your mouth does. And the faint freckles, those tiny moles. You pretend you don’t care, but…” He gave the barest shrug. “They suit you.”

Stiles blinked at him, heat creeping up the back of his neck. Derek wasn’t just saying it—he was looking right at him, like he was daring him to deny it.

Derek’s voice softened, almost reluctant. “And you’re funny. Not in the way you try too hard to be, but… when you’re not thinking about it. You’ll make a joke in the middle of a crisis, and for a second, everyone breathes easier. You don’t even notice you do that.”

Stiles’ heart was hammering in his chest, thudding so loud he was half-convinced Derek could hear it.

“And sometimes,” Derek added, quieter now, almost like it cost him to admit it, “you look at people like you’re trying to hold the whole world together for them. You don’t think anyone sees it. But I—” He stopped, jaw tightening, then forced it out. “People do.”

Stiles couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. His chest felt too tight, like Derek’s words had pressed against every raw edge inside him.

He tried to look away, tried to break the moment before it swallowed him whole—big mistake. His gaze landed squarely on Derek’s mouth. His pulse spiked, traitorous, a hard stutter he was sure Derek could hear. And when he forced himself to look back up, Derek was already watching him. Not just watching—Derek’s eyes had dropped too, locked on Stiles’s lips like gravity had pulled them there.

The air went thin. Neither of them moved. The fire cracked, sparks bursting upward, and Stiles swore he could feel every single one on his skin. Heat spread up his neck, across his face, pooling somewhere low in his stomach. His own reflection wavered in Derek’s eyes, firelight mirrored in them both.

Say something. Anything.

“That can’t be true,” Stiles rasped, voice barely there. “Who would—nobody would waste their time paying that much attention to me.”

Derek’s mouth twitched, almost like a wince. He looked down, away, and Stiles’s heart plummeted. Of course. He’d gotten carried away. He was delusional. Derek Hale didn’t—

“Maybe you’re right,” Derek said at last, voice low and rough.

Stiles’s chest twisted, an ache he tried to smother before it broke him in half.

But then Derek added, softer still, “Maybe I’ve been wasting my time all these years.”

Stiles’s head snapped toward him. Derek wasn’t even looking at him—just staring into the fire, shoulders taut, like the admission had drained him.

“What is this, Derek?” Stiles asked half whispering, the words catching. Because if this was real, if he wasn’t imagining it, then it changed everything.

Derek huffed out a humorless laugh, finally meeting his gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the full moon making me reckless. Or brave enough to tell you the truth.” His throat bobbed, eyes dark and steady. “All I know is—I want to kiss you so bad, Stiles.” He looked away again, like even saying it had been too much.

Holy shit. Derek Hale wanted him.

Stiles’s heart slammed against his ribs, dizzy and wild. “Then why—why haven’t you?”

Derek’s eyes snapped back to him, wide, startled. “Stiles...”

Stiles couldn't form words. He nodded slowly, hoping derek would understand.

For a moment, Derek just looked at him, like he was memorizing every angle of his face. The firelight caught in his eyes, making them burn brighter, softer all at once. His hand came up, rough and calloused, cupping Stiles’s cheek with a gentleness that didn’t fit a man who could tear monsters apart with his bare hands.

Stiles leaned into the touch instinctively, his breath catching. The warmth of Derek’s palm grounded him, steady and unshakable, while inside everything was unraveling.

“God,” Stiles whispered, his voice frayed at the edges, “you don’t get it. I’ve wanted this for—” He cut himself off, because admitting how long would feel too raw, too much.

Derek’s thumb brushed against his cheekbone, slow and careful, and it was enough to steal the rest of Stiles’s words away.

The world narrowed: fire cracking in the pit, the smell of smoke and pine in the air, and Derek Hale inches away. So close Stiles could feel the whisper of his breath on his lips.

Derek hesitated, one last second of restraint, searching Stiles’s face like he needed permission carved into every line of it.

Stiles gave it the only way he could—by leaning forward, just enough, just barely bridging the space between them. His lips parted on a shaky exhale, heart hammering so hard he thought it might break out of his chest.

And then Derek closed the gap.

Chapter Text

The kiss was feather-light at first, more question than answer. A brush of lips, so gentle it made Stiles ache. But then Derek exhaled, the sound rough and low, and pressed closer, deepening it.

Stiles melted. His hands found Derek’s shirt, clutching at the fabric like he might fall if he let go. Derek’s mouth was warm, steady, and when he tilted his head just slightly, Stiles let out a sound he hadn’t meant to. A soft, desperate noise that made Derek shudder against him.

The fire popped, throwing sparks into the night, but Stiles barely heard it. The world had collapsed down to this: the press of Derek’s lips, the weight of his hand on his face, the impossible, terrifying, exhilarating fact that Derek Hale was kissing him.

The kiss should’ve ended there, soft, fleeting, a stolen thing under the firelight. But neither of them pulled away.

Instead, Derek’s thumb slid along Stiles’s jaw, tilting his face just enough to fit better, deeper. His mouth pressed harder, and Stiles answered with a sound that vibrated in his chest, needier this time, hungrier.

That was all it took. Restraint shattered.

Derek kissed him like he’d been holding back for years, like the dam had cracked wide open and there was no stopping it now. His hand slipped from Stiles’s cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, fingers curling in the short hair there. The other settled at his hip, steadying him, claiming him.

Stiles clung back just as fiercely, fists twisted in Derek’s shirt, dragging him down, like closer would never be close enough. His lips parted under the pressure, and Derek took the invitation, tongue sliding against his in a way that sent heat spiraling low in Stiles’s stomach.

“Fuck,” Stiles gasped against his mouth, the word half-swallowed, desperate. “Derek—”

Derek growled in response, the sound vibrating through both of them, and kissed him harder. It was messy now, all teeth and heat, their noses bumping, breaths mingling, the kind of kiss that stole every ounce of oxygen and left nothing but fire.

Stiles barely registered that they were stumbling, Derek walking him backward until the back of his knees hit a log near the fire. He dropped onto it with a startled grunt, Derek following, bracketing him in with his body.

The leather jacket slipped down his shoulders as Derek crowded closer, and Stiles didn’t care—didn’t care about the ruined clothes, the smell of smoke in his hair, the fact that this was Derek Hale, who he’d spent years pining for and fighting with. None of it mattered except the press of Derek’s mouth and the way his hands gripped him like he was something fragile and essential all at once.

“Jesus, you kiss like you mean it,” Stiles mumbled, lips brushing against Derek’s with each word.

“I do,” Derek answered, rough, immediate, leaving no room for doubt.

That single admission stole the breath from Stiles’s lungs all over again. He surged up, kissing back with everything he had, reckless and unthinking, like maybe he could pour every unsaid word, every stupid hopeless crush-daydream into Derek’s mouth and have him understand.

And from the way Derek held him tighter, kissed him deeper—like he’d never let go—Stiles thought maybe he wouldn't.

Derek’s mouth left Stiles’s only long enough for him to be lifted effortlessly, like he weighed nothing. Stiles let out a startled yelp that broke into a laugh as Derek carried him bridal-style across the clearing, into the hollowed ruin of the Hale house.

“Holy shit, you could’ve just—walked me—” Stiles stammered between kisses pressed to his jaw.

“I like carrying you,” Derek said simply, like it wasn’t the most un-Derek Hale thing he could possibly say.

The ruined house was shadowed, open to the sky through what had once been a roof. Moonlight poured through the jagged hole, silver flooding the room. In the middle of it stood the old bedframe, scorched wood creaking under the weight of time but still standing, mattress covered in a worn blanket. Derek laid Stiles down gently, like he was something breakable, then followed him down, caging him in with his body.

Their mouths met again, hungrier now, lips swollen, tongues tangling until Stiles was dizzy. Derek’s hands slid over him with reverence, pushing the leather jacket off his shoulders, easing his t-shirt up and over his head.

Stiles was breathing heavily, staring as Derek’s palms flattened over his bare chest, thumbs grazing his ribs like he was memorizing the feel of him.

“I’ve thought about this for a long time, Stiles,” Derek interrupted, voice quiet but certain, like it had been pulled from the deepest part of him. “More times than I can count.”

Stiles blinked, brain scrambling, because—“You’ve thought about this? You—oh my god, you thought about this?”

Derek gave him a look that was almost amused. “Yes.”

Stiles groaned and threw his head back against the blanket. “If you’d just been honest about that, I wouldn’t be walking around with the bluest balls in the entire state of California.”

That earned him a laugh. A real laugh, deep and rough, from Derek Hale. Stiles felt his chest squeeze tight at the sound, desperate to bottle it, to hear it again and again.

“I guess,” Derek admitted, brushing his lips over Stiles’s jaw, “it really is my fault, then.”

“Damn right it is,” Stiles said, grinning even as his voice cracked into a gasp when Derek’s mouth found his throat.

“God, Derek—if you had just told me, I wouldn’t have to spend half my free nights jerking off to Pornhub Derek railing that poor blonde in the mechanic’s video section—”

Derek froze mid-sucking on Stiles' throat, pulling back just enough to stare at him. “...What?”

Stiles blinked, then immediately winced. “Uh. Oh my god,” Stiles groaned, throwing an arm over his face. “Please forget I said anything. Just—erase it from your werewolf brain archive.”

Derek didn’t move for a long beat. Then, finally—“…Pornhub, Stiles?”

Stiles peeked at him from under his arm. “Look, it’s free and I’m broke, okay?”

And for the second time that night, Derek laughed—really laughed, shaking his head as he ducked back down to shut Stiles up with another kiss.

“You don’t need Pornhub anymore,” Derek said quietly through their kiss, voice rough enough to make Stiles shiver. “Forget about… this ‘Pornhub Derek’. You’ve got the real one. Here. Now.”

“Yeah,” Stiles managed, a grin breaking over his flushed face. “No arguments here. Definitely. Absolutely. One hundred thousand percent agree.”

Derek’s mouth quirked, just barely, before he kissed him again, deeper this time, like he was determined to make Stiles forget every other fantasy he’d ever had. And Stiles wanted even more of Derek. More.

Stiles reached clumsily for Derek’s henley, tugging uselessly at it. “God, this is unfair—you’re wearing too many layers, Derek…”

Derek’s mouth curved faintly against his skin. He sat back just enough to pull the shirt over his own head, muscles flexing with the motion.

Moonlight hit him full on. Defined shoulders, the carved planes of his chest, the hard lines of his abs. He looked like something out of a Greek myth, sculpted, impossible.

Stiles stared, slack-jawed. Then blurted, “Fuck, you’re so hot.” His fingers skated over Derek’s abs like he couldn’t stop himself, tracing the ridges in awe.

Heat flared in Derek’s eyes at the touch, and then he was back over him, kissing, biting gently at his lower lip. His hands slid lower, catching the waistband of Stiles’s jeans. He worked them down, peeling away denim and then briefs, until Stiles was spread out bare beneath the flood of moonlight.

Derek stilled. Just… looked.

Stiles squirmed, flushing hard. “What? Why are you—don’t just—” He turned his head away, embarrassed at how vulnerable it felt.

But Derek reached, fingers curling under his chin, turning him back. His eyes were steady, molten in the firelight. “Don’t look away. You have no idea how beautiful you look like this. God, Stiles, I could just watch you for hours.”

The words hit like a punch, sharp and devastating. Stiles’s throat closed up. He tried to deflect, voice thin. “Of course you'll make me suffer these blue balls for some more hours.”

That earned him another laugh, softer this time, but just as real. Derek kissed him again, quick and firm. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”

And then Derek was sliding down his body, deliberate, controlled. Stiles barely had time to gasp, to process the sight of Derek Hale on his knees between his thighs, before heat engulfed him, wet and hot and unrelenting.

“F-fuck—holy—shit,” Stiles stammered, voice breaking as Derek’s mouth swallowed him down in one steady motion. His head fell back against the blankets, vision going white at the edges. No way. No fucking way. Derek Hale, Beacon Hills High School legendary Basketball Captain now Alpha werewolf, the guy who was all scowls and leather and impossible muscles, was right here on his knees, lips stretched around his cock like he’d wanted this forever.

Stiles’s hips jerked up helplessly, only for Derek’s hand to pin them firmly down, steady and immovable. That big, calloused, scarred hand kept him grounded while Derek’s mouth undid him piece by piece.

“Oh my god, Derek—oh my god,” Stiles babbled, the words spilling out, useless and breathless. His fingers scrabbled at Derek’s shoulders, then dove into his hair, tugging without meaning to. Derek didn’t stop. If anything, he hummed, low and dangerous, and the vibration shot straight through Stiles’s spine.

It was too much. The slick pull, the pressure of Derek’s tongue curling just right, the obscene wet sound of it, every bit of it pushed him higher, tighter, until he thought he’d split apart. He’d never felt anything like it, never thought he could.

“Fuck, Derek—please—I can’t—” he gasped, voice breaking into a moan that sounded embarrassingly desperate.

Derek gave him no escape. He swallowed deeper, drew him further in, and Stiles shattered.

He came with a strangled cry, arching up into the grip that held him down. Heat spilled across his stomach as Derek swallowed around him, refusing to let go until every pulse, every desperate shudder wrung itself out of him.

By the time Derek finally pulled back, Stiles was wrecked. Boneless. Trembling. He could barely catch his breath, could barely process the fact that Derek’s lips were shiny, swollen, wet from him. And that Derek looked up at him like he’d just been given something sacred.

Stiles collapsed against the mattress, chest heaving, brain blank. He was still floating when Derek lifted his legs gently, settling them over broad shoulders.

“Wait—what’re you—ohhh my god.” Stiles’s head fell back as Derek’s tongue licked firmly over his rim, hot and slick and new. The sensation jolted through him, making him squirm, gasp, a mess of whimpers spilling from his lips.

“Derek—I—fuck—what—oh my god—”

Derek hummed against him, maddeningly thorough, working him open with slow, deliberate laps of his tongue until Stiles was shaking, clutching at the blanket for dear life. When a finger pressed in alongside, Stiles cried out, overwhelmed, sparks shooting through him when Derek brushed something inside that made his vision white out.

Each stretch, each curl of Derek’s fingers was patient but relentless, pulling desperate sounds from Stiles he hadn’t even known he could make. By the time three thick fingers had him loose, open, his thighs trembling around Derek’s shoulders, Stiles was incoherent, leaking pre-come again, every nerve ending lit up and begging for more.

Derek slowed, fingers still moving inside him, tugging against the pulsing vein inside his rim, gaze lifting to Stiles’s face. His voice was rough, but careful. “Stiles. Are you sure you want this?”

Stiles blinked down at him, pupils blown wide. “Are you kidding me right now? You’re—” his voice cracked, wrecked from panting, “—you’re literally knuckes-deep in my ass, Derek. What do you think?”

Derek’s mouth twitched, like he almost wanted to smile, but he didn’t let it slide. He stilled his fingers, thumb smoothing a circle against the inside of Stiles’s thigh, grounding him. “This is your first time.” He said it plainly, without judgment, just fact. “I need to hear you say it’s what you want. Not just because you’re caught up in the moment. Because it matters.”

The words landed heavy, pushing through the dizzy fog of arousal. And Stiles felt something twist tight in his chest, because Derek meant it. He wasn’t just checking a box; he was giving Stiles the choice, one last chance to walk away.

Stiles’s throat worked as he swallowed. He forced his eyes open wider, meeting Derek’s gaze dead-on. “I want this. I want you.”

Derek’s eyes searched his, unreadable shadows flickering there, but Stiles didn’t look away. Not until Derek exhaled, a breath that sounded like release.

Still, he didn’t move. “We… don’t have a condom,” Derek said, voice softer, almost hesitant. His thumb traced another arc along Stiles’s thigh, so gentle it made Stiles’s chest ache. “You should know that before I—”

“I don’t care.” The words tumbled out too fast, raw and certain, and Stiles tightened his grip around Derek’s wrist to prove it.

“Stiles—”

His pulse was hammering, but his voice was steady when he said it again. “I don’t care. I trust you.” His breath hitched. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

For a moment, Derek just looked at him like he was carving the words into memory, like he couldn’t quite believe them. Then, slowly, Derek eased his fingers free. He bent down, kissed the inside of Stiles’s knee, reverent, and crawled up over him, bracing his weight carefully as their bodies aligned.

The kiss that followed was nothing like the frantic ones before. It was slow, devastating, Derek pressing him down into the old mattress, their chests flush, heat rolling between them. Every movement was deliberate, patient, like Derek was saying I heard you. I won’t forget this.

Stiles shuddered when Derek finally pulled back just far enough to work on his waistband, unbuttoning his jeans with a calm precision that was at odds with the thundering in Stiles’s chest. Each pop of the button, each rasp of the zipper being tugged down, made his throat go dry. Butterflies—no, a whole damn aviary—took flight in his stomach.

And then Derek pushed his jeans down his hips, shoving them off with a quiet efficiency that Stiles never thought could look sexy, except it was Derek. Everything about him was devastating. The denim slid away, and Stiles’s heart just about stopped when the bulge in Derek’s briefs dropped heavy between them, the black cotton straining to contain it.

Stiles’s eyes locked on it like a deer in headlights, his mouth falling open. He had imagined. God, he had imagined plenty—he was a teenage boy, of course he had—but none of those daydreams had prepared him for this. For Derek Hale standing over him, stripped down, body carved like a statue, and that—that—thick, heavy length straining the fabric.

Derek hooked his thumbs under the waistband, and with one smooth motion, pulled the briefs down.

Stiles’s breath left him in a rush. Fuck.

Pornhub Derek? Yeah, that guy could choke on his microwaved dinner and drop dead for all Stiles cared, because he had absolutely nothing—nothing—on the real thing.

Stiles’s brain short-circuited. His eyes went wide, drinking in every inch, the way Derek’s cock curved, flushed and hard, veins standing out along the thick shaft. Big. So much bigger than Stiles had even let himself imagine—and oh, oh, that’s what Erica had meant. That jab she’d thrown at him earlier, about being “consistent” with his type in men. Consistent with what? With chasing big dick apparently. Because Raxx had been—well, hung. And now Derek, his Derek, was standing here like this, proving her right.

Heat burned across his face, half from embarrassment, half from sheer arousal. He swallowed hard, a thought stuttering through the haze: She was hinting at Derek. She knew. Somehow she knew. How'd she know? Maybe Derek cockblocked Stiles's hookup with Raxx for a reason. Well, other than wanting Stiles for himself. Maybe he'd wanted tell Stiles I've got something bigger.

But right now, all of it didn’t matter. Not when Derek was here, real and solid and watching him with that same steady, unreadable expression, except for the faintest flush creeping up Derek’s throat, as though even he wasn’t immune to the weight of this moment.

Stiles licked his lips, gaze dragging back up to Derek’s face. “Holy shit,” he muttered before he could stop himself, voice breaking thin.

Derek’s mouth curved, the barest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner. “That meet your expectations?” His voice was low, deliberate, the kind of tone that made Stiles feel pinned in place.

Stiles made a helpless, borderline hysterical noise. “Meet my—Derek, that thing should have paid its own tax. Like, are you trying to kill me? Because congrats, mission accomplished. I’ve seen less intimidating baseball bats. No wonder you brood all the time, you’re probably lightheaded from the blood flow.”

The ghost of Derek’s smile deepened, a shadow of satisfaction flickering in his eyes.

Derek’s weight hovered over him, one hand braced firm against the mattress, the other stroking soothingly down Stiles’s side. His eyes were molten in the moonlight, all restraint and heat tangled together.

“We should take it slow,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

Stiles nodded, throat working, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a mile. “Yeah—yeah, okay.”

Derek reached between them, spitting into his palm, slicking his cock with careful strokes, pulling his foreskin back until the flushed head gleamed wet. Stiles’s eyes went wide, pupils blown, tracking every movement. Derek lined himself up, the blunt head nudging at Stiles’s rim.

Then he stilled, gaze locking with Stiles’s. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Stiles bit his lip and gave a shaky nod. “I—yeah. Just—do it.”

The first push stole his breath. Derek pressed forward slow, achingly slow, the blunt stretch making Stiles gasp, fingers clawing at the sheets. The burn was sharp, searing, so much bigger than Derek’s fingers had prepared him for.

“Fuck—” Stiles hissed, eyes squeezing shut.

“Breathe,” Derek murmured, low and steady, his free hand sliding up to cup Stiles’s cheek. “I’ve got you. Just breathe. You’re doing so good for me.”

It hurt, God, it hurt, but Derek’s voice anchored him, the way his thumb brushed small circles against his skin, the way his mouth pressed a kiss against his temple like a promise. Inch by inch, Derek sank deeper, every movement careful, controlled.

And then—suddenly—he was all the way in. Buried to the hilt, thick cock stretching him full, too full, so overwhelming that Stiles couldn’t even find words. A broken, helpless sound tore from his throat, caught somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

“Stiles,” Derek breathed, his forehead lowering to rest against Stiles’s. “Look at me.”

Stiles forced his eyes open, wide and glassy, and met Derek’s. What Derek saw there—need, fear, trust, all of it tangled—must have been enough. Because Derek’s lips brushed his jaw, soft and reverent, before his hips finally drew back, just enough to drag the stretch, and pushed forward again.

The first real thrust made Stiles cry out, his back arching off the mattress. It was too much and not enough, pain blurring into pleasure, every nerve ending lit up. Derek’s pace was slow, careful, rocking into him with patient rolls of his hips.

“You feel incredible,” Derek groaned against his skin, voice breaking ragged. “So tight—God, Stiles.”

Stiles’s nails dug into Derek’s shoulders, clinging like he might float away otherwise. “Holy—shit—” he babbled, breath catching with every movement. “You’re—you’re literally—fucking killing me, oh my god.”

Derek huffed a broken laugh, muffled against Stiles’s throat, before pressing deeper, angling just so. He hit something that made Stiles’s whole body jolt like he’d been electrocuted. A strangled moan tore out of him, high and wrecked, his nails digging into Derek’s shoulders.

“Th-there—fuck—what the hell was that?” Stiles babbled, eyes blown wide, blinking up at him like he’d just been struck by divine intervention.

Derek’s mouth brushed his jaw, hot breath skating over his ear. His voice was low, almost rough. “Your prostate. Some people call it your g-spot.”

Stiles’s hips twitched, helpless, searching for that pressure again. “I’ve got a g-spot?” His voice cracked, equal parts incredulous and desperate. “Jesus Christ, Derek—yeah, okay, hit that again. Please.”

Derek drew back just enough to meet his eyes, steady and intent, as though making him say it mattered. “You want me to?”

“Y-yes. God, yes. Don’t you dare stop now.”

That faint, dangerous smirk tugged at Derek’s mouth—gone as quickly as it came, replaced by focus. He shifted, braced himself, and then thrust again at the exact same angle. Stiles’s spine arched, his mouth falling open on another shattered cry.

“Fuck—right there,” Stiles gasped, hands clutching at Derek’s back like he was drowning and Derek was the only thing keeping him afloat.

Derek obeyed, ruthless in his precision, finding the rhythm that made Stiles break apart. Every push dragged across that spot, sparks detonating behind Stiles’s eyes, winding him tighter with each stroke. His thighs trembled, his stomach quivered, sweat slicking his chest as the pressure coiled low and unbearable.

Derek’s kisses turned greedy down his throat, over the sharp line of his jaw, back to his mouth. He swallowed every sound Stiles made, devouring the gasps and curses until Stiles couldn’t breathe without him.

Pinned beneath Derek, every thrust rattled through Stiles’s bones, scraping every nerve raw. Derek was relentless in his control, pace steady but deep—the kind of rhythm that promised he could keep going forever. And Stiles could only take it, writhing, clinging, desperate.

A groan tore out of his throat, cut short by a gasp when Derek’s hips shifted and hit that spot again. His body jerked, back arching, mouth falling open around a strangled moan. Nails dragged helplessly down Derek’s back, leaving red streaks over sweat-slick muscle.

“Look at you,” Derek rasped against his ear, voice low, frayed with need. He pulled back just enough to see his face. Stiles’s pupils were blown wide, freckles stark against flushed skin, lips parted on broken whimpers. Derek brushed his thumb over the corner of his mouth, reverent. “So beautiful like this. Falling apart for me.”

Stiles only moaned, high and wrecked, hips canting helplessly up to meet Derek’s.

His cock, trapped between their bodies, was leaking against his stomach, every brush of friction winding him tighter. Derek’s pace didn’t falter, but his hand slid between them, fingers wrapping around Stiles, stroking in time with his thrusts.

That broke him.

Stiles’s entire body went taut, back bowing, mouth falling open on a strangled sound as pleasure tore through him. His orgasm hit hard, spilling hot across his own stomach and Derek’s hand, trembling with the force of it. The world went white at the edges, every nerve lit up, every muscle spasming as he rode it out.

Derek kissed him through it, swallowing every desperate sound, every whimper. He slowed his hips but didn’t stop, letting Stiles come apart underneath him, murmuring soft encouragements against his lips.

Stiles cracked his eyes open, dazed and flushed, lips parting around a breathless laugh. “Shit. I—I already came. Twice. And you haven’t even—god, I’m sorry.”

Derek stilled, gaze steady, unreadable for half a beat. Then his mouth curved, slow and certain, his breath harsh but controlled. “Don’t apologize, baby. Don’t hold back. You can come as many times as you want.” His voice dropped lower, rougher, like gravel dragged across velvet. “I’ll make sure you do.”

The words punched straight through Stiles, a shiver running down his spine, wrecked and thrilled all at once. It hit him then, the way Derek said it—like this was about Stiles, all of it, every second. Like Derek didn’t care about anything but making him fall apart again and again.

Stiles’s throat worked, dry and aching. His voice was a ragged whisper. “Oh, fuck me. You’re gonna ruin me.”

“Yeah.” Derek leaned down, lips brushing his in a slow, claiming kiss that left no room for doubt. “That’s the plan.”

When their mouths finally broke apart, Stiles was panting, lips swollen, eyes blown wide. His voice came out rough, shaky with want. “Can I—” he swallowed, heat crawling up his throat, “—can I ride you?”

Derek’s answer was immediate, unflinching. “Anything you want.”

The way he said it—low, certain, like it wasn’t just sex but a vow—made Stiles’s stomach flip.

They shifted, Derek lying back against the ruined mattress, broad chest rising and falling with restrained anticipation. Stiles glanced down at himself, slick and messy, and flushed scarlet when Derek’s hand came up, gathering the cum from his stomach in one slow, deliberate drag. Stiles’s breath stuttered as Derek used it, slicking his cock with long, steady strokes. The sight alone almost undid him.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles muttered, eyes locked on the movement, on Derek’s hand wrapped around himself. “That’s so—fuck, that’s hot.”

“Come here,” Derek said, voice like gravel and smoke.

Stiles straddled him, thighs trembling with the effort of holding himself above Derek’s body. Derek guided him with steady hands, angling his cock toward Stiles’s rim, holding him right where he needed to be.

“Slow,” Derek murmured. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

Stiles nodded, biting down on his lip as he sank, inch by inch. The stretch burned, sharp and overwhelming, but Derek’s hands were right there on his hips, grounding him, steadying him. A groan ripped out of Stiles’s throat, helpless, broken, as Derek slid deeper inside.

“Good,” Derek whispered, his own voice fraying at the edges. “You’re doing so good for me.”

Stiles shuddered, nails digging into Derek’s chest, every nerve alight.

Derek’s hand drifted up, fingers brushing across his chest, tweaking a nipple just to watch him jolt. Stiles gasped, clutching at his wrist. “Don’t—don’t do that, I’ll—I’ll come too fast.”

“It’s alright,” Derek said, quiet but firm, tugging him closer. “Let yourself feel it.”

Then he sat up, one hand braced at Stiles’s back, the other finding his chest again. Derek’s mouth closed hot around Stiles’s nipple, sucking hard, tongue dragging over the sensitive peak.

“F-fuck—” Stiles’s whole body froze, hands burying in Derek’s hair, tugging hard as his hips stuttered.

Derek didn’t stop—sucking, licking, then trailing up, teeth scraping at Stiles’s collarbone, lips marking across his throat until they found the frantic thrum of his pulse. Stiles shuddered, trembling in his lap, held together only by Derek’s arms wrapping strong and unshakable around him.

Then Derek’s hands slid lower, under his ass, palms full and sure. He lifted him with terrifying ease, guiding him up and then back down, making Stiles bounce on his cock, slow and measured.

“Oh my god,” Stiles gasped, voice cracked and raw, head falling back. “It’s not fair—you can just—fuck—you can just do that—”

Every thrust drove Derek deeper, hitting him at an angle that made his vision spark. Stiles found the rhythm, grinding down, bouncing harder, his own moans spiraling into breathless cries.

“Derek—fuck, Derek—it feels so good,” Stiles sobbed, voice breaking with each downward slam of his hips.

Derek pulled back from his throat then, leaning away, bracing his arms behind him. His eyes burned red in the moonlight, locked on Stiles, devouring the sight of him bouncing on his cock, wrecked and beautiful.

“So beautiful,” Derek growled, breath ragged. “So fucking tight. So warm around me. Look at you—taking me all the way down. You’re perfect, Stiles. Perfect.”

Stiles whimpered, face flaming, body seizing with pleasure at every word.

Then Derek’s hand shot out, wrapping around the back of Stiles’s neck, tugging him forward. Their mouths crashed together, sloppy, teeth knocking. Derek pulled him down with his weight, rolling them until he was flat on his back and Stiles was pressed against his chest, cock still buried deep.

The shift was brutal—suddenly Derek was thrusting up into him, fast and hard, pace punishing. The mattress creaked under the force of it, and Stiles broke apart, every cry torn raw out of his throat.

It hurt—it hurt so fucking good—and Stiles couldn’t stop cursing, couldn’t stop grinding back down, couldn’t stop begging incoherently as Derek railed him into the ruined bed, relentless and consuming.

The rhythm was brutal, Derek’s hips snapping up, forcing Stiles to take every inch over and over. He clung to Derek’s shoulders, nails dragging across sweat-slick muscle, his body wound so tight it felt like he might snap.

His head lolled back, eyes catching on the yawning hole in the roof above them. The full moon stared down, silver light flooding the ruined house, pouring over their tangled bodies. And the thought slammed into him, dizzying—he was riding Derek Hale under the full moon, in the open, where anyone could walk in, where anyone could see.

The sheer obscenity of it, the raw, primal exposure, ripped the last of his control away. His breath caught, sharp, and then his whole body seized as release tore through him again.

He cried out, high and broken, cock spilling between them, streaks of white painting Derek’s stomach and his own chest. The orgasm ripped him apart, wave after wave, every thrust from Derek driving it deeper until he was shaking, whimpering, clinging desperately to the man beneath him.

But Derek didn’t stop.

He held Stiles through it, one arm locked tight around his back, the other gripping his hip to keep him moving. His thrusts stayed relentless, steady, as though Stiles’s orgasm was just fuel for him to push harder.

Stiles slumped forward against his chest, trembling, boneless. His lips dragged over Derek’s throat in broken kisses, whimpers muffled against sweat and skin. “Oh god—oh fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” Derek growled against his ear, voice rough, primal. His mouth caught Stiles’s jaw, his cheek, then his lips again in a kiss that was messy and consuming. “You’re taking me so well. Give me more, Stiles.”

The words seared through him, pulling another desperate sound from his chest, because Derek wasn’t done—wasn’t anywhere near done—and Stiles’s body, wrecked and overstimulated, still wanted every second of it.

Derek’s thrusts faltered, slowing, shifting their bodies with a care that contrasted sharply with the relentless pace he’d been keeping. He eased Stiles onto his side, curling in behind him, one strong arm hooking under his leg to lift it. The change in angle was devastating—each snap of Derek’s hips drove into new places, sharp and deep, stealing ragged sounds from Stiles’s throat.

“Jesus—Derek—” Stiles gasped, fingers clawing at the ruined sheets beneath them.

And then he felt it: Derek’s nose pressed into the curve of his neck, just under his ear. A deep inhale, slow and deliberate, dragging the air from his skin like Derek was trying to memorize him from the inside out. Stiles shuddered when a hot tongue traced along his pulse point, lapping at the rapid beat there.

Derek whispered something against his skin, the words low and lost to the haze, and then—teeth. Not hard, not breaking, just grazing, a scrape that made Stiles’s whole body jolt, a helpless whimper torn from his chest.

“Derek…” he gasped, torn between panic and want, but before he could even reach for him, everything stopped.

Derek froze, pulling back sharply, his cock sliding out, leaving Stiles aching and empty. Cold rushed in all at once, the night air harsh against sweat-damp skin.

“Derek?” Stiles pushed himself onto an elbow, dazed, eyes trying to focus—and then he saw. Glowing red eyes under the full moon. And Derek’s claws, extended and gleaming in the moonlight, raked across his own thigh, tearing skin. Blood welled, dark and hot, sliding down pale flesh.

“Derek! Holy shit—you’re bleeding!”

“I’m fine,” Derek bit out, panting, ragged. His voice cracked on the word, his body taut like a wire about to snap. “I’m fine. Shit. Shit.”

Stiles’s stomach dropped. The rejection stung like ice water in his veins. “Is it me? Did I—did I do something wrong?” His voice went small, brittle in a way he hated.

Derek’s head snapped up, face drained of color, eyes wide. His glowing red eyes dimmed and turned dark green. “No. No, no, baby. Of course not.” His voice softened on the last words, desperate, almost pleading.

Stiles held his gaze, searching, the firelight flickering over both of them. He needed an answer.

Derek exhaled hard, shoulders slumping. “I almost gave you the bite,” he admitted, voice low, ashamed. “Without your consent.”

Stiles blinked, brain stuttering. “You almost—what? You almost turned me into a werewolf?”

A strangled laugh burst out of Derek, tension bleeding out of his frame as his claws retracted. The wounds on his thigh sealed even as Stiles stared. “No. Not that bite.” He swallowed, looking away like the words themselves burned. “I almost… mated you. Right then and there.”

Stiles’s brain did a hard reboot. “Mated. Like—”

Derek nodded once, jaw tight.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispered, eyes wide. “You almost—like—mate-bite mated me?”

Derek winced, as though hearing it out loud was worse. “Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the fire popping faintly, the moon glaring down through the broken roof.

“Is… is that bad?” Stiles asked finally, cautious.

“Maybe,” Derek said, voice rough. “Because it’s not something you’d want.”

“Why not? Does it—what—turn me furry?”

“No,” Derek huffed. “It doesn’t turn you. It marks you. For life. The way the turning bite remakes you, the mating bite binds you. Permanent. No going back.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Werewolves mate for life, Stiles. And you—you’re still young. You couldn’t possibly want—”

“Geez,” Stiles cut in, eyes narrowing, “sounds a hell of a lot like you’re the one who doesn’t want it.”

Derek’s scowl flashed instantly, sharp and defensive. “I never said that.”

“And I never said I don’t want it, either.” Stiles shot back, heat rising in his cheeks. “You just put those words in my mouth. Again. Classic Derek Hale.”

Derek’s mouth opened, then snapped shut, jaw clenched.

“All I’m saying,” Stiles continued, softer now, eyes locked on Derek’s, “is that all I could think about, when you said that, was how romantic it sounded.”

“Stiles—”

“I want it,” Stiles said, firm, no hesitation now. His chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm, eyes wide, steady. “As long as you want it. I want a lifetime with you, Derek.”

The words hung there, heavy, dangerous, irrevocable.

Derek’s breath caught. His eyes searched Stiles’s face, dark and fierce, as if trying to find the lie. But there wasn’t one. And then—like a switch had been thrown—his eyes bled red, burning bright in the moonlight. Hunger. Claim. A predator finally given permission to devour.

Stiles barely had time to suck in a breath before Derek moved. One second he was kneeling over him, tense and strung tight; the next he was on him, a sudden weight, a force pressing him down. Stiles hit the mattress with a grunt, stomach pressing tightly against the ruined sheet, Derek’s body blanketing his, hot skin to hot skin, strong hands gripping his hips and spreading him open with no room for protest.

“Derek—” Stiles’s voice cracked, breathless, half plea, half disbelief.

“I’ve got you,” Derek growled, low in his ear, raw and promising. His hand guided himself back, thick and hard, sliding home in one unrelenting push. Stiles’s whole body arched, a strangled moan breaking from his chest as he was filled again, stretched deep, taken.

And then Derek moved.

This wasn’t the careful, patient rhythm from before. No. This was something else entirely—something primal. Each thrust was a slam, sharp and punishing, forcing Stiles down into the ruined mattress. The frame groaned under them, ancient wood creaking with every relentless snap of Derek’s hips.

Stiles clawed at the bedding, fingers tearing through rotten fabric, face buried into the bed, muffling his voice. Every nerve ending screamed with pleasure and pain tangled, the heat unbearable. His voice broke in helpless sounds—moans, whimpers, cries—each one pulled out of him by Derek’s body driving into his own.

“God—fuck—Derek—” he managed, words dissolving into another cry when Derek shifted just enough to grind against that spot inside him, merciless, again and again.

Derek’s hand slid around his stomach, wrapping tight across his belly, pulling him up, keeping him pressed back flush to his chest as he thrust harder, deeper. The hold was possessive, unyielding, like he was staking a claim with every movement. His breath was hot against Stiles’s ear, ragged and primal, every exhale vibrating through Stiles’s spine.

“Mine,” Derek snarled, hips slamming forward, the word guttural, ancient.

And then it happened.

The sharp sting of teeth sank into his neck—sudden, shocking, burning. Stiles screamed, the sound ripped raw from his throat as pain and pleasure collided, overwhelming. Blood welled hot against Derek’s mouth, the sensation unlike anything he’d ever felt, a tearing that wasn’t just physical but deeper, something inside him latching, binding.

Derek’s arms locked around him, crushingly tight, possessive. His thrusts went ragged, frantic, driving harder, faster, like instinct had seized him entirely. His roar tore through the hollowed-out ruins, animal and human all at once, vibrating down to Stiles’s bones.

Stiles came undone first, body convulsing, release spilling untouched, his scream melting into sobbing moans as Derek’s bite seared and his cock pulsed inside him. He shook apart, every inch of him wrung out and claimed.

Derek followed with a final thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he came, spilling hot and deep, his roar breaking on Stiles’s name. The force of it dragged them both under, locked together—blood, sweat, and moonlight binding them in something more permanent than either of them had dared to imagine.

And still, even when it was over, Derek didn’t let go. His arms stayed locked around Stiles, trembling but firm, his teeth pressed against the mark he’d made, sealing it with heat and reverence.

Stiles was still panting, chest heaving like he’d just run ten miles. His body was wrecked, limp, absolutely spent. Every muscle buzzed with aftershocks, too weak to move, too wrung out to even try. He went boneless into the ruined mattress, face buried in a patch of scorched fabric, and just breathed.

Derek’s jaw finally loosened at his neck, releasing the mark, and for the first time since the world had gone white-hot, Stiles could actually think again. Derek’s breath was heavy in his ear, rough and uneven, and then Derek simply collapsed forward, his full weight pressing down on him.

Stiles should’ve complained—“hey, crushed over here”—but he didn’t. He liked it, the heavy warmth of him, the grounding weight pinning him in place. Derek’s mouth brushed his cheek, then his shoulder, then his hair, lingering there to inhale deep like he was memorizing his scent. If Stiles hadn’t been so absolutely fried, his dick would’ve been back up at full salute.

Derek eventually shifted them, rolling just enough to tug Stiles onto his side. Still curled behind him, Derek’s arms stayed locked around his waist, possessive, anchoring. His cock, softening now, slid out, and Stiles immediately felt the warm rush of come slipping from his body, dollops of heat against his thighs. His face went scarlet, because holy shit, that was real. That just happened.

Another kiss landed on his shoulder, softer this time. Then Derek’s mouth trailed upward, deliberate, until it hovered over the raw mark at his neck. Stiles tensed, uncertain—only to jerk when Derek’s tongue touched him. Small, slow licks, like a cat cleaning a wound. Ticklish. Strange. But also—fuck—good. Soothing, even. With every lick, something deep inside him thrummed, like a cord being tied tight, and it left Stiles dazed all over again.

“I love you, baby,” Derek murmured against his skin, punctuating it with a playful nip at his ear.

Stiles’s cock, despite being wrecked and floppy, gave a traitorous twitch. His eyes went wide, and he let out a broken laugh. “Uh—shouldn’t that come first? Y’know—before the sex Olympics, the biting, the… fluids situation?”

Derek’s chest rumbled behind him, half laugh, half growl. “We could always go round two.”

Stiles twisted his head just enough to gape at him, incredulous. “Round two? What the fuck do you mean, round two? I don’t even have bones anymore, Derek! I’m like… post-sex Jell-O. I couldn’t ride a tricycle right now, let alone your… fucking monster dick.”

Derek chuckled again, that low, rare sound that always managed to squeeze Stiles’s heart. His hand rubbed slow circles over Stiles’s belly, soothing. “Then we’ll wait,” he said simply. “Doesn’t change the fact that I want you. Always.”

And for once, Stiles didn’t feel the need to deflect with humor. He just lay there, throat tight, eyes stinging, letting Derek hold him like the world outside didn’t exist.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

Stiles could officially say it: best. weekend. of his life.

Sure, his planned hookup had been cockblocked by Derek Hale. Twice. Which, okay, had been infuriating at the time, because who just storms in and ruins a perfectly good chance at losing one’s virginity to DomTop69, who was apparently a (very hot, very dangerous) monster? But apparently Derek had been doing it because he’d been jealous. Jealous. Which was hilarious, because the whole thing was mutual, and if Derek had just opened his stupid perfect mouth sooner, they could’ve saved themselves literal years of blue balls and pining.

Honestly, Derek Hale should be legally required to announce he’s interested in you. Because who the hell would say no? Derek could walk into a PTA meeting and go, “I want to fuck you” and every consenting adult in the tri-county area would start undressing on the spot.

…Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Still.

Point was, Stiles had had his first time with an alpha werewolf. Under a full moon. In the ruined Hale house. With a cock so—well, let’s just say, gargantuan didn’t even begin to cover it. And Derek had been gentle and reverent, and then rough and primal, and basically ruined him in every possible way. Romantic as fuck. He was half-hard just thinking about it.

“Seriously, dude! Gross!” Scott groaned beside him, dropping his pen and clutching his nose like he was being gassed. They were stuck in Chemistry lab waiting for the bell. “I can smell you having dirty thoughts.”

Stiles blinked innocently. “Sorry, can’t help it. Normal teenager, right? Hormones, dopamine, endorphins. It’s science, bro.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. You should come with me to return the case files to the office.”

Scott frowned. “Didn’t you say ‘consider it done’? Why haven’t you returned it? Were you too busy, uh…” He paused, face heating. “…taking care of your blue balls?”

Stiles smirked, fighting the urge to laugh in his best friend’s face. Oh, Scotty. If only you knew. No, he hadn’t been “busy with his blue balls.” He’d been busy having them absolutely destroyed in the best possible way by Derek freaking Hale. And God, he wanted to tell someone so badly. How perfect it had been. How—

Scott’s voice cut through his mental highlight reel. “I thought for sure you’d taken care of that. But you still smell horny all the time. Though…” He tilted his head, sniffing faintly. “…you smell kinda different?”

“Probably the pine soap,” Stiles said quickly. He’d scrubbed himself harder than he’d ever scrubbed before. Five showers’ worth of scrubbing. The pine trees of Beacon Hills had filed a class-action lawsuit against him.

Scott shook his head. “No, it’s… not that. It’s just… never mind. We should hit the sheriff’s department. Derek’s probably already pissed we haven’t returned the file. I swear I could smell him faintly. He’s probably around the school perimeter.”

Stiles froze mid-scribble. No. Nope. Derek wasn’t anywhere near the school. Derek was supposed to be out meeting some pandit guy who knew Sanskrit and could recite demon-banishing scripture. Which meant…

Shit. Scott was smelling Derek on him.

The bell rang, blessedly interrupting. They made a beeline for Roscoe, donuts from the school cafeteria in tow, and managed to sneak the case file back into Parrish’s drawer. Stiles had the foresight to bribe his dad with said donuts as a cover story.

At Scott’s house later, Scott was still frowning. “It’s so weird. I keep smelling Derek everywhere. At the school, in your car, at the sheriff’s department. At first I thought maybe it was the case file, but… it’s here too. Right now.”

Stiles fought down the grin that threatened to split his face. This was evil. He should not do it. He should keep it vague, play it off. Be normal.

“Shit,” he muttered instead, delight bubbling up in his chest. “I thought I washed up properly.”

Scott’s head tilted, confused. “What do you mean?”

And Stiles—sweet, evil bastard that he was—leaned back, crossed his arms, and smirked. “Guess cum stains need more than just pine soap. And, well, I can’t exactly soap inside my asshole.”

Scott frowned for a few seconds, until realization hit him. Stiles watched his face went white, then red, then green, all at once.

“STILES!”

Stiles howled with laughter, nearly falling off Scott’s bed. Yep. Best weekend ever.

The loft was quiet, sunlight filtering pale through the tall windows. Derek leaned against the railing of the upper floor, mug of coffee in hand, watching the city below.

It should’ve felt like any other day after a full moon. Bone-deep exhaustion from full-moon run in his muscles, the faint scent of smoke still clinging to his skin, the quiet hum of pack energy somewhere on the edge of his senses. Normal.

Except it wasn't normal.

And it wasn't the full moon run that caused the bone-deep exhaustion. And because every time he inhaled, he could still smell Stiles. Sweet and sharp, still threaded through his clothes, tangled in the air like it belonged there. And worse—better—woven into him now. Deep. Permanent. His chest throbbed faintly when he thought about it, reminding him every second of what he’d done.

What they’d done.

He sipped his coffee, letting the bitter burn cut through the heat curling low in his stomach. He wasn’t used to this steady ache of satisfaction sitting under his ribs. The want that didn’t feel hollow. For once, he wasn’t bracing for it to collapse around him.

Because Stiles had wanted it. Had wanted him.

And the sound of Stiles’s laugh, high and wrecked in the ruined Hale house, then softer after, against his chest, still rang in his ears like a vow.

His phone buzzed against the railing.

Boyd: Jackson’s still bitching about helping with mountain ash duty.

Derek’s mouth twitched. He typed back, short, as always.

Tell him it builds character.

Another buzz, this one from an unknown number. He frowned, thumb hovering, before he read the text:

You really didn’t have to get me the flip. But thanks.
– Your Mate.

Derek stared at it for a long moment. The corners of his mouth softened into something he hadn’t felt in years. A real smile.

He set the coffee down, phone still in hand, and muttered into the empty loft, “You’re welcome.”

And even though no one could see it, Derek Hale—stoic, brooding, perpetually scowling Derek Hale—looked smug as hell.