Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/965733.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Agent_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Agent_McCall, Danny_Mahealani, Allison
      Argent, Isaac_Lahey, Derek_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Badwrong, Daddy_Kink, Unsafe_Sex, Car_Sex, Wall_Sex, Possessive_Behavior,
      Implied/Referenced_Underage, Implied/Referenced_Abuse, Consent_Issues,
      Pre-Slash, Dirty_Talk, Age_Difference, Angst, Pack_Bonding, Statutory
      Rape, Bromance
  Series:
      Part 4 of Starts_with_"F",_Ends_with_"U"
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-13 Words: 11969
****** Something always brings me back ******
by RemainNameless
Summary
     Sequel to "Wish you were the one that got away"
     One's an accident. Two's a fuck up. Three's a pattern Stiles isn't
     sure he can live with (or without).
Notes
     YO. THIS IS PART FOUR OF A SERIES, Y'ALL. IT WILL MAKE SO MUCH MORE
     SENSE IF YOU READ THE OTHER PARTS. But by the end of the chapter
     you'll probably vaguely get what's going on so w/e u do u.
     For the rest of y'all, know that this chapter has some possessive/
     (pre)abusive behavior and self-victim-blaming (I do not know how to
     say that with fewer hyphens) and vaguely implied past pedophiliac
     feelings/urges in, like, two lines. So now you are informed.
     Btw guys, I think there's plot now! Well, slightly more plot!
See the end of the work for more notes
It’s Scott’s idea, the whole thing, and not for the first time, Stiles wonders
if his best friend is some kind of emotional masochist. 
“I’m telling you, dude, there’s being at peace with someone’s relationship and
then there’s deliberately causing yourself pain,” Stiles tells him, gripping
the steering wheel. “I think we both know which category this falls into.”
“It’s not going to be that bad,” Scott argues, “and I just need them both to
know that I’m totally okay with it. No hard feelings. Anywhere.”
Stiles sighs. “You’re allowed to have hard feelings, you know.”
“Not really, no.”
“Dude.” Stiles looks between him and the road. “Your werewolf bro is dating
your ex. The ex. You’re allowed to be pissed for a while.”
“I’m not pissed,” Scott says, throwing up his hands. “I’m happy for them. I am.
They both deserve to be happy and if they’re what makes each other happy, then
I’m all for it.” 
“Come on. You’re not even the tiniest bit jealous?”
“What right do I have?” Stiles snorts because that one’s obvious, but Scott
says, “No, seriously. They have so much more shit on their plates than I do. I
mean, Allison was manipulated by her family and lost her mom. Isaac’s an orphan
and his dad was horrible. Their lives are worse, ergo, they deserve to be happy
more than I deserve to feel shitty.”
“Ergo?” Stiles asks, an eyebrow raised, but Scott just shrugs. “Just throwing
this out there, but your dad wasn’t exactly winning any awards for Parent of
the Year.”
Scott shakes his head. “He hit me once. Isaac’s dad beat him up and locked him
in a freezer regularly. That doesn’t even compare. And sure, my dad ditched,
but it was a good thing, and at least he’s alive.” It’s a reflex, gritting his
teeth, thinking of his mom. “Sorry, dude. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know. I know how you meant it. Just, would it kill you to be petty? Just
once? For me?”
Scott laughs, says, “Come on. You like bowling. And you were pissed you weren’t
invited last time.”
“Yeah, well, this time we’re going to be outnumbered by happy couples. That
sucks.” He turns into the parking lot. “By the way, if I happen to drop a
bowling ball on one of the Fisting Twins, it’s totally an accident, I swear. No
matter how many times it happens.”
And then there they are. In a place that smells like feet and fried food. Night
bowling. Joy. 
Stiles doesn’t comment on it but he makes some very pointed looks about the
team alignments. They end up with Scott, Isaac, Ethan, and Aiden on one team
and Stiles, Allison, Danny, and Lydia on the other. He is tempted to say
something about the fact that all the people on their team are dude-oriented
werewolves, but holds it back because hey, there’s Ethan, and you never know
who likes what and Danny's not really in the know. It's all a tiny bit weird,
especially at the start.
At least Stiles doesn’t totally suck at bowling. 
Not that it would matter because, bless his heart, Scott’s total lack of
bowling ability is enough to drag down the combined score of his team. Also,
Lydia, Danny, and Allison are pretty much amazing at everything they do, so
Stiles is riding high on a winning streak. 
Winning makes him hungry, though.
Actually, so does losing. 
Most things make him hungry, really, so after his turn, he volunteers to make a
snack stand run. 
Somewhere in the middle of ordering four Icees, three things of nachos and two
pizzas, he realizes that he’s made a terrible mistake. But Superman saves the
day. Or, well, Danny. Who’s pretty damn close. 
He leans against the counter next to Stiles while the pizzas are doing their
thing in the oven and nods at the group. “This is actually not as horrible as I
thought it would be,” he says, and watching them, Stiles nods. Everyone seems
to be getting along, and the initial Allison-Isaac-Scott awkwardness dissipated
by the third frame. 
“Looks like it turned out to be not a bad idea,” Stiles says, maybe a little
late.
“So, I was wondering,” Danny starts, turning to face Stiles with his whole
body, “this thing where you hate the twins. Is that a twinphobia thing or a
jealousy thing?”
There’s no good way to explain that they’re alpha werewolves who killed Boyd
and at the very least assisted in Erica’s death. Nope. 
“Maybe it’s a Jackson thing,” Stiles says. “Like, he’s not here to vet your or
Lydia’s boyfriends, so I’m filling in. Someone’s gotta give them the stink eye
and tell them they’re not good enough for two of the top three of our grade.” 
“You’re not hung up on Lydia anymore, are you?”
Stiles shrugs. “I’ve had other things to worry about, I guess.” He watches
Scott and Isaac slapping each other in anticipation as Aiden’s ball rolls very,
very slowly down to the pins.
“Does he know?” Danny asks softly. Stiles looks at him, frowns, not
understanding until Danny jerks his head at Scott. 
“Jesus, no. It’s not like that. We’re like brothers,” he says, then thinks of
Rafa, realizes how fucked up that is, “I mean, not— you know what I mean.
That’s not a thing.”
“Sorry, I just figured...when you had your little sex freakout in the locker
room, I dunno. It seemed like it was more for Scott than anything else.” That’s
weird, and Stiles grimaces at the thought as he watches Scott clap Isaac on the
back as he picks up a ball. “You weren’t really trying to lose your virginity,
were you?”
Stiles snaps to him, frowning, about to ask what that means when Danny grins
like he’s stumbling on a juicy secret.
“No no no no, you already have. He just doesn’t know.” Danny whistles, looking
horribly smug. “It was a guy, wasn’t it? You haven’t told him you like guys
because he’s your best friend. You don’t want him to think you like him. Trust
me, I’ve been there. Jackson conspicuously ate popsicles around me for like two
months after I told him, but I don’t think he’d be like that.” 
Stiles smirks, picturing Jackson making bedroom eyes at Danny and posing for
him. 
“Gonna tell me who it was?” Danny asks with a curious quirked brow. 
“Nope.”
Danny grins. “I guess I’ll have to guess, then. I should warn you, I’m a very
good guesser. Great intuition.”
“Guess away, Danny-boy. I won’t tell you. I’ve gotta keep my mystique.” That
gets a snort, but then Danny narrows his eyes, considering him. 
“It wouldn’t happen to be Cousin Miguel, would it?” he asks, doing air quotes,
and Stiles chokes. “Four for you, man. His abs were nice.”
“I did not—”
Danny holds up a hand. “It’s okay, dude. We’ve all dated older guys. And Derek
Hale grew up well.” 
Stiles is going to either combust or run away. “You knew who he was?”
“No fucking duh,” Danny says. “Come on, the guy lurks around campus, like,
twenty-four-seven. Everyone knows who he is. Wait, is he there for you? Is he
your boyfriend? Holy shit, when did you get game, Stilinski?”
“I—”
Danny smiles, pressing a hand over his own heart. “I’m just so proud of you
right now. Congrats. You’re getting the D. No wonder you stopped harassing me
about your sex appeal.”
“Harassment is a pretty harsh term,” Stiles argues, and Danny gives him a look.
“And pretty accurate, okay. So yeah. I mean, no. Derek left. He’s gone.”
“Shit, dude.” That puts the wind out of his sails, and he squeezes Stiles’
shoulder. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it all up. Wow, I’m an
ass.”
“No, it’s—”
“Order for Stilinski?” the guy from the cash register asks. Stiles raises his
hand, and the guy shoves over two very full trays.
“Thanks,” Stiles tells him, then turns back to Danny. “No, it’s...it sucks, but
it’s not permanent. I don’t think. He hasn’t said when he’s coming back, but he
hasn’t said he isn’t, so.”
“Want my advice?” Danny asks. “If that’s how he’s playing you, drop him. Don’t
be a hollaback boy. No one deserves that.” 
When they get to their table, Scott raises an eyebrow at him, looks pointedly
at Danny. Stiles pulls out his phone, texts him. 
Wanted to know why Derek was at the school. Kind of came to his own
conclusions. But hey, what Derek doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
A moment later, Scott checks his phone. Starts typing. The text comes a second
later. I’m sorry he left, dude. 
Stiles stares at that for a minute, wondering what Scott thinks he thinks about
it all, before shoving his phone in his pocket and going to loop an arm around
his shoulders. 
“It’s fine,” he says quietly, cheering a split-second later when Lydia knocks
out a perfect strike. 
“This is completely unfair,” Isaac complains. “They’ve got a bowling prodigy on
their team. How are we supposed to compete against that?”
“Well, you’ve got Scott, don’t you?” Allison asks, smiling.
“Wow, thanks, guys,” Scott says, but he seems to be taking it in a good way.
Still.
“I’ll have you know,” Stiles tells them, “that my buddy here is an excellent
bowler. Scout’s honor.”
“I’ve seen it,” Allison says, then seems to regret it for a moment. Scott
barely blinks, but Stiles catches it. Knows that he’s missing something, not
sure if it’s really his place to know. 
“I guess that’s why I have Stiles,” Scott says with a little smirk, and he and
Allison snort and start laughing. Isaac and Stiles look at each other for
clarification.
Stiles huffs. “I don’t know if I should be insulted, but it feels like I should
be.”
Allison gives him a serious look and touches his shoulder. “Stiles, I’m sure
you’ve got a great body.” Everyone laughs at that, which, not fair, but he
puffs up his chest a little and nods curtly. 
“I’ll have you all know that I do, in fact, have a really great body. Scott’s
very lucky to have such a hot best friend. Some might be intimidated— nay,
jealous, even, but not Scotty. He’s a real trooper, this one is.” He scrubs his
knuckles in Scott’s hair, grinning. 
Scott shakes his head, going serious all of a sudden. “I don’t know, man. Maybe
it’s just cause I’m, like, super attracted to you. I really think we should try
making out a little.”
“I feel like I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life,” Stiles says,
wiping away imaginary tears. “Come here, buddy. Let’s do this.” They hold each
others faces, moving in super slow, like a movie, staring deeply into each
others’ eyes. 
But right before it happens, someone bellows, “GAY.” Everyone turns, finding
Danny with a nacho halfway to his mouth. “Not an objection. By all means, keep
going,” he says with a little smirk, and while everyone’s laughing, Scott
smacks a wet kiss on Stiles’ cheek. 
“Love you, buddy,” Stiles tells him.
“Stiles, can you tear yourself away from the love of your life and bowl
already?” Lydia asks. She’s smiling, though. 
“We were having a moment,” Scott tells her, and Allison snorts and pulls Stiles
away, gives him a gentle push in the direction of the lanes. 
“Have your moment after we’ve kicked your asses,” she says. 
 
“I think that was a good night,” Scott says on their way to his house after.
“We should all do stuff like that more often. It’s good, being around
everyone.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, thinking of how he’d rather everyone had two fewer twins
and maybe the addition of a grumpy guy in the corner pretending he hates
everything. And a pair of betas with enough combined sass to level a small
town. 
That hurts. 
“You okay?” Scott asks.
“Fine,” Stiles says quickly. “Just wish Boyd and Erica could’ve been there. We
never got to hang out with them without everyone trying to kill each other. It
could’ve been fun, you know?”
Scott nods, reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. “Yeah, dude. I know.” He
sighs heavily. “You wanna hang out? Play some CoD?”
Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, I’m tired. Haven’t been sleeping great.”
“It’s been pretty shitty, hasn’t it?”
Right then, Stiles wants to ask him if he has dreams like Stiles does, if they
feel so real he wakes up with hot breath on his face, but Scott has enough to
worry about. No reason to burden him. And there’s stuff he can’t say, anyway,
stuff he’d have to talk around, and Stiles is tired. Too tired for verbal
gymnastics.
Scott gives him a sure smile before getting out of the car when Stiles drops
him off. He waits for Scott to go inside, even though it’s not like much could
take down an alpha, waits until the door shuts behind him before sighing and
putting the car in reverse.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. 
Fucking great. A text from Rafa. Fan-fucking-tastic.
He hesitates before opening it, but he’s pretty much given up on fighting it. 
I see you
Well that’s fucking creepy as hell. Stiles snaps around, looking up and down
the street before he spots the SUV parked a couple houses away.
You are such a creep Stiles sends back. Then, I hope looking at my car is doing
it for you because that’s all you’re gonna get.
Don’t be like that.
Stiles is about to text something with a lot of swear words when the SUV’s
headlights turn on and the car starts heading down the street, past Stiles’
Jeep. Waits at the stop sign. At an empty intersection. Just sits there.
Swearing, he pulls out of Scott’s driveway. It’s pretty obvious that Rafa’s
waiting for him because when he gets close, Rafa goes. 
It’s fucking stupid is what it is, but maybe all Rafa needs is to see his face
when Stiles explains that no, they’re not going to sneak around. Because hey,
that’s fucking impossible when your best friend is a werewolf and can fucking
smell it on you. 
Rafa goes pretty far, actually, at least fifteen minutes out of town. That’s
good, at least, because there was no way Stiles was going to do this little
confrontation within Scott’s hearing range.
They stop at a parking lot, near a construction site. It’s late, too late for
anyone to be around, and Stiles can’t help but wonder if anyone could hear him
if he screamed. They’re far enough away from most stuff, just some abandoned
buildings. Because there’s a fuckton of those around town for some reason. 
He pulls up next to Rafa, and they both get out, meet between their cars. 
“Don’t stalk Scott,” Stiles tells him first off. “And never do this again. Not
anywhere near him, for one, and two, if I see you again, without your little
FBI agents around you, I’ll punch you. In the dick.”
“Yeah?” Rafa asks, taking a step closer. “And I bet your hand wouldn’t linger,
would it? Wouldn’t try to get a feel of what you’ve been missing, huh?”
Stiles bites down, hands clenching into fists at his sides, and Rafa smirks.
“That’s what I thought.” He reaches out, takes Stiles’ wrist, and Stiles hates
the way his hand opens for him. “Go ahead. Nothing’s stopping you.” He lets
Stiles’ arm go. It hangs in the air between them as Rafa takes another small
step forwards. 
Stiles is not going to do this. It’s not happening. Not now, not again, not
ever.
But a little grope never hurt anyone, did it?
It doesn’t really count. 
Stiles’ fingers settle at the ledge of Rafa’s belt, and as he looks up, into
the heat of Rafa’s eyes, they slip down.
Fuck, he’s hard. Stiles wonders if it’s just from the drive or if he’d sat
there, watching his old house, aching as he waited for Stiles to drop Scott
off. 
He kind of hopes it was the latter. It feels like it, maybe, going by how hot
he feels under Stiles’ hand, even through his slacks. Jesus, Stiles almost
forgot how thick he is, the way he could fill Stiles’ hand, his mouth, his ass.
He’s browsed websites for dildos, trying to figure out how they’d compare, if
they could fill him the right way, if it feels as good when it's not a person.
One of Rafa’s hands goes down and covers Stiles’ and the other goes to the back
of his neck, pulls him in as he moves forward. Pins his body against the Jeep.
He doesn’t kiss Stiles at first, just rubs his cheek over Stiles’ face,
scratchy where his stubble’s grown in since his morning shave. 
“You can’t stay away, can you?” Rafa asks before biting Stiles’ lip, making him
hiss, tighten his grip on Rafa’s cock. “I fucking love that about you.” 
“You’re a fucking pervert, you know that?” It comes out weaker than he means
it, gets a little lost when Rafa fists a hand in his hair and pulls his head
back, exposes his neck. Licks up his jaw. 
“Maybe,” Rafa says, a hint of amusement in it, “but only for you, baby.”
That shouldn’t turn him on, but a lot of things Rafa does shouldn’t turn him
on. It’s starting to lose its novelty, the denial. Maybe he should just give up
pretending.
He’s left Scott’s. They don’t have plans for tomorrow. In theory, if he cleans
up, scrubs, and does laundry, the scent won’t be on him. In theory, they should
be able to get away with it. 
“This is the last time,” Stiles tells him, squeezing his cock more to feel it
in his hand than to get Rafa off.
Rafa snorts against his throat. “You’re gonna get tired of saying that.”
“I mean it.” He goes for Rafa’s belt, pulls the end through the loops, through
the buckle. 
“That too.” Stiles can feel him smile just below his jaw as Rafa’s hands move
down to his back, under his shirt, beneath his waistband to cup his ass. It
feels fucking good, especially considering how long it’s been since the last
time, since someone touched him with intent. 
Rafa kisses him when he’s expecting to be flipped around, fucks into his mouth
with a dirty lick that has Stiles sighing into his mouth. He doesn’t really
know how to kiss with tongue, so he just lets Rafa take, opens under him. At
first, it’s too much to pay attention to. He forgets the rest of his body,
everything but the roughness around his lips and the promise in his mouth. But
then Rafa’s hand closes around his, pulls his zipper down so Stiles can reach
in while Rafa tugs his shirt out of the way. 
He’s wearing underwear this time, which grates against Stiles’ memories, but
they’re soft, cottony. Stiles is kind of going after what’s underneath, though,
so he tucks under the waistband and God. A little noise buzzes in his chest at
the feeling of that soft skin, the hot, hard pulse of him. 
Stiles tries to talk, but Rafa’s right there, can’t until Rafa pulls away with
dark, dark eyes and an open, wet mouth. 
“Fuck me,” Stiles tells him. “I don’t care how, just fucking get inside of
me.” 
“See, doesn’t that feel better?” Rafa asks, one hand slipping between his
cheeks, fingers rubbing over his hole. “All you have to do is ask, and I’m
happy to give.” A fingertip presses inside, not quite burning, hooks at his rim
in a way that makes Stiles grab at his shoulder. 
“Please, come on,” Stiles urges, trying to push back, get more of his finger
inside. Instead, Rafa's hand pulls away, frustrating enough to make Stiles
groan before he realizes that Rafa's shoving his jeans off his hips, his
underwear down to his thighs. The door of the Jeep is cold against his bare ass
when Rafa cages him against it. He grips the base of Stiles' cock with one
hand, rubs the flat of his other palm over the head, hard enough to make Stiles
keen. 
He brings his palm up to Stiles face, and it's shiny, even in the indirect
light of their headlights. "Lick," Rafa orders, and Stiles does it without
hesitation, laps up the familiar taste of his own precome. “Always gonna be my
good boy, aren’t you?”
“If I say yes, will you actually put your dick in me?” 
Rafa stares at him for a moment, like there’s something he wants to say but
doesn’t, and he answers instead by lifting Stiles up by the backs of his
thighs. The fact that he can would probably get Stiles hard if he wasn’t
already, but now he’s not sure how this is going to work, what with his jeans,
until Rafa gets his forearms under Stiles’ legs and hauls them up so his knees
are by his fucking shoulders. Two minutes ago, he would’ve said he’s nowhere
near flexible enough for this shit, but he’s horny and the band of his
underwear is rubbing against his cock in an almost good way. 
He thinks that’s the craziest of it, but Rafa’s moving Stiles’ legs so his
calves are propped against his shoulders and yeah, that’s a stretch.
“I’m giving you three minutes, max, before this isn’t going to work anymore,”
he says, mostly because he's starting to confuse real life with porn in a
possibly debilitating way. But it becomes clear a second later that part of the
reason Rafa did it was so he could get to his back pocket without dropping
him. 
“Relax. It'll be worth it,” Rafa tells him. There’s a rip, something like foil,
and then slick fingers are rubbing against his hole. He starts with two, which
Stiles can take fine, knows that from doing this to himself. Thankfully, he
hurries the fuck up with the stretching because Stiles kind of wants to just
take it, but he knows how big Rafa’s cock is and it’s just not going to happen
without something first. 
Fuck, it’s good, though. Having someone else’s fingers in him is fucking
beautiful, and Rafa’s fingers are nice and thick. They twist and spread with a
practiced dexterity that makes Stiles more horny than jealous. Not that Rafa is
someone to be jealous over. It’ll never be like that. 
Rafa’s fingers pull out of him with a dirty slick sound, and then Rafa’s
adjusting him. Pins his hips against the passenger side door with one hand,
guides his cock towards Stiles with the other until Stiles can feel it pressing
against him. There’s a moment there where Stiles thinks this is a terrible
fucking idea, that it’s been a little too long for so little prep, but the
first time Rafa tries to push in, he’s pretty sure his dick weeps for it. Just
a little.
It hurts, though, when Rafa first gets the head in, aches like nothing else and
fuck, if Stiles doesn’t get a sick thrill from it. 
Rafa’s forehead knocks against his, his breath coming hot against Stiles cheek,
and he doesn’t move, doesn’t push in any further. “God, baby, still so tight.
Like a fucking dream.” His mouth turns against Stiles’ jaw, wet, his upper lip
scraping against Stiles’ cheekbone. He makes a little noise right at Stiles’
ear as he starts easing himself in, fucking wide as hell, enough to make Stiles
gasp and scrabble behind him for something to hold onto. 
When he bottoms out, Stiles wraps a forearm around his neck to hold him close,
biting his lip as he tries to breathe through his nose because it feels like a
goddamn miracle to be this full. It’s way too much to wrap his fucking head
around but he needs it, God, does he. 
Rafa starts to move, slow at first, and it’s like heaven, like Stiles can feel
every fucking millimeter of his cock. It’s at that place halfway between
pleasure and pain, wringing him out like he’s nothing. Maybe he’s dying, maybe
the sounds he’s making are a little too need for him to bear hearing, and maybe
he was stupid for ever denying this. 
“You look beautiful when you’re about to cry,” Rafa tells him, thrusting hard
enough that Stiles feels it in his chest. “No one’s fucked you the way you
need, have they? Never quite enough.”
Stiles cries out when Rafa changes his angle, hits him where it feels almost
like coming but without the feeling of release. 
Rafa grins, does it again, saying, “That’s right, scream for me. No one can
hear you but me. Let Daddy hear you, come on.”
“Fuck,” Stiles groans, trying to hold it back because this is sick now, now
that Rafa knows, there’s something twisted about it, but he’s all keyed up on
it. 
“You wanna know why it doesn’t feel like this with anyone else?” His voice is a
little loud, talking over the wet slap of their skin and the creaking of the
Jeep rocking on its tires. “They don’t know what you need. They don’t know you
like I do, kiddo. There’s never going to be anyone that does. They don’t get
how much you need this, how you’d be plugged up with my cock all the time if
you could get away with it.”
Stiles whimpers, trying to tell him no, that’s not true, but Rafa’s cock is
grinding against his fucking prostate and his voice won’t work right. 
They’re both sweating, and it should be gross, but Rafa tastes like salt when
he presses against Stiles’ mouth and he likes it. “You wanna know a secret,
baby?” Stiles nods because he knows it’ll be something dirty and horrible and
hot, craves it. “It was always going to be like this. You and me, right here.”
He kisses Stiles too hard, with teeth, but it feels right, pushes him forward
towards the bare silvery edge of an orgasm. It’s coming, and he wants it, wants
Rafa to give it to him, so he breaks out what he knows will make Rafa fuck him
through it.
“Daddy, please,” Stiles whines against his mouth, not entirely on purpose,
mouth opening in a drawn-out gasp when Rafa fucks into him harder. It doesn’t
take much, just a couple strokes at the right angle, and Stiles is pretty sure
he’d flail out of Rafa’s arms if he wasn’t being held so tight. It hits him
like a sledge hammer, shakes his body, makes his eyes water, and there’s shit
coming out of his mouth that he can’t listen to. 
It feels like it goes on for years because Rafa doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow,
fucks him harder, maybe, until his body feels too wrung out to be conscious.
But Rafa holds him up, pants against his neck as his body, as Stiles’ body, as
the car, as the surface of the earth rocks with it. 
“God, you’re so good, so good,” Rafa repeats against Stiles’ skin, slowing,
going deep. Maybe it’s just because Stiles feels scraped raw all over that he
can feel Rafa’s dick jerk inside him when he comes, feels it, stomach sinking
in something like self-loathing when he remembers that he didn’t demand a
condom, that Rafa’s shooting bare inside him. (If his cock twitches at that,
well, it’s not his fault that shame and fear overlap with what turns him on.)
Rafa’s body’s keeping him up, and it’s weird. Because they’re just there for a
while. Breathing. Touching. Holding onto each other. Stiles hates the idea of
intimacy where it intersects with Rafa, rejects it, but then Rafa kisses his
hair so soft. His nose rubs gently across Stiles’ scalp, and it’s too much,
really. Because he’s still holding onto Rafa even though he doesn’t have to,
and that’s something terrifying. 
“I need to go home,” Stiles says awkwardly, loosening his arms from around
Rafa’s neck. 
Stiles feels the sigh, feels fingers skim down to where his hole is still
stretched around Rafa’s softening cock. It’s a sharp feeling, not quite pain,
just really sensitive. But Rafa’s touch is light, just traces around him, a
little slick and a little sticky. 
“You’ll feel me tomorrow,” Rafa tells him as one of his fingers skates in an
arc around his rim, “right here. Right where I belong.”
Something about that gets Stiles kind of hot, but if he doesn’t set boundaries,
this is going to all turn very ugly. “We can’t do this again, you know. This
was the last time.”
Rafa pulls back a little to look at him. “Don’t start again with that shit when
my cock’s still in you.” 
“Then why don’t you take it out, because I’m fucking serious,” Stiles says,
meeting his stare. “No more. All done. No mas.” Rafa doesn’t blink for a moment
before he shrugs it off, eases himself out of Stiles’ body, sets him down.
Stiles’ legs don’t hold his weight at first, but Rafa catches him with a hand
around his arm. Doesn’t let go until Stiles gets his balance. 
Rafa tucks himself away quickly while Stiles takes a minute to— he just takes a
minute. He’s got noodle bones and his head’s a mess. 
He’s also standing out in the open with his pants down by his knees. And, when
he looks down, jizz all over his shirt. Great. Just fucking perfect. He grits
his teeth about it as he yanks up his pants.
“I’ll wait for you, you know,” Rafa says, and his eyes snap up. He’s got this
little smile, something halfway between confident and sad. “I’ve done it
before. I can do it again. We both know you’ll get over pretending eventually.
It’s just a matter of time.”
“I’m not pretending anything,” Stiles tells him, fists clenched in the top of
his jeans. “This can’t happen again, not while you’re here.”
Rafa smirks. “Whatever you say, Stiles.”
“I’d say fuck you,but…” Stiles says, buttoning up his jeans. 
Rafa rolls his eyes and leans back against his SUV. Crosses his arms over his
broad chest like he knows Stiles can’t help but stare for a second. 
“Have a nice fucking life,” Stiles tells him, flipping him the bird as he heads
around to the driver’s side. 
There’s still fucking dried come on his shirt and he feels like he’s just
finished cross country practice and maybe killed someone, but he twists the
keys in the ignition. Doesn’t look at Rafa until he’s in Stiles’ rear-view,
watching him drive away. 
 
When he gets home, Stiles rolls down the windows of the Jeep to let it air out
overnight. His dad’s cruiser is parked out front, but only the one light is on
downstairs. He’s probably (hopefully) gone to bed already. It’s late. 
Stiles gets a shower going first thing, makes sure to set his clothes down on
tile only. Scrubs himself pink, works at it like that’ll erase the feeling of
Rafa’s lips on his neck. Shampoos furiously, thinking of Rafa’s face in his
hair. The water’s too hot and it hurts, but it reminds him that he did a
fucking stupid thing tonight. A stupid thing he’s never going to do again. 
After he’s pretty much done, he reaches behind himself. His hole’s kind of
sore, but he angles his fingers in, trying to get Rafa’s come out of his body.
Really, he has no idea if werewolf olfactory senses can differentiate between
different people’s jizz, but he’s not taking the chance. 
When he finally gets out, he rubs himself dry, then takes the towel and his
clothes straight down to the laundry room. He’s maybe a little too generous
with the detergent, and maybe the double wash is too much, but better safe than
sorry. It means, though, that he goes back upstairs naked. Quiet, of course,
but he must’ve made some sort of noise because his dad’s door opens. Stiles’
hands fly to his junk. They stare at each other. 
“I’m just not going to ask,” his dad says at last before shutting his bedroom
door. Stiles lets out a breath. Thanks his father’s lack of patience. Heads
into his room.
He’s out like a light almost the second he lays his head down. 
 
It’s as much a protection thing as a guilt thing that he doesn’t text Scott
first the next day. Also, he sleeps until nearly noon, which is pretty much the
greatest thing that’s happened to him in a year. Apparently, if there’s one
thing to be said about slipping up and fucking Rafa, it’s that it wears him out
enough to sleep through the night. 
He fucks around on the computer most of the day, makes a half-assed effort at
his reading for history, and tries not to check his phone. 
Rafa doesn’t text him.
Not even once.
That’s fine. Stiles isn’t going to text him first. There’s no reason to. It’s
done.
Well, the actual sex part is done. He didn’t technically veto the sexting or
the phone calls. Those are still on the table. But he won’t make the first
contact. That’s a sign of weakness. He doesn’t need to talk to Rafa, doesn’t
need Rafa to get him off. He’s got two hands and a decent ass: he has options. 
And he's got bruises, on his hips, his ribs, one under his jaw by his ear. His
ass aches a little if he sits wrong. And even when he takes a third shower in
twenty-four hours, he feels like he's got something on his skin. 
He checks his phone so many times that night that he goes downstairs and pops a
few melatonin so he can sleep. It always makes the dreams worse, by far, so he
doesn't take it much, but tonight, he’ll take that over pacing and waiting for
something he doesn’t want to care about. 
 
In the morning, he showers the cold sweat off his skin, stares at himself in
the mirror until he convinces himself the dark circles around his eyes aren’t
really that noticeable. 
His dad doesn’t say anything when he makes it into the kitchen, but there’s a
cup of coffee waiting for him. He’s not big on caffeine, doesn’t get much from
it, but if he takes his adderall around the same time, it keeps him awake. 
It’s a Sunday. There’s nothing to do, really. Homework, but he’s not
interested. Scott, but he’s not ready.
So he runs errands. Groceries, new socks, his dad’s prescriptions. He drives
the long way around, wasting time. It’s something he’s good at.
When he gets back home, when he’s put the groceries away, left the pharmacy bag
on the counter, he heads upstairs and finds a werewolf in his room. Laying
across his bed with his hands settled neatly on his chest, casual as you
please, but his head picks up when Stiles doesn’t move from the doorway. 
“Your dad let me in,” Derek says. “He went to work about an hour ago.”
Stiles stares at him, watches him sit up part of the way, propped up on his
elbows. Like the fact that he’s been fucking gone without any explanation for
two weeks isn’t hanging around him like a cloud. 
“Don’t look too happy to see me,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. He flops back
down on Stiles’ bed. “By the way, I hadn’t seen your serial killer wall. It's
kind of freaky. I'm surprised you haven’t taken it down yet.” 
Stiles’ eyes flick over to his case wall. “I don’t notice it,” he says offhand,
“but more importantly: what are you doing here?” 
“I thought I should let someone know I was back in town. You were closest.”
That could mean distance, but it doesn't, he's pretty sure. It doesn't matter
anyway.
“Oh, fuck off,” Stiles tells him, but it doesn’t come out as pissed as he means
it. “You didn’t even let me know you were leaving. You don’t give a shit about
whether or not anyone knows where you are, you just need something.”
“I got your text,” Derek says because he’s fucking unable to respond to things
like a normal person. 
Stiles rolls his eyes. “What do you need from me?”
“You doing anything today?” 
“Wow,” Stiles says with a smirk, “aren’t you being fucking considerate.
Checking to see if I had plans before making me do your bidding. I gotta say,
your social skills are really improving.”
Derek sits up, all the way this time, and actually meets his eyes. “Look, I’m
sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving. I just...getting a little distance helps
me think. And I had some stuff in New York, mine and Laura’s, stuff we’d held
onto, so Cora and I drove up so she could pick out anything she wanted before
she headed back to South America.”
“South America?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.
“She wanted me to come with her.” Derek looks down, shrugs. “Wasn’t the right
time. I had some unfinished business.” 
Stiles looks at him for a minute, then sighs. “It’s fine. Whatever. You’re
back.” Really, Stiles is fucking glad he’s back. It’s been weird without Derek.
And with all the shit in his head, it would be nice to just do their thing and
not have to worry about anything for a little while. 
“I’m back,” Derek agrees. “For a while, at least.” 
Stiles isn’t sure what to say to that, to the fact that he’s suggesting it’s
temporary, but he’s saved from having to figure it out. 
“I’ve got some stuff,” Derek tells him, rubbing the back of his head, “from our
old apartment. I was wondering if...if you’re not doing anything, you could
help me with it.” It sounds like it hurts coming out, and Stiles smirks a
little at the idea of Derek actually asking someone for help. Without throwing
them against anything. Shocking. 
“You want a move-in buddy? Sure, if you feed me.”
Derek relaxes. “Good.”
“Want me to assemble the troops? I don’t think Scott and Isaac are doing
anything today. Might be a good idea to give them the option of dropping by.” 
“Fine.” He gets up, like he’s all ready to go, and Stiles figures he might as
well go with it. But before he really goes for the door, Derek closes in to
him. His hand winds up on Stiles’ shoulder. Derek gets that weird half-anime
character, half-constipated look he gets whenever there’s some kind of emotion
in him, mouth firm and eyes a little wide, almost like he’s steadying himself
for a blow even as he’s hoping it’ll never come. 
“I missed you,” Stiles says, taking pity on the poor guy. It’s true, even if
it’s barely been any time at all, in all fairness. 
Derek nods once and squeezes his shoulder before breezing past him. 
“You know, it wouldn’t actually kill you to say it back!” Stiles calls after
him, following him to the stairs. 
“It might,” Derek says without looking back. Stiles rolls his eyes and follows
him out the front door, stopping when Derek stops and gives him a look. “Keys?”
Stiles pats his pocket, feeling them, and asks, “We’re not taking your car?” 
“I walked here,” Derek tells him.
Stiles frowns, gauging the distance. “Dude, that’s, like, ten miles.” 
“I just drove by myself from New York. You really think I wanna sit in that car
some more?” he asks as he heads to the passenger side of the car. Seeing him
there makes Stiles nearly trip. Derek’s head cocks to the side, his eyes not
quite focused, for just a second and Stiles tries very hard not to panic.
There’s no way he can tell Stiles got fucked pretty much right where his hand
is on the door.
If he can, then the whole Scott thing is going to be a bit of a situation. 
“What is it?” Stiles asks because if this is a thing, if Derek can tell, he
needs to know now. Before Scott’s anywhere near his car. 
“I don’t think I want to know why you’re jerking it anywhere near your car, but
you better not have done it in the passenger seat.”
Stiles doesn’t quite sigh in relief, but he feels like he could. “What can I
say, dude? A guy my age has needs.” He shrugs, hops around to the other side of
the car. “But seriously, you can smell that?”
Derek gives him a look.
“Alright, you have jerk-off spidey senses, good to know,” Stiles says, kind of
really wanting to change the subject, actually. “So, as much as I fucking hate
going twice in a day, I’m heading to the grocery store first. I hope you have
your wallet, because you’re buying us snacks.”
Stiles texts Scott to let him know that Derek’s in town, that he and Isaac are
cordially invited to help him with some shit and will be paid with Totinos and
Dr. Pepper. 
And then he drives. Derek doesn’t talk, but he’s not a chatter. He talks when
it’s important or when Stiles talks first, but he doesn’t bother with small-
talk. That’s fine, and Stiles isn’t really in the mood for small-talk anyway.
Actually, it’s kind of nice just having him in the car. Which is silly or
whatever, but he’s here, they’re in the same place at the same time without any
possibility of imminent death, and that’s kind of something that’s been needing
to happen for a while.
 
When they get to the store, Stiles stops Derek before they leave the car. 
“Don’t read too much into this, but just...do I smell weird in any way?
Different at all?” 
Derek frowns. “Is this your way of telling me that you’ve lost your virginity?
Because I did not agree to have this conversation.” There’s that little teasing
lilt Derek gets sometimes, though, so Stiles isn’t going to freak out too much
about the idea that Derek can tell if he got laid. 
“I’m serious, dude. Just sniff me.” He holds out his arms, and after rolling
his eyes hard enough to strain something, Derek leans in and sniffs. 
“Maybe a little, but you could’ve just eaten something different for breakfast.
Why do you want to know?” Derek asks, eyes sharp. 
Stiles shrugs. “Just wondering. It’s nothing.”
Derek looks at him for a long moment, then says, “You’re a good liar.” 
There’s no good way to take that, really, so Stiles just waves it off and drags
Derek out of the parking lot. 
 
It turns out that Derek a) does not like the freezer section and b) has
suffered greatly for it. 
“You’ve never had pizza rolls,” Stiles repeats for the third time. 
“That’s what I said,” Derek tells him, arms crossed tight like he’s trying to
keep warm. “Or those bagel things.”
“You’ve never had bagel bites?” Stiles asks, then groans loudly. “Did no one
teach you how to snack properly? Jesus butt-munching Christ, you’re a walking
tragedy!”
“Just put them in the damn basket already so we can get out of here. You’re
just stalling because you know I hate being cold, so hurry up.” 
Stiles grins when Derek flinches as he opens the freezer, reaching in for a
couple icy bags of deliciousness. “What can I say, dude? You have very
excitable nipples.” 
Derek’s eyes snap down to his own chest, and he rolls his eyes when he realizes
that his nipples are completely covered by his horrendously perfect biceps.
God, they’re nice. Stiles would bet he could hold him up easily, wouldn’t even
need to brace him against anything, just bounce him on his—
“Seriously?” Derek asks before snatching the basket out of his hands and
heading down the aisle. 
“My bad!” Stiles yells after him. “I’ll just get the—” he looks down at the
makeshift list on his phone “ice cream. Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do.” 
He finds the right set of freezers easily enough, looks through them with his
hands on his hips. 
Fucking stupid, thinking about Derek like that when he’s right there. He knows
better. He has a system for Derek. A system that does not involve ogling in any
capacity. There’s such a thing as self-inflicted cruelty, and the definition
includes checking out one Derek Hale. 
Stupid, fucking stupid. 
“Still thinking about my nipples?” Derek asks, suddenly right behind him, makes
him almost fall over. He has to catch himself on the freezer door. 
“Holy God, do not sneak up on me like that!” Stiles tells him, trying to
breathe, and the little shit is grinning like he’s won a prize. 
“Serves you right.” 
“You’re evil, you know that, right?”
Derek looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Yep.”
“Good. Just making sure,” Stiles says because it’s a safer alternative to
you’re a fucking cute asshole when your life isn’t falling apart in front of
you. 
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Dere tells him, heading down the aisle like
he can’t get out of the cold fast enough. 
“But the—”
“Chocolate. First one you see. Let’s go.” 
Stiles grabs a gallon of chocolate ice cream at random and chases after him
because he’s got the basket and the ice cream’s fucking cold.
 
Ten minutes later, they’re heading back to the car with a bag in each hand.
Somehow, that somehow being that Derek’s a massive jerk, Stiles winds up with
the two heaviest bags, the soda. And Derek’s walking too fast like he knows
Stiles would trade him if he gets half a chance. 
They’re loading the bags into the back seat when Derek stops, goes very still.
Pulls himself out of the car and looks somewhere on the other side of the
parking lot.
Stiles follows his line of sight and goes cold when he sees Rafa standing next
to his stupid SUV. Rafa lifts his hand in a wave. 
“Why does he know you?” Derek asks, frowning, and oh shit. 
“Just get in the car. I’ll deal with it,” Stiles tells him, making sure the
windows are rolled up before stalking across the parking lot. 
Rafa shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks on his heels, when Stiles gets up
to him.
“Are you following me?” Stiles asks in a hiss, really hoping Derek can’t hear. 
“It’s a grocery store, Stiles,” he says with a little smirk. “I’m grocery
shopping. Don’t be so paranoid. Who’s your beau?”
“None of your fucking business,” Stiles snaps. 
Rafa blinks slowly. “Does he have a big dick, kiddo? Does he push you around a
little? Does he know why he’s just your type?”
“It’s not like that,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “He and I aren’t— It’s
really none of your business.”
“So, what, you’re hoping that if you hang around him long enough, he’ll take
pity on you and let you suck him off? You know, men like that can smell a
cockslut a mile off. Don’t think he doesn’t know.” Stiles is going to choose to
believe that there’s enough space and glass between him and Derek that he can’t
hear any of this because otherwise, he’s going to do something really stupid. 
“Shut up,” Stiles tells him. “Just shut the fuck up. You have no idea how
stupid you sound right now.” 
Rafa seems to be weirdly placated by that. “I’ll see you around, Stiles,” he
says, walking past him. Which is fucking confusing. There's no fucking reason
for him to be chill right now.
“Where the hell are you going?” Stiles asks.
“Groceries,” Rafa says with a shrug. “Maybe I’ll pick something up for you.”
His smirk says something dirty, and Stiles isn't having it.
“Fuck off!” Stiles yells, noticing for the first time a woman and her kids a
couple cars down. She gives Stiles a sharp look, and he winces in apology. If
she fucking knew, she wouldn’t be looking at him like he’s ruining her
children’s lives. But, of course, Stiles gets to be the one who looks like an
asshole.
 
He yanks the door of the Jeep open a little too hard, barely gets it shut
behind him before Derek’s grabbing his forearm.
“What the fuck was that?” He looks like he’s about to kill someone.
“How much did you hear?”
Derek practically snarls, says, “All of it.”
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck. 
Shit fuck balls ass fucking hell. 
Derek looks like he’s trying to burn something down with his mind and Stiles
can’t fucking do this right now. “Later, okay? I’ll explain it later, but I
can’t be in a room with you and Scott and Isaac and know that you know.
Alright?” 
“I won’t forget about,” Derek warns, letting go of his arm. “You’re not getting
out of telling me.”
Stiles sighs heavily. “Yeah. I know. It’s...you’ll understand when I tell you,
okay?”
“Fine.” He still looks pissed, body held rigid as he settles back into his
seat. “They’re waiting for us, by the way. Scott and Isaac.”
“Great. Just great.” 
At least he and Rafa didn’t touch. At least he won’t have Rafa’s scent on him,
won’t have to tell Scott he ran into him, won’t have to let Derek know like
that. That’s a small mercy, at least.
 
It turns out that Stiles does very little of the actual moving in. 
Watching the oven is a very serious task. Someone has to make sure their snacks
don’t burn. 
Besides, they’re three werewolves. They’re plenty capable of moving some shit. 
Derek actually has a lot of shit for one person. He’s got the biggest U-Haul
trailer his Toyota can pull, and the second Stiles sees it’s full, he pretty
much counts himself out. He’s not much of a mover. It’s just not his thing. 
Someone has to offer encouragement and pour liquids, anyway. 
“You totally only invited us so you wouldn’t have to do any work,” Scott
accuses when they’ve got everything into the loft. 
“I resent that,” Stiles says. “You guys were doing such a good job, I figured
I’d just be in the way.”
“Are the pizza rolls cool yet?” Isaac asks. 
Stiles taps one lightly, says, “They’ll still burn your mouth to shit.” 
Isaac grins. “Werewolf,” he says like he should win a fucking medal for it or
something.
“That’s not fucking fair,” Stiles tells them. “Everyone should have to suffer
third-degree mouth burns.” 
“I find that hurtful and rude,” a voice says, and Stiles grimaces when he sees
Peter’s stupid face. "And very insensitive."
“Get out,” Derek tells him, washing his hands at the sink. 
“Just wanted to see my favorite niece and nephew. Where’s Cora?”
“None of your business. Leave.” 
Peter shakes his head. “You still have no sense of hospitality. Some things
never change, I suppose.”
“Leave,” Scott tells him, and Stiles catches a glimpse of very red eyes. 
“Fine. I’ll drop by some other time.” He rolls his eyes, leaves, and Stiles
makes faces at his back because he doesn’t have to be a mature adult if he
doesn’t want to. 
Peter’s pretty much forgotten by the time they all get through the second bag
of pizza rolls and the bagel bites. (Derek prefers the combo pizza rolls over
the pepperoni and the bagel bites over both.)
After, they sit around in their food comas. It’s weird because Derek actually
has furniture now. He’s got a TV. A coffee table. Two beds, twins, which he
very awkwardly tells everyone are for “whoever wants them” with a guilty look
at Isaac. But he’s also got a dresser and a bookcase and, like, ten million
boxes to unpack. He doesn’t seem to be particularly motivated to do it,
either. 
“Need us for anything else?” Scott asks, rubbing his food baby tenderly.
Derek shrugs. “I won’t get to all of the boxes today, but if someone wanted to
help…” He trails off because he can't really ask for help. It's a character
flaw for sure, one that Stiles is going to help him get over.
Scott rolls his head on the back of the couch, looking at Stiles. “Will your
dad be at your house to give us a ride to mine?”
“Just leave the Jeep at yours,” Stiles tells him as he digs his keys out of his
pocket. “Derek can drop me off there and I’ll drive home.” He tosses the keys
to Scott and leans back in Derek’s bean bag chair. Because for some reason, he
has not one but two bean bag chairs. (Although that actually makes sense,
considering that he’d lived with his sister, and now Stiles feels kind of
secondhand sad.)
“We should probably get going,” Isaac says to Scott. He’s got this really
awkward look, glancing between Derek and Stiles. In a very particular way.
Which, really? 
“Oh my God, I’m just going to help him unpack!”
Isaac mutters something under his breath that makes Derek throw a wadded-up
napkin at his leg. 
“Not even funny,” Derek tells him. 
Stiles looks between Isaac’s grin and Scott’s very sad attempt to appear to be
not laughing. “What’d he say?”
“Don’t,” Derek says, pointing at Scott with a sharp look, but not really going
all I’m the alpha on him. Scott laughs at his expression, mouth wide. 
“His pants,” Scott says with a triumphant grin. 
Derek rolls his eyes, sinking into his own bean bag chair. “It wasn’t even that
good. You two are just making trouble for no reason. So unless you want to
help, get lost.” 
“Yeah, I’m out,” Isaac says. “Come on, let’s find an empty lot and spin
donuts.”
“I swear to God, I will murder you, so help me,” Stiles tells him. “I won’t
even think twice about it.” 
“I would never,” Scott says, tossing him a fist bump goodbye. “See ya, bro.”
“Yeah, see ya,” Stiles tells him distantly as he realizes that the problem with
letting Scott borrow his car is that there’s a chance he’ll smell what Derek
smelled, or that he’ll actually be able to place Rafa’s scent. In which case,
Stiles is screwed. But there’s no good way to get out of it now, not without it
looking really fucking weird. Well. What happens happens. Maybe it'll be easier
if they all know. 
But he doesn't get a text or phone call, and they don't come back, so he must
not have noticed.
He and Derek sit there in similar starfish positions on their respective bean
bags, waiting for them to be gone gone. After a minute or two, Derek’s
outstretched foot knocks into his. 
“So tell me what that whole deal at the store was,” he says. Stiles looks up at
the ceiling, avoiding eye contact. “You said you’d tell me who he is.”
Stiles sighs. “His name is Rafael McCall.”
That’s met with silence, so he looks over, and Derek’s staring at him, clearly
confused. 
“He’s probably exactly who you think he is,” Stiles tells him.
“Scott’s...what?” He knows, Stiles knows he knows, but he doesn’t believe it,
wants Stiles to say it out loud. 
“Dad. Scott’s dad.” 
Derek blinks a few times, still looking at him. “Do you… Do you need him to
disappear?”
It takes a second for Stiles to get what he means.
“Dude, no, I am not asking you to kill a guy!”
“If it makes you feel better, I won’t kill him. But no one would ever see him
again,” Derek says. 
Stiles snorts. “I appreciate it, I do, but I can deal with him.”
“If you need help, I won’t tell anyone,” Derek says quietly. “No matter what I
saw.” 
“What the hell, dude?” Stiles asks, half laughing. “Let’s not go straight to
violence, huh? Try something new for us?” That seems to cut a little, and Derek
starts to shut down, mouth going very thin. 
“Don’t mock me when I’m trying to help you,” Derek tells him sharply. 
Stiles sighs, tries for apologetic. “I didn’t mean it like that, okay? Look, I
may not exactly have a plan for what to do with him, but I will. And it won’t
involve anyone dying.”
“Some people aren’t worth your mercy.” Derek looks away, the hinge of his jaw
bulging.  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“What for?” Stiles asks because seriously, Derek is overreacting a little bit.
Or reacting super weird, maybe. Or maybe he just hasn’t gotten to the part
where he calls Stiles a fucking shitty excuse for a friend. 
Derek looks at him, eyes too wide. “For what he— No one should have to go
through that. No one. The fact that people like that even exist—”
“What exactly do you think happened?” Stiles asks. This is taking a weird turn
and he’s not quite sure what Derek’s talking about, but he’s got a feeling and
he doesn’t want to assume it’s right. 
“I thought— I mean, from the way he talked to you, it seemed like he might
have...interfered with you.” He looks like he’s in a weird place, physically,
like he wants to touch Stiles but he’s afraid to, like he just doesn’t know
what to do with his body, and Stiles has to put him out of his misery.
“It wasn’t like that,” Stiles tells him. “We just fucked, that’s all.”
That doesn’t help, really. Concern isn’t really a look Derek’s face is used to
wearing, and it shows. It’s stiff, hasn’t been broken in yet. But he’s
overwhelmed, that much is obvious, can’t figure out what to say, so Stiles
takes over for him.
“I wasn’t, like, a kid or anything, okay? I was almost sixteen. It wasn’t the
way you were thinking. I just ran into him and it happened. And then it
happened again. But it ended, and that was that, until he turned out to work
for the FBI. Which, by the way, heads up: he’s the guy you have to pretend to
be a normal human for so you don’t get arrested by the Feds. So keep that in
mind.”
“Fifteen,” Derek says. His voice sounds empty.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me shit for it. It wasn’t like we were
pledging our lives together. I just let him put his dick in me. It’s not a
fucking big deal.” 
When he says it, he realizes that he’s lying. Not even on purpose, but he feels
like he has to defend his choices. Call them his choices. Because he’s not
going to be some fucking sad-ass kid who got seduced or some bullshit and lost
his virginity on accident because his best friend’s dad may or may not have had
a long-term thing for him. He’s not ready to put himself into that category of
person, to admit that someone made him feel like he’s weak and pathetic and
shitty. And fucking Rafa doesn’t deserve to get to do that to him. 
“We’re not going to make it into some thing, okay?” Stiles tells him. “It was
just a bad decision and I’m dealing with the consequences. So stop giving me
the sad eyes. It’s not how you think.”
“Then tell me how it is,” Derek says simply. 
Stiles snorts. “I don’t even know how to explain it.” He sighs, scrubs a hand
over his face, says, “He’s a fucking piece of shit and I hate him, but he just
says and does these things that make me want to fuck him.” Stiles grimaces.
“Look, I know that makes it sound like I’m totally controlled by my dick, but
it’s not just that. It’s not a power thing, but it’s close. It’s like, I know
that he has so much more to lose and just knowing what he’s risking? It’s kind
of a rush.”
“I mean, it wasn’t like that at first,” Stiles corrects. “That, well, I thought
he didn’t realize who I was, so I thought it would fuck him up when he figured
it out. I wanted to ruin him like that, for being a shitty dad to Scott. I
don’t know what kind of person that makes me, that that’s what I wanted, or
that I thought it would work, but that’s what it was. I don’t expect you to
understand. It’s fine. But this is me, telling you.”
Derek stares at him for a moment, then looks up at the ceiling. Grins. The kind
of grin that cracks at the edges. 
“You think I don’t understand?” Derek asks, snorting. “When I was sixteen, Kate
Argent pretended to be my substitute teacher. I flirted with her, tried to
seduce her, because I hated who I was and I wanted her to hate herself, too. I
wanted her to feel dirty, like she’d fucked an animal, and I was so blind about
it that I didn’t realize she was using me the whole time. She saw my eyes, knew
what I was, because she called me one morning, when I was at school early. She
told me that I’d been fun, but I was a murderer and my family was just as bad
for not putting me down. Two hours later, your father pulled me out of class
and told me my family was dead. So you think I don’t get it? You think I don’t
know what it feels like? To mix knowledge and power and fucking great sex?
Yeah, I do, and I’ll never get to see my parents again because of it.”
There’s not much to say to that, really, but it’s not the same. Rafa doesn’t
hate him on principle. Rafa’s not trying to hurt him or anyone he cares about.
He’s not a threat in the same way, he’s just really into Stiles, it seems like.
Really into him. 
“It’s different,” Stiles says. “I can control him.”
“No,” Derek tells him, looking him dead-on, “you can’t. You think you can, but
the second you do, you’re underestimating them and they’ll win. Every fucking
time.”
Stiles shakes his head. “It’s different, I swear. I think...I think in some
weird fucked up way, he might almost be in love with me. I can use that, Derek.
I can fuck him up with it, and in the meantime, I can point him in the right
direction in his goddamn case. He trusts me. And as long as he thinks he owns
me, I have power over him, okay? I can fix this. I can deal with him. For
everyone.”
Derek looks at him for a long time without speaking. 
There’s pity in it, at first, like he thinks Stiles is just deluding himself,
but it shifts into resignation and then something almost like hope.
“Whatever you need,” Derek says, “I’ll help you.”
“Thanks,” Stiles tells him honestly.
Derek shrugs. “Whatever you have to do. If you can do it, then I’ll help.” He
looks away, frowning. “Are you going to have to—” he makes a vague gesture
“—again?”
Stiles’ body goes hot with shame. “I may have. Already.” 
“Oh.” 
“Yeah,” Stiles says, gritting his teeth. “It wasn’t on purpose or anything. I
just wanted to yell at him, get him off my jock, and it just sort of happened.”
Yeah, it just sort of happened that he got fucked against his car so fucking
good that thinking about it makes his dick twitch in his jeans. 
“Are you going to do it again?” Derek asks, and it doesn’t feel harsh, just
feels like a question.
There’s no point in lying about it. 
“Yes. Probably. And I have no idea how I’m going to keep it from Scott. I...He
deserves a better friend than me.”
“Shut up,” Derek tells him.
Stiles shakes his head. “No. I fucked his dad. You don’t what it was like
before Melissa kicked him to the curb. Fuck, I don’t really know what it was
like, but I know he was a piece of shit. Still is. And I fucked him anyway.
What the hell kind of person does that make me?” 
“You made a mistake,” Derek says, shrugging.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “I just made a mistake. And
then I went back to do it again. And again. And again. This isn’t— I’ve sent
him pictures, Derek. I let him fuck me against my car in a parking lot because
I couldn’t keep it in my pants. And it’s going to happen again, I know it is,
and I can’t call it a mistake like it’s an accident, like oops, I guess I
tripped and fell on his dick. I can’t call it a mistake if it’s on purpose.” 
“Call it what you want. That’s up to you. But I can’t believe you would do it
to hurt Scott.”
Stiles grimaces. “Never, okay? I wouldn’t do that. That’s why he can’t find
out.”
“Then you’re not a bad friend,” Derek tells him.
Stiles rolls his eyes, but sometimes it’s just pointless to argue with Derek.
His shut-down face is familiar enough. It’s not like he really wants to fight
Derek on it anyway. He might be wrong, but the idea that Derek thinks Stiles is
an okay friend? It’s nothing close to redemption, but it’s warm in a way that
makes him feel alive and whole. 
“So what are we going to do?” Derek asks, jostling his foot again.
“I don’t know.” It comes out a little harsh, but he doesn’t really mean it that
way.
“Hey,” Derek says, “you’ve always got a plan. Come on. How can we flip the
situation in our favor?” He makes Stiles feel a little bit like he’s in math
class, like Derek’s guiding him through how to solve an equation one step at a
time.
Stiles sighs, flipping himself into plan mode. “Well, he’s working on the case,
right?” he asks, hands moving in the air above his chest. “And we need to make
sure none of it points to any of us. I can do that. I mean, if he trusts me. I
could make him think that, I don’t know, I’m falling for him or whatever, that
I want to give him information. And then I could tell him whatever I want, make
him look at whoever we want and keep him away from all the supernatural shit.”
“There you go,” Derek says, the right corner of his mouth twitching up.
“Thanks.”
Derek just shrugs. 
“Hey, you and Scott are probably gonna need a mediator for your alpha-offs,
aren’t you?” Stiles asks. “I’m not exactly a professional, but I know you two
pretty well.”
“Not necessary.”
Stiles gives him a skeptical look. “Dude. You two probably need a team of
mediators. Don’t give me that shit.”
Derek shakes his head. “Can’t have an alpha-off with only one alpha.”
“Oh sweet baby Jesus,” Stiles groans. “Have you ever seen a movie? Don’t you
know denying a rightful heir the throne gets you dead? I mean, not that there’s
only one throne or whatever, but like, denying it doesn’t make Scott not an
alpha.”
“I know that,” Derek tells him, “but if I’m not, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Wait, what?” he asks, staring at Derek. Seriously, what the fuck?
Derek’s eyes flash electric blue.
“Dude, what the shit? What happened?”
Derek shrugs, says, “Cora was dying, so I did what I had to. It was worth it,
and I don’t care what Peter says.”
“Peter?” Stiles asks. He’s going to choke a bitch. A bitch with a nasty-ass
goatee. (It’s not that nasty, really, and it would probably feel good on the
inside of his thighs, but nope. Stopping that right there.)
“He didn’t want me to do it, said it was too risky.”
Stiles sighs. “Can I ask you something? How did you know you could do it in the
first place?” Derek frowns and Stiles knows the answer to that. “Yeah, it’s
called reverse psychology, big guy, and you got played. Can we please kill him
already?”
“It doesn’t matter if Cora’s alive,” Derek says. “I don’t care.”
Now that he knows, Stiles can see the relief in him, the line that’s
disappeared from between his eyebrows. He can hear the I didn’t want it
anyway. 
“Well, you better keep both eyes on him because the dude is up to something. I
know I’ve been saying that all along, but it’s still true, and I’d prefer it if
we dealt with it sooner rather than later. I told you so doesn’t really have
the same effect if you’re dead.” 
Derek snorts. “We can talk to Scott about it. Will that make you happy?”
“Aw, you know it, honeybuns,” Stiles coos, making a kissy face at him. Derek
rolls his eyes. Sighs with enthusiasm.
“You’re gonna have to cut that shit out,” Derek tells him. “People are getting
ideas.”
Stiles winces. “Well, that’s awkward because I may have had to tell someone
you’re my boyf. And before you get all pissy, it was probably better than
saying you’re a werewolf. Just saying. But he’ll probably tell Lydia and the
fucking twins, and you know how that shit spreads.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Derek says with a painfully unhappy look on his face.
But he just kind of lies there, doesn’t make good on it, so whatever. 
“I’ll have you know that I would be a great boyfriend,” Stiles tells him before
he realizes that, well, he probably shouldn’t, but he’s already started so he
might as well finish. “I can get you out of parking tickets, I can use mountain
ash to sexile everyone, and I’m a very talented, dedicated cuddler. Also, if it
comes in a casserole dish, I can make it. So really, I think you’d be hard-
pressed to find a better boyfriend than me.” 
“I’ll consider it,” Derek says, his mouth in a wry twist. 
“In case it affects your decision, I’d like to point out that brownies come in
a casserole dish. So if you date me, you are essentially signing up for free
brownies. Find a downside to that. I dare you.”
“But then I’d have to be with you,” Derek says with a little smile. “The
horror.”
Stiles huffs, rolls his eyes, and tries not to think about the fact that he’s a
second away from just saying that they should date. Which would be stupid.
Because he might be ridiculously Stiles’ type, might be the reason Stiles finds
deadpan snark and dry wit uncomfortably attractive, but he’s never given any
indication that he’s interested. Kind of the opposite. And that’s fine, Stiles
isn’t going to let himself have feelings for Derek, not really, but it twists a
little, thinking about what it might be like. 
He’s not even really sure what a boyfriend is supposed to do, other than
blowjobs, maybe, but he’d try to be a good one. 
Whatever. There’s no reason to think about it. Derek’s not into him. It’s cool.
He’s not exactly looking for love right now, all things considered. Way too
much on his plate. 
“I suppose we should get started on all this,” Stiles says, waving broadly at
the boxes. 
“Probably.” 
Neither of them moves to get up at first, but Stiles forces his body to do it.
“Come on,” Stiles says, nudging Derek’s bean bag chair with a foot. “I’ve gotta
judge you for all of your books and movies. You might as well get it over
with.”
 
Ten minutes later, Derek’s trying to convince him that ConAir is the real
national treasure, and everything feels like it fits together. It’s all okay.
Everything's going to be totally fine.
End Notes
     there's gonna be more y'alllll
     (u can come say hi on my tumblr if u want, bbs)
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