Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2733887.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Allison_Argent/Scott_McCall
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Allison
      Argent, Victoria_Argent, Chris_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Girl!Stiles, Pregnant!Stiles, Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-07 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 14095
****** Raised By Wolves ******
by Anonymous, Puremornings
Summary
     Kink meme fill: Derek/girl!Stiles
     Derek and Stiles have a very casual relationship where something
     happens leaving Stiles under the impression that Derek just wants her
     for sex. They can be a little bit older when Stiles becomes pregnant,
     and angsts like hell because she thinks Derek will leave her.
Notes
     1) The first chapter is by an anon, the second is by me since it
     deeply pained me to see this story unfinished
     2) Sorry this was deleted and is only being reposted now, there was
     an accident where I abandoned this work so I couldn't make any edits
     and needed to repost so I could have access again, all better now,
     enjoy!
     3) This is supposed to be post season 1 but with some tweaking of
     ages with everyone starting out as juniors in high school instead of
     sophomores
***** Chapter 1 *****
So it's not like she was ever cut out for the epic-romance-that-is-Scott-and-
Allison, but she had spent the better part of sophomore year hoping for someone
easy-going and fun.  Who didn't nag at her to grow out her hair or mind double-
dating with a couple straight out of Nicholas Sparks' latest. Who didn't mind
that she drove and laughed at her jokes and went with her to all the formals
and came over to her house for Saturday dinners because she couldn't leave her
dad alone in their empty house with all his memories.
What she'd gotten instead was Derek Hale.
Derek Hale who, while not nagging at her to grow her hair and definitely not
complaining when she was driving (though this was usually because he was passed
out or on the verge of passing out), never comes over for Saturday dinner and
claims he would sooner gouge out his eyes than sit through the sapfest of Scott
and Allison on a date. Stiles couldn't even imagine Derek at any of the school
formals: if the chaperones didn't spontaneously combust at the sight of Beacon
Hills' most notorious not-murderer then Derek would ruin the evening by
slamming someone's head (probably hers) against the gym wall.
In fact, she's really not dating Derek. It's more like she got up one day, went
over to his creepy burned-out husk of a house, and accidentally fell on his
cock. And somehow kept falling on it. And choking on it. She isn't particular.
She blames that same stupid danger-seeking impulse in her that makes her listen
to her dad's police scanner, has her go up against the big-bad of the week,
made her try out for and stay on the boy's lacrosse team. She also blames
Derek's stupid faux-hawk.
His hair is softer than it looks, even with the layers of gel he uses to keep
it back and up. She runs her fingers through it, just because she can. Derek's
face-down on her bed, sleeping the sleep of the well-fucked. Her dad's on
night-duty, which means she can usually count on Derek to come over, do his
laundry and make her look up something on her computer. Sometimes he screws
her, sometimes he doesn't. She's tried to chart it out, decipher what's
different the nights he stays. It's not anything he smells on her, she's pretty
sure. He doesn't seem to care if she's on the rag or not (nasty but kinda
flattering), and it's not like he can't smell how wet she gets whenever he's
near.
Tonight, he'd been just as hot for it as she was. It's almost the full moon, so
he'd been rougher than normal, rutting into her with all that pent-up
aggression, cock swelling almost as big as it does when the moon really is full
and he's closest to a real wolf, knot and all. She tries to hide how much she
loves those nights, when he comes with a groan that's almost-but-not-quite a
howl and pumps load after load of come into her cunt. He always licks her out
for the next week or so, afterwards, some kind of warped thank-you that only
Derek would find necessary.
She doesn't know what he does on the nights he doesn't come to her bed, and she
doesn't want to know. She only knows that he's here now, and she can watch his
slow, even breaths until she falls asleep, her left hand still in his soft
hair.
                                     ~~~~~
Lydia and Jackson are on the on-again cycle of their on-again-off-again
relationship, which means they're playing footsie at the lunch table and
Allison's attempting to get her "girl time" quota via Stiles. Stiles likes
Allison, she really does, but if she has to listen to how soulful Scott's eyes
are one more time she might have to pull a Derek and threaten to rip out a
throat or two.
Today (mercifully) Allison's on her other favorite topic: finding Stiles a
boyfriend.
"You know Matt," she saying.
Yeah, unfortunately Stiles knows Matt. "Allison," Stiles reminds. "I'm on the
lacrosse team."
Allison at least has the grace to blush. "He says he's sorry for that."
Apparently, Matt's girlfriend dumped him last weekend at some party Stiles
hadn't been at, and now he's looking for someone to go with him to the spring
semi-formal. Which is in less than a week. Which means he's desperate enough to
take the teammate he's referred to as "that dyke-bitch" since freshman year.
Still, her dad had looked so hopeful when he'd asked if she were going to the
semi-formal and didn't quite hide his disappointment when she'd laughed and
said no. She can put up with Matt for an evening.
Matt picks her up precisely at five-thirty to go to the group date dinner at
that expensive French place Lydia likes. He gives her a white wrist corsage and
manages to call her Stiles all the way to the restaurant.
Allison gives her a little thumbs-up sign when they get there and interrogates
her in the restaurant's restroom.
"It's only been ten minutes," Stiles hisses, trying to avoid Lydia's blush
brush because Lydia feels she's hasn't got enough make-up on.
"In ten minutes I knew Scott was the one," Allison says encouragingly.
At this, Lydia stops trying to grab at Stiles' face so they can share pained
looks through the restroom mirror.
Matt is, of course, not Derek, but that's the point, isn't it? Seeing people
who aren't Derek. She's going to be going to college at some point, and Derek
won't be there, and she'll get a normal boyfriend that won't be Derek. Might as
well start practicing.
Of course, because this is high school, someone sneaks a flask in despite the
pat-down to get into the gym, and she gets a few good swallows in to mix with
her Adderall so she chemically fakes the energy she doesn't really feel before
bringing her Stiles-party to the dance floor.
She crashes, of course, like she always does, and finds herself crying in one
of the empty, dark hallways and texting Derek.
theStiles: u bussy?
Sourwolf: yes.
theStiles: Iwann see u.
Sourwolf: Are you drunk?
theStiles: y
theStiles: n horny.
theStiles: derek
theStiles: u therre
theStiles: ????
theStiles: derek?
She smells him before she sees him: all wood smoke and damp earth.
"Mmm..." she says, getting unsteadily to her feet to bury her face in his
collar.
The cute little white kitten heels Allison had convinced her to buy are really
too much trouble, so she leans against him to slide them off.
"I'll drive you home," he says catching her wrist.
She lets herself be led out to the parking lot. In the dark, no one can see
Derek's wearing his ratty jeans and jacket. They could be an ordinary couple,
leaving the dance to go make-out in the bushes.
She tries the making out bit when they're both situated in Derek's car.
He pushes her away. "What's that smell?" he asks as he starts the ignition and
peels out onto the empty road.
"Chanel No. 5," she tells him. "Dabbed it on my wrists and neck and behind my
knees. Supposed to make me irresistible." She realizes how much she likes the
word. "Irresistible," she says again.
"Oh Christ," says Derek.
She watches him shift gears. Sometimes she wonders how Scott didn't burn out
the transmission that one time he drove Derek's car, what with how horrible
Scott is at driving stick. Actually, Scott's just a horrible driver, period,
even now that he has his license. "You're a really good driver," she informs
Derek.
She doesn't have to see to know Derek is giving her that look. "Don't give me
that look," she says. "You do this sexy clenched jaw thing when you drive. 'S
hot." She fiddles with her wrist corsage. Thinks about hot-house roses and how
ridiculous Derek would look going to a florist. "We've stopped," she says in
wonder.
"We're at your house," Derek explains. Then, "Out."
"How rude," she says. She kisses that sexy clenched jaw. "You wanna come up?"
She's wearing a new lace bra and panties because Lydia always says what's the
point of wearing a nice new dress if you're wearing your boring old underwear
underneath. It's Lydia who bitched about the perfume, too. Speaking of which...
"Matt liked my perfume," she informs him as he's attempting to unzip her dress.
She slides off the corsage and carefully lays it on her desk. It's the first
one she's ever received. She's going to dry it like Allison does and keep it.
Then she stops thinking because Derek's succeeded in getting her dress off and
if the way his canines momentarily distended are anything to go by, her bra and
panties are a hit.
"Who the hell is Matt?" Derek asks, later, like he's remembering something
important. Stiles sighs. The last thing she wants to talk about is Matt. She'd
been enjoying the afterglow, not to mention Derek's mouth on her nipple, his
warm hands spanning her rib cage, his hardening cock against her thigh.
"Ugh," she says, flinging an arm over her face. "My date," she says because
it's obviously obvious. "What, you think Scott suddenly had the money to shell
out for two corsages? His job does not pay that well, and I don't think I'd let
him buy me one even if it did. Pity-corsages are too loser-ish, even for me."
"I didn't know you had a date," Derek says. He's raised his mouth off her
breast, and Stiles whines her displeasure.
"Do we have to talk about this now? I'm quite enjoying the Stiles-will-never-
have-a-date-free zone." She shifts a bit, spreading her thighs again, urging
him back inside. It's always a sure-fire way to shut him up.
But he's pulling away. "I'd better go," he says. "Your dad will be home soon."
She watches him shuck on his jeans. "Oh c'mon, Derek," she says, "don't be like
that. I'll be good. No more sharing of my tortured high school existence.
Promise."
He makes a little noise that's something like a laugh as he pulls on his t-
shirt. It is Derek after all. It's not like he has a well-functioning sense of
humor.
                                     ~~~~~
Matt gets back with his girlfriend the next week, but she gets her half of the
pictures, anyway. It's a pretty dress, even if Lydia says yellow isn't anyone's
color. Her dad is super-pleased about it, buying a little frame for the 5x7 and
saying he's going to put it on his desk at work. She smiles and tries not to
change the subject whenever he asks if she thinks Matt will ask her out again.
She makes sure not bring up her lack of dates to Derek again. Too personal for
him, but then small talk about the weather is too personal for Derek. Stiles
puts it down to the trauma of losing almost all of your family when you were
fifteen and then six years later finding out your uncle was a homicidal maniac
responsible for killing your sister. She can understand why he's less than
enthused to hear about her own admittedly adolescent angst.
Besides, Derek's temper (always frayed at the best of the times) has
permanently snapped. Tensions between him and the Argents are on the rise, and
Allison won't say anything about it, though she must know. Stiles would've
known by now if Mr. Argent was her dad. She doesn't really understand the
Argents' problem. Derek's pack is small. There must be larger ones to go and
harass.
Spring turns to summer and before she knows its Midsummer's Eve and there are
these crazy witches in town (because clearly Beacon Hills is a super-hot
tourist destination for witches) and they want to do this crazy magic renewal
ritual or they're going to curse blight upon the entire town. Derek, Scott, and
Stiles -- and let's face it, it's mostly Stiles -- have to do some crazy-ass
negotiating to make sure the blight doesn't happen. And of course, because it's
her life, the witches take Stiles as a good-faith hostage.
The magic renewal ritual involves the witches and Stiles chugging something
that tastes worse than wheatgrass (Stiles so doesn't want to think about what's
in it) and sitting in a semi-circle out in the woods and channeling the woods'
mystical energies. Allison gets out of it because somehow being part of a
legendary werewolf hunter family harshes the mellow of the renewal ceremony.
Who knew?
"Did they hurt you?" Derek growls, the wolf much closer to the surface than it
ought to be as it's a new moon. He holds her at arms' length, looking at her
with narrowed eyes. She wonders how he thinks he'd see bruises through her
clothes, but then this is Derek. Maybe he can.
"No, no," she assures. "They did just what they said." She can still taste the
awful drink they gave her. She reaches in her pocket for some gum. "Can we go
now?"
Derek takes her back to his house, to the camp bed he's been sleeping on for
god-knows-how-long and he holds her and they lazily make-out for what seems
like hours. She spends the next few weeks in bliss.
Bliss that ends with chronic heartburn, and oh god what if the witches' brew
has given her an ulcer? She emails Mary Beth -- and honestly, a witch named
Mary Beth -- and asks, as non-panicky and politely as she can, just what the
hell was in that drink and if it's currently eating the lining of her stomach.
Mary Beth writes back that it was "simple infusion of St. John's wort, designed
cleanse the body and restore the spirit."
Google is much more informative: St. John's wort interferes with the pill.
Her health problems suddenly exponentially expand.
She mainlines any and all articles on St. John's wart, oral contraceptives, and
ovulation. The phrase "may reduce the efficacy of oral contraceptives" is
permanently burned into her retinas. Then, because she is on the verge of going
crazy, she goes to Scott's for a Call of Duty marathon.
Even replaying the Battle of Stalingrad doesn't help.
If she and Scott hadn't declared a moratorium on any and all discussions
involving their respective reproductive organs way back at the onset of
puberty, this would definitely be the time to say, "So I might be knocked up
with Hale spawn...thoughts?"
And Sweet Baby Jesus. Derek.
She chokes on a sour punch straw.
It's not like she hasn't thought about Derek. After all, it takes two to make a
hypothetical maybe-baby and even if Derek's been making himself scarce these
past few days, he's been making steady inroads on the new bottle of laundry
detergent. But it's not like she's really thought about what a baby will --
"Dude!" Scott says as he thumps her on the back.
If she's told Scott once, she's told him a thousand times heimlich maneuver or
nothing. So yeah, it figures that even if they did talk about their
reproductive systems, he'd be useless at knowing if she were just late this
month or late.
Allison is similarly unhelpful. Well, she would be unhelpful, even if she
weren't currently on some sort of dubious and suspicious "family vacation"
involving her father and semi-assault weapons. Mr. Argent is a firm believer in
"no sex until marriage" and in "married people sleep in separate beds, just
like on Leave It to Beaver."
(Stiles is pretty sure the Beavers had sex anyway, what with the Beaver and
Wally, but she concedes that after Beaver, June probably told Ward she'd
castrate him before they took their chances with a third child.)
This means that Allison is not allowed on the sex gateway drug commonly known
outside Mr. Argent's mind as the pill even though she regularly pleads for it
on complexion rather than hot-monkey-sex-with-Scott grounds.
Mrs. Argent keeps the peace and keeps Allison supplied with condoms, but they
don't work at certain times of the month. Or at least, Stiles assumes they
don't, assuming that Scott is like Derek and yeah, so not going there.
Danny is also out, for obvious reasons, such as a lack of functioning womb.
This leaves Lydia.
Lydia and Jackson are on the off portion of their relationship cycle which
means instead of Lydia sunbathing in the relative privacy of Jackson's parents'
pool, she is stuck at the local neighborhood one with all the screaming kids.
This means ear buds and movie-star shades.
(It also means Jackson is skulking about glaring extra hard at any twelve year
old boy that dares look at Lydia's boobs. Since Lydia's boobs are mesmerizing
and once caused Stiles' a three week sexual identity crisis in eight grade
before she concluded that she really just wanted to be Lydia, this means
Jackson's eyes are permanently narrowed. Maybe, if Stiles is very lucky,
they'll get stuck like that.)
Lydia doesn't give any real acknowledgement when Stiles sits down on the chaise
next to her, but she grudgingly removes her ear buds within the next five
minutes, so Stiles figures this is progress.
"Yes?" she finally says, in that pointed Lydia way of hers.
"Have you ever been, y'know?" Stiles says with a vague hand gesture that she
hopes conveys "taken St. John's wort by mistake and been late but not pregnant"
but fears looks more she's shooing away a dog.
"No," Lydia says. She looks over at Jackson who is in the process of making
threatening gestures at some rather terrified pre-teens. She smiles; it's not a
particularly nice smile. Stiles is once again glad Lydia is on the side of
truth and justice or at least is not actively plotting against Stiles as far as
Stiles knows.
"So," Stiles tries again. "St. John's wort and birth control. Did you know that
-- "
"St. John's wort causes an induction of ethinyl estradiol-norethindrone
metabolism consistent with increased cytochrome P450 3A enzymes?" Lydia
examines her nails. "Who doesn't know that?"
~~~~~
Lydia convinces Stiles that OTC pregnancy tests are waste of time and money
because Planned Parenthood will do a much better, much more thorough test for
free.
Also, Planned Parenthood has more anonymity than buying from old Ms. Perkins'
at the CVS.
Planned Parenthood is in Beacon Heights, Beacon Hills' arch-nemesis in all
things sports' related. Except, oddly enough, lacrosse. Beacon Heights doesn't
even have a team.
Beacon Heights also has a mall with a Sephora so after Stiles answers a series
of increasingly personal question, pees in a cup, and learns that yes she is
indeed in her first trimester (congratulations!), Lydia takes her lip-gloss
shopping.
"I always find it soothing," Lydia says.
Stiles has been told Adderall is untested on pregnant women and she should use
it as little as possible if she's keeping the baby, so she's game to find a
replacement.
Oh god. Keeping the baby.
Lydia goes through lip-gloss after lip-gloss, dabbing the tester on the back of
her hand then on the back of Stiles' hand. Then frowning and wiping the color
off before she repeats the process. It is soothing in its mindless
repetitiveness, but Stiles is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of colors and
brands.
They've reached Tarina Tarantino when Stiles manages to croak out, "What do I
tell my dad?"
And then, of course, there's Derek.
Derek, who, like Allison, has managed to disappear from California. Of course,
while Allison is probably on some secret Hunter compound in Utah, Derek's left
for New York City.
New York City is apparently werewolf HQ, N.A., which is a little weird
considering. Stiles has never been, so she doesn't like to judge, but besides
Central Park, she doesn't think there's a lot of woods. Derek had told Scott
that he was going to appeal something Mr. Argent had done or wanted to do; it
was unclear in Scott's retelling. Apparently, the New York werewolves have some
sort of alternative dispute resolution business going on.
Stiles has texted Derek a few times, asking for pictures of the Empire State
Building and the Statue of Liberty. Derek has ignored her.
The responsible thing to do would be to call Derek and tell him he's her baby-
daddy. And ask him what he wants her to do about it because even if he doesn't
lo - like her, the fetus (baby) is the only immediate family he has left.
So she sends him a picture of one of those cats with a piece of bread around
its head and adds, "found ur Halloween costume 4 this yr."
Still no response.
And honestly, she hates the responsible part of herself.
The phone picks up on the third ring (not that she's counting). There's a low
bass thumping in the background and people, lots of people, like Derek's in a
club or something. Not that she's ever been to one being underage and living in
Beacon Hills with nary a club in sight.
And a girl's voice asks, low and amused, "Who the hell is Gemima?"
Mortification makes her eyes prick and she ends the call. She turns off her
phone and takes the battery out and then hides both the battery and the phone
in among her t-shirts for good measure.
Her dad's home for the evening, after all.
                                     ~~~~~
Stiles fishes around in the KFC Family Bucket for a drumstick.
She's pretty sure the fast food her dad picks up on his way home from work
isn't what the nurse-practitioner means by "balanced diet." Stiles has got
these huge neonatal vitamins to force down and a stack of pamphlets with tiles
like "Pregnancy, Nutrition, and You" hidden away in her bag. She wonders if she
should start pushing her dad to get the coleslaw over the biscuits.
She spoons herself some mashed potatoes. Starches are good. She thinks.
Stiles realizes her dad is waiting for her to say something. "What?"
"So you and Lydia went to Beacon Heights," her dad says, clearly repeating
himself.
"Uh-huh," Stiles says. "Lydia wanted lip-gloss." Which is true. It's just not
why they went. Or at least, not why Stiles went.
Stiles looks up from her plate to her dad. He's got that anxious expression on
him that he gets when he's worried he's been a selfish father. That it's his
fault she's the way she is, that maybe he should have remarried, should have
pushed Stiles into dresses and make-up a bit more, should have listened when
the concerned women at church told him he should remember he had a daughter and
not a son.
"I'm so proud of you," her dad says,
Stiles is distinctly not hungry anymore.
"No, I mean it," her dad continues, clearly mistaking whatever-the-hell is on
her face for embarrassment. "You've really come out of your shell this year,
Stiles."
There's really nothing she can say to that, so she just shoves another mouthful
of mashed potatoes into her mouth.
When she can escape back upstairs to her room, her hands do not shake as she
puts her phone back together and flips it on.
15 new messages the words flash across the screen and she gulps.
srslyscott: ur phone is bag-dialing ppl again
srslyscott: u called derek
srslyscott: he's pissed
srslyscott: thought he was gonna eat me thru the phone
srslyscott: w/ his scary alpha teeth
srslyscott: text him sry or hes gonna kill me
srslyscott: will never see allison again
srslyscott: u that selfish?
srslyscott: stiles?
srslyscott: ur phone is dead isn't it
srslyscott: ?
srslyscott: im txting a dead phone
srslyscott: stiles plug in ur phone!
srslyscott: i know ur having dinner w/ ur dad but srsly
srslyscott: i want to live!
All from Scott.
She sends Scott a short sorry my battery died text and then sends a sorry my
bag called you to Derek.
It's early enough, but she's exhausted, so she climbs into bed. Turns off her
light.
Tries not to think about what (who) Derek's doing in New York.
The girl would be all sophisticated New York with bright red lipstick and shiny
hair and she would knock back shots of tequila like water.
"You know a girl named Gemima?" she would ask, leaning in close so Derek could
hear her and so she had an excuse to press her boobs up against him. Girls who
sounded like her always had good boobs: Lydia-worthy boobs.
And Derek would give that smirk he gives and let the girl draw her own
conclusions about why someone would name a kid after Aunt Jemima but spell it
with a "G" instead. And okay, so she knows she's not named after Aunt Jemima,
but it's always a little awkward explaining that (1) her parents did not have
some sort of weird pancake fetish and (2) her parents were not dyslexic.
And between the smirk and that stubble, the girl would be a goner, and she'd
forget all about some poor idiot named Gemima and ask Derek if he wanted to go
home with her and --
Her phone vibrates.
srslyscott: thx
                                     ~~~~~
She dreams Derek's in her room, toeing off his shoes in that shouldn't-be-cool-
but-is way of his so he can join her in bed.
“You're in New York,” she reminds him.
He just noses at the pulse point in her neck and inhales with deep, even
breaths because he's a massive creeper.
“And you managed to terrify Scott from across the country,” she continues. “Go
you.”
She can feel him, half-hard against her hip, but he makes no move to do
anything about it, and while normally she'd be the first to unbutton his jeans,
she's still rather peeved at him, what with the New York girl and all.
“Stiles,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”
And because it's a dream, she listens to Derek instead of arguing with him.
She's (of course) alone the next morning. Coach has them all training for some
marathon for off-season conditioning, so she pulls on some shorts and her
running shoes and hightails it to the Beacon Hills Forest Preserve.
Scott and Jackson are at the front of the group, hilariously trying to one-up
each other. Stiles, too often used to running for her life, enjoys a much
slower pace. Danny's keeping pace with her because apparently he's also of the
opinion that people do not have to kill themselves to keep up with dumbass best
friends.
“So,” Danny says, “you and Lydia went to Beacon Heights yesterday.”
They may be running much more slowly than Jackson and Scott, but Stiles doesn't
really feel like wasting precious breath on conversations. “Uh,” she grunts out
on an exhale.
'Kevin's from Beacon Heights,” Danny continues, like he's sitting across from
her at the lunch table and they're not eight miles into their ten mile run.
Stiles look at him, wondering who the hell is Kevin when she remembers that
Kevin is the name of the big, blond guy Danny calls a boyfriend. And yeah,
Kevin does live in Beacon Heights. She's pretty sure he doesn't do sports,
which saves him from being the Romeo to Danny's Juliet or vice versa. God help
their love if Beacon Heights High ever gets a lacrosse team.
“Uh,” Stiles grunts again because she's pretty sure she knows where this is
going but that doesn't mean she has to like it.
“Kevin works at the Dunkin Donuts across from Planned Parenthood,” Danny says.
“And I don't want to be all up in Lydia's business, but Jackson's my best
friend and he deserves to know.” He glares at Stiles, like Stiles is personally
responsible for turning Danny into some bros-before-hoes frat boy stereotype.
And yeah, so she and Danny will probably never be best friends, probably never
even really be friends since she shamelessly exploited their chem-lab
partnership (in Danny's defense, Derek's abs are epic), but she feels for him.
If their situations were reversed and Stiles suspected Allison of hiding
something of this magnitude from Scott –
“Jeez,” she blurts, “we weren't there for Lydia.”
Danny's bug-eyed face is almost worth it.
She and Scott celebrate Scott's victory over Jackson at Starbucks. She orders
the Strawberries and Crème Frappucino because it's blessedly devoid of
caffeine. Plus calcium and fruit? Totally good for babies. Or almost babies. Or
whatever.
Of course, while she's waiting for her order, she nearly has a heart attack
because Derek freakin' Hale is sitting at a table, an espresso at his elbow and
the New York Times open before him. He's doing the crossword. In pen.
Stiles really has no words for the pretentiousness of it all. Also.
“Shouldn't you be in New York?” she asks, faux-casual because he is totally in
New York girl's bed right now because even with the time difference, New York
girl would be a fool to kick him out anytime soon.
He doesn't bother looking up. “Yes but Scott can't be counted on to answer
simple questions over the phone.”
Scott arrives and hands Stiles her drink. “Derek,” he says with a scowl. “I
told you she was fine.”
Derek looks up, and his eyes are a deep, angry red. Both Stiles and Scott gulp.
“Last time you said that, she was being held captive by a coven of witches,” he
says, voice all deep and scratchy like it gets when he's playing alpha wolf and
she is not getting wet between her thighs.
Okay, so that's a lie, but at least she's still all grotty with sweat so it's
not so noticeable to werewolf senses. Or at least (hopefully) beta werewolf
senses.
Scott drops the glare first and takes a swig of coffee. “Anyway, it's not my
fault Stiles lets her battery run down,” he mutters because Scott is a giant
two-year old.
“Not that it hasn't been awesome being discussed like I'm not even here,”
Stiles says, “but I'm going to go shower.” She turns on her heel, but the
effect is kinda ruined because her sneakers squeak on the tiled floor.
The effect is majorly ruined by Derek catching up to her at home and throwing
her down on the bed.
“I could hear you breathing,” he says as he pulls down her shorts. “And then
you hung up.” He inhales like her pussy smells like the best chocolate cake
Stiles' mom ever made.
And yeah, that mental image really shouldn't make her any wetter.
“Sorry,” she manages to get out. She watches him palm himself through his jeans
with one big hand. “Derek,” she whines.
“Jesus,” he says, looking down at her where she's all swollen and aching for
him.
He pops the buttons on his fly and she sighs, looking at Derek's stupid dick
and wanting it so bad.
Derek slides against her, cock catching slightly against her slit. “Yeah,” she
says because at least sex-wise he's never let her down. “Missed this.”
It's gotta be wrong, wanting the guy that knocked you up when he doesn't know
he knocked you up, but she loves losing herself in the feel of him screwing
into her, like he wants to make himself a new little space inside her before he
pops.
(Like he made himself a new little life inside her when he last popped)
“Oh!” she cries, coming too soon, too fast at just the idea, and it hurts so
damn good.
Derek's face is all flushed, red as his cock was and it'd be funny if she
didn't want him to finish in her so bad, pump his load all up and in her
because what does it matter now when she's gonna have his –
“Baby,” she grits out, and while that's not the dumbest thing she's ever
uttered in his presence it's also not the best, “Derek,” she amends.
“You smell so ripe,” he says, like admitting it is like admitting he's wrong
and that the Argents are right, and Stiles shivers, and he grits, fisting at
her hair, “How can you smell so ripe?”
He's all hot and bothered jerking against her, denim chafing, and she wants him
forever between her thighs.
She's pretty sure she said that last part aloud, and he's howling like the wolf
he is, creaming her and knotting up even though it's a new moon and he –
“Derek,” she says again, helpless, her palm pressed against his sweaty neck as
he spends.
The weirdest part about sex with Derek is how non-weird it always is when the
sex is over.
Like now with Derek sleeping the sleep of the passed out because apparently
even with espresso, werewolves are just as prone to sleeping after some trans-
continental travel as regular old humans.
She goes about her usual post-run routine, showering and then starting a load
of laundry. She adds in her running clothes, her dad's spare uniform, and
Derek's Henley because it's probably the only wash its going to get for awhile.
Chores out of the way, she settles on the living room couch with Ethan Frome
because it's on her AP summer reading list and because it's August and she
hasn't started her AP summer reading list.
Derek eventually comes down, running his hands through his hair like that's
somehow going to make the cowlicks go away. It doesn't. Her heart swells at the
sight of him, standing in her kitchen in just his jeans and making them both a
late-breakfast-early-lunch of egg and pepper sandwiches.
"So," she says because it's been bugging her since he left, "This New York
werewolf council -- what they leave Central Europe during the Prague Spring,
too?"
"It's not a council," Derek says.
"Uh-huh," she says. She takes a big bite of sandwich. "You can tell me," she
says, "It's like those Italian vampires in Twilight, isn't it?"
Derek glares at her across the table.
She's strangely delighted. "Oh my god, it is. They probably hide around at the
opera like in Quantum of Solace and you don't know if you're really talking to
them or somebody pretending to be them when you want something done."
"It's a group of werewolves," Derek says. "Not SPECTRE."
"Of course not," Stiles agrees. "It's probably more like the Bronze Age Teen
Titans, all dark and broody and secret double-crossing. Or maybe like the late
90s' run of the JLA."
Derek doesn't bother answering that, preferring to finish off his sandwich in
neat, economical bites.
"Although that wouldn't really help with peaceful negotiations with the hunters
-- at least tell me they have a watchtower? Maybe a giant building in the shape
of a 'W' instead of a 'T'?"
Derek pushes his plate away. "Let it go Stiles."
Yeah, she knew he'd let it out eventually if she kept needling him. "Let what
go?" she asks, all innocent and wide-eyed.
Derek takes her wide-eyes and raises her a stoic.
"You know I won't stop bugging you about this."
He sighs and does that thing where he cracks his neck. Which is gross and not
super-hot at all. Much, anyway.
"I want the Argents out of Beacon Hills," he says, as if daring her to be all
horrified at his inhospitableness to hunters in general and the Argent family
in particular.
This is...not a surprise.
Allison had, after all, told Stiles and Lydia (all hushed and blushing) of her
aunt Kate's very special S&M theatre staring one Derek Hale.
"Um," she says, wondering how to phrase this delicately, "I thought your uncle
Peter killing Allison's aunt Kate sort of fixed everything with Mr. Argent,
well not fixed fixed, but you know what I mean."
"It's not about me," he says. "It's not even really about the Argents."
Um...okay? And while she knew earth-logic was not the strong suit of either
wolves or hunters, she was hoping for a bit more than that.
"They're going to start a school."
Stiles waits for more but that's apparently it, the big, anticlimactic
revelation. What is this, the last season of Buffy?
"Like with crossbows and everything?" she asks because actually it'd be kinda
cool to be able to wield one like Allison. She could be like the girl version
of Green Arrow. Hey, it could happen -- they let the stupid Spoiler of all
people be Robin for awhile. And what was wrong with Tim's relationship with
Ariana anyway? Sure, she wasn't a superhero but she was a pretty kickass
girlfriend, what with being kidnapped into a heroin ring and everything. Stiles
could relate to that. Well, not the heroin ring part but the being kidnapped
part.
Derek is giving her his patented "Stiles, you're a moron" look across the
table. She wonders if that's a heritable trait and if their kid will give it to
her when she's trying to potty-train it. And yeah, cutting off that train of
thought right now.
"Because nothing's better for made-wolves like Scott than some trigger happy
zealots armed with wolfsbane infused bullets," Derek says, voice practically
dripping with disdain.
"And that's why you went to New York?"
Derek nods, muscle popping in his jaw. If he were any other person -- heck, if
he were Stiles -- there would probably be ranting. But instead, there's just
the clenched jaw. If Derek weren't a werewolf, he'd probably be subject to
severe TMJ later in life. And that's a heritable trait, too, she's pretty sure.
And oh man, she really is keeping the baby, isn't she?
Speaking of which, she really, really ought to tell him because it's the
responsible thing to do and she's told Danny of all people --
The dryer dings, and it's the perfect excuse to rush up from the table, ready
to be the laundry folder to end all laundry folders. She leaves Derek to wash
the plates: hey, he cooked. he can clean it up.
When he's done he retrieves his Henley from the clean pile and pulls it on,
makes a pot of coffee and then complains that there's no milk. Stiles doesn't
bother reminding him that if he had a house with a working fridge he wouldn't
be stuck rummaging through other peoples' food (or lack thereof).
"You could make a 7-11 run," she suggests as she's ironing her dad's uniform
shirt. "Get me some popsicles." Doing laundry is hot work, and popsicles sound
nice right about now. The cheap kind that stain your fingers.
Derek snorts and settles down with his black coffee and opens up Ethan Frome
where she left off. Which is to say, the first page. Apparently, this is a
"hang out with Stiles day."
She can't really blame him. Her house has central air.
She looks at him, reading Edith Wharton like it's not torture of the worst kind
and thinks about that girl in New York and how they probably discussed
literature and last week's This American Life and all sorts of hipster, adult
things.
She swallows.
"What?" Derek says, not looking up, because he's a freaky werewolf who can feel
her eyes on him and hear her heart race, and crap he'll probably be able to
hear the baby's heartbeat soon, and she's got to tell him.
"So, um, theoretically speaking are you childfree or would you like the pitter-
patter of little feet sometime in the future? And by future I mean eight-and-a-
half months, give or take."
In the movies this is where the guy either spazzes out and/or declares his
undying love for the chick and theoretical baby in question. Or if it's a
particularly bad telenovela, it's where he reveals he's the evil twin of the
actual love interest and/or the secret relative of the knocked-up girl.
And because Stiles has been cutting back on the Adderall, she has this weird
mental image of Derek declaring that he is actually Miguel, the child Stiles'
mom had as a teen on a trip to Mexico who has come to Beacon Hills to --
"What?" Derek says, dropping the book and almost spilling his mug of coffee all
over the couch. But of course, being Derek, he catches the mug and sets it on
the end table.
"What?" Stiles asks back. Derek looks like...well, a Derek. Okay, so Stiles has
never really been queen of the simile department. "I mean, yes, I am pregnant.
With child. Bun in the oven. Expecting." And what was with that, anyway, like
yeah, I'm expecting it's gonna be a baby, but it could be a velociraptor?
"You're not giving birth to a velociraptor," Derek says, automatically, and
shit she obviously said that last bit out loud. He looks like saying this
physically pains him.
"No," Stiles agrees. She gestures towards her stomach. "This is a velociraptor
free zone."
And then there's this profoundly awkward silence. Derek's eyeing her like the
predator he is, and she's wondering if maybe he is going to kill her after all,
just a year later than she first thought. Maybe he'll bury her in his backyard.
"Are you - " Derek begins, but he cuts himself off. "Jesus, Stiles."
She wants to make a joke about how no, she's really sure she's not having Jesus
because the conception sure as hell wasn't immaculate, but then she gets
sidetracked onto the idea that Werewolf Jesus would kinda be an awesome band
name.
And then she's hyperventilating in her living room, wondering if somehow
Scott's asthma is contagious, with Derek's arms wrapped tight around her and
his voice commanding her to just breathe.
And okay, so she's obviously the guy in this scenario because she's the one
spazzing out, and it's Derek - emotional range of a teaspoon Derek -- who is
just holding her while she cries and wants her mom and wants everything to be
all right for baby Jesus Stillinski.
"We are not naming the baby Jesus," Derek tells her later, when she's drunk
more than few glasses of water and is tucked in the bed Derek made (hospital
corners) with her nice, clean sheets straight from the dryer. And crying
apparently really tires her out because she wants to argue with him, make him
see the absolute rightness of Jesus Stillinski, but she drifts asleep instead
as she matches her breaths to his.
Derek's newfound emotional depths last throughout the afternoon, leading to a
7-11 run in which he buys not one but two boxes of rocket-pops. He stays until
her dad's almost home for dinner, and even then she practically has to kick him
out. She knows her dad's glock won't kill Derek, but she'd still rather avoid
all that blood splatter in the house. Also, Derek continues to wear the shirts
after he's been stabbed, shot, and eviscerated in them, and really, morbid
much?
“Tell me this is some horrible youthful experiment to turn Danny straight gone
wrong,” her father begs. “Or at least let me tell me that you and Scott are the
lone outlier to the Westermarck Effect. Tell me anything but that you and Derek
Hale have been having unprotected sex for the past year and a half.” Because,
yeah, even if her father is still blissfully ignorant of all the things that go
bump in Beacon Hills' night, Sheriff Stilinski did not get his badge out of a
Cracker Jack box.
“He was exonerated,” she protests.
“He's still a person of interest,” her father says, head buried in his hands.
“And now he's a statutory rapist.”
“Dad --”
“I kept on telling myself you just had a crush,” he continues. “And that he was
smart enough to stay away from you. Because you're a seventeen year old kid.
And he's a twenty-five year old man.”
“Dad – “
“And it's my fault for treating you like an adult all these years. And Jesus,
Stiles,” he says, raising his head out of his hands to glare across the dinner
table, “why the hell didn't you make him wear a condom? Have all my safe sex
talks been ignored?”
“Um,” Stiles says because it's not so much ignored as not necessary until a
certain coven forced her to drink a certain herbal tincture. But as her dad has
had enough shocks for the evening she doesn't think this is the time to explain
the wiccans.
“Did he tell you he couldn't feel it through the latex?”
“Wait. What. No,” Stiles says because there's fearing for Derek's life and
figuring out how much she needs to make his bail and then there's her dad
discussing the sensitivity (or lack thereof) of Derek's genitals. “I was on the
pill. He's clean. Do you want me to draw you a diagram?”
Thankfully, her dad looks as disgusted contemplating her sex life as Stiles
feels about her dad contemplating her sex life.
“I need a drink,” her dad announces and if she weren't, y'know, pregnant, she'd
ask if she could join him. Three generous fingers of scotch later, her father
has vaguely warmed to the father of her child enough to ask questions. “Does he
have any sort of steady income?”
“Um,” says Stiles.
“Does he ever shave?”
“Um,” says Stiles.
“What the hell do you even see in him?”
“He's got a big dick?”
“Oh god,” her father says fervently and pours himself more scotch.
Her father insists on seeing everything she got from Planned Parenthood, and
soon the prenatal vitamins and all the pamphlets are laid out on the table like
some cold case her dad can't stop obsessing over. One of them, with a picture
of a young woman with a seriously awesome afro reads THINKING ABOUT PARENTING
in big, bold letters. Inside, it discusses the joys of constipation, nausea,
and possibly increased sexual libido.
Both Stiles and her father shudder. “Maybe I should discuss this with Mrs.
McCall?” Stiles suggests, but her father shakes her head.
“No,” he says, looking at another pamphlet that reads TEENAGE PREGNANCY AND
YOU. “Parental support is very important. And bonding. This is us. Bonding.”
But when the pamphlets get into sperm being able to live inside the body for
six days and how it is possible, but less likely, for women to become pregnant
through any kind of sex play in which semen, or ejaculate, comes in contact
with the vulva (direct quote), her father admits defeat with a long gulp of
scotch and is all too ready to agree to Stiles' suggestion that they see what's
on tv.
She's almost asleep, curled up in her favorite afghan and watching one of those
law and order lawyers with bad eighties hair make some speech about justice at
a sentencing hearing when her dad says, “I think you should invite him to go
out with us to O'Malley's tomorrow night. For steak.”
“What?” she says because that has to be an even worse idea than the bonding
over PSA brochures. “Why?”
“Because I'm less likely to kill Hale if we're in public. And they make a mean
rib-eye.”
O'Malley's may make a mean rib-eye, but it's their house fries that are really
the eighth wonder of the world. Fried in duck fat, drizzled with truffle oil,
and then dusted with parmesan, and Stiles' mouth is watering already. It may be
not one of those trendy gastro-pubs like they have over in Beacon Heights, but
old man O'Malley knows house fries.
But for once it's not the fries and their effect on her dad's arteries that
Stiles is worried about. “I'm not quite sure O'Malley's is the place,” she
says. Which is the understatement of the century.
O'Malley's is not where you go for your first date. It's not even where you
would go for prom. But it is where your parents will take your visiting college
boyfriend when they want to see how he behaves in public. It's where your dad
takes you when you've passed your driver's license test, and you're grinning
ear to ear, and Mrs. O'Malley gives you a big piece of her chocolate cake on
the house. It's where you go when you've been married fifty years and you want
the whole town to celebrate with you.
It's not a place to do a walk of shame with your baby daddy who may-or-may-not
have fucked New York girl and/or been replaced by a pod person.
Her father just looks at her, drains his scotch, and goes to bed.
Stiles looks at the tv. “Well,” she say to it, “fuck.”
Apparently, Derek does not know he is being considered long-haul material by
her dad and/or been replaced by a pod person because he is surprisingly
amenable to the dinner-with-her-father-at-O'Malley's idea. Or perhaps Derek's
years in New York have made him forget that O'Malley's is basically Beacon
Hills' front porch. Or maybe he just likes the rib-eyes.
Also, Stiles may-or-may-not have left out the bit where her father would be
there when she texted him.
Of course, because Derek is a creepy creeper who creeps he's back at her house
by the time she gets out of the shower the next morning. He's made himself a
little wolf nest among her sheets and comforter, and if she didn't value her
life, she would snap a picture for future blackmail purposes.
As it is, Derek blinks sleepily up at her and says, “You smell clean.” And he
wrinkles his nose in distaste.
“Early werewolf catches the girl before she showers,” she says, but she gets
into bed with him regardless. “I refuse to be grotty all day on the off-chance
you might show up just because it gives you a hard-on.”
He's still not all the way awake yet because instead of glowering at her, he
just undoes the belt of her robe and nuzzles at the newly revealed hollow
between her breasts, his stubble scratching in a way that is sure to leave
marks. Not that she was going to wear a low-cut shirt out tonight but still.
“Derek,” she complains, but he ignores her, instead mouthing his way down her
front, and oh --
She's all clean down there, too, and it seems to personally offend Derek if the
way that he growls and sets his wet, perfect mouth against her is any
indication. And okay, so maybe she grabs at his ridiculous hair and rides his
face – just a bit – to relieve the ache.
He pulls back eventually, mouth and chin soaked, and there's a hint of fang
showing behind his reddened lips, and yeah he's smelling her. And then his
head's back between her legs, the flat of his tongue on her clit, and it's so
good, she might go a little crazy, arching her hips and saying stupid things
she doesn't mean or doesn't want to mean. She feels his strong hands on the
back of her thighs, holding her to him, and then she's spasming all over his
face, wet and loud and messy.
Derek's all blissed-out satisfaction when he finally pulls away from her,
kneeling between her spread thighs and tugging on his cock. His gorgeous,
gorgeous cock, all fat and swollen, and despite how hard she's just come, her
sex flexes tight, and she wants him inside.
“Derek,” she says again, reaching out for his dick, but he grabs at her wrist
with his free hand, forcing it down to the bed. And then he's leaning over her,
teeth bared in triumph and eyes red, as he spunks her stomach white.
She can't believe how selfish he is, wasting it like that, and she tells him so
as he rubs the spill into her skin. He's all lax around her now, mouth sloppily
kissing at her hair, and she hates him.
“A waste,” she repeats, rubbing herself on his firm thigh because clearly he is
useless.
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek mumbles, “It's not like you haven't got a bellyful
already.”
But he pulls himself back together and gives her two thick fingers for her to
come like a geyser around, and she forgives him. Mostly.
After, they don't talk about the fact that she's become a come-hungry slut and
that Derek basically did the sex-equivalent of raising a leg and peeing on her.
Because why talk about your own issues when you can discuss something else?
“The Argents are back in town,” she says because it was all Scott could talk
about on this morning's run.
“I know,” he says, face still buried in her hair. Then, “They've taken over my
house.”
Oh. Well. That might explain the scent marking, but it sure as hell does not
explain her behavior. “Technically, your house is condemned and belongs to the
county.”
“I know,” he says again. He sounds resigned. “And they want the county to sell
it to them for their school.”
And here she'd been trying to make him feel better about the fact they had no
more right to the property than him.
"Oh,” she says and lets him hold her.
Since she and her dad are basically down to Lucky Charms, a paltry swig of
almost-expired milk, and the rocket pops Derek bought yesterday, Stiles decides
it's time for a grocery run. It's not like she or her father actually cook, but
it's always good to have some box-mix dinners in reserve. Also, bagged salads
for when her dad needs a healthier side.
“You want to come?” she asks Derek who is once again camped out with Ethan
Frome and black coffee.
He gives her his you're a moron look.
“Fine,” she says, “but you can't complain when I buy only tofu.”
“Fine,” he says and grabs his car keys.
Grocery shopping with Derek is always an Entebbe raid because Derek believes
you get in, you get out, and you don't complain about what you didn't buy.
Still, it's his gas, and he'll generally pay for the groceries, too, so Stiles
feels the pros outweigh the cons. They usually go to the Beacon Height's Trader
Joe's because there's less chance of Derek being recognized than at the Beacon
Hill's Safeway. Beacon Height's also has a Kroger, but she's in love with the
green Thai curry simmer sauce, and she's pretty sure Kroger would offend
Derek's hipster sensibilities.
Apparently, Mrs. Argent is also part-hipster, or perhaps she is also a fan of
the green Thai curry simmer sauce, but she's pushing her cart (stocked, Stiles
sees enviously, with all those free-range meats Stiles can't afford, doesn't
know how to cook, and doesn't want Derek to have to buy) towards the checkout
when she spots the two of them arguing over organic (Derek) versus non-organic
(Stiles) orange juice.
“Miss Stilinksi,” she says. She doesn't acknowledge Derek.
“Oh, hey, Mrs. Argent,” Stiles says with her most winning smile. “Have a nice
vacation?” Derek uses the distraction to plunk the organic orange juice into
their cart.
Mrs. Argent purses her lips, and Stiles wonders if she eats lemons in spare
time to practice. “Does your father know where you are?” She looks Derek up and
down. “Or whom you're with?”
Besides the whole want to kill her best friend thing, the thing she really
can't stand about the Argents is their freakin' snobbery. Like just because
they aren't shape-shifters, they're better than everyone else, even if their
hobbies include vandalism, arson, and murder.
“He's got a general idea,” Stiles drawls because while her dad may have
absolutely no clue what she's doing at this exact moment, he is expecting Derek
at O'Malley's tonight. And Mrs. Argent isn't stupid enough to go running to the
police about werewolves.
The lemon-eating expression stays on her face, and she doesn't seem inclined to
move her cart.
“Well, say 'hi' to Allison for us,” Stiles says at last when it becomes
apparent that Mrs. Argent is not moving on. She starts pushing her cart. “Tell
her I can't wait to hear about your trip.”
And yeah, so it goes against every instinct she has to let Mrs. Argent be at
her back, but she knows if she stops pushing the cart, she won't be able to
start again. Derek's got a hand at the small of her back. And they're walking,
they're walking.
She's not sure she breathes until they're in Derek's car, driving back to
Beacon Hills. It's a sunny afternoon, and they're on the open road. They're
nowhere near forests where SUVs full of psycho hunters could be lurking.
“Have you ever considered moving to Beacon Heights?” she asks. “I mean, I
realize there's no forests or anything, but you lived in New York City for how
long, and there aren't any forests there.”
Derek just looks at her.
“Or you can continue living in Beacon Hills,” she continues. “Because there's
no place like home.”
And because there's no place like home, Mr. Argent meets them at Beacon Hills'
city limits.
He's parked on the side of the road, leaning casually against his SUV of doom
like he doesn't have a good half-dozen hunters in the back or a few of his
many, many guns stashed somewhere about his person.
“Well,” Stiles drawls as they drive past. “Looks like the Argents really rolled
out the welcome wagon for you.”
“They were hoping I'd stay in New York,” Derek says. He's white-knuckling the
steering wheel.
Stiles considers this. “That would be best for them, PR-wise. I mean, it's not
such a coup to have your school in prime-werewolf territory if some of those
prime werewolves are still around. Kinda a black mark on their hunting ability
even with their 'we hunt those who hunt us' motto.”
“I'm not leaving,” Derek says with that fierce intensity that always makes her
chest ache.
They don't speak as they unload the groceries, and Derek leaves soon after to
go do Derek-things. Like run shirtless in the forest or whatever.
“Six o'clock,” she reminds him.
She showers again because she may be forced to endure the hell that is dinner
with her dad and Derek, but she is not doing it with come flaking off her
boobs. Walking around Trader Joe's with it itching under her t-shirt is one
thing. Sitting through a dinner – that's something else entirely.
Derek shows up outside of O'Malley's at quarter-to-six. She's waiting outside
because she can only take so much of her dad sitting at O'Malley's tiny little
three-stool bar and determinedly self-medicate his anger into alcohol-induced
joviality.
Derek's wearing a blood-free shirt and has traded in his vans for his
motorcycle boots. His hair is still pomped back with copious amounts of gel,
but in Derek-world, he's actually dressed up. She appreciates it.
“Thanks for coming,” she says, and she really doesn't mean to use the same
phrase and tone she did at her mom's wake; it just slips out.
She looks inside at her dad, drinking like he did when her mom died. And
something twists up inside her. “Don't be an ass tonight,” she says to Derek as
she opens the door. “Please.”
Mrs. O'Malley seats them immediately, saying their server will be along in a
minute. She tries to leave before Stiles' dad can order another drink, but he
does, and asks, in falsely hearty tones, if Derek wants anything from the bar.
Derek says, “No thank you,” and then before Stiles can kick his shin, adds,
“sir.”
Her dad orders the rib-eye, and Stiles doesn't even try to suggest her dad gets
the side steamed vegetables instead of the house fries. Even if it seems like
his dinner is going to be mostly liquid.
But her dad doesn't touch his next shot when the server brings it and instead
folds his hands on the table. He looks over at Derek. “I won't pretend I'm even
remotely happy about this,” he says. “But since my happiness is not object of
this dinner, let's move on. So tell me, Derek, how have you been occupying
yourself since your arrest?”
Derek gives this sort-of-shrug. “I keep busy.”
“Small-talk is not going to work,” Stiles says. “So, Dad, Derek's into parkour,
free-running, and the legitimacy of the Oxford comma. Derek, Dad likes the late
70s post-punk scene, cold cases, and Patagonia's sustainable business mode.
Both of you are opposed to me naming the baby Jesus. Discuss.”
“Jesus is a terrible name for a baby,” her father says. “And I say that as
someone who named you – “
“Hey, hey,” Stiles interrupts because there's no need to go that far. Also,
their salads have arrived, and she wants her dad to eat some of the healthy
green stuff before he digs into the accompanying breadbasket.
Derek is looking down at his own salad like it holds the secrets of the
universe, so she almost doesn't hear him as he mumbles, “I think Gemima's a
nice name.”
“Are you high?” Stiles asks. Then, “Don't answer that. We're trying to
establish you as temporarily unemployed. Not an unemployed, druggie loser.”
“It's the economy, Dad,” she continues when it's clear she's going to receive
no help from Derek on the job front. “Terrible on new college grads.” Her dad
winces, and she realizes she probably should not have brought up Derek's age.
“I have money,” Derek says. “For child support or whatever.”
Her dad slams back his shot and looks as if he'd like to order about a thousand
more.
Thankfully for her dad's sobriety, their entrees arrive.
“I have a job,” Derek says, evidently deciding that uncomfortable conversation
was better for digestion than the uncomfortable silence that had descended over
the table.
And that's...news. “What?” she says because she's got the market cornered on
all things Derek Hale, and if he's employed she is Aunt Jemima.
“What?” her father echoes, and he looks like a man who has found Jesus. Or at
least a life preserver.
“I'm a copy-editor,” Derek says. “And I ghostwrite sometimes.”
The Literate Werewolf. It sounds like something Oscar Wilde would write. It
still doesn't explain the obsession with Edith Wharton, though. Nothing can
explain that.
“That's supposed to be lucrative,” Stiles' dad says, in that making small-talk
kind of way, reaching for the breadbasket. Stiles is still so gobsmacked by the
idea of Derek employed that she lets her dad take a roll.
Derek shrugs. “It's not the great American novel,” he agrees, “but it pays the
bills.”
Since Derek has no bills – other than gas and occasionally the Stilinski family
groceries – that is clearly a lie.
“At least,” Derek continues, because clearly one revelation at this dinner is
not enough for him, “That's what my agent says.”
And yes, apparently Derek has an agent. She learns over the course of her very
healthy chicken and broccoli that Derek is super talented or some shit because
he had been in the Riggio Honors Program at the New School and had been
thinking about applying there for his MFA when Laura had gone missing. But
Laura's girlfriend (who had gone to Parson's which is why Derek even applied to
the New School) knew someone who knew someone and got him this gig ghostwriting
sports stars' memoirs. And then he started the copy-editing (and more
ghostwriting) for sports stars' columns and interviews in fitness magazines.
Sweet. Baby. Jesus.
She's still in shock when she drives herself and her dad home. Still in shock
when her dad presses a kiss to her forehead and stumbles off to bed. And still
in shock when Derek shows up at her window.
“What the hell?” she hisses at him as she lets him in. “You don't even have the
internet.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “That's what the library's for.” He doesn't say dumbass,
but she can hear it just the same.
She folds her arms across her chest.
“What?” Derek asks. He sounds defensive, and Stiles has no idea where he gets
off. “I thought you wanted me to make nice to your dad.”
“I did,” she says. “I do.” She doesn't add but I didn't want you to get his
hopes up because that's just what Derek's done. She can already see her dad
viewing Derek differently: as a potential son-in-law rather than arrestee. She
doesn't want to see him disappointed, and that's exactly what's going to
happen.
“Then why are you angry?” Derek asks. “I did what you wanted.” If Stiles didn't
know him better, she'd think Derek sounded, well, hurt.
She sighs and flops down on the bed. “I just...it's just a shock. That's all.”
Derek scowls. “Well, I'm sorry if it's gotten too real for you, Stiles,” he
says as he goes back out the window. And, honestly, what does that even mean?
***** Chapter 2 *****
Derek only manages to stay away from her a day and a half after their not-
fight, and they certainly don’t discuss it because discussing things and
working out issues are characteristic of a Healthy Relationship.  And that is
so not what they have going.
Stiles supposes there must be some wolfy instinct behind all his hovering. 
She’s sort of glad that at least Derek seems to really care about the somewhat-
baby, and by extension her health.
She’s sitting (okay sprawling) on the couch attempting to read Ethan Frome
while Derek reads Mrs Dalloway (further proof of his insanity, but luckily
that’s from last year) and absently rubs at her feet where she’s put them in
his lap.  Something in her cringes at the picture they make, and how much her
dad would get even more of the wrong impression about her and Derek if he
walked in, but she’s enjoying the foot rub, so she doesn’t say anything.
She’s been on the same page in chapter two for about twenty minuets when she
finally gives up and allows her mind to drift.  She’s charted it out and
figured that she’s likely going to have the baby late-March or early-April,
which will hopefully coincide with spring break, (and not with April fools day,
dear God) so she won’t have to miss any school.
School. God she’s going to be even more outcast once her pregnancy becomes
obvious and she gets dropped from the lacrosse team.
“Scott!” she suddenly shoots upright and Derek, because he is never startled
even though she accidentally kicked Mrs Dalloway out of his hands, just gives
her another one of those you’re insane looks.
“I have to tell Scott.” Derek’s eyes do something complicated and she’s
beginning to thing only werewolf strength can account for the many ways he can
manipulate his eyebrows.  She can’t tell if he’s displeased or hesitant, so she
barrels onward, “look Lydia already knows, and Danny has an inkling and Scott’s
going to figure it out eventually, plus isn’t he like your pack or something
now.”
At length he says, “okay,” so she takes her phone out and begins to text Scott
asking when he’s free for more Call of Duty, when he says, “should I come with
you?”
Stiles contemplates that for all of second before her mind supplies her with an
image of Scott wolfing out and lunging at Derek, and says, “no I think I better
handle this one alone.”
Since his book is on the floor now, Derek apparently decided that reading time
is done and they make-out for a while before going upstairs because her dad
would definitely shoot Derek if he caught them having sex on the couch.
He sits down on her bed and pulls her on top of him after they’ve managed to
undress, and as much as Stiles loves the gratuitous amounts of oral he seems to
enjoy giving her, she really needs him to fuck her right now.
Stiles must have accidentally said that out loud, because he growls and pulls
her flush to his chest.  His dick rubs up against her slit for a few thrusts
before he grabs her hips and lifts her up enough to slip inside.
“I love werewolf strrengtthhuuuh,” Stiles moans, as he pulls her down on his
cock and he snorts back a laugh. She clenches around him and jerks her hips on
top of his in retaliation, and he growls and begins to lift her and slam her
back down on him while biting marks into her chest where the older ones have
started to fade.
“Derek,” she gasps, seriously enjoying how he’s hammering into her g-spot. 
She’s crazily close to orgasm, Stiles clenches around him and that just spikes
the pleasure even higher.  When Stiles comes, it’s generally for a few seconds,
but as Derek’s cock presses into her relentlessly again, she whites out.  Even
when she thinks she’s coming back out of her bright, tight orgasm, Stiles still
feels shocks of pleasure.  She’d wonder if this was a pregnancy thing if she
wasn’t too busy having a continuous orgasm.
Derek groans, probably smelling her release, but he doesn’t stop or slow down
so she just keeps coming. Stiles hasn’t had an orgasm for this long without the
help of her vibrator. She doesn’t realize that she’s making whimpering little
moans, the kind that are completely undignified and embarrassing, until he
abandons where he’s been mouthing his favorite spot on her clavicle, to kiss
her again.  It’s less of a kiss and more of him biting at her lips, but
apparently that still does it for her.
Finally after she’s come through that first orgasm and had a smaller second one
he stutters in his thrusts and she feels it inside her, and smiles where she’s
panting into his shoulder, remembering the last time.
Stiles definitely can’t move right now, but Derek seems to understand this as
he pulls out and helps her flop on to the bed, in a way that her head is sort
of on a pillow. Derek ends up curling around her with his hand on her belly.
“You broke me,” Stiles mumbles sleepily, “I can’t move my legs.”  She’s just
drifting off when she hears what sounds suspiciously like him whispering, “then
you can’t run away,” into her shoulder but that particular hallucination isn’t
enough to pull her from sleep.
~~~~~
When Stiles wakes up the sun is setting which means nothing because it’s august
so it could be between seven and nine at night, but Derek is no longer there,
so Stiles rolls out of bed and is glad he at least opened the window so the sex
smell has somewhat dissipated.  She checks her phone before showering, and only
then does she notice the blood under her fingernails from where she must have
clawed into Derek’s back.
Stiles muzzily contemplates feeling bad about it, before remembering he’s
probably already healed.  Unfortunately her chest has not healed at all, so
Stiles is wearing a t-shirt for their run tomorrow instead of one of her far
more weather-appropriate tank tops and decides to save all of her pity and
guilt for herself.
~~~~~
Scott of course doesn’t answer the text until 11 pm (presumably when his
Allison time has ended), which doesn’t wake her up ‘cause now she can’t sleep
early like any sane person waking up at 5 am would after napping all afternoon.
Srslyscott:tmrw? aftr mornin run?
theStiles:after I shower after our mornin run yes
~~~~~
Scott does not take the news well.
Stiles is pretty much happy he doesn’t completely wolf out when she tells him.
Scott still doesn’t seem pacified by her recount of how it was completely not
Derek’s fault, and yes she was going to carry it to full term, and no she
didn’t care about being the alpha’s baby momma, at least not about the werewolf
part of it.
“I am gonna kick his ass,” he was slightly growling, but that was better than a
full-on Thor table flip.
“Dude if you’re gonna blame anyone for this it should be the witches—but not
really cause they didn’t really have any idea that this would happen or that I
was sexually active,” and Stiles cringed because she really doesn’t talk to
Scott about this.  Sure he told her about Allison sometimes, but mostly Scott
viewed her as a sister, who had no sexual motivations of any kind.
Scott seemed to be thinking something similar, his nose crinkled in disgust,
“Ugh I need brain bleach now, gross, why Derek, I mean he’s…” she’s not sure
whether he’s gonna say old, grouchy, or creepy, “Derek,”
…so pretty much all of the above.
“Look I know that Derek doesn’t have feelings for me or anything, and—“ woah
wrong thing to say, Scott had started to rumble into a growl again, “and I've
known that for months, and I’ve made my peace with it, but hopefully he’ll care
about the baby.”
Scott looked like there were seventy things he wanted to say to that, but he
wasn’t sure which to pick.  Stiles supposes she should have seen the hug
coming, but it’s nice and she just sags into it.
“I’m gonna be an uncle,” Scott whispered into her hair, and she started
laughing at that.  She couldn’t stop once she started and at some point the
laughter became sobs.
Scott just held her tighter, until she stopped.  Stiles wanted to forgive him
for all the times he didn’t answer the phone during an emergency, because even
though he sometimes was a little blind with Allison, he was still awesome.
When she finally pulled out of the hug, he just said, “wanna play call of
duty?”
Stiles definitely forgives him.
~~~~~
Stiles definitely does not forgive Scott.
Stiles just got out of the shower and was about to make a massive sandwich
because running made her ravenous when the doorbell rang.
Allison was standing on her porch and the look on her face said this wasn’t a
social visit.
It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since she told Scott.
Definitely not forgiving him ever.
“Can I come in?”  Allison said, and Stiles saw the resemblance to her father
more than ever in that moment, that crazy way they could ask questions like a
perfectly normal person and leave no room for you to say no.
“Sure, I was just going to make a sandwich,” she left the door open for Allison
to follow her into the kitchen.  Stiles may have to talk to Allison about this,
but she wasn’t gonna start the conversation, especially since she had no idea
what Allison’s problem could possibly be. “Do you want anything?”
“I’m fine.”  Allison sat down at the kitchen table, with her hands on the table
top.  ‘This is going to be dreadful,’ Stiles thinks to herself.
It’s silent for a while in the kitchen and there’s just the sounds of her
getting out sandwich ingredients, lots because she may have lost her appetite
from the look on Allison’s face, but she was gonna stall as long as she could.
“So you and Derek…” Allison starts awkwardly.
“What about me and Derek?”  Stiles asks with completely fake casualness.
“Scott told me you’re pregnant,” and wow, way to break the ice there Allison,
Stiles wishes abstractly that she’d been eating her sandwich already so maybe
she’d have choked on it and could die and avoid the conversation entirely.
“Yep, the witches gave me some St. John’s wart and now my eggo is preggo, why
do you want dibs on godmother?  ‘Cause I think Lydia might have it since she
went with me to Planned Parenthood and everything.” Ah word vomit, a classic
defense.
Allison looked taken aback for a second but she schooled her features again.
“Actually I was wondering if you were sure about keeping it,” Allison said like
that wasn’t completely rude and invasive.
“Um, not that it’s particularly your business whatI do with my body, but yes
I’m sure,” Stiles really did not like the direction this was going in, whatever
that direction was.  There were alarm bells going off in her head blaring BAD
ROAD! TURN BACK! BAD ROAD!—but then, she wasn’t the one driving this car.
“It’s just,” Allison seems to straighten herself and strengthen her resolve,
“it seems awfully convenient.”
Stiles’s mouth is hanging open, she has actually been struck speechless. 
Ladies and gentleman someone has finally shut Stiles up.
For about ten seconds.
“OH MY GOD, what part of unplanned teen pregnancy is ever convenient for
anyone,” Stiles is full on shouting at Allison, one of her closest friends, and
she seriously does not give a shit.
“Well I was discussing it with my parents…” Stiles splutters, “You were
discussing my pregnancy with your parents?!” but Allison is just barreling on,
“and they said that it would be impossible to have a hunter school in the same
town as an alpha with a newborn baby, whether or not the baby is a werewolf,”
and there’s a flash of horror in Stiles’s mind when she pictures her baby
growing claws in the womb, but she quickly snaps out of that and files that
away for later.
“Wait what, so you aren’t gonna build your school now—by the way, very classy
using the burnt down house of an old werewolf family that were murdered in cold
blood by your aunt as a hunter school, very nice.”  Stiles needed to get that
gem out because that was so cruel, but maybe it wouldn’t happen now anyway.
“No we aren’t, unless Derek leaves with the baby after it’s born,” and Stiles
feels sick at the idea, that Derek would just take the baby away (possibly
after it clawed its way out of her vagina).  “Which my parents don’t think is
likely since you live here.”
Stiles shakes her head and puts up a hand, “Okay so let me get this straight,”
she takes a deep calming breath, she does not need a panic attack right now,
“you and your parents think that Derek got me pregnant on purpose so your
family wouldn’t open a hunters’ school in the spot where his entire family
died.”
Allison gets a slightly guilty look in her eyes, “well I thought maybe Derek
was always gonna settle down with you and have kids some day, but that he
accelerated his plans a little, but Scott told me you and Derek weren’t like
that,” and that right there is the final straw.  One too many knife-points to
her chest.
“Get out.”
“Stiles come on, think about it, the timing—”
“Timing nothing, I’m not gonna lay out a list of reasons why that is so
completely incorrect, cause I shouldn’t have to, you can tell your parents to
get their heads out of their asses and fuck right off.” And now Allison is
starting to look angry. ‘Good,’ Stiles thinks to herself.
“I’m not saying for sure, just if you would consider it from our perspec—”
“NO.  You look at it from my perspective, I’m seventeen and pregnant and the
father doesn’t love me and you guys are being completely self-centered.  Now.
Get. Out. Of. My. House.” Stiles is panting with rage.
“Stiles, I think your feelings for Der—”
“OUT,” there is no way that sentence is going anywhere positive for Stiles, “or
do I have to physically make you leave?”
Allison finally stands up and starts stalking out of the house, Stiles follows
her to the door, but before she can slam it behind her, Allison turns around,
looking more apologetic, “look I’m sorry that this happened to you, and I’m
sorry for thinking this but do you really trust Derek?”
Stiles lets out a tight breath, “look I know he doesn’t—” she doesn’t know if
she can say the l-word again, “he doesn’t care for me that way, but Derek isn’t
like that.  He wouldn’t do that.  Not to me and not to anyone,” that’s probably
not good enough for her parents, but if they can’t figure out that she got
knocked up before she or Derek had an inkling of Allison’s parents’ plans for
the hunting school, then they’re self-centered idiots, instead of just self-
centered bigots.
She can’t resist one last cutting remark though, “if your parents can’t get off
their high horse and see that, how are they ever going to be okay with you and
Scott?”
Allison looks like she might cry, “I—”
“Bye, Allison.”  She manages to resist slamming the door, but mostly because
Allison looked so heartbroken at that last comment.
~~~~~
Of course this would not be Stiles’s life if Derek weren’t in her room sitting
on the very bed she wanted to throw herself onto.
Stiles freezes in the doorway, Derek isn’t looking at her, just staring at his
hands in his lap, “so, I’m guessing you heard all of that—”
“You think I don’t love you.” Derek interrupts, and Stiles really wishes he
didn’t want to talk about it when they’ve done a great job avoiding the subject
of feelings for so long.
“I know you don’t—that’s what you got from that?  Not gonna touch the whole
slew of horrible new lows the Argents thing you have sunk to?”
“You covered it pretty well down there,” he says standing up, but not walking
toward her just yet, “do you love me Stiles?”
His face is completely unreadable but Stiles can barely focus on that, her
chest is tightening and the next thing she knows her knees have given out, but
he’s right there to catch her with his damn werewolf speed.
“Breathe Stiles, breathe,” and she hiccups out a laugh at that thinking about
lemaze and she’d like to make a crack about premature labor, but she is still
trying to get her chest to unlock.
After maybe ten minutes, she finally says, “how—how can you even ask me that?”
“I need you to answer me,” he says it so softly and she looks into his eyes and
she’s never seen this look on his face, she can’t even describe the look in his
eyes.
“You’re really gonna make me say it, tell you I love you, just to have you
laugh in my face?”  Stiles is trying so hard not to cry, but dammit it’s just
one thing after another today so moisture slips out of her eyes, and she can’t
look at Derek right now.
Derek puts a hand on her cheek and gently urges her to look at him like they’re
in some regency novel or something, and she sob-laughs again.  Stiles is
totally blaming all of this crying on hormones, geez.
“The only reason I’d laugh at that is out of happiness.” And Stiles can’t
understand, this whole conversation is incomprehensible to her.
“What?” she asks thickly.
“I love you Stiles, I—” he swallows thickly and Stiles has never seen him look
so terrified, “you’re it for me.”  She pushes away a bit, not completely
leaving his arms but getting a better look at his face.  It must be really
convenient to be able to hear lies
“But what about the woman you were with in New York?” and wow, way to show your
hand Stiles.
“What woman?”
“The woman you were out with, I heard her voice through the phone,” Stiles
presses because this is not her life, she doesn’t get the Nicholas Sparks novel
romance.
“the phone—you mean Nina?  She was Laura’s girlfriend,” now he just looks
confused, “you thought I—with Nina?”
Stiles is beginning to worry about the intelligence of her baby if Derek is
this thick.  “Derek you could have any girl you wanted, why the hell would I
think you—”
“You had a date to the Spring formal.”
“What? You mean Matt?” and Derek’s jaw muscle ticked at his name, “Matt thinks
I’m a lesbian, and I couldn’t have exactly brought you to the semi-formal,
Allison set it up and Dad was so happy about me having a date and everything…
you were jealous?”  There is no way she can’t make that a question.
“Werewolves are notoriously possessive, how would I not be when I thought we
were together?”  Now he looks like he’s worried about her IQ.
“We never went on any dates!” Stiles squawked back.
“You’re underage in California and your Dad is the sheriff!”
“You didn’t say anything!”
“Neither did you!”
“I didn’t want to freak you out with my feelings!”
“I didn’t want to scare you away!”
Stiles doesn’t know why they're shouting. She realizes how typical this is of
them, even their confessions of love have devolved into a fight, and she bursts
out laughing.
Derek’s has a completely bemused expression on his face so she just launches
herself at him in a tight hug that actually catches him by surprise because he
falls back so they’re lying on her bedroom floor, once she’s finally stopped
laughing she realizes his hand is tracing through her short hair.
Stiles smiles into his shirt, she didn’t think she’d ever have him this way.
“Do you think our obliviousness is a heritable trait?”
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!