Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/559949.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, temporarily-a-girl!Stiles, Original_Male
      Character, temporarily-a-cat!Stiles
  Additional Tags:
      Genderswap, Community:_kink_bingo, Military_Uniforms, Exposure, Magical
      Accidents, First_Time, Sexual_Content, Oral_Sex, Trapped, Loss_of
      Virginity, Pining, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Virginity, Vaginal
      Sex, Unsafe_Sex
  Series:
      Part 1 of Plan_B
  Collections:
      Kink_Bingo_2012_(Round_Five)
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-10 Words: 4988
****** Four Score and Nineteen Difficulties ******
by adaptation
Summary
     “Virginity is a social construct created to rob women of their sexual
     agency,” Stiles retorts. He hesitates for a second before adding,
     “And as a woman, I refuse to submit to a patriarchal society that
     aims to control my sexuality.”
     “You’re not a woman.”
     “Uh.” Stiles gestures to his body. “I’m pretty sure that, at the
     moment, I am.”
Notes
     This fulfills my Military/Uniform and Exhibitionism/Exposure squares
     on my Kink Bingo card. >D
     This is also unbeta'd, so feel free to point out any typos or
     anything you notice so I can fix them. <3
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles is so mad he could strangle someone.
Or, he could if he had hands.
He’s been a cat for two days now, and he’s getting really sick of milk and
tuna.  But there’s been nothing he can do about it, because to undo the spell,
they had to find Morgan, and Morgan had vanished like mountain ash in the
wind.  Stiles’s dad still doesn’t know about the whole werewolf thing, and
Scott’s mom is allergic to cats, and Allison’s family is fucking crazy, so
Stiles has spent the better part of the last forty-two hours prowling around
Derek’s creepy house, chasing mice and rubbing his tail on Derek’s face,
because it actually feels really nice when Derek pets him and it’s not like
Derek has anything better to do.
The being a cat part hasn’t actually been that bad, except that he really does
need to get back to his dad.  He’s probably eaten nothing but pizza and bacon
for the past two days, and Stiles doesn’t want to turn back into himself only
to find his dad with clogged arteries and a carb-and-fat-induced migraine. 
Luckily, Scott had been able to use Stiles’s phone to text his dad a quick note
about going to Scott’s for the weekend, so the Sheriff wouldn’t be looking for
him.  For now.
They’d have probably had this figured out by now if Morgan, being a witch and
all, wasn’t so good at cloaking his scent.  Stiles figured he probably had a
lot of dangerous things trying to track him down, so he’d gotten really good at
disappearing when he wanted to.  Which, you know, good for Morgan and all, but
less good for Stiles.
Finally, around noon on Sunday, while Stiles is curled up on the front seat of
the Camero while Derek peruses Pet Valu, Derek catches Morgan’s scent.  It’s
faint, but it’s there, lingering in the plaza with the Pet Valu and the
Domino’s Pizza and the unlicensed chiropractor.  So Derek tosses the bag of
canned cat food — not even the name brand kind, seriously, fuck you, Derek —
and colourful pom pom balls on the floorboard in front of Stiles, and then
tears out of the parking lot, hot on Morgan’s trail.
Or maybe not so hot.  Because when they reach the end of the trail, they’re at
some skeevy old storage shack in the woods, and it looks totally deserted. 
Derek tells Stiles to wait in the car and heads for the shack, and Stiles
follows him, because really, and they take maybe three steps inside before
there’s an obnoxious whoosh and some kind of magical barrier shoots up around
them.
The lights flick on, and Morgan’s in the doorway, grinning in an annoying self-
satisfied sort of way.  Then he sees who’s in the shack, and his grin gives way
to unmitigated confusion.  “Derek,” he says, frowning.  He looks over at
Stiles.  “And... Felix.”
Ha!  Good one.  If Stiles wasn’t a goddamn cat, he’d be laughing.  Instead, he
levels one of those unimpressed faces only cats can pull off on the witch, and
Morgan looks at him carefully.
“Is that —?”
“Stiles,” Derek supplies.  Stiles gives an irritated twitch of his tail.  “Undo
it.”
“But I —”  Morgan cuts himself off, still frowning at Stiles, and Stiles
figures that probably isn’t a good thing.  “Oh!  Did you touch the music box
that said Do Not Touch?  In my old place?”
Stiles shifts guiltily.  
“That was an experiment!  I was trying to rig the spell to wear off after a few
hours.”
“It didn’t,” Derek says flatly.
“I saidit was an experiment.  And you know, I’d really appreciate it if you two
would stop walking into my traps.”
Derek glares.  “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop setting them.”
“I can’t,” Morgan confesses.  He sounds genuinely sorry about it, too, which
makes Stiles want to claw his face a little less.  “There’s a hunter after me. 
Persistent son of a bitch.  I’ve been trying to incapacitate him long enough to
scrub myself out of his memory.”
“Why is there a hunter after you?” Derek asks, like that’s the stupidest thing
he’s ever heard.  He’s really good at sounding like that.
“I’m harbouring a fugitive faerie,” he says, and waves his hand dismissively. 
“We’re dating.  It’s a thing.”
This conversation is straying a little too far from turning Stiles back into a
human, so Stiles hisses and swats at the air.  Derek and Morgan both turn to
stare at him for a second, and then Derek shifts his attention back to the
witch.  “Undo it,” he says again, and this time there’s an undercurrent of
threat in his tone.
There’s a foreign noise from outside — the crunch of gravel, the snap of a twig
— and Morgan looks over his shoulder, his whole body tensing.  “Shit,” he
curses.  He turns back to Derek and Stiles, pulling a backpack off his shoulder
and unzipping it quickly.  “I have to go, it’s the hunter, and you guys tripped
up this trap, so I have to run and set the next one before he catches me.  I’ll
lure him away from here, don’t worry,” he adds before Derek can threaten to
snap his neck.  “But here.  The countercurse is really easy, anybody can undo
it.  It’s in this book.”  He tosses a heavy tome at them that claps loudly onto
the cement block that constitutes the floor.  “I’ll be back as soon as I can to
take down the barrier.”
“Morgan!” Derek snaps, but the witch has already taken off like one of
Allison’s arrows, the shack door slamming shut behind him.  The werewolf
quietly seethes while Stiles pads over to the book and tries to paw the cover
open.  They’re probably stuck here for a while, and if Stiles can spend that
while in his own goddamn body, then that’s the route he’s taking.  It doesn’t
take too long for him to get pissed off that it takes him a solid forty-five
seconds to turn a single page, so he meows at Derek, and after they have a
brief glaring contest, Derek crosses the floor and picks up the book, shaking
Stiles off it.
“Fine,” he breathes, and starts to flick through the pages.  He stops at the
Table of Contents, running one long finger down the list.  Stiles wants to see,
and rubbing up against Derek’s leg isn’t convincing Derek to pick him up, so he
does things the hard way and uses his claws to climb up Derek’s jeans.  By the
time he gets to the leather jacket, Derek has taken the hint and, rolling his
eyes, sets Stiles on his shoulder.  
Derek flips the page and continues down the Table of Contents there, and when
Stiles sees something promising, he gestures with a little black paw.
“This one?” Derek asks, and Stiles makes a little affirmative cat noise in his
throat.  Derek sighs and starts to flip through the pages toward the spell
Stiles had spotted.  When he gets there, Derek tries to brush Stiles off his
shoulder, and Stiles digs his claws in.  Derek actually flinches.  “Stiles, I’m
not turning you human while you’re sitting on my shoulder.”
Oh.  Good point.
Stiles hops off Derek’s shoulder, and then Derek starts reading some Latin out
of the book.  Stiles has no idea what it means, so he has no idea if Derek’s
doing a decent job of it, but he starts to feel some tingles at the back of his
neck, so he figures it must be working.  And then Stiles feels his bones start
to shift, his organs growing, moving back to where they belong, and then he’s
bigger, and he’s on his hands and knees, and — this shack is really drafty. 
Why is he so cold?
Because he’s fucking naked.
Stiles scrambles back instinctively, hands flying to cover his dick.  Except
it’s not there.
Why isn’t his dick there?!
“Holy shit,” he blurts, because when he moves his hands and looks down, he has
boobs. “Uh.  Derek?!”
He looks up and Derek is staring at him, eyes wide.  For a few impossibly long
beats, they just stare at each other, and then Derek whirls around, covering
his eyes.  “Put something on!” he blurts.
“Like what?” Stiles counters.  He’d ask for Derek’s jacket, but it’s only
waist-length; it won’t cover anything that important.
“Check the boxes.”
Only then does Stiles realize that his back is pressed against a stack of dusty
cardboard boxes.  He — she? — reluctantly climbs to his feet, keeping one eye
on Derek as he moves.  “No peeking, you pervert,” he warns, and his voice is
light and feminine.  He can almost hear Derek roll his eyes.
Stiles peels open one of the boxes and, to his surprise, it’s filled with
camouflage military jackets.  He eyes one thoughtfully, withdrawing it and
shaking it to get some of the dust off.  He doesn’t bother unbuttoning it, just
pulls it over his head.  
He only realizes when he feels a tug on his hair that it’s longer, past his
shoulders.  He frowns, picking up a strand of hair and eyeing it suspiciously. 
It’s his natural colour, but long and silky, and there’s a bit of a curl to it
at the end.  “Huh,” he breathes.
“What?” Derek says, his voice tense.  He starts to turn around, but grinds to a
halt halfway through the motion.  “Are you decent?”
“Depends who you ask,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek must take that as
confirmation, because he turns around completely.  His grey-green-hazel-
whatever eyes slide from Stiles’s face down over his body, lingering at the hem
of the jacket, which falls barely to mid-thigh, and then all the way down his
legs.  Stiles shifts uncomfortably, pressing his dainty knees together, and
tugs at the jacket.
“You aren’t wearing any pants.”
“I’m actually aware of that.”
“Whyaren’t you wearing any pants?”  The words are ground out, through clenched
teeth, the kind that Derek always gets when Stiles is really pissing him off,
and Stiles glares darkly, because how is this hisfault?
“Don’t get testy with me, bucko.  You’re the one who turned me into a girl!” 
Derek lips press into a thin, unimpressed line, and he forcibly looks away from
Stiles to give him the chance to dig through a couple of other boxes.  “These
are all just jackets,” Stiles says when he’s sure there’s not a pair of pants
in the bunch.  “You’re just going to have to deal with my legs.”  He glances
down at said legs.  “Which are, admittedly, pretty awesome.”
Now that the immediacy of his nakedness has been dealt with, Stiles figures he
can take a moment to assess his situation.  He wishes there was a mirror in the
shack, but, you know, it’s a shack.  And he was a cat before he was a girl — oh
god, there’s a pussy joke in there somewhere — so he doesn’t have his phone on
him.
“Hey,” he blurts, holding out a hand to Derek, “let me see your phone.”
“No.”
He blinks.  “You don’t even consider it.  Just ‘no’.”  When he says it, he
lowers his voice comically and does his best Derek impersonation, which is
considerably less accurate than normal since his voice is about two octaves
higher than it usually is.  “Come on, I wanna take a picture.  I need to see
how hot I am.”
Derek rolls his eyes, again — and it would be really cool if he could stop
doing that — and pulls his phone out of his pocket.  He punches a couple of
buttons and then holds it up in front of Stiles.  A few seconds later, Stiles
hears the fake shutter sound that signifies a picture’s been taken, and then
Derek holds out the phone to him.  
The girl in the photo is... really pretty, actually.  She looks sort of like
how Stiles regularly looks, except her features are more feminine.  Her lips
are a little plumper, her eyelashes a little longer, cheekbones more
pronounced, jaw thinner.  He can’t see her figure well under the jacket, but
she’s clearly got boobs — he cups one through the jacket just to make sure —
and her legs are long, pale.
He stares at the picture for a few moments longer, and then forwards it to his
own phone.  Then he passes the cell back to Derek, who cocks an eyebrow
pointedly at him, and Stiles realizes he’s still holding his boob.  He lets go.
“Turn around,” he says to Derek, who just stares at him.  Stiles gives him come
on face.  “I wanna... you know, check things out.  I don’t want you peeping at
me, so...”  He makes a twirly motion in the air with his finger.  Looking
distinctly like he’s about to grumble, Derek shoves his hands into the pockets
of his leather jacket and turns around to face the wall.
Satisfied that he’s got all the privacy he’s going to get, Stiles pulls the
jacket away from his body and peeks down the collar.  Yeah, he’s got a pretty
rocking body.  He’s got a C-cup, easy, and —
He slides a hand up between his legs and touches himself.  Not in the
masturbation way, just to feel things out.  It’s weird, because he’s never
touched a vagina — vulva?  he thinks it’s vulva — before, and it’s... fleshy. 
Not that he didn’t expect it to be, it’s just interesting.  It’s really hot,
too.  Not in the sexy way, just literally hot.  Or maybe he just thinks it is
because his fingers are cold.
“Are you —?” Derek starts, and he starts to turn around.
“Dude!” Stiles exclaims.  Derek jerks back around to face the wall, hopefully
before he can see anything.
He straightens, stops touching anything inappropriate, and then finally looks
around to assess their situation.  The shack they’re in is old as fuck, as far
as Stiles can tell, probably used to store wood back in the day.  Maybe
somebody rented it out, and that’s where all the boxes came from.  Maybe some
military uniform manufacturer went out of business and stored his extra stock
in the woods for no reason.  But the shack’s on a cement platform that’s cold
on Stiles’s bare feet, and he can feel the barrier Morgan put up vibrating with
magic around the walls.
“So we’re stuck in here, right?” 
Derek glances tentatively over his shoulder to make sure Stiles isn’t feeling
himself up, and then heads for the doorway.  He steps to cross the threshold
and then promptly bounces off of it like he just walked into the wall of a
bouncy castle.  Stiles snorts, and Derek glares at him.
“Alright, so I guess we’re in here until Morgan gets back,” Stiles says.  “And
I’m a girl until that happens.”  They both glance at the spell book that fell
to the floor in the midst of all Stiles’s girl parts.  “Not that I don’t
appreciate the effort, and thanks for making me not a cat, but I think I’m
gonna wait for the actual witch to try to fix this, ‘cause my penis is pretty
important to me.”
Derek has the grace to look a little bit embarrassed when he glances over at
Stiles, but he doesn’t apologise.  Not that Stiles expects him to.  He doesn’t
think Derek knows how.
After a moment of silence, Stiles blurts, “So I think we should have sex.”
Derek blinks.  And then he blinks again, like he thinks that will undo what
Stiles just said.  It doesn’t, so he says, “What?”
“Well, seriously!” Stiles exclaims, shrugging helplessly.  “When am I going to
get this chance again?  To experience sex from the opposite sex perspective. 
I’ve gotta know what it’s like, dude.”
“You want me to fuck you,” Derek repeats, eyes wide and disbelieving, “to
satisfy your curiosity.”
“Basically, yeah.”
“No.”
“Aw, come on!  I’m hot!  You’re hot.  And I know you need to get laid.”  
Derek glares darkly.  “You’re a virgin,” he protests.
“Virginity is a social construct created to rob women of their sexual agency,”
Stiles retorts.  He hesitates for a second before adding, “And as a woman, I
refuse to submit to a patriarchal society that aims to control my sexuality.”
“You’re not a woman.”
“Uh.”  Stiles gestures to his body.  “I’m pretty sure that, at the moment, I
am.”
Derek shakes his head slowly and leans back against the wall of the shack,
looking skyward as though some divine entity will descend from the heavens to
save him from this conversation.
Stiles can’t help but be a little offended.  The rejection stings, and if he’s
being honest it’s not just because his pride is wounded.  Derek’s Derek, and
they both know Stiles has been desperately trying to tamp down a crush on him
for months.  They don’t talk about it, of course, because that would be super
fucking embarrassing.  Stiles knows Derek doesn’t want him, because how
couldhe?  And he doesn’t think Derek even likesguys.  But, for the moment,
Stiles isn’t a guy, and he thought...
He wasn’t lying about the curiosity.  That’s at least half his motivation.  But
the other half is... you know.  Derek.
Derek who’s actually looking at him now, his eyes a little darker than usual. 
For the second time, they trail over Stiles’s body, from head to foot and back
up again, and Stiles feels his whole body alight with anticipatory tingles. 
There’s an unfamiliar throb between his legs when Derek’s eyes finally meet
his, followed by an equally unfamiliar rush of dampness.  He squeezes his
thighs together, hoping that will help quell the feeling.  It doesn’t.
It’s subtle, but he notices when Derek scents the air, knows what Derek finds
there.
Derek’s voice is a few tones lower when he pushes off the wall, takes a half a
step toward Stiles, and says, “Are you sure?”
Stiles nods, and then Derek’s kissing him.
Everything happens all at once, and it’s sensory overload.  He’s pressed up
against the wall of the shack, and it’s hard and cool even through the fabric
of the military jacket he’s wearing.  Derek’s mouth is on his, maneuvering his
lips apart before Stiles can even figure out what’s happening.  Two strong
hands encircle his ribcage through the jacket, and the fabric is harsh on his
oversensitive, never-touched skin.  Derek’s tongue skates over his teeth, drags
along the roof of his mouth, and Stiles lets a wanton moan slip, clinging to
Derek’s shoulders like he’ll drown if he doesn’t.
Derek’s hand fists in Stiles’s hair, the other one trailing down his front,
pulling open the buttons on the jacket until a smooth line of pale, feminine
skin shows through.  Derek presses that hand against the base of Stiles’s
throat, palm flat, and then drags it down, between Stiles’s breasts, over his
ribcage, dipping into his bellybutton and then raking through the soft, dark
curls between his legs.  A preemptively shuddery breath escapes Stiles as the
pad of Derek’s middle finger presses into his clit, and holy shit.  He read
somewhere that the clitoris has twice the number of nerve endings as a penis in
a fraction of the space, and he totally fucking believes it.  His knees almost
buckle as Derek’s fingers slide lower, the heel of his palm grinding into
Stiles’s clit as that devilish finger dips shallowly into him.
Derek mouths along his jaw as he tests Stiles’s wetness, and, finding it
satisfactory, he slides one long finger into Stiles as far as he can.  Stiles
whimpers, head falling back against the wall.  “Derek,” he gasps, and then
Derek pulls his hand out from between Stiles’s legs.
Stiles forces his eyes open to see what the problem is, and he’s just in time
to catch Derek pushing that finger past his lips, into his mouth.  He sucks it
clean, pulls it from his mouth with a pop, and Stiles gapes, thighs hopelessly
slick with want.  “Fuck,” he says.
“Do you want to stop?” Derek asks.  Stiles shakes his head dimly.  Derek
apparently finds that an acceptable answer, because he grabs Stiles around the
waist and hoists him effortlessly onto the stack of boxes with all the jackets
in them.  Derek pulls Stiles’s hips to the edge of the box, sinks to his knees
between Stiles’s thighs.  Then his mouth is open over Stiles’s clit.
He doesn’t clamp down at first, just lets his breath — god, it feels scalding —
sink into the skin, and Stiles shudders.  Then those lips, those fucking lips,
come down around Stiles’s clitoris, and Derek sucks gently.  His hands come up
to Stiles’s legs when Stiles starts to shrink away from the intensity of it,
and he hooks Stiles’s knees over his shoulders.  The worn leather of Derek’s
jacket is cool against his calves, and Stiles leans back on one arm, propping
himself up on the boxes and threading his fingers through Derek’s hair as Derek
licks him.
“Jesus, Derek, fuck,” Stiles curses, because damn, he never expectedthis. And
Derek’s good at it, really good at it, and as his mouth migrates lower, tongue
lapping at his entrance, Stiles’s legs start to shake.  Derek’s arm curls
around one of Stiles’s thighs so his thumb can press against Stiles’s clit,
flicking lightly as Derek circles the tip of his tongue around the edges of
Stiles’s opening.
Stiles is starting to feel like he’s got a fever.  He can’t stay still, he’s
squirming, trying to get Derek closer, but one hand it tight on his hip,
stopping him from thrashing too much, and then Derek’s mouth slips lower still,
and he licks a hot stripe from Stiles’s ass all the way to his clit.  Stiles
cries out, head falling back on his shoulders, and he’s going to come soon, he
can feel it, but it’s different because usually he can feel it building in his
balls, and this time he doesn’t have those, so it’s just a tightening in his
gut, a really intense pressure where it starts to feel like his whole body is
locking up, getting tense.  Then Derek slides two fingers deeply into him,
crooking them up at exactly the right moment, and Stiles totally shatters.
Derek fingerfucks him all the way through the orgasm, tongue flicking
insistently over his clit the whole time, and when the shudders finally
subside, Derek slinks his way up Stiles’s body.  They’re both breathing hard,
and Derek’s mouth is shiny with his fluids, but Stiles pulls him into a kiss
anyway.  It’s deep and filthy, and he can taste himself on Derek’s tongue. 
Derek swallows the appreciative groan that escapes Stiles, his thumb idly
tracing Stiles’s nipple as they kiss.
Part of him wants to ask if Derek’s really into this, into him, or if he’s just
doing this because Stiles is willing and tomorrow he’ll be a guy again and they
can pretend it didn’t really happen.  But he can’t, because he doesn’t really
want to know the answer.
Derek’s hand traces idly up and down Stiles’s thigh, almost in an affectionate
way, and Stiles decides then that he needs Derek with every fibre of his
being.  So he reaches with unsteady hands to Derek’s belt and pulls the leather
through the buckle.  The kiss breaks as he pops the button through the hole of
Derek’s jeans — it goes easily, its path well-beaten from years of doing up and
undoing — and Derek leans his forehead against Stiles’s, eyelids heavy.  His
breath is hot and damp on Stiles’s skin as Stiles eases the zipper down
carefully over Derek’s erection.
He’s really hard.  Ridiculously hard.  And he’s not wearing any underwear.
Stiles palms Derek’s erection, pulling it carefully from its denim confines,
and Derek gives a grateful little murmur in his ear.  He directs the head of
Derek’s cock to his entrance, and Derek’s hands find his hips, angling them up
to fix the aim.  Then he pushes in, one long, smooth thrust, that isn’t too
fast, isn’t too hard, and doesn’t hurt that badly.  It’s like a burning
sensation, the kind you get from working a muscle that never gets attention,
and when Derek plants fully inside him, Stiles swears the explosion of feeling
that ricochets through him drowns out the pain entirely.
His hands fly up to Derek’s shoulders, gripping tightly through the leather,
and Derek only gives him a moment to adjust before he starts searching out the
perfect rhythm.  He finds it, quick and just forceful enough to make Stiles
rock with it every time he lands inside him.  Stiles is oversensitive from the
orgasm, and isn’t sure if it’s the best or the worst thing ever.  “Hnnhn, oh,
fuck, yeah,” he groans as Derek nips down his throat and starts sucking a
vicious hickey into the base of Stiles’s neck.  Stiles babbles, because his
brain is too full with thoughts, and because that’s what he does when he can’t
keep his thoughts in anymore.  “Uhn, Derek, god, I knew this would be good, I
knew it.”
“Stiles,” Derek grinds out, his name reverberating off Stiles’s skin.
“Oh, yeah, don’t stop, fuck, I’m gonna —” 
Derek either knows what Stiles is gonna or doesn’t care, because he smothers
the word with his mouth, his tongue plunging into Stiles’s mouth as hard and
insistently as he fucks him.  Stiles moans enthusiastically, squirming with the
need to feel Derek everywhere, all over, all the time, and he murmurs as much
against Derek’s lips just as Derek’s hips start picking up speed.
Stiles comes for the second time a split second before Derek comes for the
first.  He clamps down around Derek, and Derek does his best to keep fucking
him, but his thrusts turn stuttery and uneven, and his grip on Stiles’s hips
tightens to the point where Stiles knows he’ll have bruises later and doesn’t
give a single fuck.  When the orgasms pass, Stiles has a matching hickey on the
other side of his neck, too, where Derek decided to smother his groan.
For a while, they stay like that, leaning on each other, waiting for their
breathing to slow and their heart rates to drop back down to normal. 
Eventually, Derek pulls away.  Stiles probably imagines the reluctance he
detects.  Derek tucks himself back into his jeans, and Stiles starts trying to
rebutton his damn jacket, but his fingers are still a little shaky and it takes
him two or three tries to get each separate one through its hole.
They’re silent for a long while, the pause growing pregnant and Stiles growing
more and more awkward.  He’s never done well with silence.
Finally, he snaps.  He doesn’t know what he’s going to say before he opens his
mouth, just that he needs to say something.  So he says, “So that was —”
That’s as far as he gets, because Morgan pokes his head into the room,
surveying the scene in front of him.  He frowns when his eyes find Stiles. 
“You weren’t a lady last time you were human, right?”
“You’re hilarious,” Stiles says flatly.  “Undo it.”
Morgan enters the shack, the magical barrier disappearing entirely, but he
hesitates in his response.  “You sure?” he asks, his eyes shifting from Stiles
to Derek and back again.  “You could always just stay —”
“No,” Stiles and Derek chorus.  They meet each other’s eyes for a second, and
then Derek looks guiltily away, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his
illegally tight jeans.
“Undo it,” Stiles says again, quieter this time, because, while he doesn’t want
to stay a girl, does Derek really have to be so emphatic about it?  Morgan
frowns, looking between them once more, but he nods and picks up the spell book
nevertheless. 
“Why did this happen?” Derek asks as Morgan flips through pages, searching for
the right one.
“The countercurse for the cat thing is fairly basic,” he says, stopping in his
progress and then backtracking a few pages.  “You probably just mixed up the
pronunciation on the pronoun.  The Latin words for herand him are remarkably
close, and if you used the wrong one... well...”  He gestures haphazardly at
Stiles, still sitting on the pile of cardboard boxes and wearing nothing but a
military jacket.  “Alright, here we go.”
This spell is fairly easy, too, because it’s just undoing something that was
done, not creating a whole state of being for someone, like making a female out
of a biological male.  It’s like unravelling a lot of complicated knitting,
Morgan says, and Stiles has a really vivid visual of Morgan sitting by a
fireplace, knitting a wooly scarf while Christmas songs play from an old-time
radio.  And then Stiles is a guy again.  His legs are all hairy, and his
knuckles are knobby, and his hair’s way shorter, his eyebrows are bushier, and,
after a quick feel to make sure everything’s in order, he’s sure he’s got the
right bits and pieces back.  And while having a vagina was interesting, he’s
glad he has his dick back, because he’s kind of fond of it.
Stiles grabs an extra jacket to wrap around his waist, because the one he’s
wearing is covering even less now, and Derek drives him back home.  They’re
quiet the whole ride, Stiles fiddling with the bag of now-unneeded cat supplies
at his feet.  When Derek pulls to a stop at the curb outside Stiles’s house,
there’s an awkward moment of hesitation where Stiles thinks he should maybe say
something, but for once in his life he’s at a total loss for words.  So when he
opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “Thanks for making me not a cat.”  
Derek doesn’t say anything.  His jaw just clenches, his fingers tightening on
his steering wheel, and Stiles exhales an exasperated little huff of breath as
he climbs out of the car.  Derek speeds off before he’s even halfway up the
driveway, and Stiles thinks fucking Derek Hale might have been the worst idea
he’s ever had.  And that’s saying something.
End Notes
     Much thanks to JenNova for allowing me to borrow Morgan from her
     Famous_Last_Words verse! I had a lot of fun with him. >D
     And feel free to follow me on Tumblr, if you like!
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